This is the greatest time of the year

Even though it hasn't quite got that autumnal bite in the air (Al Gore, stop doing TV cameos where you get to be all cute in jumpsuits and get back to work! I have scarves that are just laying around doing nothing right now thanks to you) this is quite clearly the best season of all.

Plus, it's the time of Harvest. And that means celebration rites of plenty and richness. Thanks in part to Cucurbita Maxima, or as the plebeians say, SQUASH!

Which means Pumpkins.

Which means Pie.

Pie.

I make it.

You eat it.

BANG.

I like to imagine that enjoying one of my pies is something like this.


You're hanging out, wearing some sexy preHalloween get-up and then WHAP out of nowhere, some freak in a cape slaps pie into your open trap. Enjoy the pie.
And shut up while you're at it! Put on some Charlie Parker, be cool, and just shut up.

I love fall.
And Legs & Co.

Awww!

courtesy of ridiculously talented clio chang.

Sometimes things are just universally cute. And no, I'm not talking about the filthy barista cranking around his apartment at 3AM. I'm talking about his ghost friend. I want a ghost friend. It's almost friggin halloween for gods sake. Where is my cute ghost friend?!

That's it, Great Pumpkin. You wanted to know what to get me for Hallow's Eve? There you go. Adorable, cuddly, Boo-berry esque, and likely delicious tasting ghost friend. Hopefully pumpkin spice latte flavored. Pull some strings!

And that glowing has got to be solar powered or a result of the primordial ether of basic goodness from whence we all come...either way, you won't need to turn on the basement lights any more so Yay, cost effective and energy efficient!
Cute cuddly ghost friend, you know how I feel. How long will you make me wait??

Favorite Costumes

'Tis the month of Halloween, hallowe'en, hallows eve....so, let's talk costumes!

Growing up, I was usually a tiger. Obvs.

But since ca. 1999, I've kind of skipped the costuming. Halloween is fun enough on its own, the almond joys (step off, kitkat), the wine, the PS3 demos. Plus, it's hard when you have big dreams of being Mulan but you can't find a stupid wig that fits or an authentic Chinese Jian (the General of all Swords) without entering the top 50 on the CIA's "Strange Persons of Note" list.



But this year...it's year of the Tiger. Metal Tiger actually. So I'm thinking about bringing the old throw to costume back. . . FutureTiger style!

And don't worry, Reeses, I am not afraid of the dark this year! Well as long as I have my FutureTiger laser bow & arrow. fshwing, fshwing!


(I'm the one on the left)

This year, it's going to be my best costume yet. Unless I forget.



What are you best costumes ever?

Favorite Bands

Why when people ask you what kind of music you like, do you scramble to think of the most obscure band you can think of and probably classical, rather than the Celine Dion album that's been on repeat in your car since 2004?
Confession...? Anyone?

Favorite Things

I don’t want to say I’m the new Oprah or anything, but I have favorite things.

And a best friend named Gail.

Okay, I don’t have a best friend named Gail, but there was a girl named Gail with severe behavioral issues who lived across the street from me in her parents’ mansion. Her mom played for the Portuguese women’s Olympic soft ball team. Her dad’s family were brain surgeons. Gail is now a debutate slash hipster at some “liberal” ivy league. She’s basically a gossip girl character. But she’s not my best friend. Sadly.

I do have favorite things though. One of them is oranges. I have this orange peel TOOL that is like, the greatest invention since the cake wheel (just let that marinate…great invention, right?) because I can peel an orange in under two minutes without becoming covered in sticky juice rubbish. Also, the pips don’t fly all over the everywhere, which is nice. Pips are seeds. I like British TV, sue me.

That’s another one of my favorite things; British TV. Not all of it, but the older stuff like from the mid-80s to mid-90s. The Vicar of Dilbey and Black Adder. Absolutely brilliant – I wish they were my parents. Well Dawn French, anyway. Rowan Atkinson would never let me get away with staying out past curfew.

My third favorite thing is self-help (I know what you’re thinking. To answer your question, of course I include Robert E. Howard into this category. Doy). Reading is fun. Reading to learn is even funner, i.e. Learn Condescending Phrases in Ancient Greek.

But reading so you can develop new powers of communication and unlimited comprehension of your own mind (how meta is that?!) is like enjoying a cake wheel while shopping for British Knights.

And that is why I’m basically the new Oprah.

Why Humans are Lucky

First of all, Carlton Banks.

Work it, girl.

Second of all – well, let me preface this by saying that I was always the first kid at school to say “Tyrannosaurs Rex” as my choice for favorite pet, but seriously you guys, we are so freaking lucky that we don’t have dinosaurs roaming the streets. Dinotopia? More like Dino-we’re all dead so there’s no language to even reference Utopian civilization or books about said civilization so just-Rarr.

I do want to say that if given the chance ever to go into a Jurassic Park type scenario, I would be the first one on the chopper. Mostly because I fully trust my nunjutsu skills like I trust my grandmother. But let’s evaluate some of the key terror factors that make it such a frightening prospect to have to deal with dinosaurs in every day life.

1). Teeth. All right, my teeth stay in my mouth where they are intended to be of use. There is not a lot my teeth can do outside of my mouth. Most carnivorous dinosaurs have teeth that not only reside mostly outside of their lips, but they also inflict the most damage while attending to things that are not yet in their mouths. Terror. Also, how are they going to drink out of a Starbucks cup? That lid is getting torn to shreds and probably not enhancing the flavor of your macchiato.

