The Muppets Gone Wrong

So, it may or may not come as a surprise to some people, but I love the muppets. I love everything about them. The Muppet Movies, Seasame Street, I even had Miss Piggy ornament that I put on my mom's tree every year at Christmas. I ate Der Swedish Chef's cereal for Christ's sake. Yes, he did have a cereal called "Der Swedish Stars" and the stars were good and they made me happy, and Der Swedish Chef was on the cover and all was right with the world. I still contend that when they stopped making that cereal , our nation went into a steep decline and hasn't recovered, but I'll save that theory for another post.

But the muppets still have my heart, and I will watch them in all of their various reincarnations. That one Weezer Video? Absolutely. The episode of Robot Chicken where they had to put Animal down cause he took a bite out of Ed McMahon? Awesome. Which brings me to my point. I perversely enjoy this. I know I shouldn't. I know that Wiley is probably doomed for all eternity for bastardizing the "Rainbow Connection", but that won't stop me from loving it. I don't know why. I know it's wrong, but I still enjoy it. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to enter a fantasy world in which Lords of Acid covers something from Muppets Take Manhatten...

Old Man Hair

I was in the lunch room. Yes, I was getting some coffee, but that is not what this post is about. Anywho, I was talking to a couple of people when I notice Frank W's hair. It took me a second then I realized what was wrong with his hair. The hair appeared to be grouped together in a shiny black helmet. Such, an unnatural black color, it screamed "Hey, look at me I was dipped in grease to cover up my gray roots".
I guess I will never understand haircolor for men because I've been blessed with good hair to go with my mind to rhyme and two hype feet.

I have no shoulders

My body and my clothes have always had this passive-aggressive hateful relationship. The leettle-too-long pants are always getting stepped on by my heel and decide to "show" my feet a thing or two by unraveling at the hem and looking like they are in the process of devouring my ankles. I'm breaking a very basic Go Fug Yourself principle by because my pants are declaring a not-so-subtle war on my heels. My favorite blouse with a plunging neckline is mad at me for wearing a necklace that always gets caught up in it's lace and therefore refused to lay right and instead of flattering my cleavage, mangles it in retaliation. The strap on my favorite holiday party dress breaking right before the company holiday party, forcing me to make the strappy dress into a strapless dress, just because this is the first light of day (or night) the dress has seen in a few years.

Having got a ways through this rant, I realize two important things: A) I have totally lost any male readership I may have had, including Fighting Nun, because of my sartorial related rant and B) I've just made it out that my clothes are an animate objects with their own little agendas, which yes is a bit strange, but not totally unbelievable. As the great Sars once stated, inanimate does not mean insensate. Which means all my clothes, like I choose to believe, are passive-aggressive meanies who take out their aggression on me in the most severe of ways.

And none is more severe, more passive-aggressive, more mean to me than the bra. On a typical day the bra is like a typical self-destructing relationship. In the morning, when I slip on the white lacy bra, it's so simpatico. I look in the mirror and I swear to God it compliments me, tells me how good I look in it, all passionate and fiery at the start. The second I put on a shirt, or do anything other than admire my reflection in the mirror, it decides to literally pout (what with the straps immediately dropping down off my shoulders and all). I try to make amends by readjusting the strap, convincing the bra that I don't like my shirt more than I like it. I just happen to need both. Just when I think I get a reasonable simblance of mutual cooperation between my bra, my shirt and myself, it happens. The strap drops off my shoulder. Again. And then again. And again, and again. Just like the bad boyfriend you keep taking back even though you totally know better. By the end of the day, I'm so glad to have to whole bloody thing off, I feel liberated, until the hem on my pajama bottom decides to give way...

But I wish it was just the one bra that I seem to have this relationship with. Alas, I think I have the same relationship with all of them. I think some of them also get really pissy with me because even though I put them in the nice little laundry bag to make sure their underwires don't get torqued, they all inevitably get tangled up in each other, a bra orgy if you will (or maybe a bra catfight [hee, bra catfight, that's an awesome band name]) and when I put one of them on, the black one with the clasp in the front, it decides that the whole ordeal was way to demeaning and decides not lay flat but creates a little lip which makes it looks like my cleavage has a skin flap underneath a sweater.

But, the one that still gets me mad is still the bra-strap falling down whenever it damn well feels like it. It just really infuriates me. I've tried readjusting most of my bras to the absolute limit, and they still fall down, which infuriates me more and makes me think I should retaliate by getting out the safety pins (That'll learn you), but the thought of safety pinning my bras at the shoulders makes me really sad. And then I start reflecting, like you do in every self-destructing relationship. "Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm really flawed. Maybe it's my posture, or that my shoulders are more round than every one elses and therefore can't handle the strap." The problem is getting so bad that today, even though I'm wearing a strapless bra, I'm still feeling as if my straps are down around my elbows. I mean, can you believe that? Residual Strap Droppage? It bites! So it got me to thinking, maybe the reall problem is I have no shoulders. I'll get back to you on that....

The Company Christmas Party

Over the last couple of days I've been asked the same question "How'd you like the company Christmas party on Saterday? Did you have a good time." to which I have created the following reply "Well let's see. An eleven-year-old boy in a sweater vest tried to get fresh with me in the dessert line and apparantly, the kid had been eyeing me like I was a hamhock fresh off the rotisserie from the start of the party. So you tell me where that falls in your spectrum of a good time."

That's right, along with all the mingling and chatting which goes along with every party, somehow I was able to trump the regular party galavanting and go right into being in another kid's spank bank for at least a good six months. Ah, company holiday parties, what a feel good time of year. I just grossed myself out.

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 8

The band name for the week is:

Wildebeast in Mexico (Tm Fighting Nun)

Time Machines suck!

I've come to the realization that I will never build a time machine. If I will, my future self would have already come back and told my present self how to make lots a money. Now this is a depressing thought, which the owner of this blog just spits milk out of her nose when I approach the subject with her.
That's why time machines suck, if you dream about them you just left in utter depression that nothing happens. It's kinda of like the porn industry. You watch porn, and you think to yourself next time I see a hot girl and her friends all you have to do is burp and fart and they are getting naked. The real world is so depressing.

Athlete Ringtones

So I'm getting my sports snark fix on Deadspin when this little tidbit catches my eyes. Dirk Nowitzki (who Fighting Nun and I have always called Nabisco by the way. Not the handiest insult, but somehow fun to throw out at the TV when he's trying to shoot a free-throw. "Keep on lobbing bricks Nabisco. Keep it up." See? Fun!!) speaking the words Gong Show from your cell phone is definately the coolest thing ever. But it got me to thinking, if I was to do an athlete themed ring-tone, it would have to be Omar Vizquel's version of "Broadway" by Goo Goo Dolls. If that wouldn't make you light up with anticapation every time you get a phone call, I don't know what would...

Consequently, if anyone would like to purchase the album that said song is on, they would make me very happy. Seriously. Like seriously happy. I have no idea who the other players are (except for Ozzie Smith), but if the Behind the Scenes shots on the website are any indication, this album's got to be awesome.

Now I'm wishing the Giants would put out there own version of ringtones. Come on Sabien, get on that ASAP!!!

Beads

I've never been a firm believer in the whole "You are what you own" ethos, that materialistic gains define who a person is. I've never believed that owning a Jag or Mercedes should define who you are. If your self esteem is so wrapped up in your possessions... Well I'm not saying seek therapy, but definately re-evaluate the state of your life.

But there are certain things in my possession that, well I wouldn't say they define me, but they explain who I am. They have a history that is intricately wrapped with my own, even if I can't always define what that history is. Let me explain. Fighting Nun and I are wine drinkers. With every bottle we drink, there is inevitably a cork. I have kept every cork to pretty much every bottle we've shared for the sole fact that the cork represents that time, that memory. It's a nice Italian dinner, or a relaxing evening at home. I believe I saved the cork from our first date. (Fighting Nun paired the wine with a nice cherry cheesecake, making known right from the start that he knew the most direct path to my heart...) There's also a cork in there from a bottle of Champagne that Fighting Nun uncorked the day he proposed. I don't remember which cork goes to which memory, but I do know that they are all moments I want to keep, I want to cherish.

