Then we will sleep in the shade

Work Product, Example No. 23

In other news, I feel like hell today. Also managed to pass out about 10 minutes into Buckaroo Banzai. I am AWESOME.

If you ever get the chance, do your little hip self a favor and check out The Henry Clay People live and in person (or on-line. Either way is cool). They've got two albums out, the second just released on Aquarium Drunkard's label, Autumn Tone, so check.it.out, yo.

November 18th @ EchoPlex w/ Everest (OHHEYFREESHOW).
November 20th @ Prospector w/ Paperplanes

MORE BAND PROMOTION:

The Sweet Sweet Things and Dolphin City are going to rock the stalactites off of La Cave tonite. You should go. If not then, DETROIT Monday night residency all through November with Francisco the Man. Dooooooooo it.

Work Product, Example No. 22

Really, Sonic opening in the SUPER WAL*MART parking lot should not have made me as happy as it did. But it does.

Had a nice weekend up in the Valley That Time Forgot. Drove by the old house, which is for sale. AGAIN. It looks nice and kept up tho, which is a vast improvement on its appearance when I last saw it in May.

Wandered up to Mr. T's in Highland Park last night and saw Eject play. I recommend them, highly. I also recommend, should you visit Mr. T's, that you feverishly lint brush yourself before wandering into the bar, lest the blacklight show what invisible bits still cling to your freshly laundered black cardigan.

The Henry Clay People are supporting Francisco the Man and The Sweet Sweet Things tonight for their November residency at DETROIT Bar. I may wander over there, exhaustion pending.

Work Product, Example No. 21

My ideal man will find this joke HILARIOUS.

Saw TVOTR at The Wiltern last night (with ROB!). It was AWESOME. Although you still can't understand a damn thing the artist is saying when speaking into the mic, but the music sounds good, so it's ok. They closed with "Staring at the Sun", which was awesome and I fully admit it was the song that got me into them. Played most everything off of Dear Science, plus some older goodies, and everything translated from recording to live performance rather well. If you get the chance, go see them. It is good times. That is my review.

Annoying Hipster Girl(tm) in the bathroom kept complaining about the "reverb" and the sound being off and blah blah blah. Then she says, "It was MUCH better when I saw Rooney play here." Now...not that Rooney is bad, per se, but...Rooney...?

Luckily Awesome Hipster Girl(tm) washing her hands started spouting off technical sound board jargon and reasons for the sound issues (sound being set for keyboards and to handle the distortion often causes issues with spoken vocals and crispness, etc. etc.) that made Annoying Hipster Girl(tm) shut her slatternly gob right quick.

WHAT ELSE?

Everyone should listen to Koufax. It is most excellent...might one even venture to say sexcellent?

Heading up to the desert tonite, will be there all weekend. LET'S BE FRIENDS AND HANG OUT, YO.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to overanalyze things.

Work Product, Example No. 20

AUGH, wall of text. But an AWESOME wall of text. Although I kinda felt positive Obama would win, I never expected a landslide of such epic proportions. The world looks a little brighter today.

But seriously, California, what.the.fuck. We're supposed to be the crazy, liberal, free-thinker, psuedo-hippie, devil-may-care attitude wielding populace. Not supporters of the Christian right and fans of denying the right to pursue happiness to others. That, THAT, is ridiculous. If you were a person, California, I would bitch slap your ass so hard right now.

IN OTHER NEWS: Michael Crichton died. That's a bummer. The man gave us Jurassic Park and subsequently Jurassic Park Three: Attack of the Foreboding Mist and Oh Yeah, There's Pterodactyl's In This One, It's AWESOME, I Promise. Apparently he had cancer? Bummer, man.

P.S. I followed through with the top secret super-duper awesome thing I had planned for yesterday which is concrete (and permanent) proof that I am NOT a super-duper LAMEASS. All I can say is OW, but not that OW; and YAY.

P.P.S. I blame Danny Spitzer for my love of random CAPITALIZATIONS.

Work Product, Example No. 19

Seriously, I thought for sure by November I'd be able to stop being a creepy mouth breather like that kid from Hey Arnold! who was all stalkery in love with Helga.

Happy Voting Day! If all goes as planned I will be doing something super-duper awesome in about 2 hrs. If it doesn't go as planned, that just means I'm a super-duper LAMEASS. Updates to follow.

Palmdaleians, Lancasterites! I will be up in the glorious Antelope Valley this weekend, Fri.-Sun. Um, we should hangout. There was mention of Maxdon's on Saturday night so I can review a hi-desert dive bar. So that's where I will be. There or the brand effing new SONIC. Oh delicious leetle tots, come here, you!

Work Product, Example No. 17

O, Ryan North, object of my Internet Crushdom. You and your silly yet awesome Dinosaur Comics. When I tentatively move to Canada following a specific outcome of next week's election, we shall meet and fall madly in love. It is destined to be!

Tomorrow is Hallowe'en! That means I have to come up with some other AWESOME WEBCOMIC (tm) to emulate.

My older sister gave me a $50 gift card to Victoria's Secret for my biRthday. I used this to purchase a super sexy gold and black lace bra; an item SO SEXY that seeing it would cause your face to melt much like that one Nazi in Raiders. You know what I'm talking about.
In other news: LEGOS ARE FRIGGIN' AWESOME.

Work Product, Example No. 17

Natalie Dee. Go there. LOVE IT.

The Hallowe'en costume is almost finished! The shield (as of last night) seems to be finished and fetching. Tonight I'll play domestic goddess and fashion some sort of satchel to carry my "treats" in, as well as put together the necklace/pendant thingy.

Pale Young Gentlemen are playing The Knitting Factory on Nov. 9th if anyone is interested. Les Blanks is playing with The Voyeurs tomorrow night at R Bar in Koreatown. Lineup alone promises a fun time. The Voyeurs were downright awesome when I caught them at The Echo and Les Blanks rocks a certain Les Savy Fav tonality, one can only hope their enthusiasm keeps up. Most likely I will be catching their set at Mr. T's on Nov. 13th.

Also, check out Honey Claws' "Shout Out" if you're a fan of Animal Collective inspired, golly-this-makes-my-throat-hurt, screamy, poppy electronica.

Da-da-da-da-DA-DAT-DAT.

Awesome Internet Friend Probation

The Awesome Internet De-Friendings have begun! The following have been placed on Awesome Internet Friend Probation until November 5th, 2008:

Jim Buracchio- Facebook. Crime: Posting a McCain/Palin button on my page.

Michele (formerly) Metcalf- MySpace. Crime: Linking to a CafePress anti-Obama page, posting political nonsense in the Bulletin.

Aaron Goins Lewis- MySpace. Crime: Posting political boobies in the bulletin which, while hilarious, earns him an AIFP.

Shawn Weiske- MySpace. Crime: Prop 8 Propaganda on the bulletin. Though our views are spot on and I agree wholeheartedly, I've got to stick to my guns. Vote NO on Prop 8. AIFP, Mr. Weiske. Batti batti indeed.

Aubrey Guest- MySpace. Crime: Bulletin barrage. I wish people and politics could get along like a fine tea and crumpet...or like pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Damn, I'm hungry now. However, the First Amendement goes both ways. AIFP.

