I am a big fan of the show House, M.D. Not for any particular reason, really, aside from the average reasons anyone really likes a TV show: good writing, good acting, some jokes, sexual and human interest tension, blah blah blah – and can I get a WUT WUT for killer singles in the soundtracks! I probably like House as much as I do simply because I’ve been watching it since the first season (thank el yah-way-o for Hulu). I mean, sometimes I’ll watch Grey’s Anatomy with my roommate. It’s good, too. But I don’t care. It’s been around too long for me to catch up now, and anyhow, why would I leave House for Grey’s??? That’d just be dumb.
One reason many people like House is because Dr. House is soooo… recognizably adult inappropriate. He’s like the Bentley “Phantom” version of the smartest, wittiest, driest asshole you’ve ever known or had to deal with in life. I LOVE those kinds of people. Especially when I can watch them instead of having to actually deal with them. Here is a great example of “Drunk Dr. House and the Fucked Up Shit He’ll Say”:
Ohhhhh vagina, you are such a goofy word. And when wet, drunk, intelligent actors-playing-doctors-on-TV speak of you from laps, I truly can’t help but laugh in that horrifying way that shocks and upsets my cat. She’s lazy anyway. I’m just gonna keep on laughing.
Lately I’ve been feeling the urge more strongly to use the few meager artistic talents I have for good. Or perhaps I should say I’ve realized how I’d like to once again feel comfortable saying I HAVE any artistic talents, and given my long hiatus from the world of regular long and challenging rehearsals, I can’t really say my CURRENT talents amount to much beyond an ability to reminisce.
So Jamesdad* invited me to join his band and I accepted. We’re called “Egyptian Cotton.” We’re a covers band.
Okay, that’s a lie. We don’t have a name. And we’ve agreed to have some cover songs in our arsenal in case we’re needing a break from Jamesdad’s songs, but that’s about it. Honestly, given how splendidly our improv jam session went tonight wherein I scorned Jamesdad’s lyrical love lines in favor of “Mr. Herbie the squishy cat that has my heart because he is squishy,” I’m not sure covers will ever much be needed.
In other news, my cat has become grossly fat so I’ve put her on a diet. Day 2 and she still looks like a cross between Shamu and Jaba the Hut. Oh well. Baby steps. I, on the other hand have – NO SHIT – gained 10 pounds in the last two months!!! AMAZING!!! Looking at me, you’d think I’d descended from a long line of pudding cups. Not a good look, I tell ya.
Maybe I should be more upset or stressed about it, but honestly, I’m just… not. I recently left my job and am actually HAPPY about me for the first time in so long. Apparently this happiness has cause me to become delusional, and so I am easily assured when I hear friends say things like “eh, 10 pounds in two months? Yeah, me too. You’re fine. If you gain it fast, you can lose it fast.” Hahaha I have no idea if Rinn’s* logic is even close to true, but I’m happy enough to NOT CARE. Sounds good to me. And my pants still fit, so at least I can not care wilst rocking trousers, should I opt for that route. (Being unemployed, though, does mean a lot more no-pants time. It’s kiiiind of awesome. No pants dance off for dayyyyyys!)
I think it’s great when friends say “oh, you’ve gained weight? I can’t tell at all!” because maybe they need their eyes checked. But my personal belief as to why friends say that is because THEY DON’T CARE. It’s not their problem. They aren’t worried about it. They aren’t worried about you. If they were, they’d (hopefully) say something.
You know, for as many lives as obesity and starvation/malnutrition claim every single year, I truly hope we can get to a point of tactfully and constructively addressing weight issues with our peers. It’s not hard with cigarettes – virually all of my smoking friends take their breaks with the seemingly-obligatory ‘gonna go whittle away at my life span’ with the non-smoking friends saying ‘when are you gonna quit?’ – why is it harder with food?? I barely know anyone who’s quit smoking cold turkey, and I similarly know virtually nobody who has lost weight or beat anorexia by “just quitting.” Maybe someday we’ll get a Nicorette patch for eating issues. In the meantime, I’m glad my friends trust me to get correct enough to deny any awareness to my sudden increased buoyancy. You guys are the TITTIES.