Nothing explains who I am, maps my history, quite like my bead collection. Beading, making jewelry is a hobby that goes back to my second or third girl scout troop meeting. I couldn't have been any older than six, and I don't really remember much about girl scouts (except for one oddly memorable slumber party involving bingo, which yeah, I don't what that's about) other than the first time I made a bracelet with a bunch of hokey plastic beads, but I was hooked. It was something I made that I could wear, and that's all I needed. In third grade, I stumbled upon my mom's old macrame beads, and somehow decided to try the hobby again. From then on, bead collecting and jewelry making has been a part of who I am. It's one of the things I identify with, a title if you will. Every time I look in on my bead collection, I'm re-connecting with an old friend. Sometimes I leave the collection untouched for months (and at one point, even years) at a time. But when I re-connect, I pick up right where I left off, as if no time has passed and everything is new and fresh again.
Every bead in that collection, every bead I've ever had, defines me, describes my history both metaphorically and literally. There are still some beads in my collection that were a part of my mother's macrame collection, that's how far back they date me. I also have beads that were from some of my grandmother's old costume jewelry, beads from an aunt, a cousin, from their old jewelry or bead collections. They at one point captured another family member's history, which is a part of my history, my story as a person. My grandmother owned this incredible string of black multi-faceted costume beads that are dark and rich in color yet sparkle and radiate, especially in the light. They matched my grandmother's personality completely, rich and textured and utterly sparkling when she was in the limelight, that is until my grandmother's personality and memory were robbed from her by Alzheimer's and Dimentia. Those beads are the way I choose to remember her. Those beads have a history I'll never know because my grandmother is no longer around to tell it, and also because I took my grandmother for granted and never took the time to listen.

The beads from my mother are earthy, from wood and stone and bone. Hard and practical, but with a beauty all their own. They were also from a time before my mother had me, when she was earthly and hippy like, yet she embraced nature and loved life and beautiful things. They are very practical, and yet very beautiful, very unwavering, as if they will always be around. Just like I hope my mom will be.

Some beads I can recall exactly how they came to be in my possession, some I can't. Some beads bring back memories, certain people. Others, well I have no idea, but they still metaphorically define who I am, or who I was when I got them. I've got this clay fimo centerpeice bead that has a sun and a moon entertwined together and both the sun and the moon have faces and the sun has this huge cheesy smile with teeth (which, why give a sun teeth? Really?) and the bead is both ugly and scary at the same time, and I am never going to use it. But I was a teenager when I bought the bead and I had this obsession with sun and moon iconography and wanted to surround myself with sun and moon images. That's how it became part of my collection. I also have this white glass skull bead which kind of looks like the skull on the skull and cross bones which was on the title screen for The Goonies, except without the eye patch and not quite as cool, or not cool at all really. Along with that bead are these funky blue triangle beads which are just unwieldy and not easy to use at all. I received both of those at the same time from a boy I knew when I was in high school. I had met him at some weird leadership thing I participated inmy junior year and began a weird affair of letters that lasted until shortly before I began college. I had this weird little relationship/infatuation with him, and he gave me these weird little beads as a present that I don't know what to do with, but I probably will never get rid of them because they remind me of him, and that crazy little time in my life. I have these funky green beads which are square shaped that are just kind of odd. I don't know when or for what reason I got them, but I believe they were acquired during my junior year of high school, which was kind or my free-wheeling, funky, free-spirit phase.

The jewelry I make is a different story. When I wear one of my own necklaces, It's like I'm carrying several different memories along with me. A memory of each bead, or a certain feeling attached to each bead is encompassed in the necklace, and yet the necklace itself holds its own memories for me. Little peices of me and yet bigger peices of it tied around my neck, with me as a I make new memories. When I make something and give it to my mom, or send it to a friend, I'm giving them a peice of history, a little bit of something that makes me me. And hopefully, that peice will be a reminder, or hold special memories for that other person. Shared history through bits of glass and string.

When I was younger, I was convinced that my hobby was a talent and that talent could be parlayed into some sort of monetary gain. Basically, I was convinced I could sell the stuff, and I had sold some pieces, to an assortment of random people. Now, it's not about that at all. I don't care if I make a dime off the stuff. It's less about the jewelry than it is about reliving my past and creating a new future. It's not the destination, it's the journey. I like that I can assemble bits of glass and metal and make it into something beautiful and I get to share that beauty. But I like looking in on my beads, sifting through them and taking a trip down memory lane while I'm at it. I like looking in on my old friends. My beads tell my story, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

80s Music Videos Versus Music Videos of Today played on MTV: A Comparitive Study

Synopsis

So, I realize that growing up without MTV and all, I might not be the definitive expert on comparisons between music videos that were on MTV twenty years ago versus the music videos that are played today. I also realize that it's hard to compare videos played on MTV versus those played at its inception because it hardly plays videos anymore. I also also realize that as it stands, I kind of have an unhealthy obsession with some of it's current programming (See: Pimp My Ride, See also: Made, See Also: Next: See Also, Date My Mom, See Also: Room Raiders, I told you it was an unhealthy obsession!) and therefore I might not be able to talk logically on the topic, but I assure, I'm convinced I can.

Case 1: Eighties Madonna Vs. Madonna of today

It could be argued that the Madonna that warbled "Like a Virgin" is a very different one from the Madonna falling off of horses and wearing a red string and starring in her husband's crappy movie that we know and love (well that one could be argued really) today. The musical Madonna of today has re-invisioned herself as a techno-pop queen which, not necessarily a totally 180 from the earlier Madonna, is somewhat of a change. Basically, she remade herself into Cher but with less of a gay following. You know what, scratch the last part. But I am not judging on music alone. I am judging this on audio and video. And lately, the video part has been letting her down.

I realize I haven't seen "Like a Virgin" and "Papa don't Preach" in a decade, but the Madonna presented in those videos, despite the five-bijillion layers of chiffon and lace and black fingerless gloves, was still a presense containing both sexuality and individuality. The Madonna of the present? Is HUMPING A BOOM BOX IN A PINK SATIN UNITARD WITH A PURPLE (PURPLE!!! GAH) SEQUINED SASH. IN FARAH FAWCITT HAIR FOR GOD SAKES!! I wish I could find a screen capture of this, but you'll just have to believe me when I say this. The Look? Not sexy, not expressing individuality, unless said individuality has the sole purpose of repulsing me, in which case, it totally worked. I know that thanks to the 90's, we all know way more than we need to know about Madonna's vagina and other places related to that region, but Jesus Christ woman, I didn't need to see that much of your butt-flap all right? Also, the cottage cheese starting to form on your back end there? Not a good look for you. Really. No, Really.

In conclusion, my ruling in the comparison of 80's Madonna versus the Present Madonna is definately in favor of the 80's Madonna. Because for better or worse, at the least in the eighties, there was no PINK UNITARD!!!

Stall Etiquitte

So, I rarely talk about work here (well, I did make an exception), because I don't want it to have any ramifications at work, but I feel there is something work-related that bares saying. Whether or not you want to believe it, there is stall etiquitte, damn it. I expect you to follow said etiquitte because it is the decent thing to do.

The one rule that I have always believed in, which apparantly not many people actually practice, is that if a person is already in a stall, it is not appropriate to start or carry on a conversation with the person already in the stall, unless both stalls or full, in which case, the conversation should be of the "Are going to be in there long?" variety with a short answer, thus ending the stall conversation. I think trying to carry on a conversation with a coworker while the extricating fluids and/or solids is rude. May not be the norm, but it's a rule I live by. A few exceptions can be made, like complimenting a stall occupant with nice footwear, but even that can be invasive, and therefore should be avoided.

Under no circumstances should you start a conversation with a stall occupant about how badly you have to extricate your own fluids, how you are having problems with the plumbing at your house, and how you had to extricate fluids at 1:00 in the morning and WOKE UP YOUR HOUSEHOLD. In the process of a rather loud extrication of your own fluids at that exact moment. Gross! I didn't want to know that. Now I can't unknow that. I didn't want to be subjected to that conversation, but I couldn't remove myself from the conversation in a comfortable, non-rude manner, so I had to be held prisoner in the stall while you bored me and simultaneously revolted me with stories of your bladder's goings-on! You madam, have no stall manners. You are bumped back to stall etiquitte 101. Good day madam, I said good day!!!

Wish I was windsurfing:

The Bloody Munchkin.

P.s. Don't think I didn't notice that you didn't wash your hands. That's duelly noted. I'm bringing in handi-wipes next time.

Alex Blagg is Awesome

I realize I have like no readers, but for the non-exsistent readers I do have, I would like to make it known that Alex Blagg is a cool, cool blogger and an excellent comedian and an honestly decent person (no matter how sarcastic he is on his website). If you are in San Francisco tonight, go to the 50 Mason and check him out. It's his last performance in the city for awhile he is moving. His stage show is great!!!

If you are in New York, well check him out when he gets there. You won't regret it! O.k, blogging kudos out of the way, I'll get back to making fun of celebrities and explaining what a pop-culture nerd I am.

I'm a pop-culture nerd

So, why is it that I happen to know like five tidbits of useless pop-culture knowledge where the normal person might know one on a particular subject? And why is it that, when called upon, I share said tid-bits ad nauseum? And why is it that said tid-bits bring back bemused looks of "How do you even know that? God you are such a nerd."

