The Other Shoe

In which I am crazybags

2011-08-31T19:05:00.001-04:00

New post on AnnArbor.com, wherein I admit to having a case of The Crazies and hope my friends don't look at me differently (though, if they haven't up to this point, we're probably good).

30 Before 30: Living with an Anxiety Disorder

Comments on the story online give you good karma!

Notes on the Royal Wedding

2011-04-30T12:11:00.002-04:00

The Wedding of Prince William & Catherine Middleton

Harry has become the looker of the family. Who knew the little prince who was born looking like Alfred E Neuman would sprout into Colin Firth? MeeeeOW!

Catherine Middleton is pretty. I don't remember ever seeing her before this day, but she's nice looking. In fact...

There is no need to gild the lily. She is so pretty you don't have to make the obvious dress parallels to Princess Grace, stylists. She's royal: we got it.

I'm not the only one who noticed. Right as she gets to the altar, William smiles and looks proud--but Harry seems to be, I dunno... not leering, exactly, but definitely lingering on the lithe form of soon-to-be-Mrs.-his-brother. Could be the fact that they've dressed Harry in all black with caution-yellow bondage gear, so I could just be painting him with Richard III overtones. Maybe.

Prince William has a lovely voice I never thought he was particularly dreamy, but I had also never heard him speak. His clipped accent is the lovechild of double-cream and a bassoon--a weapon he's never really had to pull out, understandably, because of the whole "you're a princess if you marry me" thing. It's a shame he'll never have to work in this life, because he could make a killing as a voiceover actor.

It's a good thing I wasn't invited. For several reasons, but most notably because I got a serious case of the church giggles 1) at the mention of the Holy Ghost and 2) at the Bishop/Vicar/Officiant's mad-scientist miter-hair. Yes, I'm five, and there's not a frilly Ascot Hat big enough to hide my inappropriate laughter.

The Queen is a lot like my dog. Old, nearly blind, naps when she pleases. This is my new goal in life.

Church is always boring. I really wish all those masses I attended as a kid had YouTube slider bars. Three minutes after loading, I could Amen-it to the pancake brunch.

Cate has a much better poker face than I do. I assume she has people coaching her on all things princessy, because whereas she seems to dislike the tedious church readings as much as I do, I can see her catching herself before rolling her eyes. William must be of the same opinion, as his reaction is to take very long blinks.

... but she can't unpause it. William is nodding off a bit (understandably, since this ceremony is three hours and several months of news coverage too long), but he at least reacts when the Bishop/MiterMan brings it home. Cate... seems to be frozen in Botox propriety mode. I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and call it nervousness / proximity to her new Nan, the Effing Queen.

'Jerusalem' will always make me think of Calendar Girls. Speaking of, why is Helen Mirren not here? Wait, there she--oh, it's Camilla. Oh, well. Nice that she got invited, though.

It was pretty cute. All right, I'm not made of stone. Will & Cate seem to like each other, his smirking his way through the vows was pretty damn endearing.

Madagascar: Beware the Vanilla Bearcat

2011-04-22T21:58:00.001-04:00

Sarah: What is this about, now?

Bacon: Madagascar broke from India and Africa, so everything there evolved specifically to suit the island. All the wildlife was marooned. There are species there that don't live anywhere else.

Sarah: Like the Kardashians?

Bacon: No, like the giant mongoose.

Sarah: Dude. I've seen a mongoose. It was the size of a ferret. That shit is a bearcat.

Bacon: It's just really big and superadapted.

Sarah: Into a bear-nosed giant sloth.

Bacon: ...-Lion.

Sarah: See? Mongoose my balls.

David Attenborough: "A still greater predator lurks in the marshes."

Sarah: The hippotiger!

Bacon: The crocobat!

Sarah: Eh. It's just a lemur. Doing... Tai Chi.

Bacon: Nothing is normal there. Nothing.

Sarah: Seriously, it's like the wild kingdom version of Lord of the Flies. Two ton ferrets!

Bacon: The fish swim upside down!

Sarah: No they--oh my god, they do. And they're blind.

Bacon: And the lemurs eat plants full of cyanide. And live!

Sarah: I feel like there's a cure for everything on that island. Plus vanilla.

Bacon: Which is a cure for ice cream.

Sarah: And unsweetened catbears.

Bacon: I wonder if the mongooses eat the fish, or just the lemurs.

Sarah: It's part bear, it'll eat anything. It'd eat you.

Bacon: Bacon doesn't go with fish.

Sarah: It goes with scallops, though. And shrimp.

Bacon: Those aren't fish, those are sea insects.

Sarah: Delicious sea insects.

Bacon: Icky sea monsters.

Sarah: Yes, I do believe that old-timey maps had pictures of shrimps in the margins.

Bacon: Yarr, Thar be scallops herrrre!

Sarah: Are you sure you were looking at a map, and not a Long John Silver's menu?

Bacon: Well, there was a pirate on it.

"Ahhhh, Salmon Skin Roll."

2011-03-22T17:52:00.000-04:00

Latest AnnArbor.com column, in which our heroine plumbs the depths of her femininity by punching innocent people and having her toes painted. A typical day in the life, really.

30 Before 30: Fight Face and Fancy Feet

Comments welcome as always!

Michigan - snow = heaven

2011-01-24T19:58:00.000-05:00

Throwing these articles out as fast as I can get them written. February's just around the corner!

30 Before 30: Say Yes to Michigan

Comments welcome. And to all my friends: You Rule.

College! W00t!

2011-01-19T22:02:00.000-05:00

Latest installment in the 30 Before 30 series. If I offend anyone, I apologize up front. Not students, though; they know they're that annoying.

30 Before 30: Changes of Place, Part One

Comments encouraged on AnnArbor.com. Next Up: Europe!

One of the least sad stories involving death you'll read today

2011-01-05T17:00:00.000-05:00

I attend Bacon's grandmother's funeral, and it goes differently than expected.

30 Before 30: Life at a Funeral

Comments welcome at A2.com as always.

In which my boobs make an appearance

2010-12-16T23:22:00.001-05:00

New post at AnnArbor.com, in which the chubby girl loses weight and takes her clothes off for the camera. Sadly, she doesn't know she can make money this way, and becomes a barista instead.

30 Before 30: A Whole Nude Me

Comments welcome on the article page, as always--A2.com might be inspired to pay me if I drive up traffic.

For the discerning lady this holiday season

2010-11-23T17:14:00.001-05:00

Burt's Bees Soap – I’ve always used a pretty stripped-down bar soap—Dial, Lever, whatever sample came in the mail, etc. In the winter, however, I switch from rougher soaps to body wash to avoid drying out. I was poking around looking for a midwinter replacement when I nonsensically splurged on a $4 of Burt’s Bees honey and jojoba. You guys, I can’t stop showering. It smells so delicious and makes my face so smooth, I feel like the Queen.

Stonyfield Mango Honey Yogurt – I think I hit it right this time: organic, no artificial colors or flavors, tastes like peaches and cream. Let’s hope the “limited time” warning stamped on the front proves untrue. Om nom nom.

Lindt 70% Dark Chocolate – Boo. Boo on you, Lindt, for changing your Intense Dark Chocolate recipe. The needless addition of soy lecithin to emulsify my already perfect chocolate has rendered it creamy and uneatable. If I wanted creamy chocolate, I’d get milk chocolate, as would any right-thinking human. Keep your milk fat out of my cocoa. I have to break up with you now, and test all new varieties of dark to find my perfect Emergency Chocolate. I hope you’re happy.

OPI Only Gold for Me Nail Polish – I ended up with two bottles of this after a kind customer recommended it. It really complements any color—dark burgundy or emerald green, especially—and when applied to the tips of polish toes can make even the sweat-shirted feel fancy.

Picnik – Well, paint me red. A free photo editing service that doesn’t require registration, and the effects are awesome. As a longstanding fan of free crap, I tip my hat. My black-and-white photo wall grown ever more interesting thanks to the tints feature, and I cannot resist tweaking this page as well.

The Big Bang Theory – Oh Sheldon Cooper, I could watch you for yours. The way you sneer at the willfully unintelligent, the way you explain everything to the minutest detail, compelled by obsessive compulsion. The way you are everything I would be if I hadn’t made friends.

Neo-Baconianism

2010-11-17T07:56:00.002-05:00

[Last night, watching a documentary on Stonehenge]

Me: Oh, my favorite part: the weird solstice-y people coming in to feel the stones and commune with Xenu.

Bacon: Which is dumb, since it's not all that pagan.

Me: Stones. Solstices. Beards. Pagan.

Bacon: It's a Neo-lithic structure. Built by Neo-lithic peoples.

Me: Po-mo pagan?

Bacon: Waaay before pagan. Pre-po pagan.

Narrator: "There's no telling how the stones actually got to Salisbury Plain..."

Bacon: Psssh. I bet they used kites.

Me: Like, 50,000 kites?

Bacon: One giant hoverkite.

Me: That they borrowed from the aliens in the pyramids:

"TCKCKC?" Can we borrow the hover kite?
"Luuuluuuu" For what?
"KKAAAKKK" A henge.
"Llllloooollua" Sure. It's in the shed.
"TCKTCK" Thanks. See you at the barbecue.

Bacon: There were no aliens in the pyramids. (pause) I bet it was the Atlantians.

Me: And how did they get all the way to England?

Bacon: The hoverkite! Geez, honey, keep up.

Me: Those pyramid aliens sure were nice neighbors. Wonder why archaeologists never unearthed a hoverkite.

Bacon: That's the kind of thing the pre-po pagans want to keep under wraps.

Sarah, meet meat. Meat, go find cake.

2010-09-20T17:18:00.000-04:00

New post at AnnArbor.com in which I try to become a carnivore again. Sadly, meat doesn't taste any more like Ho-Ho's than it used to.

Years Ago, or Maybe Yesterday

2010-09-09T18:54:00.008-04:00

So yesterday, there’s a $2 bill in the tip jar.

I didn’t think much of it; we’ve been getting a lot of them lately. One customer in particular tips us with the most obscure legal tender he can find (gold dollars a specialty), and I make a point of snaking the Susan B. Anthonys and centennial half-dollars for my private collection, along with the wheat pennies often weeded out of the tills as “some weird foreign money.” So, we’re used to it.

Customers, however, don’t see a $2 bill. They see a unicorn. A freakish anachronism caught by wondrous chance, like a coelacanth in a lobster cage. Every middle-aged woman, every sixth-grader, even an Asian couple point and exclaim in what must be the Mandarin for Thomas Jefferson. The staff, having seen money before, is nonplussed. Even I, who has been known to Snoopy-dance over a particularly lucky S-penny find, am completely over $2 bills. So when three girls no older than thirteen stop at the counter for their midday Frappucinos, I am not surprised that they marvel over the bill in the tip jar.

The first one, laden with little bags, is beyond excited. “Oh my god—can we look at your $2 bill?”

Since she asked, thereby saving herself from a tamping wound as most people who rudely mistake my tips for a take-a-penny will do, I nodded. She pulled it out and turned it over, exclaiming to her friend, “It’s a $2 bill!”

“I know,” the other girl boredly replies. “I have like, three at home.”

The girl is unswayed by this. She’s flipped it over to study the reverse design: the signing of the Declaration of Independence. “Oh, it’s got all the presidents on the back—that is so cool!”

Normally tweeners get right on my tits with their Twilight musings and spangled mini-purses, but I was tempted to go right on down into dorkout mode: Did you know the bill was originally printed in the fifties, discontinued, and reissued in the aughts (to lukewarm reception—but still!)? Did you know about the rivalry between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson? And for the love of god, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT PENNIES!

The girl sighed, and replaced the bill in the tip jar. As she handed me four wrinkled bills for her drink, I said, “You know, if you want to put two dollars in there, you can have the bill. Everything in there’s just going to the bank anyway.”

The girl’s head snapped up. She looked at me like I couldn’t possibly be serious, and when I blinked, all six of her bags hit the floor. She frantically turned out her pockets, digging for bills. She surfaced a handful of silver, dropped it on the tile and hunched over it, counting. Her friend rolled her eyes, sighed, and opened her tiny sparkly purse and handed her a dollar. The girl handed me the total, and I put it in the jar, leaving her free to pluck the treasure out herself. Her friends moved down to the handoff counter, where her drink had just popped up. The girl remained there, staring at the bill, and I turned back around to the coffee urns.

“Sarah! Hurry up!”

I turned around. The girl put the $2 in her pocket, and started to collect her bags when her generous friend came up to scold her. “Oh yeah, of course Sarah’s got a million bags, let’s all just wait for her,” the girl teased, picking two of them up for her. They moved down the line and I leaned over the counter after them, looking around the court for a hidden camera—or perhaps the TARDIS.

Of Balls and Baller

2010-08-25T12:38:00.000-04:00

New post up at AnnArbor.com: We all go to a ball game for Father's Day, and the Tigers lose. Still fun, though. I'm a third of the way through this series, and it feels like I have eons to go. Yeep!

30 Before 30: Play Ball!

Been busy

2010-08-17T19:03:00.000-04:00

I'm paid to write! Yay!

That means I have no time to write here! Boo!

On the upside, Episode 12 is up at Stuff with Things. If you can't read me, you can listen and remember how much free time I used to have.

Back sporadically!

30 Before 30: Guns, Gardens and Amateur Radio

2010-07-23T20:21:00.000-04:00

The latest article at AnnArbor.com: fighting the weeds, broadcasting myself, and I actually don't shoot my eye out.

Rap Recall Friday

2010-07-02T22:53:00.005-04:00

We’re back! Let’s jump right on in, shall we?

“Do This My Way” – Kid ‘N Play

The rhymes are pretty boilerplate, but even so it’s pretty catchy. Taking the bronze for most iconic hairdo of the 90s (behind Tina Turner and Don King), Chris “Kid” Reid is also famous for inventing the phrase “do this like Brutus” 23 years ago. That more than justifies my 11-year-old's crush, I think. Somewhat. Okay, barely.

Ah, black heels with black tights: sexy and dangerous in a totally opaque way. Especially contrasted with the blinding brightness of the KID N PLAY, like, maybe your group would have more street cred if it didn’t call to mind Tyco and Colecovision. All you needed to make a video in the 80s was a camera, an empty room and some neon furniture. Oh, and some trumpets, obviously.

Ahh, DJ Jazzy Jeff is behind the camera. That explains so much. Like why this looks like every Fresh Prince video ever (pre-Willennium).

NB: I may have done the Funky Charleston at a school dance. Also the MC Hammer. Sarah Smallwood: socially awkward yet more interesting than your girlfriend since 1991.