Matthew Wheeler- Myspace. Crime: Prop 8 Propaganda. I agree with you good sir, NO on Prop 8. But a girl must stand by what she said. AIFP 'til Nov. 5th, 2008. Sadly, I won't be in the area to serve as a real-life effectual activist instead of an armchair activist, but I love you the more for getting out there and doing more than hollering on bulletins. SPREAD THE WORD SWEET PEA, and I'll do the same from Orange County! AIFP.

AS A REMINDER:

(posted in the Bulletin on Friday, October 24, 2008)

Dearest friends, family, and acquaintances:

I get it. This election is important. You want to share your views, let the world know what you think and feel and believe is good and right in the world.

But guess what? I DON'T NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

Should you feel the need to divulge your economic brilliance and/or military stratagem then by all means blog about it, send a personalized e-mail, make a poster, wear a t-shirt, write a speech and stand on the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica with the rest of the Nouveau-Politico Mercenaries.

Constantly seeing poorly written, anti-Obama slander and "OMG Did You Hear What Palin Said NOW?" diatribes cluttering up my bulletin board not only makes it hard to weed out the good surveys from the bad, but moreso dulls the senses to the campaigns of these two men who may or may not take the steps needed towards changing our current national state. It's bad enough one can't drive to the grocery store without being harangued by ill-informed lobbyists vaulting their favorite candidate in your face, but now the trivial silliness of MySpace is no longer safe.

Here's the deal:

If I want political updates, I will most likely not be turning to MySpace.

If I want to research a candidate, I will most likely not be turning to MySpace.

If I want to become informed on the bills being passed and the possible effects they will have on my way of life and pursuit of happiness, I most definitely WILL NOT be turning to MySpace.

If I want to read the gripes and concerns of imagined 50yr old war veterans scribing open letters to men who will never read them all for the sake of some naive 18+ year old out there to read, I will not be turning to MySpace.

In short: These things have no purpose in the bulletins. They can sit comfortably in your blog, fair enough. Send a bulletin out saying, "OH HAI GUYZ. I wrote a blog. LOLZ. Check it out <3">

But please, keep it out of the bulletin board. It has come to the point that the next person to post a bit of political nonsense will most likely be defriended until Election Day has come and gone. Then we can all be awesome internet friends once again and argue over who was right and who was wrong.

Much love,

Me.

Work Product, Example No. 16

This has happened to me TWICE, kiddywinks. That damn Jedi Academy sticker is a homing beacon for NerdCops. Whatever, atleast on Wednesday he let me off with a warning. Also, that was the highlight of my Wednesday...aside from getting 'Nantes' figured out on Tobias Funkulele Jr., Jr. Mais oui.

IN OTHER NEWS:

Finally gave TV On The Radio's Dear Science a good ol' listen-loo. Verdict: AWESOME. Starting strong with "Halfway Home" it quickly descends into familiar TVOTR ground before tugging on the heart strings midway with "Family Tree"; a song so beautifully constructed and boasting lyrics any aspiring songster aches to dream up ("And in the shadow of the gallows of your family tree/There's a hundred hearts soar free/Pumping blood to the roots of evil to keep it young," Glorious). The album winds it all up with what is the most awesomely disturbing love song ever, "Lover's Day," because, c'mon, who doesn't sing about cannibalizing the corpse of their lover after breaking their back? Oh, and it's damn catchy, too.

Full of vivid imagery, hummable melodies and crunchily pleasant production, Dear Science hooks you from the start and keeps delivering the goodies in a way that would make any Escape to Cookie Mountain loving, Williamsburg cycling, Huffington Post reading audiophile smile a facetious smile and maybe, just maaybe, start tapping their foot in lieu of an outright dance of joy.

Work Product, Example No. 15

(linked for bigness...and AWESOMENESS)

The First Annual Foofy Wine Party was, I should say, a whopping success. Jackson got half naked, Graham, Jessie, Andrew and Jackson squared off in Franzia Pong, I nursed a bottle of Possman's Apfelwein, Amy was absolutely blasted, and by the end of the night everyone went home happily besotten.

At work on Sunday I was playing my uke in the booth when this guy wandered up to me and started an odd little conversation:

"You play uke?" he asked, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I glanced down at the finely crafted instrument in my hands before answering.
"Yes."
"Excellent," he responded, squinting his eyes at Tobias Funkulele, Jr. imploringly. "You gonna play me sommat?"
"Sure," I shrugged, launching into the recently learned 'Elephant Gun'. The stranger began tapping his foot in time, deeply inhaling his Camel and exhaling with a sigh. I finished the riff after a few repeats and stared back at him from my plastic chair.
"You from Washington?" he asked, opening his eyes and studying my features.
"No sir," I responded.
"You sure? You look like you're from Washington," he coughed a little.
"Nope, born in England, raised in California," I grinned, half wanting him to wander off, and half wanting to buy him a coffee and learn exactly why I looked like I came from Washington.
"Welp," he glanced to the left and nodded to someone I couldn't see, "You sure do look like a Washingtonian...mebbe even a Seattle-ite,"
"I...thank you?"
"Demm right it's a 'thank you!" He stuck out a calloused hand, fingernails stained with what looked like dirt and oil. "'Name's Ryan."
"Britta," I shook his hand firmly.
"Nice meetin' ya." And then he wandered off as quickly as he'd arrived.

The OC Marketplace is a fascinating study of the human race.

Work Product, Example No. 14

For serious, those words fell from my mouth as the cars in front of me failed to move FORWARDS when the light turned green in Seal Beach. Immediately hands clasped over my intranetted gob and shocked washed across my face.

I spend entirely too much time on the internet.

Work Product, Example No. 13

(linked for bigness and AWESOMENESS.)

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

"These are the people in my crazy head, in my crazy head, in my cra-zee head!"

For those days when I just don't have the creative spark to do a long strand of "teh phunny", I now give you a series of 'people I know', or atleast 'the entertaining people I know who will possibly show up in a strand at some point so it's nice to have a template reference of what they look like' MSPaint.

Took a mile walk, in my heels, during my lunch today and now I can barely stand. It's like some sick annual tradition with me. "Oh, it's October? TIME TO INJURE MY FEET!"

2002: Tripping up the GORRAM Rohan stairs resulting in a sprained tendon, three days missed work, crutches, bloodwork (for some unknown reason) and an awesome wrap on my foot.

2003: Running the Back Bay Trail only to step into a GORRAM hidden sinkhole resulting in a painful 2 mile hobble back to the compound.

2004: Getting wasted at the Westin Bonaventure and slipping in a puddle on the GORRAM cement floor in my 3.5 inch heels resulting in a wickedly twisted ankle and fun drive back to Newport Beach the next morning.

2005: Hiking up a GORRAM GERMAN MOUNTAIN in new boots with Nikki resulting in horribly blistered, bruised and bleeding feet worthy of a Grimm stepsister.

2006: Running a GORRAM desert trail in shoes accustomed to paved city streets and riverways resulting in a horrid blood blister and losing a toenail (ew).