Example: Yesterday a conversation took place at work that created such stares.

The Setup: Coworker 1 is talking to Coworker 2 as I happen to be passing by.

Co-worker 1: Yeah, I'm going as the Donald for Holloween but I was thinking of getting a big poofy afro and going as that guy... You know the guy...

Co-worker 2: A Commedore?

Co-worker 1: No, no, the guy with the PBS show a ways back.

Me: Bob Ross?

Co-worker 1: Yeah the guy with the painting show that's it. He was great with the easel and the painter's tray. Whatever happened to him?

Me: He died a number of years back.

Co-worker 1: What of?

Me: Cancer.

Co-worker 1: That's too bad. I wonder if he ever made any money.

Me: Well enough to buy or help fund a wildlife refuge.

Co-worker 2: Really?

Me: Yeah, there was this one episode where he talked about releasing some injured chipmunks he'd help nurse back to health so he could release them into his wildlife refuge.

Co-worker 3 decides to step into the conversation.

Co-worker 3: And you know all of this how?

Me: Mmmm... Well, first off I am a collector of weird and inane trivia, weird little pop-culture things just stick to my brain and two, I didn't have MTV growing up, so PBS kinda took up some of my time.

All three coworkers proceed to stare at me with the stare mentioned above. Then I become utterly aware, that yes, I am a nerd and I will never, ever be cool again. *Le Sigh*

Screw you weather!!

I understand that living in the bay area, I have no legitimate reason for disliking the weather in this area. It's not harsh, it doesn't drive me insane with humidity or hot weather, or cold weather or anything like that, so I should totally shut up. And actually I really do like our weather 3/4 of the year, it provides sunny days for a big chunk of the year, creates enough wind for me to pursue my hobby and is generally agreeable. But I do have a beef with it nonetheless, albeit a very petty one.

Around this time of year, all the way to about March, I have weather-related sartorial ennoi so bad that it often takes a Limited shopping spree and a new pair of boots to deal with. Let me explain. Round this time of year, the weather just fucks with me, mostly because I think it can. So, for those of you not living in Silicon Valley area, the whole area contains probably 5 or 6 different micro-climates within like a 60 mile radius. I live in one, and work in another. Which wouldn't be a big deal if said micro-climates decided to play nice and align their weather patterns in some sort of simbiosis. But there seems to be some sort of sibling rivelry involved that renders my whole wardrobe useless some days.

So in the mornings I wake up and look up at the sky light in our master bedroom (which having one of those can be a blessing and a curse sometimes. On full moons, I might as well be throwing a candle-lit garden party in my bedroom rather than trying to sleep because the moon has illuminated everthing and refuses to go away and hide in a cloud somewhere. It's annoying.) and try to gauge at what the weather will do for the day. At this time of year, it's usually a fog so dense that I don't think it'll clear out for the rest of the day. So I go with a turtleneck, because I'm naturally cold throughout the day, I might as well be proactive for the rest of the day. What does the weather decide to do? It clears up and heats up just a little bit so my turtleneck becomes a cable-knit oven, the better to draw out my sweat and trap it there. Thanks Weather.
The weather, I'm convinced, also has a field day with my hair. Usually, when it starts in on the monsoon season around here I just put it back in a pony-tail, because what's the point of blow drying my hair when it's going to get wet in an hour, then dried out and frizzed out to standard poodle proportions when I get to work? Yesterday though, I thought I had a bi so I let it down and blow-dried it. What does the weather decide to do? Well other than wreak havoc on my sinuses and give me a low-grade pressure headache? It rains and makes my hair look like an Afro humped by a minituare poodle with a sneezing fit while being drug behind farming machinery picking up cotton balls. Except with highlights.

Part of the problem is that when I get to work, the inside of my office is a totally different temperature than the environment I just left, which leaves me a bit confused, and frizzed to say the least. When I get into the office in the morning, the temperature in the office has alternated between meatlocker and sauna almost every other day. And it decides to change throughout the day in much the same way. I come in the office in turtleneck, I grab some coffee wearing a parka, I finish the day in a tank top (or I would if I had such things lying in my cube). My hair goes through somewhat of the same process through the day. It starts out all cute and sleak and proper, it get droopy around lunch, then frizzes out and end the day, lanky and limp but also frizzy. It's so much fun.

You think after 5 years of living here and a year and half of working in the same office, I'd have figured this out by now. You'd also think that by working for a company that makes freaking weather stations, for crying out loud, I'd have a better grasp out of all this crap. But I do not. I'm still just as mystified as ever. Although, this might help...

So now, Fighting Nun, you should have some idea as to why it is that I look longingly in my closet and complain that I have nothing to wear. It's because weather is foiling my best efforts to look presentable on an almost hourly basis. It should make sense now.

The Bloody Munchkin's Media Consumption

Reading - Yeah I know, I'm trying to hurry up. Really I am. But on the plus side, it is now getting interesting, so maybe the pacing will pick up and I'll read it faster. I don't mind how the story weaves in and out from the present to the recent past to the past, and I actually kind of like how the narration switches from Third to First for some characters. I'll just have to see this one through. I'm a completist that way.

Watching - Loved it! One of those children's movies that remembers there are adults in the audience. The humor is very British. Monty Python meets Are You Being Served meets Austin Powers. I mean they use the cauliflowers and cantelopes as boobs joke, which never gets old. Quite enjoyable.

Listening to - I know I'm betraying all that I hold dear to may heart and all, but I really did not like this album too much. It had it's heart in the right place, but it tried to hard. Manda Rin, as much as I love her, was way too screamy and singing in an octave or trying things with her voice that weren't in her range that made the album just a little unbearable in parts. Manda, girlfriend, I still love you, but tone it down and bring your voice back to the glory it once was. Seriously.

Watching - Meh. It was an interesting movie, but for several reasons, I just didn't care. I could dissect the movie on grounds of mythology vs. history. I could go into depth about Paris and Hector and blah, blah, blah. But I will divulge a little theory that I'm totally convinced of: Brad Pitt has Karl Urban's career. Or to put it differently, Karl Urban is the poor man's Brad Pitt, but could probably be better at Brad Pitt's job than Brad Pitt is. While watching Troy, every time Brad was on screen all I could think to myself was "Karl Urban could kill at this role." Argue that it's too much Lord of The Rings good will carrying over if you must, but I won't buy into it. What I'm convinced of is that Brad Pitt has enjoyed being the go-to pretty-boy for too long and isn't even trying. I'm not saying Brad Pitt doesn't have depth, he brought alot ot the table as Achilles, but Karl would just be... depthier? I don't know, I think he would have brought more mystery and darkness to the role than Brad Pitt did. Sure, maybe watching Doom would strip me of this idea entirely, but that's why I haven't seen it yet. If there's one thing all readership must know about me is that I live in a little bubble of a world all my own where all my theories and pop-culture principles hold absolutely true and I try my hardest not to convince myself of anything else. So please. Don't burst the bubble. I also feel the need to launch into the fact that Brian Cox is so totally a HiTG member it's not even funny, but I'll leave that discussion for another day.

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 7

"Shut Up and Dance Mary"

Kinda catchy, don't you think?

Never underestimate the old dude

So I get into work today and I start talking to the new guy in our department (I shouldn't actually call him that, he's been here for two months). He's about ten, fifteen years my senior, but seems to have some of the same tastes in music as I do so he's fun to talk to, and since he didn't grow up in a black hole of culture unlike myself, he's a lot more educated on most genres of music than I am.

So he hands me a couple of compilations he made a friend, the better to share the love of his music and he let me burn said compilations. The compilations were deemed "Post Punk 101" and on first listen they are pretty awesome. Not stuff I've ever actively listened to ever, and some of the stuff on it has been just under my radar for years now, like Generation X (yes, I know that this was Billy Idol's first band, and I shouldn't call myself a Billy Idol fan if I do not in fact have any Generation X music. You can close Outlook now. I get the finer points of the lecture), Talking Heads, and Joy Division. There was other stuff I didn't know existed like The Jam, and and The Au Pairs that I liked. One of the real highlights of the CDs was just some of the band names. They made me happy. Mighty Lemon Drops (Sweet), Siouxsie and the Banshees (O.k., this one I kind of knew about, but the band name still cracks me up), The Ruts, and The Damned. All the band names I come up with are like 15 years too late man. I mean couldn't you see Distracted by Cameltoe on tour with Siouxsie and the Banshees? That would be awesome.

But the utter crowning achievement of these compiliations was a song I've been wanting for a long time, "Never Say Never" by Romeo Void. I saw Romeo Void on that VH1 show a while back and I was blown away. Had I known that band existed back in my Cyndi Lauper phase, I would've been a much different woman, I'll tell you that. The woman's swagger on this song is just incredible.