The Shoe Review: Must-Haves for a Michigan Summer

2010-06-30T18:12:00.003-04:00

Zingerman’s ceramic pour-over coffee filter – I recently became obsessed with the pour-over method of brewing when we started doing it at Starbucks. Comet uses them as well, and the fact that I could brew by-the-cup using only hot water (thereby tossing the ancient coffeemaker) put me in the market for a filter. After eschewing several crappy plastic filters, I selected the larger model available at Zingerman’s; it’s not their brand specifically, but it’s weighted nicely, has a strong handle and fits the width of my favorite coffee mugs. Bonus: If you’re not a fan of the paper filters, a reusable gold mesh cone fits perfectly inside.

Eucerin calming creme – The problem with taking a tumble on a run wasn’t the bleeding knees, road-rashed palms, or half-mile walk home. It wasn’t even the resulting embarrassment when I explain that actually, I don’t know what I tripped on, it was probably my own feet and yes, it’s amazing that it doesn’t happen more often, like, every time I leave the house. The real annoyance is that, while the sport-sized band-aids were great at covering my bleeding wounds, I was apparently allergic to the adhesive and sprouted rashes around said wounds, adding itchy insult to injury. A tube of hydrocortisone and several free samples of calming crème and everything save one knee is pretty much back to normal.

Tazo full leaf teas – Nothing sucks worse than a summer cold. (Except maybe treating a summer cold while still walking like a robot because you tripped on a tree root, which was probably just a rock or very likely your own foot, shut up, because it’s hard to get proper rest when you have to sleep knees-up-no-covers. I’m an athlete!) If it’s 80 degrees out and you’re congested, the Refresh and Calm full-leaf teas are absolutely the best thing for you. Note: if you just can’t take hot tea in the summer, the minty Refresh is great iced—but you won’t be able to taste or even feel your tongue for hours. Do with that what you will.

Café Zola – It’s a bit on the pricey side, but the Hediye’s breakfast at Zola is the perfect weekend treat: scrambled eggs with onions, garlic, mushrooms and asparagus served on a toasted bagel and topped with havarti cheese. Add a free-poured double soy latte and I’m in high-maintenance heaven.

Google Calendar – I’m probably the last person on earth to realize the awesomeness that is Google Calendar, but did you know that you can shortcut webpages on your iPhone? Add the GC button to your home screen, and BOOM—instant sync. No more late deadlines, wondering what’s happening this weekend, or when the hell my anniversary is.

Jillian Michaels DVDs – Domestic happiness is great. It is. It’s awesome, and I have no complaints… other than, y’know, happiness makes you content. And contentedness makes you lazy. Laziness? Makes you fat. Thanks to Action Jackie, I have been beaten in every muscle by Jillian Michaels, whose circuit training is no joke. Suck on it, dinners at Madras Masala.

Madras Masala – Aw, hell. Their chicken tikka masala, house fish curry, and resplendent, full-table vegetarian thali, Lord-and-Jillian help me, are all to die for.

Yoplait Greek Yogurt – Cheaper than Fage by half, Yoplait’s Greek versions are about 100 calories with 13g of protein. A great-tasting way not to faint in the summer sun. One note: it needs to come in more than three flavors.

iPad launch = win for cheaper technology

2010-06-16T15:37:00.005-04:00

If you've met me, you know how I feel about the Kindle. Yes, I still love actual books, and I believe they can coexist. I am of the feeling that a proper ebook reader poses no threat to a technology that shares a birthday with dirt. However, I still do not own a Kindle, since it costs eight to twelve times as much as a book, does not make phone calls, and I can't eat it. Such a purchase isn't easy to rationalize--especially since it was only available via the magic of the internet.

So when I read that Target stores would start carrying the Kindle, I was excited indeed. The $259 price tag has not changed, sadly, but at least now I can pick one up and play with one--the main disadvantage of the supposed "king" of ereaders; it was only available online. Having picked up and played with both the Nook and the Sony Reader, I was less than impressed with either. The Sony Reader's menu and interface was difficult to navigate, and the page lag was annoying. The Nook's touchscreen menu, although quite fancy, is distracting and slow to respond (loading the internet took a coon's age as well).

I've also touched the iPad. It was a Mac.

While I won't have the chance to pick up and hold a Kobo until early July, the Kindle's wifi capability might put me over the edge. The Kobo costs $100 less because of the lack of internet capability, and while I support a more economical option for the book-only fan, my tendency to read blogs before bed on my iPhone is causing me at least $100 in retinal damage. An e-ink display would really just be an investment at this point.

Well, look at that. It was easy.

11:55

2010-06-10T10:11:00.002-04:00

In my dream we were covered in vines. They got tighter around us and I said I'd rather be with you, and we held hands as the rope grew tighter and you kissed my forehed.

Your hand is on my ear and the other on your chest, and I'm thinking about how your grandfather still had all his hair. And I shouldn't love that, make it mean more, like the time we ate crab sushi but neither of us could eat the head. My brain is playing at polka dots and lemon slices while I choose between cable and cat food.

So when we drop out of the tree and into the water, the vine lashed out, squirmed and kicked but eventually shivered and gave up. We swam to the surface and sat on our separate rocks, smiling, knowing we could hold our breath forever.

There is a fire in my soul since you turned off the TV.

2010-05-01T17:24:00.003-04:00

It’s May Day. This morning, President Obama gave a speech about a mile from my house. Starting tonight, there is a smoking ban in effect for all Ann Arbor businesses. All day at work, we played host to a charity gaming event, and last night it thunderstormed for the first time this year.

But we can’t talk about that, because we have to talk about my cat.

Lucy likes her independence, naps in the sunshine, and your tacit understanding that all chairs belong to her. She does not like to be held. She will tolerate it for short periods, but will eventually squirm free when you appear happy. The only toy she ever liked or played with more than twice is a laser pointer, which she chooses to believe does not originate from your hand, but is a mystical creature that appears to haunt her, Gazoo-like, at its whim. She will move faster than she ever has in her 15 years of life if The Dot circles a doorknob.

Lucy is the reason why, when people tell me they love cats, I ask if they have any. I never met these aberrations to the species—the ones that come when you call them, snuggle with you when you sleep, sit next to you on the sofa. If you think you have one of these cats, you may want to run a Goggle image search for “dog.” Cats are not mean; they’re merely indifferent. You can feed them, love them, kick them, hate them, take them, leave them, fall over dead in front of them; their expressions won’t change. Except, of course, when you do something they don’t like.

My cat, for all she is emotionally retarded, is at least well-behaved. She has never protested by doing anything outside her litter box that is meant to remain inside, most likely because she is no dummy and realizes our relationship is based less on love than a mutual understanding. This understanding consists of two parts: that I am a dog person who made a lifetime commitment to a cat, and that “life” and “time” is a negotiable compound word. So when she has an objection, she raises it much like a toddler.

Mrow.
Mroow.
Meeeew. Mrrrrrow.
Mrow. Mrow. Mrowr. Mrow. Mrow. […]

This is not a cute meow--this is the cat equivalent of a swan song. You’d think someone had taken her kittens, or perhaps her right paw, instead of, say, shut the door to her bedroom. Or turned off a light. Sat down on the couch. Made a sandwich. Rolled out the yoga mat. Used the word “pickles.” Farted. Answered the phone.

It’s the last that gets to me, because during the rare instances when she is dormant, my phone will ring and I will try to answer it quietly, like I am at the diabolical whim of a napping baby.

Mrow.
Me: “It’s not for you.”
Mom: “Is that Lucy?”
Me: “You’re not seriously--”
Mom: “Hi Lucy!”
MROW!

Remember, this is a cat that does not like people. She sees the humans in her house as invaders into her own personal fortress of solitude. And yet, the moment we all go to sleep, the second three doors close for the night, the most desolate, despondent MRRRROWW will bounce off the walls with the heart-wrenching certainty that nothing a cat ever loved will be put right again. It is a cry that has one setting: despair of a thousand weeping mothers, and it’s on eleven in my uncarpeted hallway.

It is here that I yank open the door and tell her what all mothers tell their whining children: kid, you have no reason to cry. How much better could her life be? Perhaps a slideshow of starving cats in Somalia would… have no effect whatsoever, other than making me calculate shipping costs. Pointing her head out the window at luckless strays? Apparently there are even a number of things indoor cats can still contract, despite being the most sheltered beings on the planet. Did you know that kitty Chlamydia is spread through the eyes? Now you do. And since you can’t un-know that, you will have dreams about your cat starring in the Lifetime movie version of A Cat Wastes Away because that one time she got outside she may have given the neighbor’s tomcat butterfly kisses.

Which, let me just say: fifteen. There are worse ways to go. Am I annoyed that the current method of feline silence involves more kibble, whipped cream, or a pat of butter? Sure, but I’m not angry. Given the number of things that could be eating / attacking my cat (through the eye, for chrissakes), I think a kitty coronary is one of the kinder ways to go. It’s hard to impose a diet on a being who can’t read, vote, work the clicker, or type. I know if I f I were illiterate, unemployed, six inches tall and 105 years old, death by butter would be an entirely reasonable ticket to Jesus. Hell, it seems like the only real option.

Ma-rrrraow!

Oh, hi. Are you awake? Is that what that means? Would you like to sit just six inches away from me and have me not touch you?

Mrow!

Wonderful.

The List

2010-04-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

New post at Ann Arbor.com: Sarah is getting ahead of the Old Train. Better than in front of it, anyway.

30 Before 30: The Saga Begins

It seems I'm writing everywhere but here. Sigh.

Tweeeet.

2010-04-02T09:49:00.001-04:00

50 hours.

How would one celebrate such an occasion? With a spankin' awesome vacation in Florida with one's Bacon. We'll be driving down all day, and staying in the Sunshine State for a whole week. If it starts raining/snowing in parts your way, feel free to follow along with us. There's always room in the virtual car!

http://twitter.com/SarahBeedoo

- Posted courtesy of Stephen D. iPhone.

Halfway

2010-03-18T20:49:00.002-04:00

Reason for my lack of web presence: 24 hours logged. That is equivalent to one back-breaking (or at least mind-melting) day of continuous labor. Which it wasn't, because I'm not dead. And if my math is right, I'm a little behind. Back soon...

Writing (Or, Shoot Me Now)

2010-03-04T20:13:00.002-05:00

I spent the entire day at this computer, hunched over, writing. Editing my novel is no longer a euphemism: my browser history is filled with maps of Boston, I am blind in one eye, I haven't showered and I still forced myself to leave the house for a seminar on the generational divide in the city of Ann Arbor. Because I am a warrior, but also because they had free wine.

If interested, here is the write up--it will be like you're actually there, but shorter and mildly funnier. I am going to wash my hair.

National Novel Editing Month Count: 4 hours.
Forty-six to go.

Rap Recall Friday

2010-02-19T17:58:00.002-05:00

One of those "sit back and enjoy" days. Not something you'd expect from rappers named Butterfly, Ladybug and Doodlebug, but hey, Eminem doesn't mean candy anymore.

Digable Planets - Rebirth of Slick (Cool like Dat)

I got nothin'. Catchy hook, thoughtful and easy lyrics--makes me yearn for the days before Beyonce made top-ten songs by repeating six words over and over. Rap used to be poetry, and the bugs did it pretty damn well. Lyrics below.

[Butterfly]
We like the breeze flow straight out of our lids
Them they got moved by these hard rock Brooklyn kids
Us flow a rush when the DJ's boomin classics
You dig the crew on the fattest hip hop records
He touch the kinks and sinks into the sounds
She frequents the fatter joints called undergrounds
Our funk zooms like you hit the Mary Jane
They flock to booms man boogie had to change
Who freaks the clips with mad amount percussion
Where kinky hair goes to unthought-of dimensions
Why's it so fly cause hip hop kept some drama
When Butterfly rocked his light blue-suede Pumas
What by the cut we push it off the corner
How was the buzz entire hip hop era?
Was fresh and fat since they started sayin audi
Cause funks made fat from right beneath my hoodie
The puba of the styles like miles and shit
Like sixties funky worms with waves and perms
Just sendin chunky rhythms right down ya block
We be to rap what key be to lock
But
I'm cool like dat [x7]
I'm cool...I'm cool...

[Ladybug]
We be the chocolates taps on my raps
innovates at the sweeta cat naps
He at the funk club with the vibrate
Them they be crazy down with the five plate
It can kick a plan then a crowd burst
Me I be diggin it with bump verse
Us we be freakin til dawn blinks an eye
He gives the strangest smile so I say hi (wassup)
Who understood yeah understood the plan
Him heard a beat and put it to his hands
What I just flip let borders get loose
How to consume or they'll be just like juice
If its the shit we'll lift it off the plastic
The babes'll go spastic
Hip hop gains a classic
Pimp playin shock it dont matter I'm fatter
Ax Butta how I zone (man Cleopatra Jones)
And
I'm chill like dat [x7]
I'm chill...I'm chill...

[All]
Blink..blink..blink..blink..blink..blink..blink....
Think..think..think..think..think..think..think...

[Doodlebug]
We get ya free cause the clips be fat boss
Them they're the jams and commence to goin off
She sweats the beat and ask me cause she puffed it
Me I got crew kids seven and a crescent
Us cause a buzz when the nickel bags are dealt
Him thats my man with the asteroid belt
They catch a fizz from the Mr. Doodle-big
He rocks a tee from the Crooklyn non-pigs
The rebirth of slick like my gangsta stroll
The lyrics just like loot come in stacks and rolls
You used to find a bug in a box with fade
Now he boogies up your stage plaits twist or braids

And
I'm peace like dat [x7]
I'm Peace

[Butterfly]
Check it out man I groove like dat
I'm smooth like dat
I jive like dat
I roll like dat

[Ladybug]
Yeah I'm thick like dat
I stack like dat
I'm down like dat
I'm black like dat

[Doodlebug]
Well yo I funk like dat
I'm fat like dat
I'm in like dat
Cause I swing like dat

[Butterfly]
We jazz like dat
We freak like dat
We zoom like dat
We out...we out

The best things in life are free. And nude.

2010-02-12T16:55:00.002-05:00

Please check out my slightly shmoopy Valentine's Day post on AnnArbor.com. While we don't agree with this whole hearts and cupids jazz, we sure are going to get jiggy in its name.

Recession Blues: Cheap Dates on Valentine's Day

[Note: If you have comments, please leave them on the site! I enjoy lively discussions about my whining, my opinions, and what my mother must think. Thank you for voting!]