2007: Dropping a GORRAM plastic crate full of books on my foot resulting in awful bruising, the inability to flex my toes and a weeks worth of limping around like a bound Chinese girl.

I can only pray that next October is just as fulfilling. Wouldn't want this glorious tradition to cease, now would we?

Work Product, Example No. 12

Work Product, Example No. 11

Work Product, Example No. 10

Work Product, Example No. 9

Work Product, Example No. 8

Yes, I get it. Carrying a child, creating life, continuing the existence of the human race, creating something original from your loins...it's all very beautiful and romantic and lovely. Got it. BUT SERIOUSLY, GUYS. Why the Christ is everyone I know gettin' all PREGO right now? 1/3 of the women I work with are prego, 1/3 of my friends either have kids or are prego and there's The Sister as well. This is gettin' crazy peoples. Real crazy. Not that I mind, in fact I'm quite happy for all of you (mostly for Trier and the fact I get to be an Aunt!), but it's like someone tainted the water with Pregojuice that sent all of y'alls hormones into a biological clock racing frenzy.

Whatever. Come the time, ladies, I'll be that single girl at the baby shower; the one who gifted you with hazardous lead tainted toys and is now polishing off that third bottle of champagne with your mom. Congratulations on your conception.

I may sound pessimistic, but note the upward tilt of my drawring. OPTIMISM SHINES THROUGH! Hurra!

ALSO: When/if I ever jump on the Prego Band Wagon (in, like 15 million yrs), someone PLEASE buy me a neon pink mumu with an arrow pointing toward my big fat belly that says "Behbeh".

Work Product, Example No. 7

"Happiness belongs to the self-sufficient".
-Aristotle

There is something incandescently peaceful and pleasant about riding your bike in the early hours of the morning that makes the 5a.m. wake-up altogether worthwhile. The feel of marine layer against your skin, the slight breeze in your hair and the constant cyclical motion pushing mile after mile of asphalt under your tires... it's no big surprise that after two years I am still trying to get used to the unhappy fact that I live in America, but at least now I live in a part of the country where bicycles are commonly regarded as a means of transportation. A region where Critical Mass is alive and well and as controversial as it should be. A city where cycling 18miles to work is a common occurence and packing groceries into a backpack is granted a small smile from the cashier. So I guess that's one great thing about Huntington Beach.

NEWS: The iPod ban on our office has now been lifted. After a solid week of nothing but the click-clacking of keyboards and the inane chatter of the co-workers to keep my ears company, I can now tune out the office and happily work along to the euphonious wailing of Karen O. (and yes, the incessant Yeah Yeah Yeahs tangent is still alive and well).

Might check out Oktoberfest this weekend, visitors pending. YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS: kartoffeln puree, sauerkraut und brezel!!! Accordionists from Wurzburg! 80yr old contortionists! BIER!!!

The Voyeurs were awesome last weekend what with their cheesy antics and fantastic waistcoats, I highly suggest them. They're playing Alterknit tomorrow night with The Dirty Hearts out of Austin, Texas (and when has the Austin music scene ever steered you wrong?). Looking for something to do? GO CHECK THEM OUT, YO. Doors at 7:30pm, $8 day-of.

P.S. Drawing bicycles is loving difficult, kids!

Work Product, Example No. 6

Yeah, Scorpions and my AWESOME vocal chords. That's right baby, consider yourself fully rocked like a hurricane.

Also, they finally moved the useless scanner that's been keeping me company and allowing scanning these to be an easy-peasy-pie operation. Now, we must covertly use the public scanner in the kitchen. LET'S SEE HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET CAUGHT DRAWING CARTOONS, KIDS!

Skinny and I are checking out THIS BAND tonight. Should be funtimes. I'll have to let you know. This, of course, is all pending on my sleuthing skills being able to unearth my pocketbook (which I cannot find. And yes, I still drove to work because, Dottie, I'm a rebel like that*).

Oh yes, I absolutely cannot get enough of The Mae Shi and Matt and Kim. Check 'em out, kiddy-winks!

EDIT: Gorramit, I just noticed my mouse suddenly morphs into a wireless in the 4th panel. OH WELL, GUESS YOU'LL ALL JUST HAVE TO DEAL. <3's








*Don't tell the authorities, plz. I've given them enough money this week. Kthx XD

The Great Gift Basket Excavation

As promised, here is the photographic documentation of the Great Gift Basket Excavation. Enjoy.

The Gift Basket: so pure. Untouched. Soon to be raped.

I am very excited about this basket. In no way let the deadness of my eyes and the large fake smile attempt to fool you.

If only there were some way we could neatly open the basket...OH WAIT.

(complimentary scissors so that we may neatly open the gift basket.)

We excavate without waking up any undead mummies.

The Spoils:

1 box Crisp Light Crackers1 box Saraivanov Smoked Salmon

1 jar Saraivanov Caviar1 box Cassil & Klein Caramels

1 box Hathaways Caramels (same as the Cassil & Klein)

1 box Cassil & Klein Biscotti

1 triangle Cassil & Klein Cranberry Twist (trailmix)

1 pyramid Hathaways Sour Cherry Candy Drops

1 box Hathaways Old Fashioned Candy(coffee hard candies usually found in geriatric pockets)

1 box Hathaways Citrus Gems (squares of gelatin wrapped in a light sugary coat)

2 tubes Bonbon au Chocolat

1 box Dolcetto Wafer Rolls, Tiramisu flavour

1 box Aaron Bell Candy Berries

1 box Macadams White Chocolate Pecan Shortbread Cookies

1 box Brown & Haley Almond Roca Buttercrunch Toffee

1 container Toffee Peanuts

1 box Pretzel Crisps (suspiciously similar to Southwest Airlines pretzels)

1 bag Aaron Bell Pistachios

1 box Los Olivos Wine and Cheese Biscuits

1 box Aaron Bell Seasoned Crackers

1 triangle Camembert

1 container Dagoba Cacao Powder

1 bottle Chateau St. Jean Merlot

1 bottle Chateau St. Michelle Sauvignon Blanc

1 bottle Summerfield Cabernet Sauvignon1 pair Scissors (complimentary)

I won't lie, it's a lot of things one would find in a hotel minibar. Plus a pair of scissors.

So then Whitney and I decided to try the caviar.

Being the champ/thinkforherselfer/general person of AWESOME that I am, I went first.

(I will not be doing this again anytime soon.)

Whitney went second.

(I somehow doubt that she will be trying caviar again anytime soon, as well.)

I mean, it wasn't BAD, per se. The texture was odd and upsetting yet still doable, but then the pressing thoughts of the overall tininess of the eggs and their ability to slip down the back of your throat (funny how reproductivey things have the ability to-- nevermind) was upsetting. Caviar, as I would assume, is made up of dead fishy eggs, yes? But even then, some weird subcortex of my brain begins to wonder, "What if they aren't dead? What if little tiny fishies begin hatching and swimming around in my insides, their only way of escape through my urethra?! STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED!!"

On a related note: Plans for the Great Foofy Wine Party have begun being drawn up. Expect to dress nicely (dresses, ties, etc.) and drink your weight in wine until Bacchus gleams with vintneristic pride.

