Murphy's Law Bites My Ass

I think there's some murphy's law that somehow Karma always seem to want to bring about onto Fighting Nun and myself. Well, there are actually several murphy's laws that get inacted on us on a daily basis, one of which is that, even if you pick the shortest line in the super market, it will inevitably become the longest line, complete with little old lady paying for her thirty dollars of groceries in change.

But the one law of murphy currently kicking our asses happens to be a law that states "Whatever you have put good-earned money into will be irreparably damages so that it is truly yours" or something like that. The thing we put good money on is obviously our new house, and although not irreparably damaged yet, within the month and a half that we've lived there it has become "ours" because between the wine stain and the dog who shall not be name BECAUSE HE IS STILL IN TROUBLE tearing up a patch of the carpet, it's now officially got the "Bloody Munchkin and Fighting Nun were here. You can tell by the swath of destruction we've laid" stamp of approval all over it.

Thing is, we were doing so good though. We've been taking our shoes off so as not to get the carpet dirty. We've been fixing the umpteen little things the home-inspector dude found wrong with our house since we moved in and I have been obsessively cleaning the kitchen like Mr. Clean on crack. We were being the good little home-owners I always knew we could be.

And then what happens? We spill wine, a great glassful onto the carpet. Which sucks but whatever. We got a steam cleaner, we're dealing with it. Although it's turning out to be the little wine stain that could, or the ghost of spilt grape juice past, what with haunting the spot we've cleaned in a vaguely brownish color. But we'll deal. What we don't have good solid answers for dealing with is the spot of carpet by the closet door mr. still-in-trouble-pants decided to create because he thought jut was apparantly a good look for the floor.

But I can't totally blame the dog. Well I can, but part of me, a small sliver of me knows it was Karma putting a murphy's law in action on our asses. I mean, why is it that when the world tries to cosmically balance itself, Fighting Nun and I find we're on the wrong end of the see-saw when it happens?

Babies

Can I just say how endlessly amusing I find it that Tom Cruise's and Brooke Shields's babies are born hours apart? That's gonna be a fun school yard five years from now. "Go back to your pill popping mom." "Shut Up Sari. Why don't you worship Xenu with your couch-jumping dad." And then the gloved will be O-F-F. That's gonna be fantastic...

Words are fun!

I once read a Non Sequiter comic in which the main character were just shouting words at each other because it was fun. I decided to send the comic to Fighting Nun, and we immediately started yelling inane words at each other, like arugula and mestication (well, those were my words really) over e-mail. It was fun. I don't know why we stopped. Oh yeah, that's right, work and stuff. Darn work. Always screwing stuff up.

With that said, today has turned over two doozies that I must broadcast to the world. Well, not the world because I have like no readers and therefore am merely posting where the world can see it if the world so chooses, which it doesn't, but anyway.

The two words of the day are:

Goldiglo

Teledildonics

They could also be in contention for awesome band names, but Teledildonics would have to be a really loud, Lords-of-Acid-like band to really pull off the name.

The President's Head is bouncy

I don't know why I find the above link so perversely amusing, but I do. There is something disturbing entertaining about watching a charicature of the W getting bounced and crushed and put through his paces in a wierd little bouncy ball world. And you have mouse control, so if the president gets stuck, you just pull him through or over an obstacle. I have found that I'm taking too much pleasure in putting this guy through his paces. Let me tell you, you have not lived until you've watched the Commander in Chief forced through a tiny opening doing the full standing splits. I also like that when W is stuck somewhere, his little character body is heaving, like he's breathing heavy as if he's just had to think incredibly hard or was straining to comprehend foriegn policy or something like that.

I wonder if Barbara Boxer or, like the founding members of move-on are playing around with this right now all "And this is for the War in Iraq, and this is for your policies on public education, and don't eeeeven get me started on this new immigration bill." Heh!

Turtlegate

I'm not sure if its obvious, but apparantly I'm hardwired to buy a bunch of kitchy crap I don't really need. There are certain things that I'm convinced a company in China made specifically because they new I would by it. Any sproingy, brightly colored toy of varying cuteness or playfulness I will either buy or lament not buying, and in some cases, I will buy multiples of. Take my cubicle for instance. Somehow I have amassed three slinkies, two bean-bag lizards, four strechy rubbery lizard toys, all in various states of decay and destruction (it's not my fault their legs are easy to rip off, really!), at least ten bouncy balls, some of which light, some of which light and make noise, some of which are supposed to light and make noise but whose batteries have died, four jelly rings that light up, a lava lamp glittery thingy and a plastic Godzilla Lizard, and a stuffed Intel Guy. And that's just a partial listing of the toys I can see!

So, point is, if it is cute and amusing, chances are I either have it, have multiples of it, or deeply waaaaaaant it if I don't have it already. Usually, Fighting Nun is able to curb that instinct I have. Our new house isn't cluttered with cute and amusing things, sadly. This is because my need to outfit our house with needless stuff is usually met with a good helping of resistance. A trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond usually goes something like this:

"Look, it's a soap dispenser thingy with froggies floating in it!"
"You don't need it!"
"But it's, It's a soap dish.... With little froggies.... Floating in it!"

Fighting Nun usually pats my shoulder, rolls his eyes and walks away from me at this point, thus settling the dilemma and leaving me without an amusing froggie-floating dispenser, sadly. But sometimes, just sometimes, Fighting Nun can't walk away from my stunning powers of persuasion mixed with the desire to have amusing things, such as our latest outing to the hardware store. Yes, I realize that a hardware store is hardly the place to find something that suits my cuteness needs, but this last time, there was just the thing.

Bloody Munchkin: Look, they have a glow in the dark froggie light!
Fighting Nun: *rolls eyes*
BM: No, but look, its a little solar-powered frog that can sit outside in our new backyard and it can be an extra patio light. We need another one! You said so yourself...

At this point, Fighting Nun walks away from me, but the beauty of a hardware store is that nothing is where it is suppose to be, so you end up walking up and down the same aisles a bunch of different times, trying to find the stuff you need, which at this particular moment was cloth fiberglass, bondo, a spreader and expandable foam (don't ask) all of which were conveniently not placed anywhere close to each other which meant Fighting Nun and I were forced to walk passed the same spot where the awesome glowing froggies of wonderfulness happened to be. Which meant I could ply my wonderful powers of persuasion on him *cough wearing him down cough*.

Bloody Munchkin: But see, he's so cute and he needs a good home.
Fighting Nun: I am not buying you a glow in the dark frog.
BM: But he'll light up in the patio and he's soooo cute and I'll name him Ralph!
FN: You name EVERYTHING Ralph!
BM: No I don't! I name everything Pepe and that can be blamed on the movie Airborne. The only things I name Ralph are my shoes, and those are only the righties!
FN: *walks away*

After the third time walking past the display and "persuading" Fighting Nun that we needed a lighted up frog, Fighting Nun was at his wit's end.

FN: I AM NOT BUYING YOU A GLOW IN THE DARK FROG!
BM: But, but, but... (Cue pouty lip and big, puppy dog eyes)
FN: ....But I will buy you the glow in the dark turtle.
BM: There are turtles!!! I didn't even see those!!! Those are awesome! I like those better!

So we now own a glow in the dark turtle which I have ceremoniously dubbed Thomas (I couldn't name him Ralph because all my right shoes are named Ralph, and I couldn't name him Pepe because my plant at work is named Pepe, so I had to come up with something else. And besides, Ralph the Turtle? Does not have a good ring to it. Now, if I can just convince Fighting Nun the next time we go to the hardware store that Thomas the Turtle is lonely all by himself in our big, huge patio and needs friends, like say possibly two more glow in the dark turtles and maaaaaaybe a frog? Come on, what do you say?

Made-Up Band Names

Metrosexual Backlash.

I'm envisioning a very grungy plaid wearing alternative band, but not in Kurt Cobain kind of way, more of a Mel Gibson meets Grizzly Adams kind of Way. Zack Galafanakis, I think I have the band name for you!