Recession Blues: A Fabulous Birthday(s) on the Cheap

2010-02-08T17:28:00.002-05:00

For those who always took two from the free sample tray: latest post at AnnArbor.com, in which I take the Deuce for all its worth because I am old and it's still snowing and don't forget my f*&%ing senior discount!

Recession Blues: I am Cheap and I want Cake

Please do not judge too harshly. And please vote.

Rap Recall Friday

2010-02-05T18:06:00.002-05:00

Tonight, a Very Special video from the golden era when Janet and Michael were completely interchangeable.

“Alright” - Janet Jackson

You guys, it can only be a drinking game.

Intro is called out as a shameless ripoff of everything Fred Astaire did, ever, including that awful one about Faust – 1 drink

Street scene is called out as the same one used in Dick Tracy (1 drink), 227 (3 drinks), or that original series episode of Star Trek where Kirk and Spock are gangsters (2 drinks)

Someone names the Star Trek episode – 2 drinks and a DORK!

Janet’s choreography is less calculated dance move, more desperate need to pee – 1 drink

Janet’s bagel-innuendo sex face – social!

Improper use of bullet points, signage, spelling, grammar in general (including the song title) – 1 SIP per offense

Cyd Charisse still looks fucking good – a toast, drinking optional.

Janet does something morally upstanding, to show she’s for the kids – 1 drink

Janet does something mildly illegal, to show she’s a badass – 2 drinks

Any time you think, or even think of thinking, “wait, WHY, again?” 1 SIP.

Someone you know went to prom in a zoot suit – 1 drink

It was you – 3 drinks and a shot

You start singing “Escapade,” not realizing this is supposed to be a different song – 2 drinks

A begrudging “OK, that was kind of cool.” – 2 drinks

Someone confesses to doing that hanky dance in middle school – 1 drink

Janet “advances” the “plot” by “acting” – 1 drink and hearty laugh

Hidey-hidey-hidey ha joke – slap offender

“Is that the Roger Rabbit or the Running Man?” – 2 drinks

Guy on roller skates causes flashbacks to the “Bad” video – 1 drink

Cab Calloway trots off looking for Curious George – social!

You Auto Know

2010-01-27T22:46:00.003-05:00

New post up at AnnArbor.com, in which I know nothing about cars. Or automakers. Or automobile design. Let's go to Cobo!

Recession Blues: Penniless and Clueless at the Auto Show

Another $10 post is forthcoming, right after I do this ultra-pagan dance to appease the gods of summer, that they may lend me five degrees in exchange for a year of my life. Barring this, I may start a fire, hobo-like, in the nearest trashcan.

"Pick a card." [slap!]

2010-01-26T21:07:00.002-05:00

The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists
by Neil Strauss

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This was alternately funny, disgusting, and sad. The first by accident (Neil Strauss is a terrible writer, but two good jokes made it in to print), the second in how vapid and clueless men assume some women are, and the third in the level to which this lifestyle is assumed and followed. Mystery's quest to be loved and mentally stable, the time and effort spent laying women, and the importance placed on the roles and routines of The Game are pathetic bordering on tragic. I'm all for former Trekkies who are now getting laid nightly, but in most cases, they found their happiness when they got married, or found girlfriends who actually liked them--not just liked them well enough to sleep with them.

Strauss writes with a Dan Brown level of competency, mixed with a flair of tabloid journalism dramz and "dun-dun-DUUH" chapter endings thrown in. If you subtract the self-aggrandizing, the name dropping, the bromance and the Reformed Geek Finds Soul Mate happy ending, you get three very keen (and psychologically evident) points on human interaction:

1. Women want to have sex as much as men do--they just don't want to be perceived as sluts. By developing a rapport with a woman, you are getting to know each other enough that it is socially okay for her to have sex with you after only meeting you a few hours previously. You have both gotten off, had fun, and nobody has to feel guilty.

2. Women are like cats. Tease them, and they will bat at you. Ignore them, and they will come to you. Smother them and they will leave.

3. Women can read. If any of them see you trying any of these moves at the club, your ass is busted. And any women who is picked up by a magic trick was either driven there by an adult, or is looking past the magic trick to bed you out of pity. Seriously... magic? WTF?

Rap Recall Friday

2010-01-15T15:53:00.002-05:00

On first watching, I thought the video was much more progressive than it actually is, because I thought half the singers were trannies. Then I saw boobs and went, “Oh.”

“Let’s Talk About Sex” – Salt N Pepa

It’s a catchy song, mostly because it samples one of the awesomest songs of the seventies, The Staple Singers’ “I’ll Take You There.” For all they complain that nobody talks about sex… they don’t really talk much about sex. The one real verse talks about one girl with a hot body who gets a lot of play, but never any love—and while there’s not really any judgment on her, there’s also no details. It’s like a “controversial” broadcast of your high school’s student radio team: “Don’t be a ho. Have sex when you’re in love. Also, wrap it.” Shit, I learned more in “Push It,” which had only had two words and never worried about not being played on the radio.

Rap Recall Friday

2010-01-08T17:12:00.003-05:00

Another one of those songs I barely remember, but my sister very likely knows all the words.

"Regulate" - Warren G and Nate Dogg

As with most rap that actually stands the test of time, the video is pretty good. Slight Boyz in the Hood vibe, probably purposely, but we never see anyone get shot (for MTV-friendliness). The girls are even reasonably dressed, even if they are going straight to the Eastside Motel. That said, it's amazing at how fast we go from gang violence to picking up skirts in literally one verse. No digs; just put it on and nod yo' head in a un-whitiest way possible.

(Also, since the song was on the Above the Rim soundtrack, the video tie-in has lots of basketball and bonus Tupac sightings. 'PAAAAC!!)

Two things

2010-01-07T16:13:00.003-05:00

I'm planning to get back on the bandwagon tomorrow with another Rap Recall Friday, but until then, I offer a short piece on my dog Molly, who passed away last summer despite a valiant fight against a particularly conniving cancer.

The Long Say - Molly

Also, since that's depressing, here's me with Jasper Fforde.

That giant stack of books to the right are all my (signed!) copies of the Thursday Next books. He's a terribly clever and handsome man, his website is just as funny as his books, and he sounds like David Tennant. And I didn't lick him at all!

A Christmas Stollen

2009-12-26T15:54:00.003-05:00

When it comes time for holiday potlucks, I generally try to bring something simple. Not because I'm lazy, which I am, or because I hate to cook, which I do--but because if your dish is disliked, you haven't invested much in it. Also, it should be something you yourself like in case you end up taking the bulk of it home. Cook to please yourself, as Julia Child said. I also try to represent a vegetable of some sort, as the dishes in my large Polish family are underrepresented in the greens and fiber department, and overloaded in the potato and white flour area. It's not that it's not delicious; I want my relatives to live a long time, and those odds change dramatically if they never poop again.

This year, however, a strange confluence of events (leading theory: late-night coffee, holiday magazine reading and restless ovaries) led me to believe I could make a stollen. Not just any old stollen: Martha Stewart's mother's stollen. The German fruit bread that spawned an empire. Having never baked anything more complicated than boxed muffins, I took it in the spirit of "what could possibly go wrong?"

Well, plenty. Because Martha has an army of tech crews, and I have a kitchenette and a cat. Here are the implied directions Herr Stewart has curiously omitted.

1. Make dough by adding wet ingredients to dry.

Apparently, when measuring flour, you're not actually supposed to measure flour. I did not know this, because I like to read. Choosing not to print the special little secrets that only those die-hard bakers are aware of deepens the rift between chefs and the Proletariat, and will be the reason so many white coats will be up against the wall when the revolution comes. Until that time, comrades, never pack the flour into the cup. Your bread will be too dry.

2. Add yeast, turn onto floured surface, and begin kneading.

You won't want to do this, because yeast smells like a foot. If you add it to warm water and add a pinch of sugar, you will get swamp paste. If you wait four minutes, it will smell like beer. This is when you should plop it in. When you shlomp the dough onto your floured surface, keep the flour handy, as the seven cups of fruit you're about to add will have a good deal of squish to combat. Whilst flouring said surface, this is about the time any normal American housecat will wonder what in heaven's name you're up to. They communicate this question by sticking their little cat feet in your flour and meowing, like, how dare you use one of my many flat surfaces for your weird food games. I scanned the instructions for a cunning device to dissuade uppity cats, but Martha had no suggestions. Improvisation being key in all cooking, I poofed flour at the cat until she took off. You may use that, if you want.

3. Add fruit and nuts. Knead until smooth, about ten minutes.

The dough will not be smooth. Ever. Also, ten minutes? Am I Popeye? No wonder my grandmother bought a bread machine; chronic masturbators don't have a baker's forearms. And a word on kneading: it's one of those verbs you don't much think about until you have to do it. In theory, I could knead--in theory, I could weld. It's not until you've got a bucket under a cow that you actually think critically about the verb "to milk." There's always that moment of chin-scratching, of harking back to a forgotten segment of Sesame Street or History channel to fill in the esoteric Jeopardy! gap. In my case, I remembered my grandmother, and pulled deep from my old-world roots. That lump of glue had the weight of generations beaten into it, even if those generations were only 140 pounds and had to take a running leap.

4. Let rise.

And rise, and rise. Basically, make the dough yesterday.

5. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes.

As long as you've got the time machine out, go back to your birth. Stand behind your baby self, wait until it's quiet, and yell "Boo!" This will instill a handy paranoia for later years that will cause you to time any baking endeavor at least 10 minutes earlier than is called for. The therapy and probable early death are totally worth it.

6. Enjoy.

Eat. Serve. Impress the crap out of your in-laws. Be terribly, terribly smug.

And bring back the podcast, you prudes!

2009-12-08T15:59:00.001-05:00

My Booky Wook
by Russell Brand

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I realized I just gave 5 stars to a stand-up comedian's autobiography. And I don't regret it--I really enjoyed it. I read autobiographies about as much as I watch reality television, so the frank (and often shocking) descriptions of addiction and depression are probably rote to most readers. This would be an ordinary tell-all about the indulgences and regrets of fame but for Russell Brand's singular sense of humor: bitingly observant, incisively intelligent and with a finger and toe in every pop-cultural pie, the dialogue reads like a conversation with your fey-but-impossibly-cool older brother. I'm not going to be able to watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall without wanting to give him, in his own words, "a bit of a cuddle."

View all my reviews >>

Yeah, I said tap shoes. You wanna rumble?

2009-12-08T15:35:00.002-05:00

New post is up on AnnArbor.com, wherein I discuss Action Jackie's brilliant plan of ushering in the new year a month early (and do very little to dispel rumors that we are hetero life partners).

Happy New Year 2009.9

Celebrity Slighting

2009-12-07T22:50:00.001-05:00

This evening, I sat in Amer's on State, sharing a sandwich with my sweetheart and watching people go by. Suddenly, one of the students next to us leaps up and screams.

"Oh my god! Can you watch my stuff?!" she asks, getting to her feet.

"Sure," I say. The way she leapt from her chair, I sensed an emergency: a friend's mother was in the hospital, she remembered she left her purse in the bookstore bathroom, or some hidden part of her was on fire.

"That was Anne Heche! She just walked by the window!" And with that, this slight young girl in a retainer ran out the door and gave chase. To Anne Heche.

Well, okay. Celebrity does strange things to us all. I remember taking $40 I didn't have out of an ATM to get a closer look at Clive Owen, and looking directly over the top of Natalie Portman's head as she ordered a post-workout crepe. Bur of all the celebrities to chase down in on a 30 degree Monday night in Ann Arbor, Anne Heche wouldn't make the Top 20. Hell, she wouldn't make the Top 200, and I saw Volcano in the theatre.

Because, really, what would I say to a person who married a dude named Laffoon and dated Steve Martin?

"Hey. So, that whole thing about you speaking in tongues and getting messages from Xenu and shit... was that for real, or were you not sure how to tell Ellen you were having sausage cravings?"

It's just as well I missed her. When Keira Knightley comes to town and I force six Zingerman's reubens on her just so she can cast a fucking shadow, I'll be glad I saved the bail money.

- Posted courtesy of Stephen D. iPhone.

Lately

2009-11-29T19:48:00.001-05:00

I suppose the title counts as a pun. Which was not originally intended, but sitting here on the fourth week waiting for Aunt Flo, hoping my insurance info comes in the mail tomorrow, hitting refresh every five minutes to see if my refund from the mouthbreathing, bankers-hours having technotards at Bally Total Assholes has been processed, I can hardly deny I feel as if everything has been postponed.

The obvious segue here is that my writing has also gone away of late, both from print and imagination. In between quitting and starting jobs, making deadlines, and working retail during the Christmas season, I've only had energy enough to sleep, shower, and eat badly. The sugar and holidays have got me on my way to a lovely stress-induced Freshman Forty.

And here is where I say it. That raison d'être of all online diaries: no more. This far, no farther. And what a wonderful thing it is to get one thing done ahead of time, to have control over something. The ability to get back on your feet, get centered, and get the fuck out of the Voortman's aisle. Plans are afoot; lists have been made. We can't stop the waiting, but we sure can fill the time.

Here's to filling the rest of 2009 so that we never have to wait again.

- Posted care of Stephen D. iPhone.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-11-20T09:46:00.002-05:00

Oh yes yes, ya'll. And you don't stop.

Poison - Bel Biv Devoe

Never trust a big butt and a smile. So true.

I love the vibrant colors of 90s videos. It's a treat for the eyes and the ears. Speaking of the eyes, the girl in the lavender dress with the ankle boots could be lead serve on the US volleyball team. Not that she doesn't have a slammin' body, but her calves are like two twine-wrapped hams. Video contains mandatory party scene and game of three-on-three (where someone sitting on a backstop makes me immediately think of Dick in a Box). And does anyone else detect a hint of Kid n' Play in the choreography? And, now that I think of it, did Kid n' Play ever have any actual songs?

Celebrity Encounters: A Guide to Keeping Your Cool

2009-11-04T16:20:00.000-05:00

It’s not everyday you go to work and find yourself face-to-face with Robin Williams. Especially if you live in southeastern Michigan, are gearing up for the Christmas rush and have nothing more remarkable to look forward to than sitting on the couches at Pottery Barn on your lunch break. And yet, standing in front of you, requesting a doppio espresso, is Mork.

To say the least, you’d be a bit flustered. You might drop things. You might utter a nonsensical paragraph on how much you loved Good Will Hunting. After all, this is not LA.