Work Product, Example No. 5

Golly my hair has gotten long. What do you think, back to chin length? Karen O. style? Or keep it growing?

ALSO: Tonite we excavate the gift basket. Review of Britta's Caviar Tasting Adventure (complete with disgusty faces!) forthcoming.

A Deal-Breaker, for sure.

I once went on a date with this guy and things were going great until we got back to his place and I saw that his CD collection featured Sublime, Creed and ICP rather prominently. I then had to form a graceful exit strategy claiming "womanly" things. He called me a week later and I let him go to voicemail.

(from Dustinland)

For awhile I felt bad about this until I realized that Music Nerds can and should only date other Music Nerds. It's a safety thing; god forbid you begin to get a little personal and he decides to play "When You Look Me In The Eyes" by The Jonas Brothers in place of anything by Zero 7, M83, or even Prince (all of these acceptable choices. Nothing kills the mood quite like a tune produced by the Mouse).

To further incriminate myself as a Music (Snob) Nerd, there are certain friends of mine at whose parties I always arrive with a fully charged iPod; spending the precious early moments of socialization and imbibery by lurking about the speakers in the corner waiting for that perfect moment to unplug the Pre-Made Party Playlist and usurp the offensive musical power with my own carefully constructed list of tunes. Catty? Very much so, but one can only handle so many exclamations of "OHMYGOD I loooooooooove this song." Before an even-worse-than-the-original-although-I-never-in-a-million-years-could-have-dreamed-that-was-even-possible rendition of The Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha" is performed to the delight of nobody.

I consider my actions to be of a great boon to society and ear canals across the board.

Play Us a Song, Dave!

If you've not been blessed enough to witness Dave Matthews Band live, I would suggest procuring a time machine and travelling back to about 1995 when they were still touring the "Under the Table and Dreaming" album, thusly saving yourself the mind-numbing hours of whale infused Celtic flute and Native American wind music that dear Evan and I were saddled with last night.

Granted, tragedy had befallen the band earlier in the day and one cannot blame them for sticking to a more somber setlist than they might have previously planned.

That all being said, can anyone actually understand what Dave Matthews is saying? In an attempt to transcribe the lyrics to a particular song (whose only understandable lyrics seemed to be "brothers and sisters," and "Ooh yeah-eh-eh-yeah,") I could swear I heard him say "the empty sun with angels well lit/ *mumble mumble mumble* oven mitt".

Happily enough, the tickets were free and events of the evening rather epic. Therefore, I feel only a pretentiously parodying piece of poesy may do any justice to the performance, so please enjoy a piece I have entitled:

"'Twas a Free Concert of a Band I Really Liked Back in the Mid-to-Late 90's", or "Play Us a Song, Dave!"*

'Twas a mid-August Tuesday in downtown LA
And the kids were all gathering to see Matthews play.
The tickets were printed, held tightly in hand
Excitement was brewing for their favorite band!

Bartender's served drinks and the swag was well sold
With visions of "ants marching" strung up in bold.
I, in my skinny jeans, and Evan, a bro
Had driven up northwards to go see the show.

When out in the lobby a ruckus we heard
As the bros headed inwards not to be deterred.
So into the arena we wandered to sit
In hopes Dave would play us his one favored hit.

The smoke hit the air as the first chord was struck
And it wafted behind us; that known stench, what luck!
When, what to our wondering ears should be said
But news that the band's saxophonist was dead.

He passed after noon, Dave Matthews dictated,
He gave up the ghost and is sadly belated.
So tonight, he informed us, we're going to play
The songs he enjoyed back in his living day.

With Celtic flute trilling and whale sounds galore
Dave Matthews played music from a far off shore.
Not sure what to ponder, to gander, to think,
We excused ourselves briefly in search of a drink.

As sure as the sunrise will follow midnight
'Tis not a true concert unless there's a fight.
Beverly Hills and her boyfriend; a Tool,
Had decided to make themselves look quite the fools.

Dressed in cheap imitation with gin breath to spare
They begged for a kiff, waved and danced on the chair.
Their friends stood before them, annoying the masses
Harassing the crowd with spilled beer from their glasses.

'Til security came and the Tool he did shout,
"Hey, f*ck you all! I know what it's all about!"
He pulled on his shirt and lunged toward a fellow
Who before this had been rather still and quite mellow.

The guards, they detained him as Dave strummed along
Leading the masses in a well-known song.
Singing the chorus to Gabriel's' "Sledgehammer"
Dave Matthews, he grinned and the words he did stammer.

The band played succinctly, not missing a beat
And Dave, he did hop 'round and dance on his feet
Cradling his guitar with the love of a father
He played more new songs. Play a hit? Oh, why bother!

As the evening wore on and we heard "Satellite",
"Two Step" it seemed, would be nowhere in sight.
David Byrne represented, the house was burned down
And a story was told of an African town.

As we checked our clocks, saw two hours had past
We wondered, would he play "Ants Marching" at last?
Then finally, strung fiddle strings played aloud
That familiar tune truly pleasing the crowd.

The intro extended, Staples Center did swell
With sweet tempered humor the cheering befell
And we heard him mumble, 'fore the stage he was lit;
"Blargedee blumble farfall, merfin dee, oven mitt."


* There was a gentleman sitting three rows behind us who took it upon himself to begin yelling "Play us a song, Dave!" about an hour into the show. Perhaps before this moment Dave had only been reading aloud to us? Lecturing on the theories of Quantum Entanglement and the misunderstood purpose of the Hadron Collider? The world may never know, but thanks to this one man Dave did indeed play us a song (or twenty). Thank you, unknown gentleman.

Oh Hello, My Celebrity Crush From 1997

Welcome back.

Why yes, I believe I will be seeing your silly little film, Mr. Frasier. What's that? You'd like me to thank Hollywood for making you look less like a creepy balding strong-jawed man? Well in that case, Hollywood, let me say from the heartiest of hearts THANK YOU on behalf of myself, Mr. Frasier, and every twenty to thirty-something female/homosexual male who saw George of the Jungle.
Much Love,
Britta

Work Product, No. 4

Work Product, Example No. 3

Productivity at Work, Example No. 2

Productivity at Work Example No. 1

Which Hipster Are You?

So today, whilst briefly perusing the glorious interwebs as I sought respite from my continual slaving over the mountains of legal arbeit resting at my finger tips, I managed to squeeze in the time to take a little quiz called, "Which Hipster Are You?"

Consisting of a handful of all-too-telling questions pulled from the wonderfully descriptive annals of Josh Aiello's A Field Guide To the Urban Hipster, the quiz delighted me by answering, appropriately, which hipster I am, indeed. Please see below:

Indie Rockers
Audiophilum Integria

Indie Rockers are sexually clumsy creatures. Their mating dance is an intricate yet ineffectual cocktail of lapsed intimacy, misread gestures, arcane trivia, and hero worship. [continued on page 184 of the book]

Clearly, this book needs to be in my awkwardly referential possession.