Screw You Weather, Part Deux

What is going on with the Bay Area's weather right now? I mean seriously. It's April. April for Godsakes! Fighting Nun and I are supposed to be Windsurfing! right now. I am, by all accounts supposed to take my humongoid life raft of a beaten-up board and one of Fighting Nun's beat up sails and I'm supposed to be beating them up right now. Not right now as in right now, but right now as in, we were supposed to start windsurfing back in March. It's supposed to be sunny and windy and Fighting Nun are supposed to be out at one of the handful of windsurfing locations scattered around the bay area right now. Everytime we drive over the bridge, Fighting Nun is supposed to look forlornly out to bay and lament not being able to sail the white caps. Now Fighting Nun just looks out to the bay and laments it not being windy. We're both inside, miserable, watching the rain come down for like the umpteenth consecutive day, listening to the doom and gloom of the weather reports on TV ("Mudslides in Marin, Highway 1 closed forever, more rain for at least a month, more at 11").

And its not just the lack of windsurfing I'm lamenting. It's Baseball. Did you know there was supposed to be a game last night? Had there been a game last night, we would have watched it, but instead, it got rained out and Fighting Nun made me watch the first thirty atrocious minutes of "Saw". Shut Up Weather! You're screwing up baseball and forcing me to watch horror movies with my husband, and that I just won't stand for! Do you hear me weather, or do I have to drone on and on about what you happen to be doing to MY HAIR in addition to the havoc you are wreaking with my social activities? Because I will!!! Just you wait. Except I've already droned on about my weather-related hair woes here before, but I will again if that is what it takes for you to stop raining and turn sunny and windy! Don't think I won't, because I will!! I mean it!! And don't think I don't have an extra special rant about what this rain is doing to all the traffic in this area, because I do. Short form: It's turning people into idiots. Well, even more so than they were before.

Weather, hurry up and do what you are supposed to do: get sunny, get windy and get ready for me to shred!

Paralyzed with Helping, Part I

So a couple of weeks ago, I went into this huge rant about public schools and how we as in the government we is trying to do things to help the school system but it instead hampers them and weighs them down with unnecessary red tape and not enough funding to clear the red tape and help the kids out at the same time. I even wrote quite a lot of paragraphs about it for the blog, but, because what was starting as an articulate rant ended up as an inarticulate gurgle of fury directed at anyone in charge not seeing the problem. Lots of vigorous head shaking and unexplainable frustration weren't really gonna get my point across.

Which brings me to my point. There is an organization that is doing something about helping our kids, and that I enjoy helping very much. Here's the problem. I recently came into a little money as part of my departed grandmother's estate (I haven't talked much about her or that experience either, well I have, just not in this space. I wanted to keep that experience of losing her separate from what I'm doing in this space). So Fighting Nun said that any devices I had for the money were my own. Part of that money went into a project for the house (buying my awesome dog Kissinger a doggie door so he can get in and out of the patio easily). It's a piddly thing to use the inheritance on, but I don't think my grandmother would mind. So now I have 40 dollars left over, and I'm paralyzed as to what to do with it. I've thought about spending it on myself, but I'll just buy crap and I'd like to do something nice in my grandmother's memory, so I'm thinking of earmarking that money for a project on Donor's Choose.

Thing is, I can't decide which project to give my money to. There's so many good ones, and I'm paralyzed with the choosing and the helping, and also asking other people to help and get the project I pick on the ground and rolling for these kids. So I'm leaving it up to my two readers to help me decide. Right now, I'm leaning to these two projects: Marin Headlands Camping and Bay Area Kids Experiencing the sea around them. I'll make my decision soon, but any ideas would be appreciated.

The Mustache Strikes Back

Remember when I remarked about how bad Fabritzio's mustache was? Remember how I also said how I was horrified that the 70's pornstache was making a comeback? Well, this topic came back up in discussion, and I'm still mystified by the fact that there are men out there who think they can pull off the nice thick mustache without coming off sleazy, creepy or not like Ron Jeremy. Because I'm here to tell you, trying to pull off that stache will not work. And I know why.

First of all, the guys trying pull off that stache are twenty-something wannabe hipsters who are trying to come of as ironic or retro or vintage or however they try and spin it as. First of all, if it's the ironic facial hair that you're going for, well that train has passed. The age of The New Sincerity is upon us. The Age or Irony is so 1996. So don't do it. And if you're trying to grow it because you think the perfectly groomed mustache will be a great accessory to go with your vintage "If this Trailer's a Rockin', don't bother Knockin'" t-shirt and Camaro belt buckle, well then you are an idiot. Look, the only think that accessorizes with that t-shirt is a grease fire (although the belt buckle is pretty rocking) and secondly, the porn-stache accessorizes with nothing but orange shag carpeting and the "wakka-wakka" music of impending bone-age.

My friend, the one who is considering a forray into this most unfortanate of trends argued that his stache could maybe be very Sam-Elliot-like. Let me explain something. There's only one person, well two people in this whole wide world that could pull of the Sam Elliot mustache and those two people are Sam Elliot and my dad. But see, Sam Elliot knew how to work that mustache, and he also accessorized it with awesome salt-and-pepper hair and a Harley a la "Mask". My dad pulled off that mustache, and continues to pull it off, because he's rocking the same salt-and-pepper look and also because my dad looks a lot like Sam Elliot, only with a bigger beer belly and a more pronounced bald spot.

And don't even bring up the Sellick. O.k., I respect the Sellick, and, fine I'll relent that he rocked the stache on Magnum P.I., but if you even think you can go Magnum, well then you are delusional and an idiot. Only Magnum can go Magnum and only Sam Elliot and my dad can go Sam Elliot.

My friend also argued that he thinks it would be cool to try for the handlebar. Why? No, really. Why? There's only been two people in recent TV history to sport the handlebar, one of which is pretty much portrayed as an idiot. An idiot with good intentions, but an idiot nonetheless. The other was a guy on a reality make-over show and he was forced at camera point to shave the unholy union of a banana slug and pubic hair off his lip. Why would you even want to try a handlebar? Because you think it might be fun to reenact old vauldvillian schtick or every silent movie involving a helpless damsel and railroad tracks? Because if that job's not already taken, it should be, by Rip Tayler. Because the crazy, and abnormal facial hair are both prerequisites for that job, and he's already got both qualities in spades. I mean, did you see the picture?

So please, for the love of all God's creatures, save us the inhumanity and don't don the stache. Please. For me?

Gum on my shoe

So, I've got gum on my shoe. I'm not sure how it happened, but it happened. It happened earlier in the week actually, but now it's making it's presense known to me. I've also got gum on my car floor mats, because of the gum on my shoe which means that I can't put my left foot certain places when I'm driving, which is consequently the foot with the shoe that has gum on it. My life is one gummy nightmare and I want to wake up. Reason # 232 why I HATE gum. HATE IT! With a fiery passion that is usually reserved for boy bands and Kenny G albums Hate it! I hate gum so much I'd rather listen to said boy bands have a medley featuring Kenny G while I'm getting a brazilian wax by monkeys than chew a piece of gum. Gah! Hate! Evil! Gah! Someday I'll explain the other 231 reasons I hate gum, but for now I'd like to talk about the evils of gum as it relates to my footwear, because...

My poor shoe. It deserves better than this. Seriously. The kicks I'm wearing today are these awesome brown suede and pink leather Pumas I got last February and have held up like champs. I mean, they've been put through the ringer and have held up magnificently. They've survived many a beer-drenching concert, several rainy outings, a trip to Vegas and several packings. And now the guys (Yes, my shoes are guys, The lefty is named Larry and the righty is named Ralph. Like you don't name your shoes. You don't? Oh, well, nevermind) have gum on them. And the gum has gone from the wierd pink-white color it was originally (at least that's my assumption) to the horrendous grey-black color that is faintly tar-like in color and is just evil. Not just evil, eveeeel (Insert Mike Meyers' annunciation from So I Married and Axe-Murderer here). I tried cleaning it with soap and water in the bathroom, but without much luck, which means I have the cleanest gummy sticky spot on my shoe in town. But it is totally annoying. Everywhere I step I feel my shoe slightly stick to the ground, and I vaguely hear that "crk, crk" noise like velcro being smushed together and pulled apart over and over again. HATE! Hatey-Hate-Hate! Just, Grrrrrrrrrrr.Evil (Insert Inarticulate Hate Gurgle Riiiiiiiight Here). I know Larry and Ralph will survive this as they have many other trials and tribulations I've put them through, but they shouldn't have to deal with the sticky evilness that is gum.