2). Foot size. I think we can all agree Manut Bol and Shaq have about the biggest feet we ever hope to see. Their foot size is impressive and maybe a little intimidating (I think I can fit my arm up to the elbow into one of Shaq’s Keds) but certainly not life threatening. Now imagine a brachiosaurus. Not only could I fit one of my arms into one of his shoes, I could fit all of me (starring Lily Tomlin) and several of my friends and our deluxe Jacuzzi tub into one of his shoes. And still have room for a wet bar. And a penguin. So…I don’t exactly thing it’s going to be easy for Mr. Brachiosaurus Kahn (sounds like a basketball player’s name, right?) to daintily step around the millions of cars, pedestrians, dog parks and macchiatos we humans have planted all over the everywhere. Things are just going to get smashed. Not just smashed. Smooshed. Shmooshed. Including the penguin and the Jacuzzi and frankly I don’t want to be around to see it.

3). Brain size. If your brain is not at least the size of your own big toe…chances are reason, logic and compassion are not at the forefront of your priorities. If you’re hungry/sad/need a diaper change/have a thorn in your rear, you’re going to maim or disfigure things until your needs are met. Horribly, horribly met. I speak from experience, dude.

4). According to Jurassic Park 3 (I know) velociraptors are smarter than dolphins.

Just let that sink in.

Now, I know what you’re saying. “But raptors were actually only about the size of a golden retriever, not the basketball player sized monsters depicted in the films.”

Well no doy, smartmouth. But just imagine if you were to encounter something the size of a Rottweiler (already scary) with bigger teeth, fingers and a tail strong enough to swat a miniature horse across the room.

Add to that the intelligence and problem-solving abilities of man’s best friend (dolphins). You’re not getting out of that tangle alive, wise guy. There were tons of different dinosaur types…somewhere along the way a raptor with dolphinesque intelligence could have been born. Maybe he was raised by sharks!

Most dolphins are 6 to 74 times smarter than humans (actual fact). That tiny velociraptor, while it won’t leap on top of your chest and rip out your throat, will subtly kill you from the inside using something like your bad credit history or your difficult relationship with your dad.

Terrifying.

For Your Consideration

There are times in one's life where the meaning is blurry. Where the point of the whole darn thing seems to have waned and an eternal night has descended upon your very being.

Then, you have a moment of clarity, usually brought about by the state of building-jumping depression, and remember who you truly are. Who the little heart of gold hero who lives within your soul really is -- and what he can really do...not just for you, but for the world.
And for me, it's this dandy gentleman.



Basically, my inner hero is a ball of pink sugar, a jazzy hepcat with a Liberace streak. A man who lives life hard and fast with his brilliant band of junkie musicians. A man who will be the first to call himself "cool as a cucumber" while obviously being wonked out of his brain on gin during a performance for children that frankly wreaks of wanton sexuality.


Amen.

UPDATE: Sadly, youtube has disabled embedding on the video, but here is the link. Cotton Candy Culprit

Salesman

It occurs to me that selling things is difficult. A friend was offered the chance to sell tickets for something and upon further mulling, I realized you could probably rake in lots of skrill (see: Cheese, Cream).

However, fat skrill-wad-making is usually contingent upon ones ability to actually sell what they are selling efficiently. And I would just suck at that.
Let me break it down for you.

Some people have the gift of Sell. They can completely not care about the ability, the quality, the point of their product and still make it sound like a magic ice cream cone tree.

Me...not so much.
If I know this seed will not an ice cream cone tree make, I can't sell it. Here's an impression.

Ding Dong
Kindly Citizen: Oh, good morning. Can I help you?

Me: Good morning! Let me ask you a question that I can probably guess the answer to...Are you interested in seeds?

KC: What?

Me: Seeds! And ice cream, too? Wait, I shouldn't tell you that part yet. Let's start over.
brief moment of silence as i compose myself mentally
Good morning! I have seeds for you!

DOOR CLOSING.

That's just a worst-case scenario for something that i'm not sold on myself. However, if I do believe in the product, well you better believe the gift of Sell is suddenly alive in me as some enzymes after I drink a little watermelon lemonade (trademark: King of Drinks).

Here are a few things I think I could sell the crap out of and make you and your company a fat wad of skrill.

1). John Williams.
And I'm not talking about the spanish guitar stylings of some dude with extra long strummin' nails. I'm talking about the man who has provided sound to color our imaginations since the 1960s, and specifically who gave Steven Spielberg that extra goodness that has made him an icon.




Sells itself.



2). Pumpkin lattes.
Not only do they scream deliciousness of fall. They also are hot as lava and can be used as a weapon against hobos trying to rob you for change (which you don't have anyway, because you just generously tipped the barista).
I love pumpkin lattes (after they're cooled down enough to drink of course. those tongue burns last for a week!) so much, I'm not even going to pick a company here to court me into becoming their spokeswoman. I'm just going to show ALL of them right here and now how they could make millions this season from this drink alone and then may the highest bidder win.

Invention re-do request

So apparently it didn't rain for the first month after tires were invented. Because wet asphalt and round slippery rubber things do not a sufficient stop make.
I believe Shakespeare said that.

Go sick on yourself

What is with bringing germs into a stressful, bustling, highly interactive environment like work and then being all like, "oh cough cough I'm sick, I guess I better go home" ?
Well great. Thanks.
No, sure, just leave your plague rats here for me to take care of, that'll be fine.

I never forget when someone ruins my Thursday.

NEVER.

However, thanks to the magical and mighty powers of juicing, I only had a few days of teetering on the brink of boils and sores, and was luckily able to fend off whatever was trying to body snatch me. But most of the hoi polloi I interact with on a daily basis are now shuffling sacks of dirty kleenexes.

Good day to you, sirs!

Bengali Tea Boys, or working with the crazies

There was a great Indian teacher and master of Buddhism in the 10th century. His name was Atisha, and he is credited for bringing Buddhism to Tibet - and why lineages like those of the Dalai Lamas and Karmapas exist.

Atisha was renowned as the greatest living scholar, adherent and mentor in the teachings of the Middle Way. However, when it was time for him to go to Tibet, he heard many stories about the Tibetans - mostly that they were warm, earthy, patient, kind - and so he was afraid that they wouldn't push his buttons enough. So he decided to bring along a special guest. His little servant, who history remembers as the Bengali tea boy (Atisha was from Bengal, modern-day Bangladesh).