An Ill-Conceived Lavoratorial Alliance

I guess every office has this issue, at least I would hope they do. Knowing that my building is singularly responsible for one of the most awkward human interactions ever performed would simultaneously make my chest swell with pride, and cause me to weep bitter tears of frustrated confusion. But I digress.

I have “Bathroom Buddies”. I didn’t want them, but they seemed to have found me and begun to cling to my person. Not in a parasitic fashion, mind you, but in the way that one girl in Junior High always clung to your group of friends. You know, the one with the funny red-framed glasses that went out of fashion in 1976, and the Mork ‘n’ Mindy t-shirt paired with pastel suspenders? With her hair in pigtails and sporting bangs that were basically waving their arms around and yelling, “Sweet Christ, can you tease me any larger!?”. That girl. The one you tolerated but secretly made fun of when she wasn’t around? Yeah, that’s kind of like what my bathroom Buddies do to me. I guess it’s sort of a reversal of fortune in a sense as I pretty much was that girl in Junior High. But ANYWAYS, “Bathroom Buddies”.

A “Bathroom Buddy” is much like what Turk and Dr. Cox became in that one episode of Scrubs (although Turk dubbed them “Pee Buddies”, but for the sake of copyright infringement I won’t use that phrase). It’s a person that, for some unexplained cosmic reason whose purpose is known solely by that higher power that orchestrates our lives, always ends up in the bathroom at the same time as you. It’s that one person who, no matter what time of day you sidle out of your cubicle and saunter into the bathroom always ends up in the stall next to you within thirty seconds of you locking that unfriendly metal door and placing the protective synthetic seat cover over that porcelain vestibule of germs and disease.

I, however fortunate you may deem this to be, seem to have acquired two “Bathroom Buddies” to accompany me through those most private duties. The first BB is the A.M. Buddy; a lawyer from next door who always looks pissed off and applies a ludicrous amount of gel to her waist length curly hair. She’s a Cougar-In-Training who, as I learned, saw the midnight showing of Sex In The City. She and I will never be real friends outside of our ill-conceived Lavoratorial Alliance. Also, she wears flower print skirts and pantsuits, two things by which I can never abide.

The second BB, the P.M. Buddy, is one of my superiors at work. This makes for “the awkward” on several levels. One, it provides said superior with ample opportunity to strike up the dreaded “chit-chat” over what I had foolishly hoped were lead lined, sound proof stall walls. I must say, it is downright impossible to hold a comfortable conversation with a superior over the cold and unfeeling barrier of a bathroom stall. Firstly, these walls are constructed primarily to prevent such breaches of privacy and to allow the user of said stall some sense of security as they sit with their rear fully exposed to the basin within which lurks God knows what bacteria and killer clowns. Secondly, who ever decided it was ok to chat within the safe confines of a bathroom? Granted, females are notorious for chatting away whilst in the bathroom, but why can we not instill the same etiquette found in the men’s room? Silence, and no eye/vocal/physical contact whilst doing your business. Waiting for a stall? Oh my goodness I LOVE your shoes/hair/nail polish/shirt. Washing hands? Fine, ask how my day is. Drying hands? Excellent, yes I have seen the most recent episode of (fill in the blank with whatever chick-type show is airing right now). Using the toilet to do my business? Iron curtain of silence, thank you very much.

The second reason why having my P.M. Buddy being my superior is awkward is this: The bathroom is an escape from my cubicle, office, co-workers and thought of the work I have/have not done. The bathroom should be a place of zen-like atmosphere, not a secondary water cooler location. I do not want to discuss So-and-So’s outfit, or Whatshernames job performance. Also, I enjoy having a bit of mystique about me in the office. The questioning looks and whispers that linger when I show up to work obviously hung-over and very pleased with myself are entertaining, yet when my superior joins me in the bathroom and asks me, “So, how was YOUR night last night?” This is something I do not enjoy.

All this having been said, dearest Bathroom Buddies, let us draw up a schedule of times and place them on a constant rotation so as to not meet each other for said awkward interaction. And, should we ever meet in that most sacred of water closets, please do not hide in the stall until I have left. I am not ashamed of my duties in the bathroom, and neither should you be. Especially when you are in the handicapped stall on the cell phone with your significant other. Trust me, we’ve all tucked ourselves away to have a private conversation, but I promise you the bathroom is probably not the best locale for said activity. For one, it echoes quite horribly in there, and for two…just…no. Don’t do it.

Childhood Myths, Part the First

Remember those days, in the middle of some silly childlike antic, giggling our way through a paste eating revelry, a thorough nose picking, face pulling activity when the mortal enemy of childhood stepped in like a dictatorial douche and uttered a sentence that instilled such horror in our tiny ossificating bones which most likely scarred us for life; or passed onto us some sliver of carnal knowledge meant to enlighten our feeble pulsing brains? With an almost fiendish glee, that adult seemed to treasure every moment they were able to make childhood a slightly more terrifying/magical place than it was before all the while enabling our prepubescent imaginations to run amok in a glorified frenzy of fright and wonder. These are the childhood myths that we, in our adulthood, shall willfully pass on to our own offspring in an attempt to continually make the world a moreso enchanting, albeit slightly horrifying place. But what are these myths, and how should they be instilled? What effects do they have on the child? Surely, no lingering fear can be brought about by the "monster in the closet"? Truly, the Tooth Fairy is a figure of fantastical whimsy and not a societal divider of the classes?

Myth 1: The Tooth Fairy

Firstly, the idea that a calcified piece of your body dies and falls off after about seven years of its existence is in itself a little disturbing, but add to that the fact that your parents tell you of a little pixie that will a) visit you in the night, b) reach her tiny, greedy pixie fingers under your pillow while you are sleeping in search of said expired calcified body part and c) trade it for a piece of currency is a little odd.

Secondly, and something that I fear many parents don't realize, is that some adults abstinently refuse to tell their children about the tooth fairy and her numismatic tendencies. For example: in 1st Grade, after the very proud loss of a molar, I awoke to find two strappingly brand new quarters resting delicately underneath my pillow. Proudly, I clasped them with my tiny little hand and carried them to school with all the pomp and circumstance of an empirical parade to show my friends how wonderfully gifted I had been during the night. This display was met with three reactions:

1. Excitement from the other children who had received a similarly modest monetary gain from a lost tooth. The general consensus seemed to be the standard 25¢ for a canine or incisor and a more gracious 50¢ for a molar (why, in childhood logic, a molar was worth more is still a little beyond me, yet it brings up an interesting idea: at what point in time did it become acceptable to teach children the monetary value of their body parts? How long before we start telling our offspring about the delightful "Kidney Fairy and her Ice Bath of Cold Comfort"?).

2. Odious disdain from the wealthier children whose parents seem to think it befitting that a canine is worth something closer to $1, while molars obviously deserve $2.

3. Jealousy and confusion from the children who had never been visited by the Pecuniary Pixie. Imagine being 6 yrs old and seeing all of your classmates proudly exhibiting shiny new quarters every time a piece of their body fell off. Firstly, that makes no logical sense. Secondly, the Tooth Fairy is now become a cruel joke of the upperclass in that she is no longer an innocent childhood fabrication meant to celebrate growth and the oncoming adulthood signified by necrotized body parts.