Or is it? With Hilary Swank shopping the farmer’s market, George Clooney on set at Detroit Metro, and upcoming the Rob Reiner film Flipped filming in Saline, Hollywood is pouring into Michigan. We seem to be inundated by celebrities—which is all very well and awesome until we’re face-to-face with them on a midnight run to Meijer wearing jammies. If this should happen, don’t panic! Here are a few tips on playing it cool:

1. The Approach. Approaching a celebrity is tricky. You know it happens to them hundreds of times a day, and most of them are gracious about it—but there’s always the risk that they’ll refuse you. Quick way to up the odds: If you run into a celebrity in a place of business, the best time to ask for a photo or autograph is as they’re leaving. This way, you’re acknowledging that they’re busy and won’t hold them up. However, you still have to ask…

2. The Request. Speaking to a celebrity is even trickier. First impulses are to gush uncontrollably, spouting praise and losing all track of time while the celebrity’s eyebrows creep closer and closer into her hairline. This is natural, but avoidable. If you can control what comes out, try to keep it short and genial. A smile and an “Excuse me, but do you have the time for…?” is polite, charming, and hard to resist.

3. The Result. Usually, you’ll get what you want. It’s easier than refusing, and takes less time. Say thank you, and move away with a smile. Resist the urge to offer some sort of follow up, such as a phone number, your Twitter, or your first born. Also, don’t get on their case if they do something you don’t like. So they didn’t tip the barista; neither did 50 other nameless people. Unless you’re putting everyone under the microscope, let it go.

Now, let’s suppose the celebrity is incredibly attractive. A sex symbol, even. And that you are off the opposite (or similarly appreciative) sex. And that you have been caught entirely by surprise.

4. The Hard Part. If you are a customer service employee and are approached by a celebrity, try to keep calm. Treat them as you would any other customer, even if they are tall, British, and have swarthy, graying temples. Smile and get them through the line quickly, purposely not calling attention to them. When other customers have gone, find a pillar to stand behind to commiserate with your coworkers about how attractive/tall said famous person is. Find it hard to concentrate. Giggle. Resist, resist, RESIST texting all your friends to tell them you’re staring at six feet of handsome. Fantasize about hading him another latte. Spend next hour heavily embellishing that story. Drop things. Feel huge swell of relief when Clive Owen leaves center court so you can do your job again.

Wonder when Angelina Jolie is going to drop by to demand an ice water.

[reprinted from AnnArbor.com]

Don't Panic

2009-10-21T13:42:00.003-04:00

When you undergo a job change, you're immediately over the platitudes. You don't really have an ear for the "I'm sorry"s or "that sucks"es and "something'll come up"s--or even, in my case, the well-intentioned "good for you." I'm not thinking about the future. I'm thinking about rent.

Chaos makes us planner-types itchy. After five minutes of sitting flat-palmed and perfectly still at my desk, I made lists. I filled out copious applications, called previous employers, and generally dealt with the fallout of the first irresponsible decision I've ever made. It's amazing how fast your priorities change. Wednesday I wanted a wraparound porch; Friday I wanted clean hair.

But, good for me. Good that I decided to walk out on an employer because his behavior was intolerable, and good that I learned what is and is not acceptable in both my daily and working life. Bad that I have no money, bad that I had no backup plan, bad that I just found a winter coat I want and my proposed paycheck leaves me exactly $10 post-bills. But good for me, that I have people who love me who won't see me starve. Good that I found a job that will allow me to keep sleeping indoors--one that I actually enjoy. Good that I have a chance to reflect. And ass-gropingly awesome that I no longer have a boatload of office-induced stress about which I could not give less of a shit.

Here I go. Good for me.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-10-09T13:19:00.003-04:00

Another virtual time travel song, one that from the first notes will transport you instantly to a particular time and place. Mine is the freshman dance, the one Tiff made me go to, when I would rather have stayed home doing my Enterprise jigsaw puzzle. I reluctantly slapped on jeans and a men's dress shirt and had as much fun as I expected until my soon-to-be first boyfriend showed up. I remember he hated this song, HATED it, and walked out when they played it. I watched his white sweat socks go with stars in my eyes. Ahh, love.

Gangsta's Paradise - Coolio

It's not a bad song, really, but all the good is detracted instantly with the movie-tie in.

"Ok, here it is: Michelle Pfeiffer comes to an empty school, which is, like, Coolio's mafia den, for a gangster showdown!"

[blink]

"She's there to, like, reclaim the young, inner-city minds of America!"

[derisive laughter]

"What? She's tough! She's wearing leather!"

Supposed ex-military training aside, we can pretty much guess what the outcome would be--especially since the bluescreening makes it obvious that Mme. Pfeiffer and Mr. 'Lio were never in the same room at the same time. Acting to an empty chair (or a profoundly less frightening body double), Michelle uses her +12 Cloak of Stanislavsky to project her agent's image onto "Coolio" right from the get-go.

Also, I'm a huge fan of the Weird Al spoof Amish Paradise, particularly for the genius casting of Florence Henderson in the Michelle Pfeiffer role. Mrs. Brady or not, an old Amish lady throwing a chair is just awesome. (Not as awesome as the one I saw using the Dyson turbo-hand dryer in the bathroom of Union Station, but almost.)

The Dinogay Homoerotic Coloring Book

2009-10-07T16:21:00.004-04:00

Submitted for your pleasure: a Flickr set of actual pictures scanned from a seemingly-innocent children's coloring book, which was well worth the dollar spent.

Enjoy!

Rap Recall Friday

2009-09-25T12:21:00.004-04:00

I agonized--AGONIZED--over which of these videos to put up. They are so vastly different, each one could warrant its own post. In the end, I could not decide. It's a two-fer!

"I Wanna Sex You Up" - Color Me Badd

Ah, the days of the color-coded outfits. Did anyone ever look good in a purple blazer besides the Joker? They look like the Wiggles' horny evil twins. Actually, I get more sexual tension off the Wiggles (albeit for each other); the choreography for the line "sex you up" is relatively tame. I remember thinking that video was pretty progressive for its time until I realized the black person with braids was actually a man.

I forgot that "crew cut and round glasses" was a common look in the nineties. I wish I could have kept forgetting it. It somehow looked fine on black people (Wesley Snipes, Dwayne Wayne), but as is so often with gangsta fashion, it makes white guys look like douches. Exhibit A: the lead singer, who has compounded said douchiness with an Arsenio-stache. Not cool.

The other half of the band is just as big a question mark. It's not like they want to sex these women up as much as they want to keep singing about it. UnGeorge Michael will only make out as long as a woman's touch does not disturb the perfect helmet of his coif. Kenny G either needs a sandwich or a smaller size. Also, he is terrified that the lady in the elevator is going to rape him.

And, holy shit--is that Traci Lords?

As far as the uniforms go, I prefer the "away" version; they've gone with a little less Color in favor of a little more Badd. The choreography is still very much alive in the form of airplane arms and, quizically, stage-humping. Supposedly they saw the video and were concerned that people wouldn't "get" just how Up they wanted to Sex You. Pretty up, as it turns out. Even the lead singer looks a modicum less gay, but he still doesn't know what to do with his hands. The black dude has remembered that he is both black and a dude, rapping like he means it while making it clear he can't get far enough away from the rest of the band. Kenny has not taken my sandwich advice, but is adamantly pelvic thrusting his way into the hearts of the middle-aged women in the audience. Poor UnGeorge's hair, meanwhile, has taken on Prince Valiant proportions.

The winner: Arsenio. Damn, but he was dreamy.

Book Review: On The Edge

2009-09-22T09:39:00.004-04:00

On The Edge
by Richard Hammond

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I've been a huge fan of Top Gear for ages, but it surprised me to learn that Richard Hammond had been in a life-threatening crash during the 2006 season. The book gives a decent background on Hammond, but mainly chronicles the events of the crash and the aftermath--how he and his family deals with a traumatic brain injury.

There's something about a near-death experience, a tale of personal grievance where you think the protagonist might not make it, that shows you and how bloody raw and difficult life can be--even when you haven't crashed a jet-fueled car going 300 miles an hour. The trouble is, Hammond's not that fantastic a writer. He's all right, just a touch boring at times. Luckily, his wife Mindy (with whom the book is co-written) is both sweet and engaging, and keeps you going with how remarkably competent and terrified she was while going through it all. The books has remarkable recall and detail, and is a great read for anyone dealing with a traumatic brain injury, or anyone who is a sucker for coming-back-from-the-brink narratives.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-09-18T10:00:00.002-04:00

For every hit, there is a miss. And this is a hit you cannot miss.

"Rico Suave" - Gerardo

Let's play a drinking game!

Every time Gerardo opens his jacket to expose his shirtless chest - one sip

Whenever the bandana/gold hoop combo inspires a pirate joke - one drink

Crotch shot - two drinks

Whenever the crotch does a better job lip-synching than Gerardo - one drink

Shot of a gyrating woman goes on about 30 seconds too long - three drinks

Someone is doing the Running Man - Social!

Gerardo totally spits on himself and wipes it off while singing - down it!

Editor does not bother re-synching track during Spanish segment, causing Godzilla-style dubbing - one drink

Anyone in the video attempts acting - one sip

"He's dating Blair from The Facts of Life?" - Social!

Gerardo touches a woman and she could not care less - one drink

Gerardo takes his bandana off and becomes the dude from Tears for Fears - down it!

From Wikipedia:
[Gerardo] sometimes refers to himself as the "Latin Elvis" or the "Latin Frank Sinatra."

Well, somebody has to.

(For more hilarity, check out the lyrics.)

Interesting

2009-09-10T10:39:00.001-04:00

I usually don’t post about work, because nothing interesting usually happens. Today was unusual.

One of the staff is leaving and needs to clean out his office. Because we’re a green workplace, all of the paper is disposed of via giant blue recycling bins. These lock at the top to protect confidential information, and are indeed comically stamped with CONFIDENTIAL along the side like the card sleeve in Clue. If you want one of these, you wander down a long hallway to where they are parked—parked, for they are large—test which is the least full, and drag it to your department. If no bins are available, you call housekeeping.

No bins. I call housekeeping.

The deliverymen leave at 2:00. I look at the clock: 2:18. The dispatcher promises me she will page them first thing in the morning.

This morning. I arrive, and no bin. I wait, patiently, in case nobody gets in as early I do. You might say I was giving them a chance to fulfill their duties before writing a long-winded blog post about workplace incompetence. At least, you might say that now.

Eight thirty. No bin. On my way back from the bathroom I spy a bin parked at the end of the hallway. It’s half-full, but I nab it anyway, knowing my administrator will be happy to have any means to whittle down the teeming ziggurat in his office. Also, when they arrive with the empty one, I will be able to exchange hostages.

Eight forty-one. Our Maintenance man has arrived—not with an empty bin, but with security. I feel a slight panic as the receptionist points them my way; I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong to remind myself that I actually haven’t. The security guard, looking extremely put-upon, explains the situation: Maintenance man was going about his morning rounds and abandoned his bin, and some deviant Frank Abagnale-type had come along and stolen confidential information.

I confessed fairly easily; it was pointless to deny that I had taken a recycling bin when I, eight hours previously, had asked for a recycling bin. I explained that it had not yet been delivered, and it was my understanding that any bins at the end of the hall were free for the taking. Apparently this policy had changed. With scowls.

Upon reclamation of his bin, I politely reminded Maintenance man about my request. He sighed heavily and walked out with the security guard. Thinking he needed some time to walk off the slight, I gave him an hour before calling housekeeping. The dispatcher, a sweet lady, regretted that I had needed to call again, and said she would page him immediately. I thanked her. As I hung up, I deduced that “he” referred to the same tall, surly fellow I had irked by “stealing” his bin, and the chances of his personally delivering me an empty one were slim indeed. I would wait it out.

One thirty. Binless. Housekeeping.

The nice dispatcher knew me by now, and apologized. My tone was cheerful; I wasn’t angry—at her, or anyone. I just wanted to know how difficult it really had to be to throw paper away; it was only my guilty nature that stopped me from heaving the mountain of paper into a totally available trash bin. I asked the dispatcher if I might be able to come down and grab a bin myself and cart it upstairs. She puts me on hold, runs down the hall to check for empty bins. When she returns, she tells me there are two in the basement, and they’re all mine, and she’s sorry I have to get them myself. I say no problem, happy to have everything sorted. I wander down to the basement.

Nice dispatcher has neglected to mention that these two bins have been stacked inside one another. Two one hundred gallon bins, with wheels on the bottom and steel clasps on their four-foot lids have been stacked inside one another. I would need to be two full feet taller to prise them apart—or in fact, have stacked them this way in the first place. Interesting. And petty.

Here’s where I get annoyed.

I consider my options. I can take both bins: easiest for me, but keeps all other departments’ desire to recycle firmly in the realm of dreams. I could find some way to break them apart. I could say bugger it and spend the rest of the day on You Tube. I could take a job at Sea World. I could throw seventeen dictionaries in the bin to assuage my anger at standing in a cold basement contemplating a job change all because I wanted to save some goddamn trees.

I’ve come this far. I’m taking one of those bins. I pull them to the floor, careful not to let the lids drop onto my foot; although a trip to employee health could land me some tasty workman’s comp, I would hate to create bad press for the green movement. I employ my usual method of breaking up things like stuck laundry baskets, wet cups, and fighting cats: kick them until they separate. They pull apart with a sudden, static-y shoof. It takes all of my 5’4” of strength to pull my behemoth upright. I slam the lid shut for no other reason than my own satisfaction and board the elevator, where I run into another member of Maintenance, who congratulates me on my hands-on initiative. I add a sexual harassment suit to my workman’s comp and buy a house in my head.

Once upstairs, I lock the unwieldy bin in an office, with a note reading “when finished, please page Maintenance for removal.”

Rap Recall Friday

2009-09-04T09:52:00.003-04:00

I can't believe this came so late in the game; forgive me for being remiss. This is a classic, so less of a critique--just pull back and enjoy.

"No Diggity" - Blackstreet

Really, does it even matter what the words are? That beat makes women take off their clothes, period. That said, here's the best bit verbiage for my money:

Curves the words, spins the verbs
Lovers it curves so freak what you heard
Rollin' with the phatness
You don't even know what the half is

The video is perfect: the right mix of ladies, singers, and clubbing. Even the Fly Girls are pretty hot; you wouldn't think dancing that involves knee pads could be considered hot, but the panther-crawling on the road? You go, Blackstreet.