Somebody's Making a Videogame of my hopes and dreams

Bob Ross: The Videogame. This might possibly be the Best. Idea. Ever!! No, I have no idea what the premise would be about or how they could possibly pull it off, but if the videogame in some way, shape, or form involves the phrases "Happy little cloud" or any other of his little catch phrases, I will happily play this game until my thumbs fall off and my eyes bleed. And I don't even play videogames! Such is my love for the departed yet immortal in my heart Bob Ross. Bring on the Bob Ross love in videogame form, is what I'm saying!!!

Walken + Ping Pong = Awesome

So, apparantly, Christopher "Needs more Cowbell" Walken has decided to make a movie about competitive ping pong, ahem table tennis. I haven't been this happy since I was convinced he might be president in 2008. (I still have my Walken for President button ready to go if you want me to campaign for you Walken. Seriously, call me. I had these awesome little daydreams in which Willem Defoe was his Vice President, and Scary Blue Velvet era Dennis Hopper was his secretary of defense. It was a strange world full of True Romance references and Spider-man posters in Lincoln's bedroom, but it was awesome). When I found out it wasn't true, well, I haven't been that depressed since I actually sat through New Rose Hotel. Twice. But I still have him posted up in my cubicle along with my two other dark horse Presidential candidates, General Zod and Invader Zim. Sure, they want to enslave us, but at least they are honest about it.

But this movie. Will. Be. Awesome. If, and this is a big if, the Correct Walken shows up. What do I mean by "Correct Walken"? Well, let me elaborate. To my mind, there are two Walkens. There is the utterly entertaining and fun, song and dance Walken, a la that Fatboy Slim video where he dances and floats and is generally awesome. The "Needs more cowbell" Walken is equally entertaining. The Walken that does not need more air time is the Suicide Kings Walken, the Batman Returns Walken, the Hickey Walken. That Walken still gives me the creeps. Just, blech. I'm shuddering just thinking about it.

Looking at his c.v. though, there's a whole slew of Walkens I didn't know, or had forgotten existed. The awesome 80's Walken, the period piece Walken, which Wha???, the what the hell are you doing? Walken. But that's besides the point, the point is, the funny Walken better show up and this movie better involve no fewer than 23 crotch shots, or I'm resending my services as your campaign coordinator. That's all I'm saying.

Only a boy...

Would design a video game system that could be installed in a FREAKING URINAL. As if Fighting Nun didn't already going number 1 was a fun little game that he got to play with his "joystick", now he actually can play one, with his, erm "joystick". This is so freaking wrong, in so many ways. I wonder if they've installed a bonus round in the actual stalls. "Two kerplops = 2,000 points." Ugh, I just made myself sick...

Random Morning Commute Topic

Becuase Fighting Nun and I have had to car pool right now, we've ended up having some strange discussions. This morning's went something like this:

Fighting Nun: You need to have a coffee pen name.
Bloody Munchkin: A what?
FN: A name you can put on your coffee order.
BM: I don't understand.
FN: You need to come up with a name to put on your coffee order.
BM: Is this because you're tired of me using your name, because we both know it's easier because if I give them my name, I'm gonna have to spell it, and then their gonna look at me all wierd and then I have to do that eye roll that tries to convey "Yes I know the spelling and the name don't match, my parents are hippies that thought giving their daughter a strange name would be fun" in less than a split second...
FN: I'm not saying use your name. I'm saying come up with some name, other than mine to put on your coffee order.
BM: Like what?
FN: I don't know, Cat or something. And then you could like use it as one of your aliases, like if you ever write a book and stuff.
BM: Cat?
FN: I don't know, it's just a suggestion.

Fifteen minutes and a dance in my car seat to the tune of Morningwood's Nth Degree, and we came back to the topic.

BM: So, like how complicated should the coffee pen name have to be?
FN: Not very.
BM: Because I have Evanka on the brain.
FN: Fifteen minutes and the best you can come up with is Evanka?
BM: I don't know. I've had like five hundred other thoughts, most of which revolve around the fact that One Tree Hill sucked last night.
FN: Hey, you're the one who wanted to watch it.
BM: I know, I know. Well, what other names?
FN: I don't know. I'm kinda liking Cat. Short for Catarina. You could pull off a Catarina I think.
BM: It does seem to be the dark horse doesn't it.
FN: Dark horse? It's the only horse we've come up with.

Ten more minutes elapse...

BM: Angelina?
FN: Maybe...

A few more minutes...

BM: Violet.
FN: I don't know...
BM: Violet Benderspink. Violet Benderspink the Third. I kinda like that as my coffee pen name.
FN: Violet. Benderspink. The Third. Hold on. What? VIOLET. BENDERSPINK. THE THIRD? The hell?
BM: Well, not that I can't pull off the Russian Spy persona that handing off the name requires, but.
FN: Persona?
BM: Well, I mean, don't you have to assume a Russian Spy name if you're assuming the name of Cat?
FN: You aren't assuming a whole other persona to put down a FREAKING name on a paper cup!
BM: But if I'm using the pen name to write a book, then I'd have to give the person writing the book a whole other persona, thus Violet Benderspink the third. I think I could pull her off really well.
FN: O.k. first off, do you really want to give your "persona" a last name that sounds like sphincter?
BM: Heh. Sphincter. Good point, she was probably teased alot in school.
FN: O.k. Heh. But, not the point. The point is you're making a whole other persona TO ORDER COFFEE.
BM: Hey, this was your idea...
FN: Which you've taken to a wierd, wierd place. *Pats shoulder, rolls eyes*

The subject was then summarily dropped, not to be spoken about for the rest of the trip. But I'm convinced this topic is still open. Its Coffeegate people!

She said, he said

She Said "Damn it, it doesn't have to be all or nothing all the time!"
He Said "See, that's why I like anal sex and you don't!"

Second Best Music Video. Ever!!!

I am serious. The genius of this song and video is only eclipsed by Aha's "Take On Me" (You can argue with that contention all you want. But resistence is futile. "Take On Me" is the best music video ever. Keep argueing if you want to but you'll see things my way.)

But this video is in the running. I mean, it has everything. The bad powder blue tuxes, Intel look-alike dudes, girls in skimpy Robert Plant "She's Addicted to Love"/Motley Crue "Girls, Girls, Girls" hybrid outfits, which are so sluttily awesome that only Sir-Mix-Alot's "Baby Got Back" video had more sluttily awesome clothes, the disco ball. Which, can I just stop for a sec and explain how underused the disco ball is in music videos. I'm serious. It is way underutilized, and I, for one, want it used more widely in music videos. No, really. If you have a music video in which you instruct me to shake my groove thang, or my ass, or my moneymaker, I better know you're serious. And the best way to do that? Put a Disco-Motherfucking-ball right smack in the middle of it bitches!!! That's how.

I lurve this video. Since FIghting Nun, who is the epitomy of cool, sent this to me, I have listened to and partially watched this video new fewer than 2394 times and I plan to watch it many more time. The Pen Fifteen Club. Makers of the Second Best Music Video. Ever.

An Open Letter to DirecTV

Dear DirecTV;

I realize we've only been together a short time and I might not be giving this relationship enough of a chance, but I'm starting too have second thoughts.

Don't get me wrong, your a great TV channel service provider, I just don't think you have what it takes to meet my needs the way cable and TiVO met my needs. Yes, true you swept me out of a strange love triangle, but it was a simbiotic love triangle that provided me with so much comfort and joy. And their programs were easy to find and TiVo recorded what I asked it too. I'm not getting the same level of loyalty from you and I'm starting to reevaluate the relationship.