So, never underestimate the music collection of an old dude. He might just lay down some learning on your poor, uncultured brain.

Bloody Munchkin's Media Consumption

Still Not Reading - Well I kinda am. I'm only about 10 or 15 pages from my last post. I'm working on it. Geez.
Watching - O.k. Shut Up. This one's Fighting Nun's fault. And besides, the first 20 minutes of Amazing Race is nothing but filler anyway. (With the smallest voice possible) Uh, Ireallylikeitalot. Come on, it is trashy as hell. Jason Lee has sideburns! And Giovanni Ribisi was on last night, who I will one day cover in a crush file because I've had a crush on him (Xenu be damned!) since My Two Dads. And he was all trashy and he wore a wedding dress! It was awesome! Shut Up!
Still Cracking up about - So last night, right at the end, The Amazing Editors caught the best shot ever. The little blond-haired girl on the Gaghan family jumped on the mat and she flashed that little cherubic smile and blinked that blink of innocence and then Fighting Nun and I had to rewind that stuff and go. "I dare you Phil. Break My Heart. Try and tell this face no!" It was the most awesome Amazing Mat Reaction Shot ever. What about the Pony Phil? What about it? It was great.
Listening to - O.k., so first off. The Bloodhound Gang. I can explain. No I actually can't explain why I like it. I just do. It's jokey and perverted but yet catchy and dancy and in some cases it is just wrong. I mean "I'm missing you like a hijacked flight on September 11th." If some way over the top conservative Defense of Families type caught wind of this, dudes would be martyred fast. But I still enjoy it. Stop looking at me like that. And why is it that you roll your eyes when I tell you I like Lords of Acid? Shut up. Franz Ferdinand is pretty awesome on first listen. I might bloviate on the album later. Also, looking forward to listening to The Kitchen. Manda Rin, My Girl Crush is still potent. Why won't you call me?
Tried to Watch - We tried to watch the extended version last night, and after we got through the thirty minutes of Kevin Smith's diarrehea of the mouth (I'm now convinced that Silent Bob was some sort of bet with his friends for how long he could not talk, because based on this introduction, he can't not talk for very long) , we were tortured by some of the worst scenes in cinema history. Thank God the extended edition was the "Version not meant to be" otherwise I wouldv'e written Kevin Smith off as a hack and been done with it, had this been the first thing of his I ever watched.

Also Reading - Flipping through mostly, but last night I read the Francis Black interview (wow, he's an enigma isn't he?), the Billy Joe Interview (He's one of the few guys who gets better looking with age), the Courtney Love interview (Hee! What a freak! I love her.) The one that got under my skin was the Brandon Flowers Interview. Of course Spin had to bring up The Bravery feud, and he was all "I wish it hadn't of happened but they started it, so there." Way to be simultaneously adult and five years old at the same time. Why don't you just call Sam Endicott poopie-pants while you're at it? You know Brandon, don't talk. Just look pretty, wear eye-liner, come off as somewhat effeminate and sing your songs. That's all you're good for...

Fighting Nun's Corner: Work Coffee Sucks

My husband, Fighting Nun enlightens us on why you don't drink the coffee at work:

That damn coffee swell…

What the hell is wrong with the people that make the coffee
around here? Are their taste buds so void of taste that they can’t taste the
crappy bitterness of the brew that just made? Is it so frekin hard when
you make a new batch to take a whiff of the filter, and if it smells like crap,
to wash it out?

I got here at 7:00 today, which I’m grateful for because I
didn’t have to take the train, but I get a cup of coffee and that tasted like
crap, oh well it’s the first batch of the day, just add more sugar and creamer
to mask the crappy taste. Second cup, just as crappy as the first,
probably more, and people wonder why I spend 1.50 for a cup of Joe at
Starhucks.. I’ll tell you why, because their coffee doesn’t taste like it was
filtered using year-old gym socks!

Damn this coffee sucks!

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 6

This week's band name is...

Distracted By Cameltoe, singing their hit song "Your Muffin Top has nothing on me".

(TM Weird conversation Fighting Nun and I had at the gym)

Green Day!!!

So as I said earlier, Fighting Nun and I went to see Green Day at the Warfield on Thursday. I'll just come right out and say it. Best concert of the year. This concert experience is actually vieing for the title of best concert ever, but The Mighty Mighty Bosstones at Bottom of the Hill still has that enviable position. This one is in the top three for sure.

Here's the quick rundown of what I loved, what I liked, and what I disliked.

What I loved

The opening band!!! So, The Network. The people sitting next to the people we were sitting next to said that the band was actually Green Day in costume, totally covered as not to show thier identities. I'm not sure how to go about cooberating that story, but that was Billy Joe singing. It had to be, which makes this the best opening band ever!! Let me explain some things about this opening band's show. One of the dudes wore a mexican wrestling mask, another dude had on something that looked suspiciously like a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers helmet. And then there were the strange guys who looked to be straight-jacketed together playing the cowbell. That alone, was worth the price of the ticket. It was awesome.

The teenage girls - Right after Green Day started their set, Billy Joe drug these two girls, no older than thirteen, maybe younger, onto the stage to make sure they wouldn't be in harms way during the concert. I started living vicariously through those two girls. I'd look over at them during certain parts of the set, and they were giggly, bouncing up and down in their pink concert t-shirts, at one point they were given some of Tre Cool's drumsticks. How awesome is that? Green Day had an awesome lights and pyrotechnics show, one I haven't seen the likes of live ever. I'm talking flames shooting out of the stage, sparks raining down. Anytime the flames started shooting out, or the sparks came raining down, some roadie had to usher those girls to a safer part of the stage. It was all back and forth, back and forth like some crazy game of Red Light, Green Light.

The profundity of musical instruments - I've had this long standing belief that the more musical instruments you can drag onstage, the better the stage show. This concert totally proved my theory. You wanna know what is more awesome than dragging a keytar on stage? Two keytars. Red ones. More awesome than that was the cowbell playing dude(s) (explained above). Because what everything needs is more cowbell. (I know that joke's worn out but that won't stop me from using it.) And there were trombones, and trumpets, and just all sorts of awesome things. Bring on the musical instruments!

They played the old stuff - I was under the impression that the whole night would be only stuff off their American Idiot album, and yeah, the first set, that's exactly what they played. Which was fine. I rocked out and I enjoyed it, but I knew I would feel complete if they just played Longview. And the first encore, they did, and the second encore that played a bunch of other stuff too. Tre Cool came out and did a solo to the "All By Myself" song (You know that song that was hidden at the end of Dookie?) It was awesome.

They were just having fun - Being at a concert is work if the artist you are seeing makes it seem like he's working. Case in point, Zwan. Billy Corgan wasn't about having fun, he was about showcasing his art. He took that concert way too seriously. Hell, he takes everything too seriously. But the point is, if you treat a concert like work, all the people going end up treating it like that. But Green Day got that this was about fun, and that's what they did up there. They had fun, they entertained and they rocked the house. Those guys single handedly brought the fun back into fun-loving punk. I respect that.

What I liked

They played covers - The second encore they just went crazy, there was a strange medly, and they let the touring guitarist sing "Rock the Casbah" and there was a Billy Idol cover. It was great! The draw back was that it was detracting away from them playing their old stuff, and it went on for way too long. Back in the day, when I was young, naive and in college, I believed that an artist should play their whole back catalog. I was like, If you have four hours worth of albums, you should play all four hours. I want to hear it all. Now, I'm like, dude It's a weeknight and we've got work the next day. Could you like wrap this up soon? I'm utterly glad they played for as long as they did, showing the love and all, but it got to a point where enough was enough. I like that you are going to rock all night, but could you please give us an approximation of how long that might be? I got to figure out how to plan my next day.

What I disliked

I like that Green Day is politically motiviated, and I like the fact that American Idiot was a smart album that showcased that, but made a point artfully. It wasn't jamming the message down our throats. I appreciate that. But there were a couple of pointed statements made by Billy Joe that were. And that's not what I paid good money to hear. I don't know. That's just how I feel about it. Leave it at home, don't bring it to the concert...

Speaking of leaving it at home, I appreciate that being high and going to a concert go hand in hand. I'm a child of the hippie generation. I get that, but it just seems disrespectful to me that you need to get high during a concert, making other people smell the crap and giving them a contact high just by proxy. If you want to get stoned and go to a concert, that's great. But can you get stoned before, in the privacy of your own home where you aren't subjecting countless others, only yourself.

Well That's it. Great Concert, amazing band. An incredible four hours spent...

Bloody Munchkin’s Media Consumption

Not Reading – I’m trying to get through it, but it’s really not going anywhere. I’ll try and speed up the process so I’m ready when my prize comes to my door, but no promises…

Anxiously Awaiting – Today bitches! Somewhere, a black nail-polished, spiked-hair punk wannabe suburban teenager and his friend are crying right now because Fighting Nun and I got their tickets.