Holy Jesus

2009-09-01T11:53:00.003-04:00

Eddie Izzard Runs 30 Marathons in 30 Days

I thought he was doing a relay for charity. No, he is actually running through all three British Isles, 26 miles a day, until he gets back home.If you watch in order, you can see how exhausted he is by the third installment. I feel like that after one marathon--I cannot imagine 30. Poor Eddie. I'm not sure if you can donate outside the UK, but I'm sending thoughts of ham sandwiches and a virtual happy-ending massage.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-08-28T13:50:00.004-04:00

Pushing the definition of "rap" to its straining seams, here comes a band that has a DJ and the word 'MC' in the title.

"Connected" - Stereo MCs

Video's pretty basic, which I appreciate. It could have gone all Bono with the anti-establishment theme, but in the end they just danced around and let the the song do its thing: You want the message, it's there; take it or leave it. A rare instance where the video complements the lyrics by paying homage to the message without being literal--a movement of such nuance and subtlety that they must have had to swallow violently when they took up mixing for the music industry's biggest attention whore.

I don't know why I never realized they were British; the fact that they sound just like Oasis should have clued me in. And doesn't that lead singer fit the mold for every toothless meth addict on HBO ever? I pictured him vaguely as a skinny, clean-cut black guy--or if he was white, something a little more Uncle Kracker or Fred Durst-y--not the weird guy coughing outside of Starbucks holding a dirty venti cup.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-08-21T10:32:00.004-04:00

Comin' atcha from 1991: a boxing-themed song about how a rapper will fuck you up without any boxing at all, which, unsurprisingly, is a hell of a lot better than a song about how Mike Tyson beat a rapper's 103-pound ass.

"Mama said knock you out" - LL Cool J

Mmm. Mmmmm.

Okay, the song:

The song itself isn't genius, but it's good for lifting or running, although LL is a contender for creepiest hip-hop "crying baby" loop, which he wins on account of Aaliyah's* being much less intrusive. The lyrics fall apart a little on the third verse--I always appreciate how rappers can mention gats and God in the same line without blinking--but he pulls it out with shots of his abs. The end totally makes it--LL Cool J can try to be tough, but women love his sense of humor (and he knows it), and he pulls it off in a much less doofy, Ritalin-deprived way than Will Smith. He's a lover, not a fighter.

Bonus Jam: "Going back to Cali" - a better video overall, this song purely showcases the Smooth Factor that made LL a household name (and that makes Old Spice sell like pancakes with maple-heroin syrup) and that he seems to be railing against in MSKYO. I venture to say that any woman would take both sides of him, plus whatever's in between.

* That video is worth it for the shit-tastic 3-fer of gross literal interpretation (a hawk? really?), tired choreography, and hamfisted movie-tie in, doubly terrible because the movie is Dr. Doolittle.

Cancer lets the terrorists win.

2009-08-17T08:08:00.003-04:00

As most of you already know, my dog Molly was put to sleep on Friday. She was diagnosed with cancer last year, lost a leg, and had one more great year before the pernicious bastard came back for her insides. She was ten, and I loved her like I never loved anything in my life.

There will of course be a piece written about this, but not yet.

Everyone has been incredibly wonderful to me the past couple of days; huge ups to Libby Smallwood for Steel Magnolias-ing it with me at the vet's office, and Action Jackie not checking up on me, at all, repeatedly. And to all the rest of you, who knew Molly only through me or online, for telling me all the ways cancer can eat a bag of dicks, in so many words--actually, not "so many" words: yours. And I loved every one of them.

Thanks, you guys.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-08-14T09:52:00.003-04:00

You will never get this out of your head. Ever.

"Informer" - Snow

Something about the arrangement of the words "Canadian reggae musician" made me spit out my coffee. Seriously, how many people at the recording studio were wearing their Bad Idea jeans the day this got greenlit? I am neither Canadian nor a reggae musician, and even I knew it was going to be shite. Canadian shite, too, so only worth 75% of American shite. Shite that doesn't work in vending machines. Shite whose bacon looks a lot like ham.

The album, by the way, was called 12 Inches of Snow. So, take that with you.

The video is pretty standard for the day, though the bootycount is greater than or equal to Sir-Mix-a-Lot. Also, par for the dork course, I may have owned that shirt--what is it with the 90s and curlicues? (mine had Looney Toons on the pocket, though, which... is an improvement). I love how they put a real live black dude at the end, for cred. I wonder if Snow had been born in the US, he could have been the first Eminem.*

*Ha! No I don't.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-08-07T10:12:00.002-04:00

Before you skeptically Google, yes, this was the nineties. Specifically, the year I graduated high school (in the spirit of which, can I add that I still can't believe my best friend took his blonde android girlfriend to this concert instead of me? Because, really, they don't even make karma for that kind of bullshit).*

"Intergalactic" - The Beastie Boys

It's hard to know which Beastie Boys song to include here. I almost posted Sabotage, also a classic and proof that the Boys never miss an opportunity to slap a fake mustache on someone, but in the end I went with the one with the higher word count, since that would make it more "rap recall" and not "awesome mixing recall." Also, it has a Spock reference, which is long documented as the quickest way into my ~~pants~~ heart. Special features include the robot doing the robot, one-camera choreography copied by everyone everywhere after this video was made, and the most entertaining men-in-monster-suit fight this side of Doctor Who.

* My love carries on, however (for the band; ex-BF is of course dead to me); with the lyrics "I am the King of Boggle / there is none higher / I got 11 points off the word quagmire," the Beastie Boys are in line for their own Shiksa post. I mean, rap and Boggle? Kvelling over here.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-07-31T11:11:00.002-04:00

"OPP" - Naughty by Nature

I'm ashamed to admit I had no idea what this song was about before I read the lyrics. I was content enough to shout the chorus without knowing it was about man-stealing and homewrecking. Not that that matters; it's still awesome. There's no original video on YouTube, which is fine, because the live version (on Arsenio, natch) sounds pretty much the same as the original, and any digs I have on the fashion can be directed at the pillow-pantsed victims in the audience.

The performance is pretty awesome as well; I especially love the creep-walk and miming moves (it's like I'm really there!) and the look on the one guy's face when his partner gets a little too close to his junk, and gives him a little kick to dispel the homophobia [2:55].

From Wikipedia:
They gave the song a broader appeal by making the lyrics accessible to both male and female listeners, which is done by including male and female genitalia in the abbreviation “OPP”.

Naughty by Nature: marketing geniuses.

More Love for the Ace Deuce

2009-07-28T10:26:00.002-04:00

A few of my posts have gone up on AnnArbor.com, the latest of which was featured in the the Sunday print edition. To everyone who voted for my story: Thank you. You have made my grandmother very proud.

You can read all of my posts by clicking on my (horrendous) photo. If you read me and liked it, vote! If you hate me, tell me so. I love hearing all the things I am welcome to do to myself.

Jelly Bellies (a Pop Song)

2009-07-27T11:32:00.002-04:00

Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep
Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep

want to work on blogging / computers, State street, Starbucks
must wait until words align, fit in pants, verbs make sense again
stupid jelly beans ugh stomach uggggh switching topics
Pandora's a dollar, can’t be bothered / office is quiet like the moon

ugggh, shift left / must keep brain moving, breathing, cycles
hope appointment goes well / hope I don’t barf on anyone
trying so hard to stay awake focus, focus
‘focus’ is hard to type, never noticed / can take a walk again soon

Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep
Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep

you’d think sugar and caffeine would superpowers combine
multitask with arms of Shiva / whirligig of gerund forms
but NOO you get super sick because apparently you’re ninety
can’t handle stimulants, fake yellow flavors, fun
well whatever / my insurance premium
is super low, so suck it, zygotes

Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep
Writing something so my brain doesn’t fall asleep

Rap Recall Friday

2009-07-24T10:36:00.003-04:00

"Gonna Make You Sweat" (Everybody Dance Now) - C&C Music Factory

This song is featured on every dance mix advertised on Logo; I'm pretty sure it's contracted somewhere. Costuming is as confusing as ever for the period,* the turtleneck and blazer on the lead singer is particularly worrying; he looks like BD Wong's character from Father of the Bride part II.

Silliness aside, this is still an awesome dance hit and it's totally, unashamedly on my iPod. The video is fairly standard, like three and a half minutes of the In Living Color Fly Girls with some "meet the band" cut-scenes. I'm glad they moved away (somewhat) from the literal "Factory" theme present in "Things That Make You Go Hmm" (which is worth checking out for as long as you can stand it; cheesetastic, but the dance moves are pretty fly).

* Yes, I referred to the 1990s as a period. I hate me, too.

Big Pimpin'

2009-07-16T10:42:00.003-04:00

So the sad news first: as I'm sure you locals have already heard, the Ann Arbor News will be closing this month.

The awesome upshot: this Monday, its replacement AnnArbor.com will go live, and blogging for the Downtown section will be yours truly. The new site will have more of a Facebook feel (an "online community" platform) and feature regular reporting as well as locals, experts, and the just plain opinionated. Any and all are welcome to comment and debate / discussion is highly encouraged. New offices are on Liberty across from Herb David--drop by and check them out.

[Note: I am featured at the end of the contributor video, hair plastered down and jibbering like an idiot. Come for the news, stay for the schadenfreude.]

Rap Recall Friday

2009-07-10T08:28:00.002-04:00

Time for another blast from the past, courtesy of that decade of flat tops, Dwayne Wayne glasses and baggy sweaters. Today's installment is a rare one from the ladies, sadly underrepresented in the 90s rap scene. Hit it!

"Move This" - Technotronic

Video Highlights:
1) Incongruous shots of models tossing their hair back, flexing pecs and pulling on pants

2) the lead singer's awesome WTF? response to the strange Bobby Brown lookalike dancing in red racing-striped spandex; seriously, it's like her prom date busted into Ross and Monica's routine on the dance floor and she steps back with the perfect, "this is embarrasing, but we have to hit the buffet together later, so..."

3) Splashed neon paint! Oh, who didn't go into Topkapi looking for the latest NKOTB t-shirt, silk-screened headshots of the band looking tough-but-soulful amongst splats and drips of neon puff paint? Everybody who was anybody, that's who.*

* If you saved enough allowance, you could get the matching New Kids painter's hat with the bright pink handprint on the top, which you would accidentally leave in the backyard and cry when it got ruined in the rain, and you'd only get over it when your sister took you back to the mall for those little gold peace sign earrings. And by "you," I totally mean "me."

That's What She Said: Again, Some More

2009-07-08T13:43:00.003-04:00

At the bike repair shop:
"Just slather on a bunch of lube and go to town on it."
"They've got a few more years in 'em if you keep 'em pumped tight."

Hanging some curtains:
"Oh, it's too long! It hits the top of the bed."

While writing this entry:
"I'd be happy to freeze that real hard for you."

Whilst attempting an, ahem, illegal entry:
Sooz: I can't get through.
Me: Yes you can. You can't fit through there?
Libby: That's what she said.
Me: Shut up, Libby. See? Through there?
Sooz: There's no way through; it's too small.
Libby: That's what--
Me: Shut it. Look, go through the turnaround.
Sooz: It's a one-way, look: Do not enter.
Me: 'Do not enter,' my ass.
[pause]
Libby: HAAAHAHA!!
Sooz: Oh my God.
Me: Yeah, I immediately regretted that one.

Martha's Ad Fail: Newman's No(wn)

2009-07-06T12:56:00.005-04:00

I don't know whose lame-brained idea this was, but it offends my senses. Not good in an ad about food.

Really, Newman's puppeteers? The economic stimulus was the best you can do? How about "we know you have no money, so eating our dressing is an easy donation to charity!" or "feeling the pinch? Support your local farmer's market, where lettuce is $2 a bag!" No, better to imply that economizing is for wusses and give a yummy, buttermilky middle finger to those "others" who would "suggest" cutting back. That's the same as salad dressing. Totally. I can't wait for the next issue: "Michael Jackson could have lived years longer with new fat-free Italian!"

Poor Paul. He doesn't deserve lame but-oh-so-timely advertising featuring indecent virtual-onion penetration by salad dressing that borders on the pornographic--he just wanted to make decent organic spaghetti sauce and delicious un-Oreos that get stuck in your teeth after you eat the whole crinkley package. Oh, and you know, send a billion dollars to the kids.

I can only assume whichever Newman inherited the business 1) didn't green light this ad or 2) didn't give a shit, quite rightly knowing the philanthropic food venture will continue to coast along on a delicious NewmanOs wave for years to come.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-06-26T08:57:00.004-04:00

When he was ten, my brother was a ridiculous Michael Jackson fan. He had the Bad album on vinyl, got a black fedora for Christmas, and gave nightly choreographed performances. He owned Moonwalker--and watched it. So although there's less than twenty seconds of actual 'rap' in this song, it's the most fitting tribute to the hot mess that was the youngest member of a huge, sad, batshit family. His death is already being compared to JFK, but this time I feel it's an apt comparison for those who were born in the eighties: whatever you though of MJ, you had to think of him.

"Black or White" - Michael Jackson

RIP, Michael Jackson. The world reels from the loss of your particular brand of crazy.

[I'm not going to rip the video. Just watch and enjoy.]

Top of the Shark

2009-06-25T09:12:00.005-04:00

I had been home from work for fifteen minutes when I decided to take a nap. If I was going out at 10:00 PM on a weeknight, there was no way I'd make it without one.

In a strange intersection of luck and city planning, the Ann Arbor Summer Festival would be screening Jaws at Top of the Park. This is my sister's favorite movie, and I had never seen it all the way through, so we made nebulous plans to go. As the day inched closer, we each made offhand comments, "Oh, it's a Wednesday..." "What time do you think we'll get home?" desperately hoping the other would want to cancel, so we could go back to our hermitly/spinster ways. So it was surprising that at 9:50, we grabbed the last parking space in the Deuce and rolled out a fleece blanket to watch Sherrif Brody bust a cap in a killer Great White for the sake of Amity Island.

It was, in a word, spectacular.

The blankets in front of us were full of children. I questioned this move--not because of the content (although I wasn't allowed to watch scary movies until I was over the age of thirteen, when any resulting therapy was arguably my own fault). My question was, why would they enjoy it? Why would seven-, ten- and twelve-year olds sit sweating on the concrete on a school night to watch a movie made before their parents were born?

My parents took us to the park, and to the field for races, on long car rides. Things, I realize, that didn't cost any money. I had come prepared with a twenty, and it remained unbroken in my bag, along with the snacks and drinks I had packed from home.