Let's take the last two night for instance. Wednesday night, I asked gently that you record the final episode of Beauty and the Geek for me(Yes, I watch Beauty and the Geek, loyally. I didn't ask for your mocking in the manner, I asked you to record the program for me, which YOU DID NOT! So shut up!). I tried to Watch it last night, and nothing. I either couldn't find where you would store such programming, or you outright refused to record it for me. I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, so why you running so hot and cold for me?

And then, last night, you leveled me with an act of outright disobediance. You. Would Not. Play Invader ZIM. Would outright not display the show on TV. Look, I know I asked for that channel, I outright saw that channel displayed on my little channel guide thing, which said I would get channel, but you? You didn't not display the channel. You said you were "Trying to Find" the channel, but you would not display the channel. Forgive me for turning into my mother and guilt tripping you, but there is not a lot I ask for in this relationship, (well once I figure out the DVR thing, there will be a lot I will ask from this relationship, one of which will be to record ever episode and rerun of both Made and Pimp My Ride, but baby steps...) but one of those things is to watch Invader ZIM on a regular basis. Tivo didn't mind this, hell, Tivo recorded it without me asking and introduced me to the goodness that is GIR because my Tivo knew that I liked The Tick. You wouldn't even play Invader ZIM, much less record it for me. What am I supposed to think about how you really feel about me?

And another thing, last night, I couldn't sleep and I went to you for support, to be consoled because I was feeling icky and you looked like you were going to be compassionate to my needs, what with being on the exact channel that "My So-Called Life" happened to be on. Yeah, it was the last fifteen minutes of an episode, but it was pure goodness. I mean, Brian Krakow and Jordan Catellano for Christ's Sake. I was consoled, and I was happy, and I thought you really got my needs, but the rest of the hour I spent tooling around, nothing. Well, there was Ice Castles, which totally enthralled me as a kid, but is doing absolutely nothing for me now. (Robbie Benson, where did we go wrong?). But Nothing, I was hoping for another episode of "My So-Called Life" and You said you had "Aah, Real Monsters" to play, but alas with the "Can not find station" crap again, I couldn't watch it.

I just don't know if it's going to work out. You are just not at a level I need you to be. I know you say that I should give it time, but the Tivo/Cable relationship, as strange as it is, is looking more and more appealing. Just don't make me regret this big change I made. That's all I'm asking.

Love;

The Bloody Munchkin.

Phil Collins and His Wife are splitting...

There's a joke in here somewhere about Phil spending way too much time at the GBC clubhouse, but I can't quite put it altogether. Let's just hope he didn't divorce her by fax this time...

New Holiday?

I didn't know this was a new holiday. I'm sure Fighting Nun is creating a petition right now to make this a national holiday. Can I claim religious differences so I won't have to observe it?

Twelve Things I Realized After Seeing Ultraviolet

1. Anything, and I do mean anything, can be made better by the presence of William Fichtner. I am absolutely convinced of this. I can't substantiate this claim with real proof at the moment, but I'm convinced I'd watch an opening of a landfill if he was present, just because he is that freaking cool.
2. I am absolutely convinced that there is some rule about sci-fi movies that there absolutely has to be tight vinyl in at least 3/4 of the movie in order to make it a believable sci-fi movie, which I utterly do not understand because, we have vinyl and latex in the present, but we have the presence of mind not to wear it absolutely all the time, so what gives? What, in the future we're all going to be "Let's where impossibly sticky and hot vinyl"? Sure whatever.
3. Milla Jovavich has a nice ass. I'm jealous.
4. The kid in that movie is starting to creep me out. I mean Dakota Fanning level creep me out. I mean, first of all, that kid is starting to be in like everything and secondly he's trying too hard to be preternaturally ... something. I don't know. The kid just wigs o.k.
5. Another rule of sci-fi happens to be that vampires are stupid. Sure, they were called hemo-phages or what the hell ever, but seriously.
6. "You cannot have a yankable ponytail in a chicken fight." You think in the future, your average henchman would, you know, get that. But apparantly not.
7. Any bad movie (with the exception of "Dude, Where's my Car?") can be made better when you are under the influence. Two cape cods and that movie when up a letter grade. It was a C- but with a little drinkage in my system, and being able to laugh at the dialog, it became a B- easy.
8. "It is on" "Oh Yes. It is on." is the new "You got served."
9. The bad guy in this movie, not so convincing. I don't know. He is just not bad enough. He's menacing and kinda creepy, but he's obviously way too Howard Hughesian about the germs and all. I'd just be around him when my allergies were bad and watch him have a germaphobic fugue and pass out. Easy enough..
10. All your armies of darkness or mal-intent or whatever, especially if they are robots and especially if they are ROBOTS MADE OF GLASS are easily destroyable, and you are an idiot for building them.
11. Anything, ANYTHING (even this pile of crap) can be made better by the presence of William Fichtner.
12. Did I mention that William Fichtner can make your movie better?

Lost in the Quagmire

Quagmire. God that is such a strange word. Seriously. But I am. Lost in it, I mean. I'm seriously knee deep in crap right now. Moving Crap, Work Crap. And to top it all off, I don't have cable. Do you know it has been a week since I've seen an episode of Made or Gilmore Girls. I'm starting to twitch. I might have to be admitted to Betty Ford if those goes on much longer. I actually cracked a book last night. That's how deprived I am. I have had everyone, including my mother, tell me every juicy detail of the Academy Awards, which: Salt, meet Open Wound. I'm sure you'll become fast friends.

To top it all off, I haven't felt very writing inclined. I just feel drained of anything to say. Well, that's not exactly true. Fighting Nun and I have had fifteen-hundred conversations, most of which were funny (one of which involved us getting a mouse chouffeur which launched into a discussion of whether or not said mouse should be able to cuss at traffic. The Verdict? Absolutely.) and probably blog worthy but are now lost to the anals of time (heh, I just said anals) because I haven't (read: didn't) taken the time to write them down.

I feel constricted in the writing department right now, like there's so much that needs out of my system but that I can't concentrate on any one thing so nothing gets out. I do not know why. I've been sitting on a post about this awesome dream I had involving Apolo Anton Ohno and that shirtless volleyball scene in Top Gun where Val Kilmer and Tom Cruise are in Volleyball Match to the D-E-A-T-H which I haven't done anything with. Quite heartbreaking really. But rest assured, I'm trying.

Those Crazy Australians...

...and their band names.

So I'm listening to Live 105 this morning, which really isn't bad now that Howard Stern is gone. So I'm listening and they play a band called Wolf Mother. Let me reiterate. Wolf Mother. From the country that brought you Midnight Oil and Silver Chair, please enjoy Wolf Mother. The band ain't half bad, what with it sounding something like cross between The Darkness and Jet, but... Wolf Mother. That's the best you could come up with? Really? No offense or anything, but hoakey...

Baby Huey Is My Co-pilot...

(Pete Levine for Congress!!!)

...Or, at least he should be.

I was going through a strange bit of ennui today, and then Fighting Nun sent me this and a couple of sound bites from this guy (which if I were brighter and less lazy, I'd link to) and it totally made my day.

Since the Olympics started, I've been a bit enamored with this guy. I mean how could you not. He's that Starbucks commercial where that guy has his own personal cheering section following him going "Hank, Hank, Hank", except he is one guy, and he is all sorts of awesome. How could you not want to shred the mountain with this guy cheering you on. "Come on Bloody Munchkin, put the hammer down." O.k. Mr. Baby Huey, I've never skiied before but because you've got such a demanding presence, yes, yes I will."

Any other cheering section in the whole of the Olympics has paled in comparison to this man. The German Bobsled coaches? They try, what with the gutteral screams and all, but they lack the key phrases like "Put it down" and "It's your day today." to really get me going. Who ever has the cowbell up in the luge stands, well, it needs more cow bell compared to this guy.