The Tooth Fairy is, in actuality, a vicious reinstating of an archaic caste system meant to downplay infantile equality and separate the wealthier children from the slightly less wealthy and moreso impoverished.

Myth 2: "Your face'll get stuck that way."

Certain as it would be unfortunate to wake up one wondrous morn to find your ears permanently out-stretched with elephantine glory, eyes bulging like Marty Feldman and mouth outstretched in what resembles a permanently agonized scream, I cannot recall a single child being upset by this particular parental threat. In fact, the reaction seems to be just the opposite as most children, with their tiny little brains and ecstatic ideas, will generally pause and reflect for a moment gleefully assessing this newfound fact of life before goonfully gazing back at said adult with an ever more emphatic facial expression in the hopes that, yes, one day their face WILL get stuck that way. I also vividly remember, after being thusly threatened, pouting my lips, pushing up on the tip of my nose ever-so-slightly, arching my eyebrows and hoping beyond hope that my face would get stuck that way. Apparently age 4 is when low self-esteem kicks into full gear.

Myth 3: The Gum Tree

After begging your parents with a determination rivaling unyielding adamancy, they finally concede to proffer you that delicious piece of bubblegum you so desire. Gleefully, you gently unwrap the treat from its foiled shell and pop the chewy aspartame delicious into your tiny little gob and begin maniacally masticating with the all the fervor of a dairy cow. Minutes pass and the glutinous glob is no longer the treat it once promised to be. Frantically, you glance around in search of a receptacle to be the new residence of this now ash flavoured treat, or even perhaps a scrap of paper with which to mummify the now hardening tripe. Your jaw begins to ache and hopelessness sets in as you realize there is nowhere to place this once celebrated morsel of mandibular masticating marvelousness. So you, in your stress, act in the only possible remaining way you know how: you swallow. And guess what? Now you're going to grow a gum tree in your stomach whose branches will sprout out of your ears and spawn delicious gummy fruit for the other children to chew upon and (eventually) swallow thus continuing the vicious cycle of parasitic gum tree growing in the bellies of youths on an international level until, one would assume, the gum tree eventually outgrows its host body and plants itself in the ground continuing to spawn delicious swollen gummy fruits for other unsuspecting children to grasp for in their innocence and fully continue the twisted propagation of the Gummus parasitus.

This is a wholly disturbing and fucked up thing to tell a child.

Close Encounters of the Archaeological Kind

My thoughts exactly.

Courtesy of JollyJack over at deviantART.

Cloud Cult @ The Knitting Factory, May 14, 2008

Cloud Cult- May 14, 2008: The Knitting Factory

The population of The Knitting Factory is noticeably swollen by the time Kid Dakota leaves the stage, yet as Craig Minowa and Shawn Neary meander through the crowd- eyes focused on the ground before them with hunched shoulders exuding a mid-country humbleness, not a single hipster bats an eye at their presence. After all, it’s hardly ironic to tell the band how great they are; I mean you bought a ticket, right? Yet as the first notes of the sound check are struck the pretention of the room drops significantly and the crowd takes tentative steps forward readying itself Cloud Cult.

The band takes the stage one-by-one, quietly and passively picking up their instruments and flexing their fingers before front man Craig Minowa appears looking disheveled in his well-worn rumpled shirt. Wearing jeans rolled mid-calf one foot is noticeably bare next to its sock and shoe laden partner. He’s pushed a sleeping mask with drawn eyes onto his forehead and a sheepish smile flickers as he addresses the audience with a sleepy Minnesotan twinge that makes us all feel bad for possibly having woken him up from his seeming backstage slumber.

“Hello,” he mumbles, his fingers form a chord on the neck of his guitar. “I’m Craig…and we are Cloud Cult,”

The crowd takes another step forward as digital cameras and iPhones appear and the band launches into their set.

A frantic, desperate energy drives each song as if the members of Cloud Cult thrive off of the stressful nature of performance treating the nerves and fear like a much needed breathe of fresh air. Each note is tempered with the vaguest suggestion of sadness and each chord hums with joy, a delightful juxtaposition of emotion that couples sweetly with the genuine whole-heartedness of the lyrics that betray an old soul disguised by childish charm. Evidence of the band’s history is scattered throughout the performance with a bittersweet adornment that only adds to the indisputable earnestness of their sound.

At the back of the stage stands Minowa’s wife, Connie, working feverishly on the trademark performance art set to be auctioned at the conclusion of the evening. Each brush stroke and hue compliments the music her husband has orchestrated as haunting eyes and wan smile begin to take shape across the previously blank canvas. As the set progresses the sad eyes are possessed by an awkward youth standing in the midst of windmills and skyscrapers, gazing towards the audience with a lost bewilderment and one cannot help but feel the presence of the Minowa family’s past history lingering on the stage. Bassist Shawn Neary turns to the painting to observe Connie’s work and as the exhilarated concentration fades from his bearded face his hands become the tools of an automaton and a part of his heart lingers in the air. A peaceful nature falls over his constantly moving lanky form and for a moment he and Connie lock eyes. She offers nothing but a sweetly sad smile before turning back to the canvas as he watches. There is something magical occurring in The Knitting Factory tonight, something personal and hidden from the audience, whispering the truth between band mates that we the observers will never be privy too. There is a love and determination in every member of the cult that endears them even more to those standing in awe at the foot of the stage.

As expected, Cloud Cult performs mostly from their newest release, Feel Good Ghosts (Teapartying Through Tornadoes), while much to the delight of the audience they pull tracks from The Meaning of 8 and Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus performing with a rabble-rousing clarity that urges us to bob our heads and shimmy to the beat, the band having found the perfect alternating balance of uplifting and heart-wrenching songs. “Hurricane and Fire Survival Guide” translates perfectly from the album to the stage, just as “The Story of the Grandson of Jesus” and “Happy Hippo” find the venue engorged with hand claps and hip sways. With our eyes closed and our hearts light, digital cameras on the rise, we lose ourselves in the moment, ravenously devouring the little pieces of soul Craig and his band of Minnesotan musicians spoon feed our eager ears. They close the night with a bittersweet performance of “Love You All,” and gratefully we believe every word.

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: Linguistical Prowess

Cubie 1:
(Saying something about "Tagalog" pronouncing it "Tag-a-log".)
Cubie 2:
It's "Tah-gol-og" I used to say "Tag-a-log", but that's not right.

Cubie 1:
Whatever, I wouldn't never speak it, so it doesn't matter.

Attorney:
Tag-a-log is a Girl Scout cookie!

Cubie 1:
No that's "Tagalong".

Attorney:
Oh.

Cubie 1:
I don't care about that warble language, but you better get the cookie right.

Prince Caspian, see?

I just saw a trailer for The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian out of the corner of my eye and my first thought was, "Another Joan of Arc movie?" aka Prince Caspian looks like a chick.


I doubt this is news to anyone.

Holy franchise similarities, Batman!!!

Anybody else see what I see?

"Who Will Tell the People?"

Who Will Tell the People?