As I sat on the ground in front of the giant inflatable screen in front of Rackham, I realized the setting itself was just as much--if not more--of a draw: the refreshment tents stayed open throughout the showing, wisely stocking up on popcorn and much-needed frozen yogurt. The moon was reduced to a thin, glowing crescent before disappearing completely, and the high-rise construction on Huron looked beautiful with the exposed bulbs shining out through its skeleton.

The movie was an excuse for the real reason we were out here: to enjoy these ephemeral summer nights--something it seems we're incapable of doing without an excuse. By giving us a destination, we're granted the rare permission to enjoy ourselves.

These kids weren't watching a free movie on a closed off street--they were watching a big-ass shark bite the hell out of a titanium cage. And they were screaming about it. My flip-flops lay discarded at the end of the blanket, my sister slapped at mosquitoes; I jumped behind her when Jaws broke through the water at the back of the Orca. We were all here for the same reason.

We cheered when the shark exploded. We cheered at all the best jokes. And--the true mark of a engaged audience--we cheered at the credits.

When the movie was over, my sister and I helped each other off the warm pavement and stumbled to the car, as we did after watching fireworks on the city hall lawn twenty years ago. As we were waved through the crosswalk, I wondered if any of the small bobbing heads would need a nap tomorrow. I slapped a mosquito.

At least they didn't have to drive.

Don't Buy Me a Kindle: The eReader Debacle

2009-06-24T11:49:00.008-04:00

I've been doing some digging in the eReader department ever since the release of Kindle 2. I've spoken about my love and desire of all things Kindley, but an open mind and critical review were warranted--especially since they frontrunners all sport $350 price tags. The most promising competition is the Sony Reader,* with the big differences being 1) Kindle's wireless delivery and 2) Sony's expandable memory / removable battery. As is so often the case, the race has inevitably split into a two-headed dichotomy: Sox and Yankees, Republican and Democrat, and--in this case--Mac and PC, respectively. I won't run down a list of pros and cons--cnet has done that already, and I agree with their assessment of each--but having held both in my eager hands, pushed buttons, scrolled, and toggled, I can say with authority... they're about the same.

Yes, I realize I've lived in Camp Kindle for the last six months. I realize I took it very personally when Amazon released the Kindle DX--the larger, faster version for hipper, wealthier consumers. The DX appealed to me on exactly two levels: the screen size, and the automatic rotation. That's it. Still no color--which I personally don't really mind--but I appreciated seeing more text per "page" than in the standard version.

Here's the thing: the DX is being marketed as the "news" reader. Amazon has made deals with a number of floundering news companies for exclusive rights to their e-publications, so the New York Times can be delivered wirelessly to your Kindle every morning. It can natively support PDFs and the e-ink resolution is (supposedly) textbook-friendly, making it handy for students. Swanky. Tempting. And with the screen increased by 50%, the ability to read "above the fold" all in one glance makes the transition away from paper that much more attractive.

What bugs me is that the thought that went into the DX was skipped over for the original Kindle--and every e-book reader I've seen so far. Why is the screen so damn small? Six inches seems to be the standard for every reader across the board. Why, when making a one-page sized version of a book, would the engineers not make it... the size of a standard page?

Paperbacks range anywhere from 7-10 inches in diagonal--conservatively, why not settle for eight? The width of an e-book has been taken down to less than 2 centimeters--about the size of the Dover Thrift edition of Common Sense. Whatever advantage is lost in height (none, really) is made up by the slight and slender casing, making it more than compact enough for anything that would normally carry... well, a book.

You may say, "Well, Sarah, maybe the average reader isn't as blind as you are. The text size is adjustable. Suck it up." My retort would be that the text is adjustable, yes, but at a readable size you get ten to twelve lines of text per refreshed page. I'm a slow reader, but I'm not that slow. I hit the "next" button about every fifteen seconds--meaning the average (similarly-visioned) reader would by hitting it every seven. Also, a full-page viewing would give readers the opportunity to glance up at a previous paragraph whenever their minds wander (something I am guilty of constantly).

This is a pure matter of personal opinion. Perhaps you're happy with your Kindle 2 and have no eyestrain/repeptitive thumb injury to report. But no amount of research has answered the screen size question to my satisfaction. It's as if someone were trying to replace your sofa with a bean bag chair. Sure, it works, technically, but can't we do a bit better? Especially since the bean bag chair in question costs as much as the Wii? Alternately, imagine the outrage if you could only buy a Miata or a Range Rover, with nary a sensible sedan in between.

As the owner of a Chevy Cavalier, I'd like to know the reason why the ebook industry tacitly agreed on a screen size smaller than an index card. And don't tell me it's so it'll fit in my purse, because a human head would fit in my purse if I greased it right.

* At least until Steve Jobs weighs in with the much anticipated Apple version, which will presumably be the One Reader to Rule Them All.

[Amazon / Sony reps: please click the email link to get my thoughts on retainer. Kisses!]

Truer words

2009-06-22T12:09:00.003-04:00

We were language majors. And then we got a cat.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-06-19T08:41:00.003-04:00

This is one of the first videos I remember watching on MTV. The other was Van Halen's Jump, which is still awesome when you watch it now. So's this one, but for completely different reasons:

"I Think I Can Beat Mike Tyson" - DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince

1. The Coming to America getup the boys are wearing in the intro.
2. I weighed more than Will Smith when this video was made. I was eight.
3. Do rap songs even have storylines anymore?
4. "Four million situps! In a minute! I ain't lyin, I did it!"
5. Don King. Don. King.
6. This video may have spawned Seinfeld. Discuss.

Updatery

2009-06-18T09:36:00.002-04:00

After much wrestling with Podbean, Episode 6 is up at Stuff! with Things! Action Jackie is the special guest star of the week as we discuss living without Comcast, whether Captain Kirk was fat, the difference between three major religions, the myriad ways in which we are both ninety (aka paper books and post boxes) and why one cat is too many.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-06-12T10:10:00.004-04:00

Either I've posted this one before, or I've hit the point where all these videos are starting to look the same. I think it's the latter.

"This is How We Do It" - Montell Jordan

This is another song that has been on my iPod for about three years, ever since I bought a compilation CD (Booty Shakin' Hits--seriously) from Target for $6.99. I won't tell you what else was on it, because I'll probably be featuring it here, but that was some cash money well spent. [One ridiculous inclusion that will not be featured here: MC Hammer's "Pumps and a Bump"--unless I feel the need to prove there is a Hammer song stupider than "Addams Family Groove."]

Public Transport Takes a Holiday

2009-06-10T09:21:00.003-04:00

[In celebration of the carbonless awards tonight: another Commuter Challenge blog post!]

With the Commuter Challenge nearing an end, I felt somewhat guilty boarding a plane for Memorial Day weekend. A commercial flight is the carbon equivalent of following a juice diet with a stack of pancakes; any headway I had made in saving the ozone would be totally blown. However, since there is no other way to get from Michigan to the east coast in a single day, I had little choice. So, as I am wont to do when overwhelmed by guilt, I made a conciliatory pact with myself: I’m not going to do any driving in Boston.

Anyone who has ever driven in Boston will recognize this as extremely self-serving.

The Google Map listing says it all: ‘slight right’ ‘jog right’ ‘hop right’—if you thought a “Michigan left” was difficult, The Bay State is not the place for you. It’s a cage match between sanity and cartography as you take your ninth trip around the Union Street roundabout, no longer wondering why everyone else is taking the train. A look at the map confirms your suspicions: the land is a mass of rivers and railroads, the highways comprised of lines around a focal point rather than a grid. The usual neat pattern of squares and right angles has been replaced with a crude sketch of a neuron. If your destination lies beyond a river, do not look for a bridge—it’s faster to look for a boat.

It doesn’t take many purple lefts before you reclaim the state motto. Massachusetts: You Can’t Get There From Here.

Unless, of course, you’re embracing the colonists’ favorite mode of transport. On foot, you can see most of the city in a handful of hours without the bothersome necessity of parking (which would cost you $20 and the time it takes to eat a midday meal). The city is only a few miles wide, so it’s not hard to cover it a few times over in good weather—and if the weather turns inclement, there’s always the T.

As much as I embrace public transportation in the Deuce, one thing we sorely lack is a subway. Every so often, I find myself missing the T—its soothing female voice, its logo, its smell. Granted, the smell is not a good one, but it permeates the brick-stepped corners of Boston and fills every available space between bagels and bus fumes. It’s like the smell of warm garbage that makes people love New York City in spite of it, because it’s a part of home—and it’s as much a part of the summer city as Kilwin’s waffle cones wafting down Liberty, or the curry cloud hanging over the library parking lot.

Not that it doesn’t have problems. The trains may run on time, but they still take nearly an hour from the terminus. If a game gets out, the cars will be so crammed with Sox jerseys you'll have to store your thoughts in someone's back pocket. And of course, the cardinal rule of the MBTA: Never take the orange line. Not even for one stop, not even to get to another line. Go upstairs and walk up the ziggurat to Park Street, even if it’s February, even if it’s a holiday, even if you have one leg. It will still take less time.

But I don’t care. I don’t care that I saw a cockroach as big as a cannoli while waiting for a train that still had wooden paneling. I’m not at all put out that the Newbury Street T stop has been under construction since February. And I don’t care that the fingers of the green line spread so far west that if you fall asleep on the E train, you could wake up in Albany.

Because it’s a sunny day, I have a coffee regular on the grass, and I’m not wasting petrol in the Roundabout That Time Forgot.

I Don’t Feel Like Driving

2009-06-09T10:37:00.001-04:00

[Special Bonus Feature: Commuter Challenge blog post!]

I have some karma to make up for—or more accurately, carma. I ended up driving into work twice this month due to unavoidable circumstances, and I made a promise to myself that I would make up for it by running home from work.

This requires a small amount of planning, because I have to leave everything that I don’t want to carry at home—no purse, wallet or jacket—taking just a small bag with my running clothes and a tube of sunscreen. If I forget something I need for the run, I go without it or jury-rig a replacement. (In case you’re wondering, camping, or lost at sea: it is possible to make a ladies’ sports bra out of masking tape and an ace bandage.) The exception to this rule is the running shoes; I forget those, I kick myself all the way home on the bus.

Come 4:30, I duck into the nearest restroom to change. Friday’s run happened to be a two-fer: I was earning extra commuter credit, but also getting a head start on the last training run of the week. And with the Dexter-Ann Arbor Half Marathon looming large on the horizon, I would need every last mile under my belt.

The run goes something like this, and is set to the tune of the Scissor Sisters’ “I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’.”

I'm gonna be the one who gets it right
I pick my feet up as I go down the hill. I pass the patients smoking illegally at the bus stop, hear the blue commuter braking behind me. Downhill is only slightly easier than uphill; if you lose your form, you’ll get a backache and shin splints. Also, gravity is eagerly waiting for you to hit uneven pavement so it can laugh at you as you tumble into the Arb. Do not give gravity the satisfaction.

Then why can't I keep up when you're the only thing I lose?
The breeze is cooler in the shade of the building. My shorts start slipping down; I re-tie them at the crosswalk, hoping that means the weight is coming off after all. I catch my reflection in a store window: calves are looking good. T-shirt tan, not so much.

So I'll just pretend that I know which way to bend
OW. Tree branch in my eye. I flip my sunglasses down again for protection, weaving in and out of the crowd at the bottom of the hill. My lower back is cramping a little from the hold; I go up on my toes for agility, feeling like a gazelle, but probably looking like I am sneaking up on someone a mile away.

My heart could take a chance / but my two feet can't find a way
Uphill on Depot street. Must not have heart attack outside the Gandy Dancer; irony will kill me.

If you stick around I'm sure that you'll be fine
Final stretch up Main Street. I cross as soon as possible, ducking down Ashley to avoid the queues hanging outside the restaurants. Also avoiding the delicious smells coming out of said restaurants.

You can't make me dance around…
A bee chases me on Pauline. I give up my walk break in favor of a serpentine wuss run, arms flailing until the stadium is out of sight.

But your two-step makes my chest pound
Allmendinger park is full of people—playing tennis, shooting hoops, watching their kids on the playground. I provide some small entertainment with my impression of Woman Who Cannot Get Up This One Last Hill, Because She Told Herself There Were No More, and She Lied. If I can make it up to Seventh, I will make it home alive.

Rather be home with no one if I can’t get down with you
At the front door of my building, my sister’s dog sits up in the window, sniffing to make sure it’s me. I hear a thump and her nails hit the hardwood as she scamper-slides over to the door, barking impatiently for me to find my key. Once inside, I pat her on the head and pull my headphones off on the way to the fridge. I look at the clock: 5:05. My usual bus pulls up outside the front window, and I smile knowing that I would normally be headed to the gym about now.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-06-05T09:15:00.003-04:00

Tough, tough week. I think this song encapsulates it pretty well.

"Me, Myself & I" - De La Soul

This is one of those videos that makes me miss the 90s a little bit--the peace signs, rappers in glasses, the videos set in classrooms. I'm always amazed when I see these early rap videos--they're so clean. I was listening to NKOTB at the time, which was even cheesier and poptastic than this (rap was the 'bad kids' music), and De La Soul are so cute I wanna pinch their cheeks; it's hard to imagine this as the precursor to DMX.

Of note: 1) I have a little geek-crush on the skinny one with the Bobby Brown coif, 2) I had a similar haircut to the guy in yellow in my androgynous youth, and 3) YouTube also has a live performance of this song... on the Arsenio Hall Show. Awesome.

Arrivals

2009-06-03T07:55:00.003-04:00

This week is shaping up to be hella-busy; big changes are afoot.

First in the news: Congratulations to Dev and Summer on the birth of their new baby girl. Beatrice Kumar showed up too early for anyone to win the pot, and with a birth so easy her mother's hair was still perfect (luck or witchcraft? you make the call). She's beautiful and blessed to have such wonderful parents--and I'm not just saying that because I want to see cute baby pictures of Baby Bea in Summer's handmade creations (although I totally do). Congratulations once again!

Nextly, well-wishes and be-safes for all those traveling in the coming months. Have fun in Connnecticut, Colorado, Lansing and packing up for a big move to the south, respectively; please come back to me safely.

As for me, several pieces are still having the kinks beaten out of them, another episode of the podcast should be up by Friday, and I have procured a new pound of coffee for this weekend's novelmania. I have so many nebulous, half finished projects I'm scooping them around me with both arms to keep them from floating away like unruly bubbles in the tub.

So it's nice to have at least one thing in the bag:

For those who haven't heard, www.sarahsmallwood.com is now live. Please go and click links, open doors, slam cupboards, kick tires, let me know what works and what doesn't. [Note: I know it looks funny in IE. I don't care. It works in Safari and Firefox, and Firefox is just better, so use it.]