The Bengali tea boy was ill-tempered, annoying and just really drove Atisha nuts, presumably with his little sass mouth. So Atisha decided he had better bring the tea boy along, lest he become lax in his practice of patience or wain in his spiritual focus.

Well, ironically, he found the barbaric culture of warriors who awaited him in Tibet not in the least as ideal as he had feared, and so really had no need of the bratty little tea boy. The story of Atisha goes on, but for me this particular episode in his life is inspiring on a number of levels for my own practice.

Atisha, an accomplished and revered master, was still fully aware he had blind spots. He knew he wasn't perfect - and he admitted it. But he also knew he had a tendency to get lazy or feel like some kind of expert, so he made sure someone he couldn't stand was always there by his side to keep him on his toes, spiritually speaking. To make sure his ego was kept in check.

It is so helpful (when I can remember to do it!) to think of those annoying and seemingly psycho people that it feels so justifiable putting in the "Permanent Idiot Column" as little Bengali tea boys who have been specifically engineered to light my personal short fuses. As the mind-training slogan says, "Every situation is the perfect teacher." So it's almost like the whole universe has come together each moment to give us exactly the things we need; if that thing happens to be taken down off our pedestal a bit (for our own good) the universe gives us a manipulative co-worker or nosy mailman on whom to practice patience or understanding.

Now, this is not to say that no one in our lives ever means us harm or should be allowed to inflict constant pain on others. I think what the story is pointing out is the Habit of our reaction when we feel taken down from our pedestal, for me self-defensiveness and anger. Someone stepped on my foot and made me hop around like an idiot in pain? Well now I'll step on theirs! Take that!



In its most extreme forms, this tit-for-tat vengeful behaviour can turn into a war. Buddhist teachings about defensiveness and anger ask the question what are our other options? Can we forgive? Can we realize it was an accident? What else is there besides our own feelings of justification and anger?

Considering the difficult people in our lives in the slightly positive light of the Bengali tea boy not only takes some of the charge out of our anger, it also opens us up to grow. Because if we can at least be willing to work with the frustration, the blind spots that they point out (every chance they flippin' get) then it gives us the opportunity to really honestly examine ourselves and maybe learn a little bit about our own habits as well.

And through that knowledge, maybe we get a little space of liberation and relief. Plus, nothing pisses menacing tea boys off like smiling patiently right through one of their crazy episodes of drama entitled "me me me time" starring Me as Me. The best revenge is to be happy and have good life! Take that! (I'm still working on it)

Confessions

I'm kind of a member of the punctuation police. And the pronunciation police. If someone says "NUKE-you-ler," I can basically never look on them with respect again.

I'm not proud of it. Confession!

Sometimes, though, people's mispronunciations just go too far, and I fully feel justified in pointing out the ridiculousness of their bold and stupid tongue.

Ever notice how in Back to the Future, Christopher Lloyd pronounces gigawatts "Jigga watts" like four hundred times and no one said anything to him? Or even bothered to fix it in post??

I know it's accepted pronunciation and language is functional...but that's like if I suddenly decided to start saying "yeah, I'm vacationing in Guh-maica this fall" or "know any good elephant gokes?"

Come on, Zemeckis. I'd expect this from Oliver Stone, but not from you.

TGIT

Tonight is the kind of night where you are hanging out with some red wine, or maybe watermelon lemonade (trademark: King of Drinks) and then someone just moseys on over and reminds you that something you "borrowed" three years ago is now needed once again to be in their possession immediately, and you're like Well I'm kind of loosened up right now, and it's friggin Thursday, so maybe this can wait 'til a more apropos time?

But oh no, they need it pronto. They're a busy guy, all right? They've got to update their Twitter in a few minutes here.

So you go check your garage (drink in hand. it's Thursday, after all) and you realize you don't have their stupid hedge trimmers and you know what? You would NEVER borrow hedge trimmers. Those hedge trimmers are no where near your person. So step off.

Why do people not respect Thursday? Check yourself.

My advice is, whatever you're drinking, if your homeboy tries to come by to collect something on a Thursday when it's 74 degrees and after 6 p.m., pretend whatever is in your glass is an Irish Car Bomb and you're ready to get something like "buckwild" and bust out your jazz fusion collection. They'll figure out pretty quick they don't want to stay long.

Harvest Time, or my I'm Excited list

We are coming into my favorite time of year - Harvest time. Or, colloquially, fall y'all.
There are several things I am excited about right now. And I don't mean to go all Oprah on you, but sometimes Oprah has rad ideas and we all just need to check ourselves before we get sassy with her.


Here's my I'm excited list.

1. Fall!
   Seriously. Fall is like inviting a luxurious but kind of off-standish Leopard over to your house to stay for a few months. He's pretty snooty at first. Then, you both realize you like to let your Lucky Charms stand in milk until they get nice and soggy and before you know it, you're reading comics together while you tend your roaring fire and the Leopard is baking you raspberry scones and telling you about the time he opened for Grace Jones in Tokyo.
   
   I will be making my Leopard friend some pumpkin pies from scratch and taking him shopping with me for new kicks - check out these babies:
   
   Harvest Leopard, you truly are a wonder. And oh, the matching scarves!


2. This new movie by Darren Aronofsky called the Black Swan (more on that in a second)


3. This video by Wolf People. And the song, Tiny Circle. Yeah, this is the jam. And thank you, skilled bearded musicians, for finally incorporating more flute into modern rock. Not since Thick as a Brick has the flute been such a worthy accompaniment a slamming track. Slamming!
   
   

Okay, this Black Swan movie is serious you guys. I know everyone loves Aronofsky because of Requiem for a Dream and they saw it and it rocked their world and they cried themselves to sleep for a few weeks or whatever after that blah blah.

