Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song

...Every Rose Has It's Thorn.

ahhh, sweet, sweet Poison. Back in high school, their lyrical stylings taunted me much like Double-Stuff Oreos taunt Kirstie Alley today. I wanted to love them, but I knew no good could come from our joining.

It's Flashback Tuesday!

I remember sitting in Geometry class and mooning over this guy named Alex who sat across from me. He was, to put it in the teen lingo of my youth, like totally boss, ya know? Alex loved Poison and drew their logo on his trapper keeper a gazillion times trying to get it just right. Anyway, brilliant little geek that I was I figured if I professed an interest in skanky no-talent hair bands, then maybe he'd like me. Maybe he'd see past the glasses and braces! Maybe he'd ask me to the Prom! Oh rapture!

Little did I realize back then that not all hair bands are alike - at least not to their fans. So you can imagine how badly my first attempt at flirtation crashed and burned when I innocently asked him if he'd heard the new Bon Jovi album, Slippery When Wet, and didn't he think it was as good as Poison?

How was I supposed to know that there was an underground war being waged between Poison fans and Bon Jovi fans? Who knew that comparing Poison to Bon Jovi was tantamount to committing a mortal sin and was enough to get me sent to Teen Angst Hell for the rest of my sophomore year?

Needless to say Alex and I never hooked up. He found some skanky ho who would take her top off at concerts and I drifted deeper into nerddom.

Now all I can do is re-live that agonizing time through inane blog postings. Thank god I still have Bon Jovi, though: (lighters up, y'all!)

"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame,
darlin' you give love a bad name!

An angel's smile is what you sell
You promise me heaven then put me through hell"

Thursday, June 23, 2005

I Like the Night Life, I Like to Boogie...

Halloween 04
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.
...and so it's time to start thinking about this year's Halloween costume!

I know it's early but I like to be prepared - besides the Halloween Party that The Man and I go to is pretty cut-throat. People start making (yes, I said "making" as in needle, thread, hot glue, papier-mache mock-ups of the White House - the works!)their costumes months in advance for this thing! Of course, when you go to a Halloween party where most of the guests are drag queens you're bound to see some pretty spectacular costumes...

Last year I met a guy who was dressed up as the Wicked Witch of the East - he looked exactly like her right down to the warty nose! He painted himself green and made his own nose, people!!! He even made a broom because he didn't think any of the store-bought brooms looked authentic enough! Now that's dedication to one's art!

So last year I went as the battered housewife - complete with a black eye, a baby attached to my leg, a stomach that made me look about 12 months pregnant, and a pack of smokes in my bra. Now I have to come up with something to top that. It has to be good - but not too good otherwise some of the pissier drag queens will pull my hair and stomp on my feet with their stilleto heels. Ouch!

Any ideas?

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

You might think I'm delirious, When I Run You Down...

Why is it that I can think of 100s of things to write about while I’m driving in to work, but my mind goes blank whenever I sit down to type? WHY???

…and speaking of driving to work let me hep all of you out there to some of the unwritten rules of driving in Dallas:

1) 60 mph is the default speed limit on every street. I don’t care if the sign says 35 mph, it’s 60 -- trust me.

2) There is a Starbucks on every corner so don’t slam on your brakes and cut in front of me just so you don’t miss the entrance to that particular strip mall. Your double-venti-mocha-triple-piss-cup will be waiting for you at the next corner, bitch.

3) If you’re going to drive like an asshole, don’t put your name and phone number on your back windshield. I don’t care if you CAN sell my house in 90 days – you still can’t drive for shit and you need to be dragged out of your minivan and beat upside the head with your Jesus Fish. And now that I have your name and number I just may call you up at 2:oo AM to verbally beat you to a pulp.

Friday, June 17, 2005

The First Rule of Mouse Club...

Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.
...make lots of money so you can be the horrible skank you were destined to be and take over the world!