HUGE props to Anna K. Jonsson, a funny lady and amazing web designer. If you got a problem, yo, she'll solve it. I believe she's taking clients, so anyone with an URL in need of a fresh coat of awesome, form an orderly line, please, no shoving.

What I Learned in Boston

2009-06-02T09:35:00.002-04:00

1. I love dogs. You can’t take a cat for a walk down Newbury Street.

2. Money has no meaning in Lush.

3. DayQuil and coffee is a bad breakfast plan, but you will get more done before 10 than most people will all day.

4. $7.50 is too much for a banana split. Seriously, is there uranium in the jimmies?

5. Always take Ira Glass on the plane. His soothing voice is the cure for turbulence.

6. It takes a month to first-draft a book, a year to rewrite it, and five minutes on location to realize you want to read it.

7. If someone presents you with a gallon bag of doughnuts, it is not one serving.

8. Never take the orange line. Not even for one stop, not even to get to another line. Go upstairs and walk up the ziggurat to Government Center, even if it’s February, even if it’s a holiday, even if you have one leg.

9. If you’re on the grass in the Public Gardens by Kosciusko and you have your work open and you’ve walked up and down Tremont all day and have a full memory card and you have Oyster House leftovers and toddlers in pink dresses are chasing the ducks…

10. When you have friends, good weather and live music, you need very little else.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-05-29T08:58:00.002-04:00

I try not to feature videos if the embedding has been disabled, because the video is integral to the rap experience. However, this song has been stuck in my head for two days and I'm hoping a viewing might perform some kind of exorcism.

I Got a Man - Positive K

Not-to-miss video highlights: the girl with Wilma Flintstone's jewelry/some sort of hideous neck tumor; the guy dancing on the stairs at the fadeout.

"What's your man got to do with m"--godDAMMIT!

Rap Recall Friday

2009-05-22T11:07:00.003-04:00

Back in school, I used to blog about this every day.
So I started a theme and here I am, kickin' it just for you.

Boys II Men, Motownphilly

Put a little beef come strong? Put a middle heat on scrong? The... what, now?

What didn't happen?

2009-05-20T14:12:00.003-04:00

I swear I'm not being idle; very much the opposite. The day requires so much energy that I rarely have the creative impulse left to post here--but that same impulse is being distilled, simmered, and thickened into a pleasant reduction that I hope you will see on some reputable website in the near future.

Meanwhile, here is a picture of me with a Kindle.

It's not mine, of course, but let me just say: Yes.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-05-15T08:44:00.002-04:00

It's Action Jackie's birthday today, and I tried. Oh, Jackie, how I tried not to post this video. You know which one it is already, don't you?

I fought. I lost. And somehow, we all win.

This is perhaps the most literal video ever shot. Any rapper standing atop giant fake foam buttocks while rapping about same would be laughed at today, and that is why I love the nineties so very much. Just you try not laughing at the flying bananas and dirty subliminal vegetables.

Question and Answer

2009-05-12T09:40:00.000-04:00

Q: So. What’s been up with you lately?
A: What do you mean?

Q: Well, aside from the rap songs, there hasn’t been much going up lately…
A: I’ve been busy.

Q: Busy.
A: Yes. You may have noticed the new Flickr pictures, the podcast episodes, the fact that it was Mother’s day—

Q: And this keeps you from writing?
A: Of course not. I do that all on my own.

Q: I see. So what have you NOT been writing about?
A: I finished a fleece blanket, got proofs for the podcast merchandise, mocked up a few more designs for totes and mugs, am writing up a CV for the new website, made business cards, made a lovely flower arrangement, planted and weeded the garden, and am training up to ten miles every other night.

Q: Seems like there’s plenty of material there. Although…
A: Most of it is one-sentence plugs. Of half-finished projects.

Q: Right. Limbo. Anything happen with a definitive terminus, that might be mined for comic payoff?
A: …Hm. Well, I had an interesting experience in the lady area. Think people might want to hear about that?

Q: Depends. What happened?
A: I quit my birth control.

Q: Oh. How long does it take your body to adjust to the drop in hormones?
A: Six months, five days, twelve minutes.

Q: I think we have a winner. When should we expect that?
A: If the phone doesn’t ring, it should be up later today.

Q: And if it isn’t?
A: I’m sure you’ll be back.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-05-08T08:42:00.004-04:00

The Worst Rap Song of All Time has been bumped for yet another week, thanks to Libby and Jackie's efforts to get this one stuck in my head. This comes from the first real days of hip-hop--a time so innocent that girls could go to a party in a sports bra and skirt and Snoop Dogg looks like the Fresh Prince. Before Gin and Juice, there was the fridge o' forties and hooptymobiles. It's like this and like that and like this, and-a.

Two things of note: one, I love Dr. Dre. I love his own music, I love his collaborations, and I love the shit he does with Eminem (I also love Eminem, but he's too millennium to be featured here). Like any rapper of a certain age, he could have come down with a case of the Wyclefs, going into producer's hiding and reducing his output to toothless, addled "yeah"s on the tracks of pop stars. But no. No, Em, we did NOT forget about Dre.

Two: Snoop Dogg is one of my Celebrity Collisions. I physically ran into him at LAX at 1:00 in the morning on a trip to visit my boyfriend's parents. Dude, Snoop is tall. I had my head down and was sleepily dragging my suitcase and bumped into someone, all, "sorry," and I glanced up--and up, and up--and it was Snoop. Which I course didn't know, until five seconds after he walked off and I was like, "...wait." So, sorry, Snoop. Although, if a little white girl from Michigan can make bodily contact with you in an airport, those two massive dudes you have with you aren't exactly earning their paycheck.

Another Day, Another Blogger

2009-05-05T14:32:00.013-04:00

As part of my commitment to going Green (and my inveterate role as Annoying, Finger-Wagging Hippie) I will now be blogging for the Ann Arbor Commuter Challenge. If you live in the area, sign up now to log your sustainable commute for the month of May. There's free ice cream and buttons and stickers! What more incentive do you need? Oh, fine. It helps the environment. Are you happy, people who hate ice cream?

It feels like I'm cheating a bit, since my commute is entirely sustainable--AATA! what-what!--but I actually managed to fail on the very second day of the challenge by missing the bus and driving in. So for the rest of May, I am doomed to regain karmic balance by running home on hot days and biking in the rain, just to make it feel like cleaning up the ozone is reeeally hard... which, in fact, it isn't at all. It's much more of a hassle to drive than to bus, and more of a hassle to park than to bike, but the Catholic in me thinks a the importance of a cause is directly related to the amount of suffering it requires. I promise a lot of heavy, taxing reading on the bus this month.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-05-01T08:36:00.004-04:00

In honor of glorious May Day, I absolutely could not put up the video that was slated for today. This is a day for celebration, for happiness, for sixty-degree weather and full sun at 7:30 in the morning. This is a time for House of Pain.

It's like it's prom all over again, and your date really doesn't want to dance so all the girls are dancing with each other and your best friend is still limping from the Cotton-Eyed Joe fiasco and then you hear that first prolonged blasted note, and all of a sudden everyone's on the floor like ants on Kool-Aid and the lights are flashing 'cause this DJ was the only good thing your class spent money on and the chaperones are sweeping in under the flying brocade vests and bow ties to stop the bad kids from moshing.

And that's why you know all the words. You may not know it, but you do.

T-Shirt Tuesday

2009-04-28T15:42:00.003-04:00

From the "It's not me, It's really, REALLY you" file.

Monday Musings

2009-04-27T07:44:00.003-04:00

Why wasn't the Journey tour with the new frontman billed as "A Perryless Journey"?

There are at least twelve different shades of white nail polish, and they are all scary as hell.

Sometimes kicky, self-help portmanteux are cute--like manscaping, or tanorexic. Sometimes, Millionaire Matchmaker, they are an epic fail. 'Manelry' is not a word, and is not even a viable fake word, so stop it. Also, stop with the Terri Irwin pink lipstick. And the bangs. And the show.

There is no such thing as "a quick weeding." You pull one weed, you've committed yourself for at least an hour, and will pull muscles the marathon never touched.

Isabella Rossellini's Green Porno might be the greatest thing I have ever seen. It's like if PBS and Mummenschanz had a randy Italian baby. In 20 years, this is the new segment that they'll be showing on Sesame Street.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-04-24T12:01:00.004-04:00

Today's entry is brought to you by the def stylings of Skee-Lo--and Action Jackie, who was singing it while hemming a pair of pants. Alas, who doesn't wish she were a little bit taller?

"I Wish"
click for link; the video is worth it

Also, new episode of Stuff! with Things! is live and awaiting you like a nubile and morally-flexible lover.

Bad Grammar & Beyond

2009-04-22T09:14:00.009-04:00

I don't subscribe to many magazines, mainly because I don't have the time to get through them nor the space to store them, but one I keep renewing every year is Martha Stewart's Living. Something about the gardening and crafting and ridiculous "Good Things" section about cataloging your fabrics--it's just so wonderfully indulgent in its impracticality. So I was enjoying the March issue, flipping through the final pages and getting immense satisfaction from being able to start the April issue actually in the month of April, when I came across this.

click to enrage

Really, MS Living? Someone in the Empire didn't catch this before it went to print? Really, people who can't afford to pay dedicated proofers $8/hour to make sure this shit doesn't happen? REALLY, Bed Bath & Beyond, who wants $50 for a shower curtain but doesn't respect you enough to know the difference between a possessive and a contraction? Shame all around.

Rap Recall Friday

2009-04-17T09:18:00.006-04:00

Welcome to the first installment of 90's Rap Recall Fridays, celebrating the best and worst (mostly, awesomely worst) in 90s rap. Today's installment is that perennial classic from Biz Markee, You Got What I Need.

Everybody! "Oh, Baby YOU!"

No, Not "The Heelies."

2009-04-16T20:33:00.005-04:00

Sarah: "Girl you're looking fiiiiiine tonight..."

Libby: What was the name of his group? Jeff Healey and who?

Sarah: ...the News!

Libby: ...the Mechanics!

Sarah: ...Jeff Healey's Mom?

Libby: The Rest of Them?

Sarah: The... Sighted?

Libby: Hey, now!

Sarah: Holy shit, he taught himself the trumpet? He rocks.

Libby: I loved him in Roadhouse! Him and what's-his-name... What's his name? Mustache. Awesome. He should rule the world.

Sarah: Sam Elliot.

Libby: Yes! He was--he's DEAD?

Sarah: Sam Elliot?

Libby: NO, Jeff Healey! Holy shit, he was 41.

Sarah: Man. MAN. Roadhouse isn't gonna be the same.

Libby: "Why was the guitar in your lap?" "I dropped it."

Sarah: Crap. He was funny.

Libby: Shit. Now I have to download Angel Eyes.

Sarah: Like you don't own it. Ohhh, speaking of...

Libby: God, I played the shit out of that single.

Sarah: "Step by step, heart to heart!"

Libby: I still know all the words. And then Eminem... what, sampled it?

Sarah: You're so street. Martika's in a goth metal band now?

Libby: Strangely appropriate.

Sarah: Dude, we are doing better than every one of these people. Which is... sad.

Libby: Jeff Healey's dead.

Sarah: And he's better off than half these people.

Libby: Well, not Geldof.

Sarah: Nobody's doing better than Geldof. Bill Gates, maybe. Or Elton John.

Libby: I have never heard this song in my life.

Sarah: What's worse than a one hit wonder? A one-hit wonder somebody's never heard of.

Libby: Guy's looking good though... whoever he is.

Sarah: Man, this is depressing. And why do so many eighties pop stars look like gay tennis instructors?

Libby: Or Fred Penner?

Sarah: Yes. Was that hot? What with the dancing?

Libby: Switching it now.

Sarah: Yes! Say Anything!

Libby: [...]

Alternative title: Conservatives Suck, Weed is Okay.

2009-04-13T08:44:00.003-04:00

Skipping Towards Gomorrah by Dan Savage

rating: 3 of 5 stars

I stole this book from my roommate thinking I'd tear through it in a week. Sadly, I didn't really learn much from this book--and worse, I didn't enjoy it. I'm disappointed that the references weren't footnoted, or even listed in the book (the last page directs you to a website). The 'committing the deadly sins' thing got tiring, as the "Bible rules in modern life" trope is kind of played out (The Year of Living Biblically, etc). The entire book is largely a lefty reaction to Slouching Towards Gomorrah (obviously), so it's occasionally hilarious, but mostly bitter and angry--and at times, needlessly rude. But then again, that's Dan Savage. Which is fine, but the personality is endearing in podcast form isn't as effective in print.

I'm hoping the reason I was bored is more to do with the subject matter than the speaker. I love the podcast; when Dan weaves his own personal stories into his advice, when sarcasms out about anal sex preserving virginity, when he calls a crying lesbian who can't deal with a breakup. That's what made me want to read this book, and what makes me still want to read The Kid--that, and the This American Life episode that featured Dan Savage talking about walking his poodle at 3 AM.

a filthy burning want

2009-04-09T13:25:00.003-04:00

Sarah: i am reading the kindle user guide--for fun.
Libby: lol
Sarah: <--sad
Libby: sad
Libby: HAHAHA!!!
Sarah: HA!
Libby: we have super sonic sister love I see
Sarah: yes, we do. sis-dar.
Sarah: sad sarah--no kindle
Libby: sad libby - no wii
Libby: I would love a wii
Sarah: i think you're getting a xmas wii
Sarah: i'd wait for xmas too, but nobody'd buy it for me then either
Libby: pfffttt
Sarah: you driving today?
Libby: ebay is charity-auctioning dinners with some people: John Hamm, Paul Rudd, Jeremy Sisto, Edie Falco, Keri Russell, Patrick Duffy, David Schwimmer, Rosanna Arquette, Ally Sheedy, Nathan Fillion, John Slattery or Lili Taylor
Libby: yes I am
Sarah: i thought you meant "yes, i am bidding on Capt Hammer"
Libby: wow, Nathan fillion is going for 1026.00
Sarah: use the wii fund!!
Libby: WOW 3050.00 for Kevin smith
Sarah: i bid two tums and a pencil for Jon Hamm!
Libby: i think they want money.
Sarah: if i had money, i'd get a kindle.
Libby: instead of Jon Hamm.
Sarah: you can insert text into the margins on the kindle
Libby: lol
Sarah: but i would "insert" "text" into Jon Hamm's "margins"
Libby: i get it.
Sarah: [siiiiiiigh]
Libby: lol
Libby: awww
Libby: poor pining sarah
Sarah: and read pdfs and word documents
Libby: is this a euphemism, or are we back on the kindle?
Sarah: this is a filthy burning want.
Libby: again...?
Sarah: either. i would kindle his Hamm.
Libby: i would be nathan's fillion. or something.
Sarah: noted.