But my first Aronofsky movie was the Fountain. And I totally wanted to take it home with me in place of my dreamtime cuddle friend, Admiral Baby Pillow. It really had an impact on me, sort of like how you feel after you drink too much blue drank at a birthday party. A little sick, but a little nice & fuzzy, too. 40% pleasant, 60% inspired.

And that's how this preview makes me feel, too. Except more like 71% scared, 25% inspired, 4% physically ill. I'm sure Oprah feels the same way.

TGIT

Thursdays are rad.

The only thing that can make Thursdays better is like, a drink and maybe some bounce house time.

Conan the Plumber

Look, I love you, Robert E. Howard, but you use the term “poop deck” with far too much regularity. AHEM.


property of the miraculous frank frazetta, not me.

Seriously, it seems like every time Conan is on a ship in one of Howard's rip-roaring, capitally adventur-rific and lusty outdoorsman stories full of wily maidens and magical sabertooth cats, he's got to go up and down the poop of the ship about 47 1/2 times before anything can happen.

That said, it's probably some of the best fiction ever written. Take that, Nathaniel Hawthorne, you limp-wristed girl's blouse!

MILLION DOLLAR IDEA OF THE WEEK

Non-molding gym shorts.
Think of it – you just finished a killer workout, you’re peeling the soaking fabric from your body and diving for the shower because you feel revoltingly gross and people are starting to whisper/faint.

Twenty minutes later, you’ve got “gym soap hair” (when you’ve used the “luxurious hand wash” provided to wash your scalp into a mullet) and you’re walking to your car in the freezing cold because the gym shower knob only has 2 settings: SURFACE OF THE SUN and ICE.

You throw your gym bag in the back seat of your car and fumble with the heater. You get home. You take real shower. You heat up some corn. You watch Netflix. You pass out over a bowl of corn.
You wake up at 3AM and slink off to bed.

You take the next day off from the gym. You deserve it and you kind of can't walk anymore.

Three days later, you decide you better get back to the gym (you’ve started putting butter on all that corn you’re eating) and go to grab your gym b-
WHOA!
What is that smell?
Whew, that is ripe! Did something die in your gym bag?
You unzip it – a wall of putrefaction punches you right in the eyeballs. What could it be? An ancient pair of dentures? Plague rats?

Then you find them…your gym shorts, left to huddle together in a damp ball amid puddles of your 4 day old sweat. Mold stink everywhere. Those shorts are DONE.
See, if you only had my No-Mold gym shorts all you have to do is worry about those gym showers. Terrifying.


Now we just have to think up a good name – No-Mold Gym Shorts doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Here is my starter list:

• Smell-Eaze.


• Flavians (ooh fashiony)


• Slander Free!


• Skrins.


• Cannonball King Shorty Shorts

Obviously, I need your help. Please send in non-mold gym shorts names (or your pick of the brilliant list above) by commenting below.

AMUSING VIGNETTES

For your reading pleasure, an amusing vignette in which I ask Daft Punk to score my movie.


A HOTEL ROOM, CALAIS. LATE EVENING.

ME: Hello, thank you for coming. This is such an honor.

Daft Punk/Thomas & Guy: Hi. Cheers.

ME: So, umm, I hope your agent told you what is going down here. Um, basically, I am making a movie and I'd like you two to do the score. I think you'll really be able to capture the mood of the piece.

DP/Thomas: What's the movie about?

ME: Well...in a few words, which of course won't do it justice...it's about a Viking girl who is shipwrecked in Medieval Japan.

There's lots of beautiful kimonos and martial arts training.

And battles! Also magic.

Are you two at all familiar with shinto?

DP/Guy: Of course we are.

ME: Haha, of course!

Daft Punk's "Face to Face" begins to play out of nowhere. My face gets red. Really red. I fumble at my jacket pocket.

ME: Hello? No! What? No, I said DON'T call. Yes, I'm there now. No, I forgot to change the ringtone. I'll call you back. I love you, too. No, I love you more. Just shut up, will you?
Me laughing nervously
Sorry about that. Damn tigers. Anyway...

DP/Thomas: No worries. Look, tell us more about your movie.

ME: Well, so the Viking girl is learning all these new things about poetry and earth magic and the daily ritual of bathing. So it's really kind of a Bildungsroman. But with mounted archers... and tea.

DP/Guy: Do you play any instruments?

ME: ummm, What was that? Sorry, you have kind of a thick accent.

DP/Guy: Do you play any instruments? Any at all?

ME: Oh yeah, piano and violin. ...

Well, actually I used to play piano for a long time and I was pretty good, but now I kind of can't play at all. I still remember all my scales, though. And violin I was always kind of rubbish at because I hated the chairs we had to sit in - so all I remember is the Masterpiece Theatre Theme.

DP/Guy & Thomas: Hmm.

They have a little side conference in what is presumably French. I only know how to say "Do you speak German?" in French, so there's no chance I'm going to piece their rapid whispers together. The tension is palpable.

DP/Thomas: Right - we'll score your movie.

ME: You Will??!

DP/Thomas: Yeah, what the hell.

DP/Guy: On one condition: you agree to make some of the tracks with us.

At first I am crestfallen. But then...I break out in a wide smile. And a happy rash.

CUT TO

Me sitting at a keyboard flanked by Daft Punk - one with a keytar, one at the drums and we are rocking out. I am just playing the G Major scale over & over. Jam Session! I imagine the end result would be something a little like a-this.


property of Daft Punk and Virgin records, not me.

Battle wand!

So, I was just trying to think of the coolest Pretending game I ever played as a child. It was probably the Make Your Own Radio Station game (I have hours of tapes where me and 3 friends sing disastrously off-pitch Disney songs interrupted occasionally by commercials about farting and tampons - forsooth, the unabashed innocence!) OR the Flea Junk game.