I'm convinced this guy needs to be my personal motivator. Can you imagine how utterly awesome that would be. He'll just be sitting behind me at work, and any time I'm lacking in motivation all "Blah, blah, blah writer's block, blah, blah, blah bored", he'd be all "Come on Bloody. Get it done blood. (That's the nickname I think he would give me.) It's your day. " And I'd be instantly ready to tackle my task. He'll be back in Tahoe when this is all said and done, not to far from me, I wonder if he needs a job.

In short. Baby Huey, you have an awesome nickname, you are utterly awesome and I would so much like to be your friend. Coffee's on me when you get back from Torino. What do ya say?

Crawling out of Grey

It's been over a week since my last post. I apologize for not updating but I've been dealing with some personal issues that have gotten me to start writing seriously again (Good!), just not here (Bad!) which sucks, because that part of my brain that catalogues and stores all this awesome, inane pop-culture-y crap has been supercharged as of late, but I can't find the time and energy to put it all together. Between the moving and the work and the other personal issues that have come up and all the Olympics I have tivoed and need to watch? No time for posting.

Not a good excuse, but bear with me. I feel the floodgates open and the creativity about to pour out, it'll just take time...

Olympics Opening Ceremonies Or....

So this is a game I like to call Olympic Opening Ceremonies Or... in which you the reader come up with your caption for what is really going on. Feel free to add your ideas in the comments. Here we go.

Olympic Opening Ceremonies Or....

A) A pyromaniacs loving ode to Tron
B) A volcanic helmet test gone awry
C) A literal definition of what spandex really is: Flaming

Olympic Opening Ceremonies Or...

A) A giant red orgy
B) A mass butt sniffing (Dude, Who pootered, we must all hand our heads down in shame

Olympic Opening Ceremonies Or...

A) Picasso's rendition or performance art?

Seriously, that's the best I can come up with. This part was just... wierd really.

Opening Ceremonies Or...

A) Heffer: The Icecapades.
B) Udder: The Musical.

You know, this one is just too chewy. I'll wait to see what the comments have to say...

Olympics Opening Ceremonies

O.k., so I know I said I’d dotingly recap the Olympics. I was hoping to go day by day, but with this whole house buying thing and what with cleaning and packing, things aren’t going as I had planned. But I have for you the Opening Ceremony, lovingly recapped.

Here goes…

8:00: We open with the lovely “Look at the landscape, look at the architecture. The backdrop for the Olympics is Sooooo beautiful montage.” Like we weren’t expecting that…
8:01 The “Italy is beautiful” montage quickly morphs into the Athlete Montage. Nice segue. And what is with the narrator trying to channel James Earl Jones and failing. Yo buddy, this isn’t CNN and You are not his father.
8:03 The “Italy is beautiful” montage morphs to Athlete Montage morphs to “U.S. Olympic Athletes Kick Ass” montage. Who would’ve seen that coming?
8:04 Figure Skating Montage! Sweet!
8:05 “A City of succulent style”. Did he just say that? What the hell did that mean?
8:06 The announcer tries to pronounce peninsula correctly and fails.
8:09 Bode Miller, blah blah blah. If he’s their big story for the whole Olympics, there might be a dull spork residing in one of my eye sockets by the end of this two weeks. Also, the Flying Tomato has to be the best nickname in the history of the games.
8:17 Downhill skiing practice. Why are we watching practice runs? Oh, so Fighting Nun and I can argue about the blue lines being course limitations or if they are merely suggestions, which apparently they are. And we’re also watching it so I can apparently have little heart palpitations and gasp every three seconds because every jump, every turn these guys look like they are going to biff it and there is going to be a yard sale on that very hill of skis, mitts and internal organs. I’m not sure I have the fortitude that watching this sport commands. Also, the announcers. “Stiffness in his hips” Hee! Am I recapping Olympics or porn you decide…
8:28 The announcers again. “Massive and strong” also a strong contender for Olympics or porn or romance novel. “Massive and Strong”. Jesus.
8:34 Fighting Nun pleads with me and the Tivo to fast forward past the first of probably 9500 Bode Miller interviews sure to take place during these games. I comply.
8:46 Shawn White, The Flying Tomato. This kid is a big dork. Therefore I’m totally rooting for him.
8:54 Can we hurry up with the ceremony? Jesus!
8:55 Costas, or as Fighting Nun likes to call him. Costass. First of all, what is with the hair? This starts off a fun little game Fighting Nun and I have come up with called “Toupee or Grecian Formula” which we’re going to play every time he comes on screen. It is real easy. Anytime costas comes on, pause your Tivo, stare at the marvel that is a cross between Hasselpouf and the feathery Lief Garret but with some bacon grease added on top for color and argue “Is he wearing a hair peace or is that some bad coloring?” Its going to be the mobius strip of these fair games people. Also, Shut up Costas. Just for good measure.
8:58 Team USA close up. Team Hats close up, to which Fighting Nun said “Who designed the hats? Some goth dude who was listening to too much Duran Duran while doing so? What the hell is that?”
8:59 Chris Witty is one manly woman. Wowza.
9:04 The Opening Ceremonies, finally! The opening ceremonies have provided me with a fun game I like to call “opening ceremonies or…” which I played quite vigorously. I’ll explain in a separate post. Stay tuned.
9:05 There are rollerblades and skateboards in the Opening Ceremonies. What the heck is this? Also, I knew that the director for the remake of Rollerball has been unemployed for quite some time now, but did they have to give him work as the costume designer of the opening ceremonies, because really. I haven’t seen this much pyrotechnics since the Green Day concert. The Opening Ceremonies are turning into some strange Rollerball meets Cirque Du Soliel meets Stomp hybrid.
9:07 A “Beating Heart” is displayed on stage. Thanks Costas, because that really looked like a red orgy on stage.
9:08 The red flaming dude. Hee! I said “red flaming” apparently he’s supposed to be the “sparks of passions” Again, am I recapping the Winter Olympics or a romance novel over here?
9:09 Alps Horns, Ricola dudes in liederhosen. Skating Christmas trees. Skating Cowprint. I have no idea if I’m still recapping the opening ceremonies or if I have somehow taken a hit of acid, because surreal.
9:10 Fighting Nun “We are doing the magical dance of the heffer.” Thene there are these moving cow statues. And yet even more liederhosen. I’m overcome with tears of laughter and joy. If the compulsory dance section features these awesome cow print outfits, I’d watch ad nauseum.
9:15 Some Georgio Armani outfits are featured which leads Fighting Nun and I to have an interesting discussion about whether or not we’ve accidently started watching Logan’s Run.
9:26 What’s with the ski dudes on stage? Its like Picasso performance art. You have to tilt your head to look at it and even then you don’t know what it is. Those crazy Italians.
9:28 Can I just say that a bunch of people all wearing climbing headlamps makes me feel less geeky.
9:34 More Cirque Du Soliel. Fighting Nun and I are seeing them on Friday. I’m skipping this part.
9:36 Let the pageantry of Nations begin. Only Five Albanians? That’s sad. Andorra. Poor Andorra.
9:38 Fighting Nun “God Forbid we miss a country. Jesus.”
9:39 Argentina. “At least they’ve got beanies. Armenia had dunce caps.” Fighting Nun and I then discuss all the team hats presented from this point on, until Fighting Nun falls asleep thirty minutes later, leaving me to point out hats on my own. Also, the dress. The dress they’ve forced the poor girls who hold up the signs with the names of the countries? Is the ugliest dress in all of creation. And I should know. I read GFY on a daily basis. It has mountains on it people. That’s just not a fashion statement anyone should make, least of all the Olympic costuming people. Not right!
9:43 Azerbaigan? What? They didn’t get hats. Poor guys. We should’ve taken up a collection. Bermuda. One guy. You know they’ve known to wear Bermuda shorts in the past. But they didn’t this time. Disappointing…
9:47 Brazil. Interesting Hats. Bullgaria has fuzzy hats. Canada has fuzzier hats with little ear flaps. I like Canada
9:52 The Blossom hat has made its rousing return with the Chinese. I do not know why.
9:54 I like Costa Rica’s Beanies. Denmak has the strangest looking earmuffs. Also, Go Ethiopia.
10:02 Germany rendered me blind with their green. Also, “Speeding White Sausage”. That just over took Flying Tomato as the best nick name. Also a contender for “Am I recapping the Olympics or Porn.”
10:07 Me and the Olympics Music Committee need to have a talk. “Funky Town” You have got to be kidding me.
10:09 Grandma Luge, I salute you!
10:10 Israel. OMG the announcers did not just mention Munich. You have got to be kidding me.
10:12 Kyrgyztan! Best named country ever! Also, awesome hats.
10:14 Luxembourg has a team? Who Knew?
10:18 “Sweet Dreams”? Jesus!
10:19 Mongolia officially has my vote for awesomest Olympic hat ever! Fuzzy and furry and long. Also “Video Killed The Radio Star” The music selections. I don’t understand it.
10:20 Men’s Cross Country Relay Skiing. That’s actually a sport?
10:21 New Zealand, you tried admirably to get my vote for best hat, but Mongolia surpassed you. I am sorry. Signed. The Bloody Munchkin.
10:30 Slovenia – The Green color is scaring me. Also “YMCA” I have officially thrown my hands up in the air in disgust.
10:31 USA! USA! Chris Witty! See Above. USA! USA! Shut Mrs. Bush! O.k. that was a little counter-patriotic. Also, bad hats. See Above. Flying Tomato! Lindsay Jocobellis has poodle hair. Shut Up on Bode! Yeeach already.
10:39 Tajikistan. Awesome. “Jump” by Van Halen. Not awesome.
10:45 Italy. What is with the Jetsony overcoats? I haven’t seen that much gold metallic clothing since I cleaned out my grandmother’s closet.
10:51 Go Flame Go!
10:53 Flag Twirling. Blech. Thank you Tivo Fast forward.
10:55 The Olympics are proving once again that they are ripping from Cirque Du Soliel
10:56 These Moon Things are scary and very Baren von Munchhousen.
11:02 The Ferrari is actually pretty cool. What can I say?
11:15 The Olympic Flag. “The Women Of distinction.” That is just plain awesome really. And Susan Surandon is just incredible.
11:20 Apparently, we went from women of distinction to men of indistinction. But the knock-off robin hood hats? Kind of awesome.
11:27 Another Cirque du Olympics piece kicks off that I can only call “Brokeback Acrobatics” This is promptly where I shut off the TV and drag Fighting Nun’s sleeping carcass off the couch and to bed. The only thing you need to know about the last 30 minutes is Yoko Ono needs to cram it, Luciano Pavaratti needs to lay off the Grecian Formula and the Fireworks need to end. Amen.