Watching – Aw, I really liked the father and son-in-laws team. They were all team-work and no drama. I bet they have awesome family get-togethers.

Listening to – I’d link to stuff, but it’s been kind of a mish-mash lately. I re-listened to The Postal Service album, Kaiser Chiefs, the new Gorillaz album (which I consequently still don’t like). Guess I got to make a new music run soon.

Frustratingly Watched – I get to blame Fighting Nun for this. I don’t dislike the premise, just the execution. Fighting Nun hit the main problem of the movie on the head. This is what happens when engineers think they can write a script. Nothing against engineers, but some things are better left to writers, and this script was one of them. I’m all for the Show don’t Tell philosophy, but some things could use with some exposition and this movie was one of them. And when Fighting Nun has to stop the movie and explain what was just said, it leaves the realm of decent cinematic journey into utter frustrating work. I was anxiously awaiting some sort muddled symbolism akin to Pi, but that never happened. By the end, all that was left was rage and frustration. Not worth it in my opinion.

Giddily Watched – If you have not seen this movie, remedy this oversight immediately. Watch several different iterations of it, turning subtitles on and off, language dubbing on and off, any way you choose, it’s awesome. I contend that messing with the language selection and subtitle features doesn’t detract but adds to the fun. I’m convinced this film is ripe for some sort of drinking game, I just haven’t figured it out yet. And, dare I say it, this film might have captured the best man-boob bounce-and-jiggle ever (you’ll know what I mean when you see it), and yes I’ve seen Fight Club. Also, dancing with axes? Genius!!!

Band Names You Can't Make Up

So I'm cruising my e-mail, seeing a new Pollstar alert, checking the local venues for cool concerts that have popped up, and what should my eyes see but a band called "As I Lay Dying." Excuse me, but what? "As I Lay Dying" Are you serious? I know I've created some shitty band names, but this? Is... well, It. Is. Wrong. It's just wrong people. Why don't you just rape and pillage all of Faulkner's work (which I could argue was all about raping and pillaging anyway, but I'll save that debate for another day) and have your number one single entitled "A Rose for Emily." And your big stage act could involve a kid who utters the phrase "My mother is a fish" over and over again and a decomposing corpse laying in a bed?!?!?!

Moral of this tirade? Never, ever name your band after a piece of literature that is canonized, (albeit for what I think is no good reason, but, again, an arguement for a different day). Next thing you know there will be a band called Uncle Tom's Cabin. If you're going to steal a band name from someone, go ahead and steal from me. I'll let you, and besides, I think my band names are pretty cool....

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 5

The band name for the week:

Broken Rickshaw with their hit single "Big Mama has gone, left me holding the potstickers." (TM Me)

(Bye Big Mama, I'm totally bumming that you left. My weekly chinese food run will not be the same without you. And I'm totally missing your Afro Mama picture. Cause you had a kick-ass afro back in seventies.)

Untitled: The ending of a short story

He was right there at the rock, their rock.
“How’d you find me?”
“Wasn’t very hard. This was my spot. Until I brought you here, and then it became our spot.”
“The place you told me where everything makes sense.”
“You know, I came here the night I found you with Nicki, wearing her thong…”
“Please don’t bring that up again.”
“I waited here, at this very spot for hours that night. Waiting for you, waiting for things to make sense.”
They stood there for a long moment, an unspoken understanding of sorts lingering in the air between them. Brian started to say something, he wanted to say something about regrets, about not coming to the spot that night, but he thought better of it. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?”
Jade looked at him inquisitively. She wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “You mean that day at school when I elbowed you in the neck by the lockers? I thought we’ve relived that one enough for the both of us.”
Brian shook his head no. “That was the day we first met. I’m talking about the first day I saw you.” Jade looked at him intently with her dark piercing stare, trying to size him up.
“It was the day we first moved to town, my mother was driving down First street, past your grandmother’s, looking for my aunt’s house. There was this crowd of students assembled outside, all looking somber. I saw this very beautiful, very sad girl walking down the street alone, walking away from the group.” He closed his eyes, visions of that day flashing around him. The gray clouds, the brown grass in all the neighbors’ yards, the aging neighborhood, and then the girl. “She was crying, the tears were streaming down her face, but she was trying to compose herself, she was striding away purposefully, but really fast as if the most urgent thing was hundreds of feet away. It wasn’t until gym class that I realized the girl with the pink stripes in her hair, the black nail polish and a Nine Inch Nails obsession was the same girl as the one on the sidewalk. It wasn’t until the homecoming party that I found out that the reason you were crying was that you had just lost your grandfather. What I can’t get, what I’ve always wondered about is why you walked away. It always looked like you were fleeing from something.”
Jade looked at him, with tears in her eyes where there was once a piercing gaze. She was amazed that there had been another witness to that moment, and the one witness happened to be Brian. “I couldn’t breathe.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t catch my breath. Friends, classmates, people who wouldn’t give me the time of day three days before were hugging me, acting like I was their best friend and they had all the answers, and they didn’t. It was crushing me, and I couldn’t breath. So I walked away.”
Another long silence sat there between them.
“Do you love him?”
“How could you even ask that?”
“Jade, please. Do you love him? Are you happy?”
“I wouldn’t be getting married if I wasn’t. I don’t do things I don’t mean.”
“No empty gestures.”
“None at all.” More silence.
“I guess I owe you an apology for what I said back there.”
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to. I know why you said what you said. It’s because things between us…” She took a breath, unsure of what to say.
“They were left unfinished.” It struck them both at that moment that they could still finish each other’s sentences. That they still knew each other’s thoughts. It scared Jade just a little to know that he could still read her. She let that knowledge, and the feelings that went with it, linger in the air for a moment.
“And that’s how they are going to have to stay.” She wanted to say more, everything, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.
He wanted to ask her, he had to ask her if she still loved him, but he knew in his heart where that line of questioning would lead. Like so much in their relationship, it went unspoken.
And so it was that they left the rock, the spot where all things made sense, where they made sense, and where they came to try and make sense of each other. They went back to the party, where he apologized to the guests, to her family, to her fiancé. The party ended. The days went by. A very beautiful wedding took place a few months later with Brian in attendance. Months turned into years. Brian finally went back to school. Another wedding took place, this time with Brian at the end of the altar and Jade in attendance. Babies were born that grew to children. Pulitzers were to be had by one of them. The other would realize fulfilling work in a non-profit organization. Life went on, Brian and Jade remained friends, things made sense, they made sense on their own without the assistance of the rock, but things made sense with them together, as life long friends who would never visit the rock together again.

Acceptance

You are walking up the street to your car, your Venti Chai in hand, thinking your thoughts. You look at a store front window, the store with all the baby things in it. You see a multitude of signs posted, festival this, art faire that. It catches your eye for a brief moment, some poster about a charity walk. You don't read it, but it strikes something inside you. You keep looking at the store front window, with the pink piggy banks and the baby socks and the small soccer balls and you get it. You get the natural progression of things. You didn't want to truly accept it, call it post-adolescent idealism or whatever you want to, even though you've known it in your heart for awhile.

You see it written, the two little rugrats, the mortgage, the soccer practices, the ballet recitals. You see it all laying out in front of you like a big canopy that you can stitch and sew together as you choose. And for the first time ever in your life, you are not scared of it, trying to deny your future. For the first time in your life, you are utterly accepting, embracing this future you knew you'd have all along. You've discarded the dreams of being picked out of a crowd by someone who truly sees your gift and allows you to tap your potential as a full-time writer (be it movies, tv, or books) so that you no longer have to toil in obscurity. So what if you'll toil in obscurity, it will be with this beautiful man and possibly two beautiful kids and it will all make sense. And you've already been picked out of the crowd by someone who sees your potential and believes in your writing full-heartedly, your husband.

You see your path really clearly for the first time, and you think, fuck psychics, fuck horoscopes, it's been laid out before me forever. And it feels right. You know this in every fibre of your body, it just took a second for your brain to come around to it. You think back to moments before, on the other side of the street, to where you and Fighting Nun were standing earlier, coffee in hand, getting ready to depart for the day, him to the train station, you to your car. And right before you say goodbye, you kiss. A sweet gentle brief kiss, nothing new in the kiss, nothing new in the way you feel after the kiss, but you embrace how you feel, how comfortable it is to be with him, how great it feels to be together. Even though you know it's a romantic cliche, somehow when you kiss, it feels like everything for that moment is totally right, and calm, and balanced, and it's such a warming feeling.