Flea junk was what I (and eventually everyone else, by my own clever machinations) called the pods the fell off the huge maple tree in my yard. When my dad raked the leaves, he made a very tall pile, that eventually was big enough to have crazy jumping "Sears Portrait Studio" style fun.
But inevitably we rolled onto some of these pods, which were often oozing a thick white liquid and they stank (I guess they're sort of the embryos of the tree and therefore all fertile and hormonal or something). So I had kind of a strong adversity toward them and their constant attempts to tree-mate with my jacket.

Eventually, I set down some ground rules to what had previously just been a jumping and flailing game.
Flea Junk (this name was pure propaganda to turn everyone else against the pods) was an evil, poisonous, fully sentient entity that wanted to attack us, and we were the Utopian ideal of pastoral goodness just trying to live our lives in this big pile of leaves and always do the right thing, but the Flea Junk would always be there - the classic Trickster - to try and corrupt us from the inside out and make us do things like not recycle our bubble wrap or slouch.

So of course to counter this Machiavellian chicanery, I had to use magic.
But not just any magic. It had to be a righteous magic of bravery and honor and Air Jordans. And so I developed the Battle Wand.




The Battle Wand was a piece of bendy bark that I found in the pile of leaves one time. And it was miraculous because you see the Battle Wand is not so much a physical thing, but an energy. It can travel through time & space and will arrive precisely at the moment it is needed, in whatever form is convenient for the Battle Wand at the time (I've found the Battle Wand can be a little on the lazy side when it comes to assuming physical form).

First of all, it basically has Undo powers over all of the Flea Junk's deviance. And if I had to, I could do some pirouetting to really take care of business. That Flea Junk never stood a chance!

The Battle Wand changes form, but always remains a beacon of truthfulness and friendship. Should you ever feel corruption is at your heels, simply cry out in your heart for the Battle Wand and it shall disperse all fleak junk style evil forthwith!
Probably in the form of something like a steering wheel or an iPhone - the Battle Wand is not that high-ranking on the creative thinking spectrum, either.

TRENDS: Big Pimpin' Edition

My pal Megan is an artist. Not the fake kind that has their CPA, and then when you ask them to hang out, instead of being chill and talking about Andrei Tarkovsky movies, instead likes to dart around like they're all eccentric and organic and have "Happenings" where they drink all the Night Train in your pantry and talk about having a sit-in. (the genie from Aladdin is one such example of this type of "artist")

But Megan is fly. She went to art school (come on, who didn't, ha) & her art is really sharp and kind of disturbing in totally cuddly, relatable ways. For example, she may have a really great drawing of some friends genuinely enjoying a rhubarb pie, but then you see their teeth and you're like, "weird what's going on there?"

Plus she's a 1984 Wood Rat and obviously deserves the kudos of a princess from Valhalla! mmm, kudos.

She even came up with these tremendously cute AND Ready-to-Wear pre-fall sneakers. Her pre-fall collection is pre-Fab if you ask me. And I know you would.





I think she's still selling the shoes, in case you are smart enough to realize they are THE Must Haves of the season. Check out her Tumbler HERE for more info and be amazed and awed. Or her blog HERE where you'll be instantly at least 3 times cooler (like temperature-wise; it will make you feel at ease and chilled off. Out. Whatev, i didn't go to Weather Doctor school).

Dear Mr. Sketch

Dear Sir,
I would like to point out the fact that your smelly markers are missing a crucial scent that could really put your business back on the map.
Of course everyone remembers the cherries and the mints (or the wonderful Burned Marshmellow) that they sniffed themselves sterile over in the loud, chaotic environment of 3rd grade art class. But that time has passed – much of your audience is now in their mid-20s and, while I am sure we would all thoroughly enjoy receiving a packet of your scented markers as a gift, $12 is just too much to pay.

Unless.
If you were to integrate a flavor so exceptionally delightful that no one would be able to live without your marker. I believe I have that flavor. Are you ready?


Ranch.

Say it out loud.
It could color a off-white with peppercorn dots.
Trust me – if you could capture the olfactortasticness of restaurant ranch dressing (just think about it, served as a side with your club sandwich and fries – you’re just getting hungry thinking about it, aren’t you, Mr. Sketch?) no one over the age of 5 and under the age of 100 would be able to resist. Scented Markers would be back on the map! Back on top!
Ball’s in your court, Sketch.

It's babysitting, not baby making

Why do all these movies from my childhood show some young, naughty teenager babysitting kids and then her boyfriend shows up and within 3 minutes they’re making out hardcore on the couch half-way to 3rd base (which I believe is the base of gazing deep into each other’s braces)

Wouldn’t taking care of other people’s minions be the opposite of an aphrodisiac? I think it actually keeps girls single at least until the end of high school if they babysit regularly. It just seems to be a perpetuated urban myth of the horndog babysitter and that needs to stop. Babysitters are schoolmarms, pre-marm. They’re not Alicia Silverstone. You just got called out, late-80s to mid-90s movies.

I think actual babysitting goes a little more like this:

TRENDS

Ankleweights.

The new black?

Pursebook, Or how self-help books automatically make you look like an unstable mental patient

So when I’m going around doing stuff, I like to have a book in case of some down time. And I don't have a personal cell phone, so if I am getting emails/calls, they're probably work related so not exactly the best way to relax.

Thus I have found, it helps to have a book on me at all times one because I like reading with my eyes (as opposed to letting my eyes wander carelessly around the room and perhaps linger too long on some awkward location on someone’s person and then they catch me and I’m like dang it, eyes! I knew I should have given you something to do!) and two because most of the options in doctors’ offices or DMV lobbies aren’t exactly my favorite thing to read. (sorry, Hot Hobos Quarterly)

So I keep a book in my purse. As I am always (barely) trying to grow and become a better person, I tend to read self-help. Currently, my pursebook is When Things Fall Apart by Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron.