Worst. Porno. Ever.

2009-04-07T08:09:00.003-04:00

[INT. LIVING ROOM, NIGHT. SARAH and JACKIE are watching TV. JACKIE is slightly ill.]

Sarah: You need some tea or anything?

AJ: No; actually I'm nauseated.

Sarah: Aw, I'm sorry. You want a hug?

AJ: A little bit, yeah.

[SARAH hugs JACKIE, with a sympathetic back-pat]

AJ: You know, if I keep my eyes closed, I could pretend you're a dude.

Sarah: (stops patting) Um.

AJ: I mean, you know. Like I have a boyfriend taking care of me while I'm sick.

Sarah: This is either the highest or lowest point of our relationship. I can't tell.

AJ: Not that you're not great, obviously.

Sarah: Obviously, since you've plastered an imaginary penis on me.

AJ: That's not what I mean. I'm sick.

Sarah: I know what you mean.

AJ: Sorry.

Sarah: It's okay. I'll be your fake boyfriend, if you want.

AJ: You're too bony. And, you know, a girl.

Sarah: Thanks for noticing. Here.

[SARAH stuffs pillow up her sweatshirt and slouches onto the sofa in a manly lean]

AJ: (after a minute) Yeah, it's not the same.

Sarah: (in a deep voice) "Hey, Jackie."

AJ: Hee.

Sarah: "Would you like me to make you some soup, or fell a tree?"

AJ: No thanks. I'll just lie here and gain succour from your manly chest.

Sarah: "After you get better, I would love to tie you up and have you tell me all about Socrates."

AJ: I'd like that too, Fake Boyfriend. [pats SARAH's chest pillow] I'd like that, too.

And that time is now.

2009-04-01T11:51:00.002-04:00

Sometimes you have to break something before it can heal. Sometimes you'll hear Fiona Apple in Trader Joe's and understand why Twitter was invented. Sometimes you can't run, and that's okay. Sometimes you'll be one to watch, and sometimes one to watch out for. Sometimes you won't answer the phone because Mike Rowe is on. Sometimes you will yell at a tree, wear the wrong shoes, and misuse cilantro. Sometimes you will say the right thing to the wrong person. Sometime you will think, "At least I have this." Sometimes the best time is when you learn to live without.

Tuesday Un-ku

2009-03-24T10:50:00.001-04:00

trying to be creative on half a tired brain
stream of consciousness not
as easy as it sounds

back up to correct spelling
hurts forearm muscle
when did I go fishing?

syrup, slurpee, warm jell-o
pudding, yogurt and tripe
brain simile eludes me

Regina Spektor’s
one song I can stand
is being played too much
(has anyone ever seen
her and Tori Amos together?)

do not have kindle,
DVF wraparound,
career, many teeth left

run, nap, coolant
unclog drain and paint toes
country song in future

should have gone to bed
instead of watching
Rupaul’s Drag Race finale

Typecasting

2009-03-20T22:28:00.004-04:00

Sarah: That hair looks good on her.

Libby: I hate her. On every show she's in, she plays the flaky sister.

Sarah: Yeah, but normally her hair is all lank. That's a good cut for her.

Libby: I can't tell. I hate her too much.

Sarah: You realize it's irrational to hate an actress for the characters she plays, right?

Libby: She always plays the same one! She was the irresponsible sister on ER and she's playing the exact same character here!

Sarah: Other than those two, where else was she the flaky sister?

Libby: She was in a movie. I forget the name of it.

Sarah: Oh, that movie.

Libby: And she was on another series. That one, about firefighters.

Sarah: Uh-huh.

Libby: That ONE!

Sarah: Mmm.

Libby: THIRD Watch! That was it! And she was the same person, the same screwed-up, drugged out sister!

Sarah: Wait--that was ER.

Libby: No, it was--

Sarah: It was a Third Watch / ER crossover event. She played the same character because it WAS the same character. The one from ER.

Libby: [pause] You watch Third Watch.

Sarah: I saw the special. Because I watched ER.

Libby: Uh-huh.

Sarah: At the time. For Kovac.

Libby: So you watch Third Watch. And said "crossover event."

Sarah: At least I can count to three.

Libby: Her makeup looks tranny, too.

Sarah: Probably 'cuz her sister married Donal Logue.

I got soul, but I'm not a soldier... What?

2009-03-20T10:53:00.008-04:00

A few recs and specs from this week's goings-on:

Firefox. I am now on the hip, with-it bandwagon, in no small part because my beautiful website is beautiful again. Oh, the days and nights spent tinkering with code, wondering why spaces appeared where no commands were given. Of course, the thing read beautifully in Firefox and Safari—even Macs know browsing better than Bill Gates. Internet Explorer made me doubt myself. Internet Explorer is dead to me.

The Kindle 2. All book lovers must be having this dilemma; we love books for the smell and the pages and the sheer bookiness, and at the end of the day, the Kindle is a soulless piece of machinery. Put simply: it’s an iPod for books. The pro/con list is like Bobby Riggs vs. Billie Jean King: It’s so many books at once! [thock!] Actually it’s no books. [thock!] You can get newspapers on it! [thock!] If you subscribe, which you don’t. [thock!] You can load it with 200 books at once, for traveling! [thock!] If you pay for them, yeah. [thock!] You can get library books on it! [thock!] Yeah, but you can’t put them on the shelf. [wiff!] Love, dammit! LOVE! Does anyone have one? Can I touch it?

Rhinestone. Dolly Parton. Stallone. Singing. DOLLY PARTON. STALLONE. SING. ING. I don’t know what else I can say.

Trader Joe’s Extra-Dry Moisturizing Cream. I feel slightly uncomfortable using a lotion that calls itself A Midsummer Night’s Cream—apparently nobody at TJ HQ has a mind as dirty as mine—but this lotion is amazing. They swear it’s unscented, but there’s a hint of aloe and lemon; it’s not overpowering, and doesn’t leave you all sticky (misnomer #2). It’s perfect for the pre-spring dryness, can be used on hands and post-shaven legs, and fits nicely into the current economy’s Aveeno gap. I have several lotions in a rotation on my bedside table,* but the lightness of this one makes it perfect for everyday use without the vaguely medicinal Eucerin tang most winter lotions carry.

The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. If you haven’t seen this spoof of 1950s horror flicks, you need to rectify that shit right now. On a budget of about a thousand dollars, ten people managed to make a hilarious and oddly compelling monster movie that addresses all the clichés of the genre, but clearly loves it all the same. As an added bonus, it is quotable from start to finish. “Rowr!”

The Killers. This is one of those bands I really like, but feel like I shouldn't. Not because they're mainstream or dress like faux-irreverent hipster douches, but because I don't know if the lyrics are brilliant or they’re just bullshitting me. I mean, ‘my sign is vital / my hands are cold’? I should hate that. They start all 'on my knees, it's killing me,' blah, and then they go all 'rebel diamonds cut out of the sun,' and I don't know what to think. Just because the lyrics are simple doesn't make them lazy (just ask Neil Diamond; that man did a lot with a little), and when they're trite, they're usually only trite three words at a time. At worst, they're the prime years of U2 minus the Irish bombing references (which is great, if they skip their 'Vertigo' phase). But at best, they could be Depeche Mode. Reach out and touch faith, Killers—I put Human on my iPod, and I don’t want to regret that.

* Mostly sad, streaky bottles of flavors past that are no longer available (which may be for the best, because Bath and Body Works still made Rice Flower and Shea body cream, I would smoke it).

Sandman Love Rekindled

2009-03-12T14:59:00.002-04:00

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Here's the part where I confess I couldn't make it through Neverwhere. I'm sorry. I thought it was boring. Which is especially damning since it contains a lot of the same themes as my own fiction, but I just couldn't get through it. The almost-comical 'baddiness' of the bad guys, the innocent boy / strange girl pairing; they just didn't work for me... which is interesting since that's exactly what worked, and worked well, in The Graveyard Book.

Maybe it was the fact that it was a "children's story" (although it starts with a violent murder, so, hardly PG-13) but everything that was silly and farfetched in Neverwhere was completely enjoyable here. And while it's no longer possible to start a story with an orphan without obvious Harry Potter parallels,* the storylines and magics involved are different enough they don't replace nor complement the HP franchise.

I really enjoy Gaiman as a children's author or comic writer over his straight fiction; since his material is so off-kilter, you need that extra fraction of unreality in the storytelling to really make it its best.

*Who, I think it can be said, has displaced Peter Pan forever as the quintessential orphaned hero (allowing for another Luke Skywalker resurgence, of course).

On Christina Ricci

2009-03-10T09:21:00.005-04:00

"I'm sure she looked normal as a child and then grew into a mutant."

"Did you not see the Addams Family?"

[This and much more on the latest episode of S!WT!]

Buy Me a Kindle.

2009-03-06T14:27:00.000-05:00

Please?

Lady Sings the Cruise

2009-03-04T12:28:00.009-05:00

Note: I’m sure you’re all aware that what happens on vacation stays on vacation. Therefore, in the interest of protecting our reputations, everyone in the party will be referred to by her drag name.

We arrived in San Juan as hot and bedraggled as ten combined hours on planes would suggest. Certain members of the entourage had spent the previous night drinking, and nearly all had not slept more than four hours. After much cranking, whining and standing in lines, bags were dropped in cabins and the six of us sat at a casual dinner, toasting in agreement that the idea posed by Miss Gilda de Lily had been a good one.

Our first day was spent parasailing. The novelty of eighty-degree weather in January was not lost on these sad, tundra-weary Midwesterners; we slipped easily back into flip-flops and bathing suits like the intervening six months never happened. After a boat ride on the bluest water on earth, two-by-two we were clipped into stirrups and, for three stunning, silent minutes, became a human kite.

The rest of our day in St. Thomas did not disappoint. At the top of Hotel 1829, a tour guide offered us cut-rate prices to tour the grounds and climb up Blackbeard’s Tower. Once we were assured this was not a euphemism, we took him up on the offer. On the way back down, we toured Haagensen House, a property so beautiful you could almost, for a minute, make a case for colonialism. It is now a museum, housing antiquities, clothing and draperies from the turn of the century. I may have left teeth marks on the wall.

The next level of the property was the distillery, where Miss Louisiana Purchase came away with a litre of freshly-made pineapple rum for less than the cost of a movie ticket. After a brief refresher at the amber fountain, we were stumbling back to the boat—a trend we would continue for the next six days.

Barbados remains a bit of a blur. Every lady found herself sufficiently toasty; so much so that Mme. Luna Eclipse’s foray onto a jet ski was written off as a mild hallucination. The sail homeward was overcast, and presently it began to rain. We were already soaked from the snorkeling; I daresay none of us noticed. Of course, that might have been because the crew, being masters of their profession, had plied us with bottomless cups of rum punch and dancing hits to please all ages. Very little can be recalled, so it is a mixed blessing that our videographer, Heather, had gotten footage of the whole illicit voyage.

On the third day, we ran out of words for ‘beautiful.’ Miss Louisiana succumbed to the pressure and got a few traditional braids, and a pink hat with skull and crossbones (recommended by yours truly). The tilting and pitching of the boat was a challenge at the soberest of times; after a few Sea Breezes and in high heels, it was like letting marbles loose down a hallway (and so it was that our most enthusiastic crewmember earned her name). Upon Miss Vera Sideways’ suggestion, we spent the night at the piano bar, where the charismatic pianist made an impression upon our youngest. The rest of the evening, thanks to many open tabs, became a total Barbados. I fear we shall never recall it in its entirety.*

On Thursday, we all receive sidelong glances from fellow passengers. One comments that he saw us on TV. We are confused, until I am running on the treadmill and am confronted with an image of myself on the television screen, dancing wetly in a bikini with four ladies I barely recognize. On the way back to the room, our porter waves and congratulates us. We are now famous.

It was in Antigua that we finally achieved nirvana: the actual lying on the beach in the Caribbean. Four hours of white sand, blue sky, and waves. Eventually, one by one, we become overheated, and do turns taking dips in the water. The night was spent winding down; occasionally the body needs to process something other than liquor. It was meant to be an early night, but the spry, saucier half of the group got our second wind after dinner; at Miss Holly A. Ivy’s insistence, we opted to check out the midnight movie on the big screen. Skirts flying, we snuck up to the Lido deck for some fresh air and simultaneous ovulation, because, seriously, that Robert Downey Jr. cleans up nice.

I expected a sad denouement on our last evening together, but I was disappointed. We were seated at dinner as usual, and perused our menus, as usual. After about a week, I looked up and noticed a bottle of champagne on the table… with my name on it. Apparently, the ladies had decided to celebrate my birthday early with champagne and strawberries. After a serious ration of dinner including molten chocolate cake and a full cheese plate, I decided I would never have a nicer birthday party and also never be eating again. We wrapped up the voyage with another sing-along evening, wherein I sat upon the piano for a tribute, Holly took some incriminating photos with the pianist, and sundry such memories that would keep us warm not only on the way back to the mitten, but for as long as our well-worn bodies would allow.

Hoping to repeat the experience very soon indeed,
Miss Pepper Mâché

* Unless Heather popped her head in, in which case it will be looped on Channel 19.

Click Here for the entire sordid thing on Flickr

The Post that Wasn't

2009-02-25T14:17:00.003-05:00

Just a few updates:

1. This space will (probably) be inactive for a few days, as I am going on a mini-break. Not another vacation, not nearly so long, but an out-of-towner; a much-needed reboot back in my adopted homeland. I'll be back Monday, with posts of merit.

2. Everyone say 'hi' to the menu bar. "Hi, menu bar!"

3. Everyone say 'fuck off' to that white space under the menu bar. "Get Bent, white space!"

Seriously, if anyone knows how to fix that gap, I would be exceedingly grateful. I've combed through the html twice and can't find a way to center it back where it was.

4. The menu links are now active. Also, there's a new Flickr widget in the sidebar with the vacation photos all over it. This is the content I'm wrapping around me like a cloak while I sneak out the door.

5. The cruise post is coming, I promise. I know it's tacky to go on another vacation before I've written up the last one, but [eats fingerful of toothpaste] that's me. Also, every time I open it I remember something else to include, and something else to amend, and yeah. Next week, I promise.

Meanwhile, Boston. Woot! See you on Monday.