Here’s to taking care of you, even if it means accidentally becoming a temporary stand-in for the marshmallow monster from Ghostbusters!
*a nickname, clearly
I’ve been working on some posts, but mama’s BUSY. In the meantime, I really feel that nothing says “Friday” quite like a good ‘that’s what she said’ joke. So. You go ahead and GUESS what day it is.
Honestly, if Inception gave me any more of a cloner when I saw it, I think I’d be dead from lack of blood flow to the rest of my appendages. I don’t care if there were holes. I don’t care if it was eerily similar to a comic/graphic novel (I don’t think they’re the same thing, I just can’t remember which genre was accusing Nolan of the ripoff) that’s been out for decades. I’m like that wacky bear/cat/camp kid/robot from the EVO vs. iPhone4 video. I DON’T CARE. INCEPTION GAVE MY MOVIE-LOVING SIDE WHAT IT MUST HAVE. Which meant that I got a cloner. WIN-WIN.
It’s been a WHILE since I first saw this “Ads for Men” video [and wanted to sit next to Mark Little just so I could drool while looking into his eyes, wishing he’d make jokes just for me]. I still can’t stop laughing about it, though! I mean, I have never seen ANYTHING karate kicking the statue of liberty in the tit! I AM prepared to be SO FUCKING SHORN! I think I want to be married and buried to this.*
*I don’t particularly care about getting married and I definitely don’t want to be buried. I want to be impaled by a narwhal and hauled down to the bottom of the ocean for my farewell. After all my usable parts have been harvested, of course.
I started this blog for one reason, which quickly grew into many reasons to continue on with it. But the inspirational reason was because of the totally whack-ass shit I was overhearing at work (or ‘hearing’ via email, etc. Really, that is a totally unimportant detail. But now you know.) Then I wasn’t working anymore. Not the blog’s fault. But it happened. HOWEVER! I AM RE-EMPLOYED! I am afraid to say that I anticipate this new set-up to be far less… um… quote-worthy, largely due to my co-workers lacking the extreme “fear of the unknown/everything ever discussed on local news reports” which fueled the plethora of totally bizarre and hilariously ignorant comments of yore. Fortunately, though, I am now situated in a fantastic setting for epic people watching, and I still work with guys. And folks, guys are fucking idiots. Thank God. Because idiots fuel the fire that run this blog, and if I am running short on idiots in my life, this blog can’t function. (On the other hand, when I find myself completely surrounded by nothing but idiots, it becomes increasingly impossible to find idiocy ironic or funny. So please, whatever you do, DON’T send me any idiots in the mail. I’ve got plenty. Thanks.)
PBJ, as he shall be called because of his penchant for referring to acronymized businesses and institutions by their equivalent sandwich name, stopped by my office (YEAH! AN OFFICE!!! WITH A DOOR!!!!!! It’s amazing.) to say ‘You know, you’re not a looker. I mean, you aren’t hideous to look at or anything, but you aren’t… you know… *sluhDAM! sluhDAM!*’ Yes, there were the somewhat-onomatopoeically-implied/expected hand gestures and hip thrusts with that news flash from sandwich man.
I think you know what this means, folks. This blog is definitely back in business.
Do you ever feel like you’re a weirdo? And I don’t mean that in a “keep Portland weird” sort of ‘I’m weird, but where before I was a lone weird wolf, now my pack has grown so everyone I know is a weirdo and we are a giant wolfpack of weirdos.’ (aka anyone at the clown house on Alberta, nahmsayn??) I mean, like, have things about you that y0u can’t change – or would change if you could but are secretly waiting for someone to discover your weird things and think they are really great and not like hairy warts at all?
Well. even if you are a warty weirdo, it’s okay. Because this music video exists. You are almost certainly not weirder than this. IF ANYONE CAN COME UP WITH A WAY TO EXPRESS THEIR EMOTIONS ABOUT THE HOT CHIP – I FEEL BETTER VIDEO THAT IS MORE ARTICULATE THAN ‘UMMMM… UH…. NO WORDS…’ I WILL CONSIDER GIVING YOU A DOLLAR. i might not. but i’ll think about it. it’ll honestly depend on how far away from me you live.