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN

Published: May 4, 2008, www.nytimes.com

Traveling the country these past five months while writing a book, I've had my own opportunity to take the pulse, far from the campaign crowds. My own totally unscientific polling has left me feeling that if there is one overwhelming hunger in our country today it's this: People want to do nation-building. They really do. But they want to do nation-building in America.

They are not only tired of nation-building in Iraq and in Afghanistan, with so little to show for it. They sense something deeper — that we're just not that strong anymore. We're borrowing money to shore up our banks from city-states called Dubai and Singapore. Our generals regularly tell us that Iran is subverting our efforts in Iraq, but they do nothing about it because we have no leverage — as long as our forces are pinned down in Baghdad and our economy is pinned to Middle East oil.

Our president's latest energy initiative was to go to Saudi Arabia and beg King Abdullah to give us a little relief on gasoline prices. I guess there was some justice in that. When you, the president, after 9/11, tell the country to go shopping instead of buckling down to break our addiction to oil, it ends with you, the president, shopping the world for discount gasoline.

We are not as powerful as we used to be because over the past three decades, the Asian values of our parents' generation — work hard, study, save, invest, live within your means — have given way to subprime values: "You can have the American dream — a house — with no money down and no payments for two years."

That's why Donald Rumsfeld's infamous defense of why he did not originally send more troops to Iraq is the mantra of our times: "You go to war with the army you have." Hey, you march into the future with the country you have — not the one that you need, not the one you want, not the best you could have.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I flew from New York's Kennedy Airport to Singapore. In J.F.K.'s waiting lounge we could barely find a place to sit. Eighteen hours later, we landed at Singapore's ultramodern airport, with free Internet portals and children's play zones throughout. We felt, as we have before, like we had just flown from the Flintstones to the Jetsons. If all Americans could compare Berlin's luxurious central train station today with the grimy, decrepit Penn Station in New York City, they would swear we were the ones who lost World War II.

How could this be? We are a great power. How could we be borrowing money from Singapore? Maybe it's because Singapore is investing billions of dollars, from its own savings, into infrastructure and scientific research to attract the world's best talent — including Americans.

And us? Harvard's president, Drew Faust, just told a Senate hearing that cutbacks in government research funds were resulting in "downsized labs, layoffs of post docs, slipping morale and more conservative science that shies away from the big research questions." Today, she added, "China, India, Singapore ... have adopted biomedical research and the building of biotechnology clusters as national goals. Suddenly, those who train in America have significant options elsewhere."

Much nonsense has been written about how Hillary Clinton is "toughening up" Barack Obama so he'll be tough enough to withstand Republican attacks. Sorry, we don't need a president who is tough enough to withstand the lies of his opponents. We need a president who is tough enough to tell the truth to the American people. Any one of the candidates can answer the Red Phone at 3 a.m. in the White House bedroom. I'm voting for the one who can talk straight to the American people on national TV — at 8 p.m. — from the White House East Room.

Who will tell the people? We are not who we think we are. We are living on borrowed time and borrowed dimes. We still have all the potential for greatness, but only if we get back to work on our country.

I don't know if Barack Obama can lead that, but the notion that the idealism he has inspired in so many young people doesn't matter is dead wrong. "Of course, hope alone is not enough," says Tim Shriver, chairman of Special Olympics, "but it's not trivial. It's not trivial to inspire people to want to get up and do something with someone else."

It is especially not trivial now, because millions of Americans are dying to be enlisted — enlisted to fix education, enlisted to research renewable energy, enlisted to repair our infrastructure, enlisted to help others. Look at the kids lining up to join Teach for America. They want our country to matter again. They want it to be about building wealth and dignity — big profits and big purposes. When we just do one, we are less than the sum of our parts. When we do both, said Shriver, "no one can touch us."

Mayday! MAYDAY!!!

Happy May Day all! Today's the day we celebrate the beginning of the Pagan summer!

Everyone: Take a bath! It's courtin' season!

Ladies: Don your white virginal apparel, braid some heather into your hair and grab those flasks of wine! The Men shall come a callin' and you must be prepared!

Gentlemen: Go erect a Maypole on the font yard of the young Fraulein you fancy! Fret ye not if there already be a Maypole erected by some other forward thinking lad. Simply build a bigger, slightly more phallic Maypole to show the "extent" of your love!

Afterwards: Meet down in town for some good ol' fashioned feisty Maypole dancing!

Schönen Maitag, Freunde!

Someone: Show a girl some love… Maypole? Anyone? Bueller?

MS Paint WONDER

My Co-worker (the non-retarded one) told me I was a chef.
She sent me this:



Yeah, that's pretty much AWESOME.

Chinless Man of the Week

Matthew Goode

Notable for being possibly the only good bit about Woody Allen's schlobfest Matchpoint, Matthew Goode will soon be gracing the silver screen as Ozymandius in Zack Snyder's adaptation of Watchmen (!!!), bringing his chinless glory to millions of comic book nerds across the globe. And yes, we must forgive him his role in Chasing Liberty, for surely his dashing good looks and impressive height of 6'2" can earn him a dignified place among the other esteemed gentlemen on this list. Yes? Goode.

Daily Haiku for April 28, 2008

We got some cookies.

The co-workers swooped in;

they* didn't stand a chance.

Word of the Day

omnologist- (n.) A person with extensive knowledge in many areas, or with a formidable collection of general knowledge. An expert in many fields. One who seems to know everything.

"Britta."





*the cookies

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: The Zinger

Me:
(reading the news and finding interest in the ways of the world)
Did y'all hear that Japan ran out of butter?

Cubie #1:
(stares at me incredulously)
Ran OUT of BUTTER?!

Me:
(nods)
Yeah, it's on CNN, BBC and Reuters.

Cubie #1:
How does a country run out of butter?

Me:
Well, they're saying that since the price of grains and cattle feed is so expensive, the cows aren't producing as much as they should and butter production is delayed.

Cubie #1:
What the hell do COWS have to do with butter?!

Me:
(long pause)
Well...cows make milk you see...

Can you say "Schadenfreude"?

A Riddle.

Q: What do Byron "Buster" Bluth and Charlie Bucket have in common?




A: High-fastening pants.

So I'm TOTALLY live-blogging American Idol

Shaddup...it's Andrew Lloyd Weber night. That's my excuse.
Here we go:

Syesha Mercado-

“One Rock ‘n’ Roll Too Many”

Good performance. Messed the first line, came in late, but quickly recovered from these issues. Needs to be braver about those high notes. She has them, can use them. Grow a spine, kiddo! If I voted, she’d have my vote right now, if only for the fact she chose from Starlight Express.

Jason Castro-

“Memory”

Seriously?! MEMORY?! Why? Who let this kid choose and keep that choice? Why not throw the kid “Love Changes Everything”? He could have KILLED that song, or maybe even “Close Every Door To Me”. Not MEMORY! Double-you tee eff, get him off the stage. Especially since he bungled the ending and kept it low, butchering the best opportunity to show some balls strength.