And you are brought back to the present and you wonder if that moment, if that feeling brought you to this one, this one of acceptance and hopefulness about the future. And you know that it did, as did the moment before that, when Fighting Nun told you his dream involving Xhibit and a Lion man, as did the moment before that, and the moment before that. Because every moment that preceded this one was to reassure you that the moments that proceed the one your having now will be just as good, just a fulfilling, just as worth it as they all have been. And now you've fully embraced it. And you walk a little taller, with a little more love and calm in your heart, knowing what you now know.

Will (But Probably Won't) Kill for Green Day tickets

Dear Ticketmaster;

What exactly do I have to do to ensure that I get tickets for the upcoming Green Day show? Just what exactly do I have to do? I've tried jumping through your internet ticketing service hoops, your automated telephone service (their on-hold service? Not the worst, but kind of intolerable. Good Day Mr. Fogelburg. I said good day sir!) to find out what I could do to get tickets before they went on sale to the general public. Yes, I know it's a dick move, but it's the same dick move thousands of The Killers and Queens of the Stone Age fans pulled on me so I couldn't get tickets to their shows the day they went on sale. So this time I was going to take a pro-active role. I was going to find out exactly what it was I had to do to score tickets before they went on sale. And it all ended in this "You can't get tickets unless you have this super secret code and we're not going to give you the code because your not special enough" kind of elementary school popularity contest.

So I'm asking, I'm asking nicely Ticketmaster. Just what do I have to do to ensure I will actually have tickets for this concert, pre-sale or not? Do I have to do some insane "Simon Says" endurance test/competition thing, or maybe you are looking for bribery, or, as I am want to believe, is all of Ticketmaster part of an insane, possibly satanic, cult that requires a flesh sacrifice of some kind before they will dole out tickets? Do some of the Ticketmaster interns require hand-jobs in order for me to get tickets, because if that's the case, I think an Indecent Proposal-esque arrangement between you, Fighting Nun and myself can be arranged. I might even be able to arrange some assassin like training if murdering is what is involved to get tickets.

So TicketMaster, I'm begging, I'm pleading here. What do I have to do?

Wish I was Windsurfing;

The Bloody Munchkin

On Hold

During my 27 years on this earth I've had to be on hold on the a lot. A. Freaking. Lot. Insurance companies, car companies, the pizza guy. They've all put me on hold which means I've had to endure every kind of strange on-hold musak human kind can think of. If the devil was to devise a special hell just for me, I think it would involve having me be put on hold while listening to the most god awful music known to man. It's like water torture people! If it is going to be my own special little hell, I've decided I'm going to be prepared for it and have started cataloging and rating the selection of music certain on-hold systems have used in an attempt to see what I can tolerate for the longest amount of time. Items listed here start from most tolerable to tearing-hair-out-and-running-for-the-hills, what-insane-batshit-crazy-music-is-this, Gah-I-can't-take-it-anymore.

1. William Tell Overture repeated over and over/Classical Music Medly - On the whole, it's pretty tolerable. I realize that I don't listen to classical music very often, so usually when this happens, I take time to reflect on the music, taking a second to enjoy a flourish of some sort. It's almost a refreshing forray, if it wasn't for the fact that I was put on hold.

2. Classical Music Medly with intermittent "Please Keep Holding, Your Call is Important too us!" interruptions - This is a bit more annoying, because, just when I decide to turn myself over to the music blaring out of the ear piece, just as I'm engaged, they decide to cut it off and let the little robot voice of call waiting hell announce that you still aren't talking to a real human yet. So not only are you on hold, you have to be reminded that you are on hold, and that your call will be taken in the order received. You know what? I got something for you to receive right here Ms.-robot-voice-biznatch! Shut your cake hole and let me listen to the music in peace. But only if it is the classical stuff.

3. The oldies station broadcast - No offense or anything, but there is rarely a moment I want to hear "The Lollipop Song" coming out of my earpiece, and if by some wierd chance I do want to hear that song, I would also want to watch River Phoenix, Corey Feldman and the gang lip-synching to it. So no real need for blaring it in your on hold system, A'ight.

4. The oldies broadcast with intermittent "Please Keep Holding, Your Call is Important too us!" interruptions, or advertisements, or with little blurps about how well the company is doing, or how they are trying hard to meet my customer service needs - This one can really bite the fattest part of my ass really. O.k., so not only do I have to put up with Do-wop music, but I also have to put up with some chode Mr. Robot Voice telling me that his company appreciates my business, please buy more things? They can just bite me.

5. The Countdown - The countdown, no matter what music accompanies it, is one of the most torturous things about an on-hold service, because not only do you have to put up with Ms. Robot Voice, you have to put up with Ms. Robot Voice telling you exactly how long the wait is, which is some perverse sort of torture if I've ever heard it. The most excruciating sentence ever uttered by a voice, human or computer generated has to be "Thanks for holding. Your call is important to us. You have approximately 5 minutes and 30 seconds for your call to be recieved." Knowing the approximate time that should pass before you hear an actual human voice again just makes hearing the umpteenth variation of "Muscrat Love" that much more excruciating, because then I'm staring at my watch every three seconds waiting for the allotted time to pass so I won't have to listen to the drivel imminating from my phone while wanting to throttle Ms. Robot Voice or the server that generated her until there is no more life in the robot voice and/or computer. Gah!

6. Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks solo work, Stevie Nicks even within a thousand yards of an on-hold system - You know, given that I am the product of hippies and have had to hear every incarnation of Stevie Nicks music, you'd think I could tolerate this one, but one tennuous call to the autobody shop where they put me on hold only to hear "I am like the wind" and I realized that no, no I could not tolerate Stevie Nicks while being on hold. I could not even do the opposite of tolerate, I could only sit, paralyzed with the phone by my ear, slowly letting the awefullness bore into my brain like a bad earwig, slowly, deviously, taking over all comprehension skills until all I could hear was that, that voice *shudder*. This one's going to take awhile for me to recuperate from. I'll tell you that much. *shudder again*.

So yeah, being on hold sucks, the on hold music can sometimes suck even more. Word to the wise, when put on hold, have your headphones and your iPod nearby to circumvent the damage done by listening to the on-hold music otherwise you will unknowingly enter some perverse circle of hell you didn't know existed. Your brain, your heart, your musical tastes, your sanity will thank you later.

Car Trouble

About a week ago, Fighting Nun and I were at a 7-11 and this car pulled up and, right before it pulled into the parking lot, it died. And not just a sputtery "I don't think I got any more in me chief, I've lived a good long life, don't pity me my death" kind of death. This was a sudden death. The "One second we were having a good conversation and the next thing I knew he grabbed his chest and fell to the floor", the-transmission-just-fell-out-and-is-now-residing-on-the-pavement kind of death.

Fighting Nun looked over at the car and was all "That's a bummer but that was a woman driving it, so go figure." You'd think that that would get my feminist side all in an ire, but it was part honesty and part sadness that made me refrain from a diatribe. Because truthfully, that could've been me, and probably will be at the rate my car's going. And also because Fighting Nun knows it. The number of times Fighting Nun has looked at my tires because I told him the Tire Pressure Warning Light won't go away and the car feels kinda lopsided? Three. Number of times I was almost riding on the rim when he took a look? Three. Yeah, I know, not a good ratio.
I get that to be an independent woman, we should take care of this kind of crap, that we should pay attention to our car's needs, blah-blah-blah. But honestly this car crap? That's part of the reason I got married. Yes, emotional fulfillment, someone to spend the rest of my life with, that too. But honestly, the reason I got married is so I'd have somebody tell me what car trouble I'm having, and to kill the hairy, multiple legged creatures that have taken up residence in various corners of my house. I think that subconsciously, that's why all women get married. They just don't want to admit it. Men get married because it means they get to have sex on a routine basis and they no longer have to pay for it, but that's a different topic altogether. But the point is, we all have needs that another person in our lives can help solve, and my needs just happen to be car related.

And don't give me the whole "betraying my fellow feminists by not taking responsibility for my automobile" schpiel. I've got more important crap to worry about. So what if the air conditioner stopped working, one of the license plate lights burned out, the brakes are starting to make a screeching metal-on-metal sound, and the electrical system starts turning lights on and off at wierd intervals. Fighting Nun will tell me when I need to get it fixed. Right?

Bloody Munchkin's Media Consumption

Reading – A co-worker lent this to me, and I’ve been kind of reading it off and on for about a week. Haven’t got that far, but immediate reaction? Meh. So far, I can’t be bothered to care. The two main characters introduced are just too…. British? I don’t know, it’s just not working for me.

Sadly Watching – I know that the way this year’s team turned out, we probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the division, but the Giants just kinda dangled it in my face, like “Maybe we’ll get the division this year, we’re not that far behind” and then, just as quickly they yank that chance, that hope away from me. I’m like a playful kitten given a very amusing string, only to have it yanked away from me. Le Sigh.