I can just see the line outside of Best Buy when this comes out on DVD on July 12: teenage girl, teenage girl, pedophile, teenage boy, teenage girl, Catholic priest, teenage girl, Girl Scout Troop Leader, teenage girl, Rosie O'Donnell, teenage girl, teenage boy...

It's too bad they couldn't time the release date to coincide with the Michael Jackson verdict - pedophiles and pop-tarts of the world, UNITE!

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

You Oughta Know...

...that you're a has-been so don't charge me $75 for a ticket!

I used to really dig Alanis. I loved Jagged Little Pill, I got a perverse kick out of her playing God in Dogma, and I enjoyed Under Rug Swept (not as great as JLP, but what is?), and was pretty neutral towards So-Called Chaos. Her slide into mediocrity happened pretty gradually but now, at least to me, she is firmly entrenched in the has-been rocker category.

To mark the 10th anniversary of JLP she's putting out a "new" album full of her old songs. But get this - they're all acoustic! Wow! How original! How bleeding edge! Really, how many acoustic / unplugged versions of her old shit can she expect us swallow? Isn't there a statute of limitations on re-releasing your old songs? If there isn't there should be.

Meh. Maybe this is just a sign that I'm getting old and curmudgeonly. Maybe these darn kids today really like acoustic versions of old crap.

Our legal system may not be perfect...

...but at least it beats the "justice" meted out by a Pakistani tribal council.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Things that really piss me off...an on-going series

I'm starting to believe that those little push-through plastic drug packs, like the ones encasing Sudafed, are made by evil underground gnomes who want nothing more than to incapacitate us surface-dwellers so they can finally realize their dream of world-domination....

Or maybe they're made by Chinese prison laborers who don't give a fuck that some bourgeois, running-dog, capitalist lackey like myself can't open them. Whoever the hell is in charge of making them just know that I've contacted Satan and reserved a special place in Hell just for you.

Friday, June 10, 2005

More Clever Advertising

Originally uploaded by whisperingibis.
I think the photo in this vintage drug ad says it all. Take a look at the rest of the ads in the slideshow, and then mellow out with a little thorazine...

ahhh! sweet candy!

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Oh, the fucking irony!

I remember the first time I surfed the net - oh those many moons ago - on an Apple with a 14.4 kbps modem. Unlike my sullen and silent DSL connection, that modem hummed and clicked and made little rubber-band tweaking noises that let me know that it was really WORKING, dammit!

What I remember thinking that first time was, "Jeez, what's with all the ads?" I felt bombarded by flashing, poorly-designed graphical ads that left me with a headache and a desire to crawl back into my cave and communicate via smoke-signals to my neo-Luddite pals. I was so naive back then.

Now I barely even register the ads that infest commercial websites. (I use Firefox as my browser so that helps, too. Using Firefox also has the added benefit of making me feel all geeked-up and cool in a wannabe-techie kind of way - but I digress...) There are times, however, when a website ad catches my eye. Sometimes I'm attracted by the ad's design, sometimes by its flashy graphics, and sometimes by its text.

I have to say that Google has some of the more ironic - and head-scratching - ads I have ever seen. I love their little in-text ads that purportedly pertain to the content of the site. I know they have their dirty little crawlers picking through websites (and now e-mail) searching for key words and phrases much like a mama gorilla picking through her offspring's hair for bugs. I'm sure there's some technical marketing term for what they do, I just don't care enough to look it up - besides I'm pretty happy with the image of them as flea-picking apes.

Every time I go to the Blogger log-in page I am reminded that I could make money with my blog - if only I would allow them to infest my little piece of cyber-heaven with their insidious little ads. For the $0.05 a week that advertising revenue might generate, however, I'm never tempted to take them up on their offer.

So I blame Google for the infestation of tiny text ads that "sponsor" parts of websites. The ad on this page, I think, sums up everything that is wrong with advertising. (If you need a log-in use bugmenot.com) Look closely at the small box to the right of the picture.