Hey Mike Wise...

Shut Up! No, seriously, shut up! You're article did nothing but frustrate me. And do not, DO NOT call the Olympics the Look-at-me games. The athletes don't want the celebrity, they just want to compete, to be part of something that is bigger than themselves. Sure, all of them want to win, but most of them aren't out there to trot out for your dog and pony show. And honestly, you, the media, created the dog and pony show that the athletes just have to put up with in the first place. If "their antics" annoy you that much, don't watch, and don't report about it in a holier than thou manner, because that's not what the athletes want.

(Finding a Happy Place, Finding a Happy Place. Breathe In, Breathe Out)

Sorry, I just find that sort of finger-pointing journalism infuriating. The only thing I even halfway liked about this article was when he called Michelle Kwan the Susan Lucci of Figure-skating. Hee! In happier news...

Opening Ceremonies are tonight Bitches! Anybody trying to part me and my Tivo from the opening ceremonies will meet my vengeful wrath!!!

The Olympics are almost here ya'll!!!

Eee! Friday is Opening Ceremonies, and I almost can't handle it!!! It's getting so bad that I actually Eeked loudly on the bridge on the way home when they played an Olympics spot. I'm shvitzing over here I'm so excited! (Actually, I have no idea if I'm actually shvitzing or not, but I'm still freaking excited!! The Olympics, people!!! Bring it on!

Life is Truly, Truly Great...

When you get to see the thing from the diagram first hand. When you get to hold it, and be in awe of its, well, see for yourself...


This one is labeled "Soft and Texturized".

This one's glossy.

This just keeps getting better and better.

Life is Truly Great...

Better than it was before when a second e-mail with a diagram, even more glorious than the first appears in your inbox:

How does one proceed with all this, dare I say, Chewy Goodness? Lightning never strikes in the same place twice, but somehow it did today. This graphic doesn't have any of the great text really describing it as the first one did, such as "Water In" and "Friction Fit", yet I really think the image speaks for itself, don't you?

Tears of Mirth People. Tears of Mirth, that's what work has brought me today...

O.k., See, No.

O.k., see this is just wrong. Not that I don't wanna knock these guys for expressing themselves and all, put, the faux-fu-manchu, or the pseudo-pornstache, or however you want to label it, should not happen in a modern civilization. And there should certianly not, under any circumstances, be a revival of this stache. At all. Ever.

It's not the facial hair I'm quibbling with per say. Fighting Nun has stopped shaving until our purchase of our house is final and official, and I'm fine with that. But he is grooming his facial hair and beard in such a way that does not evoke 70's porn music playing in my head when he enters a room. Any time a "wakka-wakka-onsa-onsa" beat plays as inner theme music in somebody's brain when you and your stache enter a room (and the stache is probably entering the room before you are, but that's besides the point) you should rethink your grooming routine.

This kinda mustache evokes in me the same sort of reaction I have to trucker hats: confusion and repulsion. I, I just don't understand it. I don't understand how people who are not in their 40's, overweight, not driving anything with Yosemite Sam or Naked Girl mud flaps decides that these two things are good looks. I further do not understand how either of these things can become a trend. I get that ugly is the new pretty among certain circles, but that still doesn't explain why on God's Green Earth, someone would inflict themselves with this kind of ugly. I just... I don't know.

Life Is Great....

When I receive something this awesome in my e-mail inbox.

Three guesses as to what this pertains to. No, I don't work in a company that makes sexual devices (Pervert)!! Although it certainly looks that way. Try again....

(This drawing sent me into a giggle fit. I can't believe our e-mail filters didn't filter it out....

Analyzing The Strokes

Thanks to the cover of the new SPIN issue, Fighting Nun and I had the following conversation last night;
Bloody Munchkin (ME): Dude, I know we're about to have dinner and all, and I really don't wanna effect our appetites, but what the HELL is with Fabrizio's mustache?
Fighting Nun: I have no idea.
BM: I mean seriously. It's like the worst parts of the 70's pornstache and the Tom Selleck Magnum PI stache combined. Not a good look. Drew Barrymoore was going out with that?
FN: Really? Ew gross, she could have at least gone out with the decent looking one in the group. What is her problem?
BM: Whatever it is, it is the same problem she had when she married Tom Green for crying out loud. And also, are we looking at the same cover? Because I'm not sure there really is a decent looking one in the group.
FN: Well, I mean I'm a dude so I'm not qualified to make a statement like this, but the lead dude?
BM: Julian?
FN: Yeah, he's at least decent looking, better up her ally than pornstache guy.
BM: Not in that plaid suit, but yeah, I get what you're saying. He's the least scary of the bunch, not that they are scary, they are just not normal looking, or something.
FN: What is with the guy in the scarf? Hey buddy, lay off the heroine.
BM: Yeah, what is with that? His cheekbones are totally sucked in. Newsflash to that dude: Don't suck in your cheeks like a fish when the camera flashes.
FN: It's not just that he has no cheekbones, he literally doesn't have an ounce of fat on him. No heroine needles, o.k. dude, and eat a sandwhich, or a fat burger.
BM: He can't the one in the middle, with the self-satisfied shit-eating grin is eating all his food.
FN: Hee. I can see the gaunt one saying 'dude, I'm coming down now. Hand me a sandwich.
BM: And the fat one is all 'I can't... BURP!' He's the stoner to the other dude's heroine addict."
FN: 'That's gotta be a fun tour bus. 'Dude, I have the munchies.'
BM: "Fine, go eat "Needles's" stash in the refrigerator." It's a symbiotic relationship really. Now I must bring up the other dude on the end.
FN: Dude, what is with that hat?
BM: My point exactly. That guy should be sat down and told that the look he's sporting, the "Lucas Haas as an Amish Kid in Witness is out. In fact it was never in. So loose the hat, and the vest."
FN: Maybe the fat one will eat it.
BM: Hee! He's already eaten the poor heroine addict dude's jacket. He's probably full.
FN: Don't we like this band?
BM: Yes.
FN: We're being pretty mean to them.
BM: Yes. But they brought it on themselves. Don't be sporting Thin Ron Jeremy-stache circa 1976 and expect that I won't bring the scrutiny is all I'm saying.
FN: Yeah, and eat before the photo shoot. Goes double for the heroine addict.