Listening To – I loved (Loved!) their first album. Fighting Nun still considers it one of his favorite albums. This one brings the same good poppy sound, if a bit more toned down. It’s a little edgier and doesn’t have the same sense of fun the first one had (Come On, C-c-c-cinnamon is probably one of the most fun songs in my collection), but it is still very good overall. Highlights: Invincible, A Million Ways.

Bummed but not surprised about – I finally find a show on Fox of all places that I’m interested in, and what happens? They can it. Screw You Fox! You can bite the fattest part of my ass for that one. I start to care about one of your shows on the fall line-up and you dump it before I can fully enjoy it. Bastards…

Fighting Nun's Corner: Just Drink the Coffee!!!

My husband, Fighting Nun, enlightens us once more.

Whatever happens the one thing I can do is take a deep breath let my stomach
acids chew on the injustices of the world and take a long sip of coffee…. *

Ok, I know that was just a bunch of crap! I’m sorry I just let down all my fans of the world, even if my fan base only includes my dog and my pet nose goblins.** My dog is my greatest fan though. The dog can be fast asleep and in I say the right word he is halfway out the door with his leash hanging out of his mouth. He reminds me of a teenage girl at the latest boy band concert ready to wet her panties if the singer even glances her way….

Ok, I know that was just a way to make up a bunch of sexist crap! I’m sorry I just let down all of the feminists reading this article. Actually, I’m not, I think it’s really hot when the red cheeks on a short hair butch dyke start to flare up. ***

So, let’s see I’ve included sex, political issues and the love for furry animals, that meets my quota for the article this week.

But, coffee does have its side affects…. I mean how else does someone expect me to write an ode to the great pumpkin cookie?

* The Bloody Munchkin’s Editor’s Note 1: This statement proves that Fighting Nun was drinking a lot of coffee or under the effects of a lot of coffee when he wrote the rest of this.
** Editor’s Note 2: Hey, what about me? Am I chop liver over here? I thought I was a big part of the fan base!!! I guess me and your pet nose goblins are going to have to dissolve the fan club I was building in your honor!
*** Editor’s Note 3: Dude, don’t upset the short-haired butch dyke contingent. She might be the only reader we’ll ever have!

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 3, 4

So this week has somehow revealed some, really juicy band names.

First up: Cheez Whiz Enema (TM Fighting Nun, don't ask.) I envision as a kind of Primus-meets-Ween sort of a band. Kicky bass lines with jokey lyrics. If somebody was to develop this band, I would totally come to their show, and buy a t-shirt.

Second up: Formerly Promiscuous (TM Date My Mom. Again just don't ask.) Girl Goth Band? A member of Blink-182's next gig? You be the judge.

Somebody made the TV show of my dreams

If this happens to be true, then I've died and gone to heaven. For years I've been saying that Mr. T needed to have his own show. And now he has one!!! I'm so happy I'm crying...

Bloody Munchkin's Media Consumption

Reading - Quick read, fun read, the ending was a bit too tidy, but it was really enjoyable. Full review to follow.

Watching - Shut Up! It's not my fault. Ever since Dazed and Confused, I've been Adam Goldberg's bitch! I must watch anything that the guy who uttered the words "I'm just being honest about being a misanthrope." has ever done, except that bad show he did about the stock market and the two other movies he did with Matthew McConoughy that weren't Dazed and Confused. But other than that, I'm totally there. And yeah, Chris O'Donnell did take a dive in his career because of The Bachelor, but dude played a woman who became a man and slept with Charlie Sheen's Mother. He totally gained tons of good will from me for that role. Enough that is carrying over to this roll.

Sickly Watching - I haven't posted my regular posts that I want to right now because I've been super busy with moving my cubicle stuff into a new space at work (don't ask, long story) during which time I caught some Andromeda-strain head cold that had a grip on tmy grey matter so entirely that I felt as if I'd entered some strange version of The Puppetmaster, my thoughts not totally feeling my own, and Domo Aregato Mr. Roboto'ing everything I was doing. So I took some time to hide under the covers and sort of watch the two birthday presents I gave to myself over and over again. I love the fact Andrew Keegan gets kneed in the nadsack. I love the fact that there is actual, documentable proof that Val Kilmer did a movie that was actually funny for funny's sake, instead of laughable because it was awesomely bad. I like that he did a movie where he says lines like "Mind if I name my first child after you? Dipshit Knight has a nice ring to it." These things make me happy and allow me to sleep blissfully even when my head throbs steadily like a metranome.

Listening to - O.k. I can explain. This really has nothing to do with Rockstar: INXS, well it does a little, but I haven't been watching it, except for a snippet I caught awhile back, but the snippet got into my head, and so did the other INXS songs, so The Tigress made me a copy and added the snippet that was stuck in my head (I'm sorry, but JD's "Pretty Vegas" is pretty damn catchy). Plus, I think I've mastered a mighty fine Kareoke Rendition of "Need You Tonight" driving in my car. Somebody point me to the closest Kareoke bar cause I. Am. Ready. (Except don't, because I'm a terrible singer who only has dillusions of grandeur when in my car doing Careoke [Geddit? Geddit???] and should avoid Kareoke at all costs. Really. Trust me on this one.)

Damn You Teen Movies!!!

Fighting Nun just does not get my preoccupation with teen movies. And to be honest, I'm not sure I get it either. Why is it that I’m a Sixteen-Candles-adoring, What-ever-saying, Empire-Records quoting, Jake-Ryan-wanting, Molly-Ringwald-wannabe (Seriously, I’ve dressed like Claire from Breakfast Club for Halloween three years running. Why? Because somehow I had the exact outfit she wore in my closet. Don’t ask. I have no idea how that happened.)? I watched them in my adolescence because they were funny and cute, and because they had John Cusack in them and life was good. But in my post-adolescence, I’m not sure why I’m still obsessed with them. I like to think that I’m clinging on to some kind of cine-nostalgia or something.

But then I read this. Then everything started making sense. No, I was never at a party like this. I pretty much never went to a party in high school. (Let me just say that accidentally running over a poodle that turned out to be the stoner’s unofficial mascot in my school can reek havoc on your social life). And when I did go, it was nothing like this at all. Being snubbed by the volleyball team, ignored by the football team because they were too busy doing keg stands and basically being relegated to the D&D section of the party because they were the only ones who would talk to me? No way to live out your adolescent partying fantasies. Also, sneaking around in the desert, getting your clothes torn up on mesquite bushes because cops in our small, no stop-light town had nothing better to do than to descend on the only decent party of the year like a pack of rabid hyenas who have just found a three-day-old zebra carcass? Also no way to live your adolescent partying fantasies. Going home before curfew because watching late-night movies on HBO beat any idea of a good time you and your friends could come up with on a Saturday night? Also no way to live out your adolescent party fantasies. (But thanks to HBO late night, I caught Zebrahead, which may or may not explain a couple of things about my life, including my obsession with redheads. Micheal Rappaport, call me!)

But I don’t think it’s just the 80’s movie partying fantasies that went unfulfilled that has me obsessed with teen movies. I think it’s the skewed view of romance portrayed in a lot of the teen movies 1980 to present that has me so screwed up. Don’t get me wrong. Fighting Nun knows romance. The man knows how to work the angles to, you know, get what he wants if you know what I'm sayin'. But the romance in the relationship is also tempered with this unfettered childlike amusement he has when it comes to picking on me that is best summed up in the following exclamation: “Penis in the face! Penis in the face! Gah! Penis in the Mouth! Penis in the eye!” But I don’t think it’s the current level of romance in my relationship versus that in movies that makes me sad, it’s that I didn’t have that kind of awesome good-girl-gets-the-hot-guy, Jake-Ryan-picks-me-up-in-his-car-on-my-birthday, John-Cusack-blairs-Peter-Gabriel-out-of-a-boom-box, AJ-promises-to-come-to-Boston-even-after-I-threw-myself-at-Rex-Manning, Preston-writes-me-an-awe-inspiring-utterly-sweet-letter, Seth-Green-hits-on-me-and-we-end-up-making-it-on-the-bathroom-floor kind of tempestuous love affair. Where the fuck was the guy who was willing to learn French for me when I went to high school? Where the hell is the guy who I wanted to continue language lessons with? Why the Hell couldn’t I have been a Sparks to somebody’s Eric Stoltz when I was in high school? Where was my Paul Rudd? That's what I want to know! Oh yeah, that’s right, he was Non-fucking-existent!!! There wasn’t a guy like that in my high school, not anywhere close. O.k. a few were kinda close, but they always had girlfriends who weren’t me and never even showed that they might even be a little bit interested in me. And the rest of the guys at my school, the single guys, who were interested in me? Let’s just say I had an unspoken rule with myself never to date anyone in my school who I knew for a fact ate paste in kindergarten. That ruled out every other available guy to me, and quite a few of the female persuasion, you know, if I had actually decided to go that route. The one guy from my school that I decided to date (only because he moved to my town sophomore year so I had no physical evidence that he had eaten paste so he was worth a shot) “accidentally” spit his gum down my dress at prom junior year so he could fish it out. On the dance floor. (Interesting side note to that story. Said guy is, if my sources are to be believed still in the same area, possibly a tweaker. Which, yeah. Man do I know how to pick 'em.)

