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...