Here is a picture of the cover:

It’s really a wonderful book, one of those that you can have for years and re-read over and over, each time finding some new, helpful insight that strikes you. I have probably read it three or four times and it’s one of my favorites.

The problem?

Well…it sort of makes me look like a suicidal hippie. And not even because of the title. Because of my neurotic chain reaction after someone asks me about it.

One time, I was reading it over lunch at work, and an office lady walked by and went, “Oh, what are you reading?” (OK, first of all I hate when people ask this…it’s like, just look at the cover if you want to know and also why do you even care? This isn’t a book club – this is work/Sparta. I’m citing you for insubordination!)

Begrudgingly, I held up the book so she could see the title…and of course she looked at me with this droopy dog face as if to say, “Oh do you have cancer? Or maybe you’re one of those Sally Jesse Raphael moms and your teenager beats you?”

And so of course I felt the need to clarify.

“No, I’m not sad - it’s about Buddhism.”

And the lady cocked her head at me only without sympathy now, and instead with sort of a “does it smell like waffles in here to you?” look and said kind of bluntly, “Oh are you into that?”

And I was like, “…Uhhh…Well, I guess so – it’s more about putting compassion into every day life.” But by then she was totally weirded out (maybe because she was expecting to have to comfort a dying hippie–or am I really that snobby?) and was already on her way out of the kitchen while she said something like, “Oh okay.”
So…I kind of stopped reading it at work and other public places for a while. But it’s such a helpful book, I always wind up carrying it around again.

And anyway, don’t judge me just because I want to be a better person. That book helps me and probably countless others so who cares if someone like Office Drone Susan McJagginstacks doesn’t get it. Insubordination!

And that type of silly neurotic behavior is exactly why I need to be reading the book in the first place. If you’re going to go to pieces & get all uppity when someone takes a polite-if-nonchalant interest in what you are reading, chances are you should to be reading from the Self-help section anyway. Thank you, Pema Chodron. You have changed my life – sorry I always fall short of your instructions, but I know you understand.

MILLION DOLLAR IDEA OF THE WEEK

Hot Hobos!

Maybe in calendar form, like in that British teadrinking naked ladies movie, where they're like, "We're doing this to save our friend from cancer...even though we're a group of at least 15 people so couldn't we just take up a collection instead?" ? (that punctuation is correct. Check the Nasdaq if you don't believe me. And yes I know that movie is based on a true story. Suck it, cancer!)

Or maybe a quarterly publication with hobo interviews and steamy pics (for fan service)?

Moustaches

Really? Why do you still have one?

Gross. Hello, it’s not 1871 or prior anymore, people. We all know who the last president to have a moustache was (hint: it was one of the bathtub sticking ones)…and frankly, I don’t understand why you would want to be associated with the fattest, richest president in our lexicon of fat rich presidents.

And don’t those get food stuck in them? And like, numerous other particles?

Of course, I'm sure there are some perks

And, I can see how they act as front line nose hairs for all of the pollution and poisonous gas floating around in our oxygen and I am always very grateful of my nose hairs filtering air and making it a more reasonable temperature for my throat and lungs to deal with. So I’m not knocking nose hairs in general – nose hairs are great! Just seeing other gentlemen’s roam around freely is sort of…old worldish to me.

I do enjoy those really long handlebar ones that like genies and stuff have. Genies are great! And I bet if you have a genie, you don’t even need nose hairs anymore. Just wish for cleaner air. Al Gore, I’m looking at you.

Chibi of the Week

When I was about 11, I got a sweet new 10 speed - read: first bike without training wheels - that was black and silver, with neon pink styling. It ruled and everyone who saw it was hugely jealous. And rightly so.

The problem?

I was kind of a short 11 year old and my feet didn't really touch the pedals unless the seat was all the way lowered and even then I was straining with my tip-toes.
Hiding this from my parents was hard enough...but actually getting the thing up and hoisting myself onto the seat and then moving it forward was nothing short of a Herculean feat of determination that I think required the use of a magic flute I had lying around.

One day, I was riding (well, pushing and jumping at) the coveted 10 speed around at a family member's house (I had used a porch step to tip myself into the seat) and I suddenly lost a jelly sandal. The jelly had been just thick enough to give not only proper traction, but the full length of limb necessary to properly power the bike.

I felt a terrible white hot fear in my stomach and almost like I might faint. And then...a moment of clarity.

I was obviously going to die, yes, but I didn't have to flail around like a scared baby and make my last moments horrifically embarrassing. I could go down with dignity.
The bike was losing momentum. I only had a few seconds left now. I thought about how I had begged for the bike, even though I knew I wasn't really big enough to ride it yet and realized we all have dreams. Big dreams that maybe we're not quite ready for, but as long as we keep dreaming, even if we die in a horrible bicycle-squishing-our-guts-out-through-our-nostrils accident, that's what makes the dream and living all worth it.
Seconds later, the bike stopped and tipped sideways into the grass.

I'm safe, I thought for a second. My belief has carried me through to a nice soft grass landing.
But not to be.
My upper torso hit the grass, but my right leg - and the bike on top of it - hit the scratchy new sidewalk concrete like a bag of melty ice cubes. I heard them break. It was awful.


I looked down because I couldn't feel my knee, and saw a chunk of it was missing. Somehow, despite landing in the grass, my chin was all scratched up (I think it was the handlebar - that wicked evil 10 speed).
I dragged myself to the porch (I had only gotten as far as the sidewalk in front of the house) and examined my knee.


"I can see the bone!" I yelled, my eyes darting around in a panic for the nearest adult.

That night when my mom picked me up, I had a lot of band-aids. And a lot of donettes in my tummy. Apparently they're the only thing that keep knee injuries from feeling like the icy hand of death. Thanks, wicked 10 speed.