To be fair, I totally got that guy in college, and that guy turned into Fighting Nun and he has hit all the right notes since the consequently, which makes my life better than the movies. That's right fuckers! I said it!

So I guess I totally blew my chances at the awesome, only-in-movies teenage romance when I was a teenager, but that’s only because the movies set the bar so damn high that normal adolescent tomfoolery seemed unworthy somehow. Damn you teen movies!!! Why’d you have to screw me up like that?

Made-up Band Name: Submission Two

This weeks band name:

"Dyslexic Coffee Monkey and the Shoelaces, featuring their hit single "Decaf is for wussies and truffle-eating fools."

(tm Fighting Nun, Let's just say we have wierd e-mail discussions and leave it at that...)

Best Lines of the Night

"Did God teach you that porno face?" (tm Fighting Nun)

"I just got anally raped by a wooden spoon." (tm Micheal Vartan)

Why can't I make up dialogue like this people? This is why I am not a New York Times best seller. Because I do not possess the skills of wit like my husband and that dude from Alias...

The Bloody Munchkin's Media Consumption

It is no doubt obvious that I'm knee deep in media. Books, movies, music, tv. I'm all about it. This week in my media consumption, I'm all over the map.

Finished Reading - So, Eldest. When I read Eragon, I picked it up mostly because I read the dust cover, and found that the author starting writing the book when he was 15. I guess I just wanted to see if the kid had chops. After reading the first one, my immediate reaction was that it was good but a bit immature, like the writing hadn’t totally grown into itself yet, if that makes any sense.

Well, I saw no signs of that whatever in this second book. Kid has chops by the pound in this one. The prose was a lot more grown up and the story itself was elegantly crafted. The second book is so good in fact, and so intricately woven in with the first one, that I might have to read the first one again. Paolini makes certain things from the first book plot points in the second book that I never would have guessed at. And the ending, Jesus! I won’t give it away, but I will say that from the beginning of the book, I had kind of guessed at it, but even when my assumptions became true it was still a shock, more like a total and utter blow. I’m blaming that mostly on Paolini’s slight of hand that he pulled through the whole book, but that’s neither here nor there. He pulled everything off brilliantly and I tip my hat to him, and I anxiously await the third installment.

In summation, I only hope I can be as good a writer at 40 as this young man is at 20. Buy both books, read them. They are good. 8.5 out of 10.

Watching - Matt is a kickass. A kickass I tell you. He had the coolest opportunity in the world, being Tommy's roommate and all. Fighting Nun was envious. And, not like I need to say it, but the tutor was scorching.

Tivo'd but not watched yet - I'm only interested in it to see if David Boreanez can, like, not brood for five seconds. If he's all broody in this series, then I'm out. I already spent five years of my life watching him brood, I shall not invest another second unless he shows me he can pull off more than two emotions in a given episode.

Listening to - Eee! Yet even more Eee! Relistening to Republica is like all the sudden meeting up with the old boyfriend from high school that you always lent money too, never paid you back but was the only cool guy in school so you dated him anyway and when you meet up again, years later, you're all like, "damn he was cheesy, but still get it why I was into him?". Yeah, that's how this album is for me. It never fully pays the listener off but it's still awesome as hell. And the other? Billy Idol is a Rock and Roll God whom you should kiss the feet of and bring sacrafices to. You can argue with this contention all you like, but it won't do any good. He sneers people! And he rhymes words like "fact" with "sex attack"! Case closed.

Fighting Nun's Corner

This is the weekly segment where my husband, The Awesome Fighting Nun, gets to air his insights. The intellect will astound...

It's better to be a poet vs. a rockstar:

You don’t need to take drugs to write your crap(Ed. Notes: BUt some times your crap is so crappy that the audience should be required to be on copious amounts of drugs just to read it. See: Ode to a Grecian Urn.) and you don’t have to be drunk
during your performances, you just need large amounts of caffeine.

You can be sure that the girls you take home are as cute as you think they are because your not drunk off your ass (Ed. Notes: Yeah, but as a poet, can you be relatively sure that you could actually, you know, get some action? At least if your Tommy Lee, your reasonably assured to get some action. If you're this guy, there is no guarantee your artistry could get you laid, and if your this guy, there'd no guarantee that what your getting laid by is actually a woman ).

Rockstars when reaching old age are called pathetic losers, aka Rolling Stones (Ed.
Notes: Opinions expressed here not that of the rest of the Bloody Munchkin staff), and may cause years of trauma (if you live that long).(Ed. Notes: But the point of being a rock star is not to live that long. Die young and leave a beautiful corpse Damn It!) But, as a Beatnik you’ve been called a pathetic loser all your life so when you reach old age and still hanging out in coffee shops it comes as no shock to you when somebody comes to call you a pathetic loser.

So there you have it. The Fighting Nun's piece of wisdom for the day!

New Blog + Dog = Insomnia

So I've got a blog now. This blog has got me really excited and yet realy nervous at the same time. One part of my brain is all "Eeeeee! I've got a blog. This is excellent! I'll get to be more creative and I should write about this and that" blah, blah, blah. You get the picture. The other half of my brain is all "Are you kidding me? This going to take planning and organization. We got work to do bitch!" So I'm trying to work stuff out between the two parts of my brain, which probably takes thirty or forty minutes of me lying in bed, trying to be the moderator between both trains of thought. Finally, when I've got a reasonable cease-fire established between both sides of my brain, my dog.

I love my dog, as one look at my profile would tell you. But bitch is noisy ya'll (that sounded way to colloquial, I apologize). Just as my brain inevetibly shuts down and I've relaxed enough to get some shut eye, I hear it. Let me give you an example of what I hear. For anyone who turned into The Family Guy last night, there's that whole scene where James Woods is at the foot of the bed and Peter is all "Look Lois, he's dreaming that he's running." as if it's the cutest thing in the world. That's my dog. Except my dog is not James Woods (Thank God, because Yee-ach!) and it has ceased being cute. He runs in his sleep, and he whines. And it's not a cute little breathless whine either, it's a full on three-alarm-fire, bring-out-the-fire-trucks kind of whine. The prolonged "uu-uu-uuuuuu" that just will. Not. Quit. So I have to roll over, reach down the side of the bed to where his bed is and pet him awake, which to my brain is the equivalant of a terrorist attack that ends the cease-fire.

When I do finally get to sleep, I'm usually out. It sometimes takes an act of God to rouse me from my eight hours. But last night, not the case unfortunately. Thanks to me being a total square and all, I had a dream about blogging, which woke me up. (This, strangely, has not been the first time I've woken up because of a nerdy dream. Back when I worked for a tax office I had a disturbing dream about W-4's that woke me up. Yeah, I know. Spell it with me folks: D-O-R-K.) This also ends the cease-fire and I'm back at it, thinking about the blog for another thirty minutes or so. Then, the dog again. Licking himself, or chewing himself, or scratching himself, or walking to the other room, where he licks himself, scratches himself, and chews himself more. There are some days I just can not catch a break.

So in an abrupt change of subject, I was struck by the fact that I decided to start my blog on 9-11. I was also struck be the fact that on that date four years ago, I was prompted by the events of 9-11 to write in my hard cover journal. It's a morbidly eerie coincidence, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

Getting these thoughts out here is making me late for work. So this is me signing off.

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 1

So, I've always had a thing about band names, or more-over finding that the craziest word combinations ended up making really great band names. Fametracker's dead and buried yet totally lamented forums had an awesome (Awesome!) thread about the same subject, where I met people with the same adoration of crazy names as me. Said forum thread gave me such juicy band names as "Spork" and "Kurt Vonnegut and his Bitches".
Once a week, I'll post some random tidbit or something that I think would be an awesome band name. This week: Heaven and Hell Cotillion.
(Thank You Rushmore)

Welcome to The Bloody Munchkin's Random Thoughts, the site where I will attempt to make sense of the wierd pop culture melting pot that is my brain (Warning: Won't always be pretty).

It'll be one part wit, two parts snark, three parts random movie quotes, and one part trying to make meaning out of my life. Come for The Goonies love,stick around for snippets of short stories I'm trying (in vein) to write, stay for wierd and strange tales about my dog's love of french fries.

Until then...

Wish I was windsurfing;

The Bloody Munchkin