I'm not sure I care

O.k., so I know I'm mighty obsessed about the Olympics and all, and figure skating is supposed to be my sport and all, but I just can't get all worked up over this. On the one hand, I don't know why she has to go through this whole rigormarole to compete, on the other hand, I watched her four years ago, and I knew the only reason she was out then was just to get Olympic Gold, and when she didn't get it, well... part of me thinks she just should've left it. I mean, I believe she got third. I'd take third place on, well anything really, but especially anything Olympicy. If by some far stretch I make it on the women's skeleton team and we ended up getting third, I wouldn't be all "I'm going to denounce retirement and wait four more years and try to win gold" I'd probably be dancing around in my olympic dorm room, wearing nothing but the medal and dancing on my bed and singing the "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy" song. But of course I'm not an Olympic athlete and I do not have the competitive drive that other Olympic athletes do and I also apparantly have a strange olympic medal fetish, fascination if you will, so what do I know....

I'm a Winter Olympics Dork

So, uhm, you know that receiving e-mail alerts thing I just told you about? I signed up for it. And, uh, I kinda didn't stop with curling. Actually, the number of things I listed I wanted e-mail alerts for is quite appalling actually. Quite sad actually. Uhm, you see I signed up for e-mail alerts for not only curling and figure skating, but also for everything short-track related, and also the luge and uhm, the skeleton, and uhm... Here, have a look for yourself...

I'm officially a dork aren't I?

It is a wonderful world in which we live when...

I can receive e-mail alerts on Women's curling. Life is great isn't it?

Leave the Torch alone!!!

Listen, I think I eloquently and elaborately explained my love for the Olympics, my desire, my need for the Winter Olympics to be here already. To be brief and to the point, I'm dying over here!!! I'm at the point that nothing, NOTHING! better interfere with my getting to watch the Olympics in their full, unadulterated glory.

Which brings me to my point, or moreover my rant. What kind of whack-job organization would think that trying to Hi-jack the fucking Olympic torch would be a good move in trying to align people to your big social cause? The only cause I want to align myself with is the Kicking Your Ass cause, because who the hell in their right mind would decide to mess with the fine institution as the Olympics (Well, Munich and the Dude who tried to Bomb the Olympics in Atlanta aside. Fine there are a couple of examples. Shut Up!), and why would you think that theiving the torch, the great symbol that it is, would be a way to bring your issues (which the anti-globalization movement is the least of your issues, especially considering that you're now on my shit list buddy, not that that garners a lot of weight. But my memory is long and my forgiveness is short. So if, someday in the distant future when we're all living in that sparkling, Jetsony, GLOBALIZED, just to piss your ass off vision that will one day be realized, you ever get a paper bag full of flame-engulfed bowel movement, just know that it was made with love from yours truly, Bloody Munchkin!) Just don't screw with the Olympics people!! Don't do it! It's not a good idea!!! You do not want to incur my wrath. Because I'm here to tell you that if my Olympics (yes, I'm claiming possessiveness) don't go off without a hitch, I will be a force to be reckoned with!!! Hell hath no fury like Bloody Munchkin scorned for figure skating!!! You can take that to the bank!!!

A Dissertation on my love of the Winter Olympics

O.K. So I've tried to keep this under wraps because I realize admitting this exposes another layer of geekiness that people don't want to be privy to, but I'm brimming with so much excitment, I almost can't handle it.

Eeee!!!! The Winter Olympics are almost here ya'll!!! I'm about to plotz!!!! I love the Olympics. Like obsessively love the Olympics. Currently, I'm scheming with a friend on how to get to China for the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing. She said she might have some family members who could score us some janitorial positions at one of the auditoriums. I'd gladly scrub a thousand toilets to witness first hand the air rifle competition. I gladly scoop horse poop to be present of the equestrian events. Just as long as I am there to bask first hand in the glory that is the Olympics. That's how far my love goes, people!!!!

But honestly, it's the Winter Olympics that owns my heart. It grasps my attention like no other. But really, what's not to love? The Winter Olympics has it all: The short program, the speed skating, short track speed skating (or as I like to call it, Rollerderby on Ice), the ski jumping, the long program, the luging (Dear God the Luging!), the bobsledding, the tandem bobsledding, the skeleton, the pairs figure skating, the anticipating the myriad falls, trips and bunch ups in pairs figure skating (please let there be an accident involving lederhosen, that's all I ask), the pairs skating judging controversy (There has to be another one of those. It actually gave Costas something interesting to talk about for once), that one event Picabo Street was in before she retired, the events Bode Miller might not get to participate in any more because he’s a beer guzzling motor mouth, the International Homosexual Parade otherwise known as Male Figure Skating, the medal the will be revoked from some bastard Canadian's hands for testing positive for Marijuana, the compulsory figure skating event. Have I mentioned figure skating?
I can hardly stand it!!! I'm not sure I can wait for February!!! Hurry up and get here Winter Olympics!!!!

I could probably psychoanalyze where my love of the Winter Olympics comes from, but I'll refrain from boing you with the details. Just kidding. I'm totally going to bore you with the details. I can't completely recall my exact age (I'm guessing about 10, just giving age calculations) but I romanticize it more as the age in which I was on the cusp of adolescence, that tender age in which niavity combined with adoration can be a somewhat explosive combination. My parents informed me that a cousin of mine would be in an event in the Winter Olympics. I obsessively watched the Olympics for any mention of him. I actually didn't get to see him, or his event or any mention of his event, (but I later found out he placed 12th) but it brought on a kind of fervor in me that no other sporting event has brought on before. I became kind of enamored with this event that only happens once every four years.

And then the ‘92 Winter Olympics. And then I became more than enamored. I became obsessed. I can pinpoint my obsession of all things Winter Olympics and also to figure skating to one man. Well he's more of a legend actually, at least in my mind: Philippe Candelero (Can I just take a second to explain how bad I want this? Because, I want it bad). Oh Philipe you flamboyant Frenchman you, how I've come to love and adore you so. You've become this kind of mythical creature in my head, this kind of Hercules-like figure that slinks into the forefront of my mind, taking off his shirt to a medly of tunes featuring Bruce Springsteen's "Made in America" or to Will Smith's "Wild Wild West" only slink back out again only to slink back in again when my parents decide to bring up that unfortunate incident in which I fried a TV in the name of Candelero (long story, maybe someday I’ll actually recount it here). I even made Fighting Nun sit through the lamest figure skating exhibition (and I should know, I’ve sat through the Icecapades. In Person. Twice) known as Brian Boitano’s something or other skating with the zzzzzzz somewhat sober. In person. Just for five minutes of Candelero skating with his shirt off. Fighting Nun is soooo dedicated.

