Sunday, May 31, 2009

Andy Williams Is A Hot Bitch

I am sitting on the couch having finished a report for work and am now swinging with an Andy Williams LP.  I don't care how schmaltzy his work is considered to be by, well pretty much everyone, I feel rather strongly that Andy is in the Hot Bitch category.  Think about it, if everyone has rightly asserted he is cheesy, then he knows that too and chances are when he was at is peak he was high on pills, gin and kept the company of salty ladies like myself.  He and I would have painted the town red, or at the very least the hotel room.  
Here is a picture from a website that I cannot rave about enough:

Ricky slicked back his hair one more time. Yes. He was ready for tonight, and damn, he looked good.

Here is a blurb from the creator to give you an idea of the concept behind it: "Hi.
I’m Dan, and I’m going to take a photo with a LEGO guy every day for an entire year. I love LEGOs, and I love photography – so it only seemed natural to mix them."

There are lots of these 365 day photo projects out there and this one is done incredibly well. He is almost done, so I am glad I am catching it before it is complete.  Something about knowing about a sweet-ass project during the process makes my ego shimmer that much more.   

Lastly, I have heard rumors that there is various footage of me singing from last weekend and you had better believe I will be posting the shit out of that as soon as I get my hands on it. Mostly because my hair was banging all weekend and these rare occasions need to be documented and used as propaganda.  

P.S.  Isn't that guitar player dreamy?  SWOON.  

Thursday, May 28, 2009


I was going to post a superb entry tonight, but it became later than I anticipated rather rapidly and I need some sleep.  SO.  I have every intention of making it up soon.  For now I offer these stunning videos and pictures that I can take no credit for. 

There are few songs that have such a visceral trigger for me.  Free Fallin' is one.  I am immediately transported to Goleta, summer, bikini and the first real feelings of deep love at the same time as deep depression.  I am holding the hand of my best girlfriend and we are singing soft harmonies as the sun brings forth a few more freckles.  We need not say a word to know the other one knows.  

Having seen VAST live a couple of time I can say with confidence that Jon Crosby does in fact 
have such a clean voice. Also, he composed all of this and can play all of the instruments. Sigh.
This song has lots of fond memories. Lastly, the fellow in the lace dress playing acoustic guitar
at a show of theirs was way more agro and at one point threw his guitar in the air, missed it, 
gashed open his eye and refused treatment. Played the rest of the show with blood running 
down his face. Totally RAWK.

Okay Picture Time:

what I want to eat right now:

Edit: WTF with the weird spacing?  I don't know.  I tried to fix it 4 times, which is 3 more than I usually do, so you are going to just have to suck it up.  

Thursday, May 21, 2009

For Your Eyes

Things that are true.  And a few that aren't if you are being all skeptical about viking kitties (it will make sense once you scroll down).

Monday, May 18, 2009

Monday: Pants Optional

With higher temperatures upon us in Sacto I have officially dubbed Mondays as Pant Optional. In fact, I think that I will extend this dress-code relaxing to all days for the rest of the Hell Scape people call summer here.  
Roll Call:
1.  In observation of the day I have spent much of it sans pants working from the couch and attempting to write reports for work.  

2.  Why does my face feel it necessary to relive high-school era blemishtopia?  I woke up this morning (covered in a thin film of sweat even with the AC kicking in off and on) only to rub my face and marvel at all the small volcanoes that arrived suddenly.  Ugh.  Body, seriously, knock it off. 

3.  Enough with hating on my skin.  That ain't no way to live.  Where my feminists at?  I am ready a fairly entertaining historical fiction book entitled The Company:

with which I have one major issue with.  It is very much an ensemble cast, but so far all but one of the female characters have "failed" in some manner.  Not passed a test that all the men did, is shallow and vain to a degree of losing love, life goals, etc.  I also recently have heard too many sexist comments about female drivers, unsightly hair, the dangers of a woman PMSing.  WHAT THE HELL PEOPLE!  In order to recover from this onslaught of lady-bashing I have been refreshing my Jezebel page religiously.  Thank goodness Judge Judy is here to mediate the shit out of things.  