Foreign Blogs, or an Exercise in Humility

We all get a little smug and comfy up on our high horses sometimes. Usually, it's the places you'd least expect that kick you right down off that high horse and into a puddle of dung beetle sombreros.

Today, I decided to check out what happens when I'm on my own blog (checking for spelling errors! I absolutely do not go back and reread my own posts or look at my own pictures or video for amusement. I'm doing a spellcheck. Spelling.) and you hit Next Blog.

Normal enough, right? Don't act so cool, I know you do it, too.

Immediately, I was taken to a series of photography blogs with (I'm just going to say it okay?) odd, slightly amateurish pictures of wedding parties (all nontraditional like - so maybe the bride is made up like a pretty pretty princess standing under a tree and the groom is three feet away, wearing basketball shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt to show off his dynamic arm tats. Also, he's wearing sunglasses. And they don't even look like they're into each other. "Thus our story unfolds" the caption (should have) said) were the main focus. And then a bit farther down the page, a few pictures of babies with food all over their faces but in Black and White (now that's avant garde).

So, clearly, I kept clicking.

And curiously, I very soon found myself roped into a group of blogs in another language. A language I didn't understand. A language I don't even recognize. The first visual was so arresting, I had to take a screen-shot.

Gel Kizim indeed.

Kind of funny, yeah? Awkward geocities format, obviously very little SEO optimization and even less consideration given to make the format or color palette appealing. I felt smug and condescending. Oh well, at least you've got that child there, Oguz. Maybe people will read your blog one day, poor ponce...then I saw his followers. 16. 16?!

I don't even have UHH follower. Let alone 16 followers who would painstakingly check out my bi-annual updates and grainy cell phone photos of me and my kid in front of our scary haunted house curtains. (those curtains are the kind an old lady would lovingly hang, and then die in front of) And I have animation! Well, drawings.

Anyway, I felt a little taken down off my pedastal. Where were the really bad foreign blogs? The ones where someone hasn't even manipulated their pre-formated design scheme and has animated gifs of things like magic dust or jumping bunnies?

I clicked on.

The next blog was even worse. And by worse, I mean better.

No need to overdo it with cuteness, Olga.

She has an adorable cat-pumpkin drawing, a funny blog title in English pun no less and a sexy picture of her and her cocaine dealer boyfriend living it up in the Moscow night. Moscow has the most billionaires in the world, did you know that? And clearly, Alice and her miraculous breasts have taken advantage. She's probably one of them, in fact. Because she had over 400 followers. That's kind of cheating though, because maybe teenage boys stumbled onto her blog by searching something about bras and became followers in the hopes that somewhere, somehow this foreign woman would post pictures of her boobs.

Foreign blogs are better than me. It's clear. But I just couldn't stop, I had to find something that was bad in a true way. Not just a wedding photo way, that's such an easy bad. Anyone can do that kind of bad.

Next blog.

I was hopeful.

There were no pictures. And the layout and text design left very much for the creative neurotic to desire. The posts were long blocks of text with no paragraphs or even spaces between some periods. I was starting to feel smug again. Even jolly.

Then the followers. 138. 138 people would rather go blind reading what, I don't know Moby Dick in Portugese? than look at my inoffensive pictures and charmingly droll anecdotes? Apparently. But the design was crap so I still felt kinda safe in my mind tower.

Next blog.

I quit. I quit the internet.

First of all, there was a song. And not the blaring hip hop loop that made me want to eat a lit firecracker, but a hauntingly sweet melody where a (probably) parisian woman whispered things in Finnish as a harpsichord danced about. It was beautiful. And there was Latin on the page (note to self: Must put some ancient greek on my page somewhere, I know enough of it - Augmented Fricative! Delta! Psi!) which automatically gives it depth. How many followers? Take a wild leaping guess.

WRONG! There were over 1700. And I couldn't even figure out how to add myself to their followers because it was in a different language. I did click on one of their adsense ads, though. It was cute. And you know, power to the people and all that.

So I guess it's good for all of us, when - for whatever nonexistent reason - we're certain we're god of the internet that we realize there are people out there who are better than us. Without even trying. They're like the stars in the sky that make up constellations. Those stars get noticed. But most of us...we're just the little winky ones you can't tell if they're lowflying airplanes or not. And no one cares. Into the black abyss. Of night...ancient greek things...i go...Hamlet and stuff...

HOW TO THROW AWAY YOUR BILLS

That sounds a little more responsibility-avoidant than I intended; I just mean, once you've paid them and now they're trash...or if you're getting those
“Pre-Qualified – you get a million dollars free of interest if you sign up for this crap credit card and then, as soon as you have the cash and/or stuff you so ignorantly thought would distract you from the true emptiness of existence, we will promptly begin to hound you ruthlessly and transmute the shame you could possibly have learned from, into utter defeat that will probably cause you to self-mutilate” credit cards ads
or
“this is not a coupon, it's a subtle lure for you to come into this junk shop that we abbrv BB&B and strain your eyes until you find something you could kind of possibly need someday if there was a zombie apocalypse and all of the answering machines in the world were broken, so you should buy it because today only you'll get almost $0.40 off...just buy it!" coupons


or cell phone ads, all of which probably have your name, address and social security number on them somewhere, and you just want them out of your foyer. Slash off the floor of your living room. In a neat stack. Slash thrown behind the couch.

So I have a step-by-step solution to rid yourself of this paperwork.

1. Recycle it! Okay, harder than it sounds, because if you're like me, you live in a ridiculous city that doesn't have a regular curbside recycling program and it costs like an extra $300 in civic taxes if you do want to get the special blue bin for your trash pickup, but if you don't have that kind of skrill just lying around (and your dumb city still doesn't recognize the Barter System) and there is a recycling plant, but it's 20 miles away in a scary, wobbly part of town where hobos with patchy facial hair hang around drinking their moonshine!