The Candelero was pretty much the gateway drug to my addiction to the Winter Olympics. And I need my fix. Bad. I’m itching here man. I’m like Brad Renfro in a treatment center. I’m like Leif Garrett in jail. Again. I’m jonesing. Only I don’t want to get clean. I want my feeeeexxxxx. So bad in fact, I’m even jonesing for the horrible parts of the Olympics. You know which parts I’m talking about. The announcers that crawl out of who knows what rocks every four years to bring us "enthralling commentary" on the exciting sport of... women’s curling. The annoying player vignettes that last For. Ever. that describe in excruciating detail the trials and tribulations that an athlete from the small village of Zuzbeckistaniovitch had to got through, including the death of her father in a freak chain saw accident but somewhow still found a way to train and compete, blah-blah-blah-rampant-pandering-to-the-sobbing-masses-cakes. The painful athlete interviews Bob Costas conducts after an athlete’s brilliant win or harrowing loss, which take forever when they could be showing the women’s downhill semi-finals. I’ll take it all, just as long as I have my Winter Olympics.

Only 23 days to go!

P.s. I’d like to make a promise to you, dear readers (all two of you) that I will recap all the ups, downs, and mehs that these wonderful Winter Olympics have to offer. Stay tuned.

What is up with Shatner?

"Khaaaaaan!"

No, Seriously? Usually where Shatner campily goes, I'll follow. Thanks to his Khaaaaan days and such, I generally like the guy. Remember the time he reenacted a tone of movie sequences that were up for MTV movie awards? His take on Seven still stays with me from this day forward. And, O.k. I hate to admit this, but I loyally watched Tek Wars. Hey, don't look at me like that. As I've stated before, No MTV growing up. I can't be held accountable. I even liked his Priceline commercials. And, another thing I hate to admit, I almost bought his album. Stop laughing bitch! You try resisting the hypnotic powers he harnasses on Common People. It's almost impossible!!!

But then, the Shatner Movie Club. I just, I don't think I get it. I want to get it, and given that I did watch all of Tek Wars, maybe I would get it, but I just don't understand. And then he sells his kidney stone to a gambling website? Granted it's for charity and that is great and all, but you sold your kidney stone to the same place who bought a half-eaten cheese sandwich for an exhorbatant amount, because it kinda, sorta had an image of the virgin mary on it? Dude, I'm not saying a psychiatric evaluation is in order, but you might wanna take some time off and "re-evaluate" your life's priorities. With that being said, I kinda want to join his sci-fi DVD club. Yeah I know I just snarked on him for it, but there is a part of me that is a wee bit curious about it. Like, what exactly would you receive from the William Shatner DVD club? Hopefully not a kidney stone.

*Edited to add that I did check out the William Shatner DVD club, and the geeky part of my brain wants in. Annual fee of 47.99 gets you a sci-fi subscription that looks to be one part sci-fi soft core porn, another part imported sci-fi movie, and another part sci-fi channel knock-offs. If this is actually some of the material that constitutes the Shat's movie collection, then I want in!

Because being a grown up sucks...

It's time to get all nostalgic and take the Video Game Sound Effect challenge. It's almost as fun as playing the actual videogames. I got 9 of 18. I think Fighting Nun could school me on this one. So sad.

I hate being a Grown Up!

So, I had this whole post drafted about growing up and trying to take responsibility and how I like being an adult now and blah, blah, blah I-wear-big-girl-pants-now-cakes. But you know what, that's not true. Being a grown up, or trying to be one bites big, well big something. See, this whole trying to buy a first house thing it so grueling that it's exhausted all my visual imagry.

So yeah, Fighting Nun and I are trying to buy a house. In the Bay Area. Because we are insane. At first, the process made me happy. The looking at homes and figuring out what we did and didn't like I was all "Yeah, I'm a grown-up now." But then we started talking about mortgages and closing costs and interest and we've already gotten testy at each other about the whole thing and now I'm like "Boo. I'm a grown-up now." Insert frownie face here.

This whole process has made me feel stupider. I'm at a loss, just utterly grasping at straws right now. I don't know what questions to ask, what it is I need to know about the loan process, whether we need to get pre-approval or not, what that means. My brain was filled with Real Genius quotes and the non-sensical knowledge of celebreties and now it's filled with Interest rates and what Homeowner's Association dues would mean to mortgage payement, and Gah!!! Get out of there important home-owning information. Do you know how much geomotry I dumped just to cram in Goonies DVD Commentary dialogue up there? All of it!! My pop culture knowledge usually takes precedence and now it isn't because I've got to figure out what an interest only loan might do to us in five years if the interest raises exponentially. I want my knowledge of all the Brat Pack's past rehab experiences to take precedence!! Knowing that Demi Moore helped Ally Sheedy's mom put Ally in Rehab during a Bon Jovi tour already proved useful once today! I don't want to have to throw it out for stuff involving, like math and like home loans and crap. I refuse!!! I don't wanna be a grown up damn it!!! This sucks....

Fun with Dooty

"Dooty."

Heh. I said Dooty. This little laugh brought to you by my new shining light in the pop-culture abyss... Gir!! I have much love to extrapolate for Gir, but I'll save it for another post.


So you remember back in the day when I recalled my tale of being held hostage in my company stall? Well, I've come to the conclusion that I'm no walk in the park either, bathroom wise. In fact, I'd venture a guess that I'm far from being the perfect stall mate that you'd want to have a stall next to once that bad decision known as the 3 pm cup of coffee decides to mass exodus your system. After what just happened, I'd venture you'd rather hold that 3 pm cup of coffee in your system until you get home instead of hold court next to the stall I'm in. And for that, I am truly sorry.

But it wasn't my fault. I didn't realize the cheese sandwich I had for lunch was going to lead to three acts of Pooter Theatre when I sat down on the seat. It just kinda happened. And I tried to hold it until after you left, but apparently my body had other plans. And yes, I'm well aware that you did not want to know that farts in that bathroom echo and echo well. I didn't want to know it either and I'm still trying to stop blushing from knowing it. And if I wasn't so embarrassed to make eye contact with you, I'd apologize. So can we both just forget this ever happened and get on with our day? Please?

The word of the day

I learned a new word for the day: expectorate. Pretty awesome huh?

I have a plant!!!!

So, about September I was moved into a new wing of our company building, which was parts frustrating and awesome at the same time. Moving into the new cube was in turn parts happy-making and saddening, because on the one hand I wasn't actually sharing a cube with anyone anymore (let's just say, our old seating arrangements left a lot to be desired) and I got this brand new shiny cube all to myself, which was very nice. But on the other hand, my old cubemate was totally awesome and we use to make Star Trek jokes and he would google short movies about what happens when you mix corn starch and water together and put it on a woofer.

Since I moved into the new office space, I've been lamenting, well several things, but mostly that I don't have a nice plant to share my window with. Well my awesome old cube mate proved his awesomeness once again by bringing me a plant. I can no longer lament not having a plant! I am not longer plantless but now I'm plantful, or plantiful or planted or planitified or whatever you want to call it. Now I'm no longer alone in my cube again. I'm sharing it with a plant just like I used to share my old cube space with the awesome guy who gave me the plant. I am at peace now.

Fighting Nun says the darnedest things

Fighting Nun had the following diatribe this morning that is too good to pass up.

"So, if a gas line or water line breaks, how is it that there is always one policeman and a camera crew and nobody else? There's like one news crew van and it happens to be off in Oakland somewhere. How the hell did it get to Richmond so God damned fast and there isn't one fucking water mane or gas line van in sight? There's got to be twenty water guys or gas line worker dudes or whatever, but the first people at the scene is the one news crew within twenty miles. How the hell does that happen? Where are the water guys? Really? That's what I wanna know."

To which my reply was "Honey, the water guys? They're union. Those donuts won't eat themselves."

When the apocalypse comes...

And I have to build an army to fight off the legions of Tomkat hellspawn, I want this guy on my side... Seriously.

My Life has reached its Pinnacle....

"Joe is letting me close the store." Just kidding, it's actually much cooler than that! I just received the Girl's Bike Club spoken word album!!! Fighting Nun simultaneously proved his worth and his love for me in this single token! This is awesome!!! Like many Tomato Nation readers, I've been obsessed with the GBC, so much so that I had to send 50 bucks to Canada to get the shirt, which is now my most favoritist shirt ever in the whole wide world. Now I have the album, which makes me happy and complete. I have reached a zen state, being able to listen to the girl's bike club whenever I want.

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.