4.  In a strangely fitting musical experience: I have had Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" running on loop in my head for nearly two weeks straight.  Nothing like taking a shower and realizing all that I am actually thinking and doing is attempting to faithfully recreate the sensual "oohs" and "ahhs" Tina does halfway through the song while lathering and rinsing.  

5.  Wants to suggest to Tony Bourdain and his lovely wife that we all get it on french style sexitimes.  That man is dreamy.  In my pants.  Which I am not wearing.  Perhaps I will put on pants tomorrow so that I can take them off again when the Bourdain's accept my menage-a-trois offer.  

He's thinking about it...
And we're a go!

Monday, May 4, 2009

A Post (In Which) I Anal(yze) Pare(nth)etical Usage

I read many blogs, mostly authored by women who I admire, laugh with, get emo over the same things, and all around adore.  They are mothers, wives, artists, sisters, teachers, editors, single occupancy gals, comediennes, cat lovers, book snobs, politicos, lovers, designers, total strangers... A pretty wide slice of the human experience is represented.  What do they all have in common?  Near obsessive use of parenthetical statements.  We all seem to go GAGA over parentheses (and not Lady Gaga, but like Camilla the Chicken from the Muppets (Gonzo's girlfriend) who's only vocalization other than clucking to express her love of Gonzo is to chant "GAGAGAGA!  That is the kind of GAGA I am talking about).  See?  It is the written way of going off topic, but not really.  We are making a point, just in a rather round about, esoteric manner.  Which is exactly how many of us talk.  My speech is full of digressions from the main theme, illustrative examples, and all other manner of vaguely connected tidbits and puns.  

However, I came to a moment in time where I questioned whether or not some people know how to use parenthetical statements correctly (myself included) (and yes, all of the ones in this post are purposeful).  For example what I just did with the set of parentheses back to back?  Is that allowed?  Does it work?  Initially I felt a low grade gammer fever over this.  I even looked it up (here's a link), but not much came from the research.  Least of all guilt about my blatant and excessive reliance on parentheses as a tone modifier in text.  Further, I go back to writing the way I talk.  And I talk totally rad (clearly).

(click photo for Flickr page)

I try not to abuse my blogging rights too much (they start to whimper, all whiney, bastard-like and it gets tiresome) all the while letting the stream of consciousness mumbo-jumbo rigamarole just be.  So, parenthetical statement I am gonna run with you like scissors.  (It could be dangerous, but it feels so right.)

Sunday, May 3, 2009


Food confession:  I eat chicken frequently and usually it is skinless, boneless, mostly healthy, etc. However, I have been know to go on "food binges" during which I become obsessed with eating the same kind of food every day regardless of how terrible it is for me.  A prime example is fried chicken.  It doesn't even need to be that good, and I will go crazy about it.  College roommates no doubt recall with a certain amount of unpleasant queasiness my penanche for fried chicken legs and the manner in which I consumed them.  I eat as much of the entire thing as possible.  This includes all skin, gristle (which is sort of an onomatopoeia if you think about it), bone nubs and marrow.  

AM shakes his head over this and has learned that he might as well offer me his leftover bits, because I will descend on them anyway, in the kitchen as I "do the dishes."  I know that some day I will probably die from bone shards cutting up my gastrointestinal track (such a fun name for a section of the body, btw), slowly bleeding out internally, but it will be worth it.  Bone marrow is a flavor you just can't find in any other food.  I wonder if I nom on bones with such glee due to a freakish vitamin deficiency....  Nah, I will opt to believe that I just have a sort of Cro-Magnon streak in me that just won't quit.  Sexy.  

So, it can safely be said that this afternoon involved some aggressive bone chomping and greasy fingers.  Besides my internet assertions, proof can also be found on the pages of the cheesy murder mystery I read this weekend about a forensic paleontologist.  It is titled SKELETON DANCE.  I am not kidding.