The NY Times story on the unwritten policy of gang-rape in the Sudan is sponsored by Kinsey.

Define irony.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Oh Heavenly Potato Chip!

Ok, so I'm still baffled by all of the divine food products that have suddenly started showing up. The latest apparently is the visage of Jesus Christ gracing a potato chip:
One Valentine's Day, her brother found a heart-shaped potato chip, but no one in the family had ever seen what emerged from a bag of Lay's sour cream and onion potato chips a couple of weeks ago: an oval measuring roughly 1 1/2 inches in diameter, in which Rosalie Lawson saw the image of Jesus Christ.
First, there was a grilled cheese sandwich with the likeness of the Virgin Mary, then there was a pretzel in the shape of the Virgin Mary cradling baby Jesus, and now this. Do I really want my divine savior showing up on snack food? What's next? I wake up one morning to Lord Ganesha staring at me from my pop-tart? Oh wait, is that Poseidon I see peering at me from the putrid curds of month-old milk turning into yogurt at the back of my fridge?

Maybe I'm crazy, but I expect more out of a deity than random sightings in snack food. For crap's sake, Elvis has been sighted more often and in more dignified surroundings than Jesus! Maybe I should take Elvis as my personal savior.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

OK, y'all get out of the gene pool!

Some people should just voluntarily take themselves out of the gene pool...

1. This story makes me want to scrub myself with Lava soap, fumigate my office, and light my computer on fire just to make sure none of the "white, wet substance" gets through.

2. I just don't even know what to say about these idiots. Hmm..."dude, you're soooo toasted!" might come close to what I want to say, but nothing really seems adequate.

3. And finally, all this stink about Oprah selecting a trio of Faulkner's books for her summer book club not only made my English-major, snotty-ass self want to vomit, it also made me laugh when I read the last paragraph (which I will quote in full because...well, because I can!):
Mr. Howarth [the mayor of Oxford, MS] said he imagined a repeat of a recent incident in which Oxford tried to lure gamblers from Tunica, the Mississippi gambling haven, to tour the town. When one tourist bounded off a bus, Mr. Howarth said, she said she could not believe she was finally going to see the home of William Shatner.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

"Which One Is Your Wallet?"

"...it's the one that says Bad Motherfucker."

That's right, I said it. I must be one bad motherfucker for all the trouble I just caused the maintenance morons and their mulleted contractors. You know, I hate my job just like everyone else. I don't expect much. I DO expect, however, not to have to dig through an inch of ceiling grit that has taken up residence on my desk. I also expect to not have to vacate my office on a minute's notice because their dumb asses can't figure out how to pick up a god-damned telephone to let me know when they'll be working in my office.

I was especially pleased to note that they covered approximately half of the lab computers in plastic - the other half apparently had some major karma to work off so they were left to fend for themselves against the ceiling grit. And, of course, my office computer - with the shiny new flat-screen monitor - was apparently a sacrifice to the HVAC God, Mulletar, as it was left naked and staring at the gaping hole in my ceiling while grit and other noxious stuff fell on it.

With all this, why was the maintenance department surprised when I did the modern-day bureacratic equivalent of flinging plague-victim's corpses over their castle walls? I sent an e-mail to people with much more clout than me and copied damn near everyone just to make sure they all were aware of my displeasure. Plus, I pulled the academic trump card by bemoaning the fact that "my poor students won't be able to use the lab when the summer session starts next week unless all of this is taken care of before Friday."

And that, my friends, is the only way to get things done in the hallowed halls of academia. You either play the trump card of "My students will suffer!" or you have to sleep with someone. That would violate my #1 rule of never encountering anything turgid / swollen / engorged while at work so I'm reduced to whining about students.

So yeah, "I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch the keyboard I'm SUPERFLY T.N.T, I'm the GUNS OF THE NAVARONE!"