   So, you know, recycling isn't always the first option, although it SHOULD be. Sorry to SHOULD all over you, but it's true.





2. Throw it away! Okay, again, harder than it sounds for a few reasons.

   a). Aforementioned hobos (if you live in the wobbly parts of town) are probably sorting through your trash regularly and looking for items they can eat/use in some kind of internet pyramid scheme using your good name and (questionable) credit history.

   So how do you avoid this?

   b). in the kinds of dumb cities that don't have regular recycling programs and would get you to this Stage 2b level of a predicament, it is a given that anywhere you go, teenagers, hobos, children, orcs, telemarketers or other minions of evil are looking to steal your sensitive information and use it in online pyramid schemes. So you have to protect your trash pretty much everywhere you might live. Even nice, non-wobbly parts of town.

So, to keep all of us from going through the horror of having our good names dragged through the mud by guys in suits with dollar signs all over them, I have developed a step-by-step guide to safely dispose of unwanted paper documents with your personal informaysh all up on them.

Note: this is only to be used if you absolutely, positively cannot recycle your papers. Don't add to the gyre! Please, think of the children (the non evil ones).

1. Locate documents of Trashfulness:

2. Open and empty contents of regular plastic bag.

   Note: this is to be used only if you cannot recycle the plastic bag, which can be done at any Whole Foods grocery store (and most other grocery stores nowadays).

   
   
   

3. Obtain additional items whose use has expired. Things such as:

• triple-used kleenex

• egg shells

  





• 46 year old 3/4-drank (drinken? I'm never clear on drink's past tense in the genitive) iced coffee with half & half and sugar in the raw and possibly honey that has been in the fridge for 46.8 years and is somehow not a fully sentient being by now as it is basically a creepy crawly bacteria cesspool.

• crumpled receipts (not only good as distracting filler, but also need their own place to hide since possibly sensitive information is reflected therein regarding your proclivity for Jones soda)

• pieces of sock felt (probably some between your toes right now!)

• carrot, lemon peel and spinach “feces” leftover from juicing





• band-aids that won't stick anymore

• used tea leaves (used here means the leaves have been re-brewed maybe 11 times over the past week and if a British person so much as smelled them, they would shrink back in horror and then look at you crying and saying, “Why?” with their hand on their chest)

• incense ash

  





• empty jumbo-size South African wine bottle (this is more just to maliciously taunt hobos)
  

Mix any iteration of the above in with your sensitive documentation – making sure that the ugliest items are poking out of the top of the bag.

4. Dispose!

You can now sleep at night with the confidence of knowing your sensitive junk mail and old bills are safe from being perused due to your odd and disgusting rubbish.

I am so confident in this procedure's effectiveness, that I am giving it to you – Absolutely Free!

If you are not completely satisfied in the next 30 days, you can take me to court and sue me for a Million Dollars and the judge will throw it out of court because that is a ridiculous sum to sue over bad throwing away your garbage instructions. Express contract though it may be, you're asking for too much in compensation and besides, I'll tell you upfront I am basically only good for consulting on One Thing – starting an ice cream delivery service. Check yourself!

Watermelon Survey

I feel it is my duty to fill out this survey as a representative of the human species. It's only fair.
  (note: Lunch ladies do not count as homo sapiens sapiens. Lab tests have concluded they are made only of hair nets, pudding and steamed up spectacles resting on broom handles, operated by highly adapted mice. DON'T BE FOOLED)

KING OF DRINKS

Watermelon Lemonade.
There are no other words.

I don't know if I've properly expressed this yet, but I am having a torrid love affair with my juicer (the magical Omega 8005). The Ace is really the keeper of the juicer; he gives it hay and a good rub down after each energetic undertaking, and puts a blanket over it at night. I am like the willful horsemaster who pushes the juicer to its limits, taking it over higher and higher fences and through rougher and wilder country until it is finally able to achieve the greatness truly etched on its soul.

Today, for the first time this summer we got a watermelon. I was really freaked out because it was a big boy (about 15 pounds. We named it Jeffrey the Big Boy.) and I was fearful that the juicer couldn't take it. But I left it in the Ace's capable hands to get it ready for the ride, and I must say that, as always, the Omega did not disappoint.

First, Jeffrey himself.

 (property of Frederator, not me)

I left the kitchen for about 5 minutes and upon my return, the Ace had already carved Jeff up into 4 massive pieces (each about 1 foot long, 6 inches deep---I'm not sure if that's the precise mathematic way in which one renders melon measuring, but just go with me). We both tucked in and the flavor was heavenly. All you could want and more from a summer watermelon. Succulent, bright fuschia dotted with seeds, and that earthy sweetness that makes your mouth act like a rabid weasel going at some type of smaller vermin that would be its prey.

Then, we started juicing. I was still enjoying my slice of Jeffrey (seriously, if someone had tried to ask for a bite, I would have snarled and tried to punch their throat off) when the Ace informed me that we were only using half of good old Jeffy - the remaining portion was still in the fridge! GASP!

Then, the juicing commenced. The Omega 8005 was a champ right from the get go. We were yielding about a cup & 1/2 of juice for each slice of melon. It was a tremendous achievement.
And then the tasting.

Imagine the flavor of Bubbilicious Watermelon Wave. Then forget that cuz that's not how watermelons tastes. THEN, imagine the best summer watermelon you ever had. Then Extrapolate that times 50. And then, add a drizzle of unicorn blood and some stardust. THAT is what fresh watermelon juice tastes like. It tastes like magic.

Once I came down from my cloud, we juiced 2 lemons, added 1/4 cup of fresh honey - et voila; the King of all drinks was born.
I encourage everyone to go out, find your own Jeffrey the Big Boy and start drinking his guts like NOW. You're basically just waiting to die unless you have tasted freshly made watermelon lemonade. This is where real living begins!

(property of Tamachan87, not me)