Paula Abdul- how many strokes has she had? Is that what’s going on with her? She can’t possibly be drunk/narcotocized EVERY week (not like I watch every week, that’s what entertainment blogs are for)

Brooke White-

“You Must Love Me”

No, I don’t think I must. This girl…this girl, something about her faux-modesty and doe-eyes annoys me. Yes, she can sing…if you think a hissing tire with a nail stuck in it sounds harmonious. Yeah, she can carry a tune like a ton of bricks. She sounded dull, flat and bored with the very song she was trying to sound sad, upset and pleading.

UPDATE: I might feel bad if this is true, but is something wrong with her face? Like, she only speaks/sings out of one side of it and it’s really disturbing…like she’s a leering, baby-stealing nanny sitting by herself in the park.

David Archuleta-

“Think of Me”

Kid has an excellent career singing over Disney credits. Unless the apocalypse comes and pop-music decides this kid is the second coming of Peabo Bryson, I can’t see him being supremely successful on the whole. Kudos for the re-imagining, it was a nice take on a very well-known and getting tired tune. I liked it, but…Peabo Bryson.

Carly Smithson-

“Jesus Christ Superstar”

Like getting hit in the face with a bag full of AWESOME followed by a one-two punch of SWEETJEEBUS.

Honestly, live-blogging this, I don’t know how or who is going to follow that.

David Cook-

“Music of the Night”

Gerard Butler did it better, and that’s REALLY saying something. Nice outfit, Kiefer, what is this, 1988?

HAHAHAHA….and that longing gaze at the camera following “…let you BEEEE!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH….jeebus christo. “Touch me, trust me/ savour each sensation” who told him how to pronounce that? Kid, if you sing musical theatre, try to stick to ANYTHING Adam Pascal has done. Stay away from ALW. Much love, the Theatre Nerds.

Randy…”amazing”? Really?

Oh god, now they’re recapping. Lord Weber, I apologize on behalf of the Americans who completely muffed up your music.

Chinless Man of the Week

Michael Vartan

We might have Drew Barrymore to thank for this deliciously weak-chinned gent. Clocking in at a respectable 6ft., Michael Vartan won many a lady's heart as the tasty High School Teacher of a crush in Never Been Kissed, went on to become engaged to Jennifer Garner, tread the mythological waters of made-for-TV-movies and now holds down for the erstwhile series Big Shots. Aside from these achievements he's not only devilishly handsome but also spent his childhood summers memorizing Star Wars. Need there be another Chinless Man after Mr. Vartan? The answer, of course, is a straggled,"Yes!" while we concede this most illustrious honor of being the Chinless Man of the Week for April 21, 2008! Congrats, and welcome, Mr. Vartan.

(not so) Daily Haiku for April 17, 2008

Supermex: I ate

it. Now for the kidneys to

kick into first gear.

Word of the Day

roister- (v.) to act in a swaggering, boisterous, or uproarious manner.

"Rallying the rabble, Reginald roisterously regaled and roused the revolutionaries."

"To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?"

Which is a worse situation: either a) having oodles of creativity bursting to be scored/written/orchestrated/spewed forth from your mighty pen/typed with your diligent keyboard/etc. and yet be lacking the time and place in which to do so; or b) having ample time with which to create genius, yet be lacking in the creativity you so desire to have?

I currently find myself suffering from the latter (option “b”) and am therefore spewing forth whatever nonsense I can think to write about. In this particular instance I find that I have writer’s block to write about which therefore completely eschews the theory and universal definition of said writer’s block. Perhaps in this rambling diatribe I will run out of things to say about writer’s block and will therefore fully succumb to the mind-racking numbness the affliction invariably leads to. I hope not, that would be awful. It would be a little like that page in Goodnight, Moon that is completely blank and only reads in the bottom corner, “Goodnight, nobody,” The sheer overwhelming crush of nothingness brought about by a simple case of writer’s block which, in a way, could be representative of existentialism on the whole.

Existentialism is the idea that our destinies are mapped out completely by us, the persons, with deities having little or no control over the whole thing; the idea of absolute nothingness, full existence, and eternal freedom.

Originally that whole idea seemed a little bleak, the idea that we truly are the masters of our own destiny and fate, that there are no great puppet strings controlling our actions and helping us along, that we are alone. But then I began to really think about it: the existentialist has nothing to fear. Whatever is going to happen will happen as they accept the consequences of their own actions. In a way, an accepting existentialist is possibly the most at peace person in all of creation. Say what you will, but while others are busy questioning whether or not they led a good and wholesome life, whether they truly abolished that original sin, whether those seventy-two virgins will be ready and willing whence they go wherever they will go, whether they achieved the sought approval from a higher power, I imagine the true existentialist does something sort of like this:

He sits back in his leather deskchair, feet propped up on his desk and arms crossed behind his head. Perhaps a mug of coffee sits near the mousepad, 4chan/b/ on the monitor as his lazy eyes roll towards the worrying nips that surround him. An all-knowing smirk crosses his lips and he briefly ponders the eternal question of “heaven or hell?” before the blip of thought fades into nothingness. Slowly, he lifts his legs from the desk and leans forward grasping the mug with one free hand, bringing towards his nose he deeply inhales enjoying the aroma of a well-made mug of coffee. He sips experimentally, it is delicious. Calmly, our existentialist replaces the mug on his desk, leans back and props his feet up once again as his cubicle mate glares at him from a cluttered corner.

Muttering quietly, the cubicle mate shuffles about cardboard coffee cups, folders and printouts. His monitor displays spreadsheets, matrices and word documents as his printer never ceases production. The Existentialist passing him a quiet glance before closing his eyes and humming quietly, “que sera sera, whatever will be…”

In my mind’s eye, our existentialist is wearing fitted pants, pointed boots and waistcoat, his sleeves rolled smugly halfway up his forearms, perhaps a bit of stubble grows on his face. Whereas the cubicle mate, working tirelessly through life to appease some higher ups wears something resembling Leo Bloom’s accountant’s uniform.

So, back to Goodnight, Moon and that page that troubles me so…”Goodnight, nobody,” As holyjuan.com pointed out, who is nobody? On the blank page there exists no “person,” so who is it? Asking this I am straying from my original point, so I’ll just get to that now in examining that page as purely existential fare: perhaps nobody is the existentialist; the person who had no one to answer to but himself and therefore failed to create any discernible identity within the confines of societal expectation. This is the sort of scary existentialist I had originally imagined when the philosophy was first introduced: the existentialist who, under all circumstances, fails to be. But now I realize that there are two kinds of existentialist: the nobodies- those without identity simple wafting through time until they have exhausted their purposeless life, and the somebodies- those who, understanding the lack of previously mentioned puppet strings, become their own Puppetmasters. Current society would tend to call them atheists as your standard existentialist, in upholding the credo of the philosophy, does not believe in a higher power, but these are the people who, when looking into the void and understanding the nothingness achieve something from it by embracing the pure and simple fact that they exist.

In as much, writer’s block may be seen as a basal form of existentialism in that the hypothetical block represents a Nothingness, a barrier beyond which someone cannot succeed, create and be. As with existentialism, there are differing approaches to writer’s block; you can give up and try another day, or you can keep trudging through until you have a philosophical argument on the screen before you. Either way, however, the end question is almost always the same: how do you finish?

Like this.