A Little Levity

Considering the gruesome physical process it takes to become a mother, here's a little something for the ladies on Mother's Day. Personally, I think the chick with the binoculars is the best.

Whackaloonery or Wave of the Future?

On any given day, there are perhaps two dozen daily and weekly papers that cross my desk. What this ultimately serves to do is reinforce my worldview that people are strange.

The area where this is typically most evident is in different technological developments. Of course, this comes from the fact that, in creating new technologies, shooting the moon can result in either public ridicule or serious jumbo juice.

One such article leaped to the forefront of my consciousness as the nuttiest idea of the week--the result of what two guys can create when they ponder the age-old question, "How to combine scuba diving with death?"

The two had previously developed a new artificial reef technology. By designing cast-concrete structures that would be sunk to the ocean bed, they found that sea life would inhabit the artificial reefs within months.

Great idea. Terrific technology. But here's where it gets weird. The two started mixing the cremated remains of humans into their concrete structures before sinking them into the sea, thereby creating a company they call "Eternal Reefs".


CEO George Frankel says that this resolves the conflict between the deceased who want their ashes spread at sea, versus families who don't want to dump the loved one into the drink. He says they create a "particular place where thier family can visit." Particular, indeed.

Today, there are about 700 people who have been sunk to the ocean floor to become a playground for the fishies. Should you or a loved one like to be number 701, here's how it works:

The company will send you a map of locations for its reef ball placement and you pick a site. They then take the cremated remains and mix them with marine-grade concrete. If you like, friends and family can impress handprints into the concrete as it cures.

Brass rubbings can be attached to the reef ball if you like. Then, the ball is available for a memorial viewing. Next step is out to the boat, where CEO Frankel reads JFK's speech "To the Sea" as the reef ball is dropped into the ocean.

The interesting technology involved is that the reef is designed to last for over 500 years, and withstand pressure up to 10,000 pounds per square inch. I'm not entirely sure why that's important, particularly after someone has been cremated, but it's a nifty stat, nonetheless.

Prices for Eternal Reefs range from $995 to the deluxe package at $6,495. Services range from the casting itself to transporting it to the site, bronze plaque(s) and inscription(s), final placement and dedication, a GPS survey that records the exact latitude and longitude of the reef, and two memorial certificates.

Right now, Eternal Reefs is only licensed to imbed reefs on the east coast of the United States, and they report that the most frequently requested final resting places are off the coasts of Sarasota, Fort Lauderdale and Miami, Florida. If all progresses according to plans, they will expand to the west coast in the future.

Just to cover every possible scenario, the duo reports that they offer military honors, as well as pet burials. If you like, they will withhold a bit of your ashes (if you die first) to later mix with your partner's ashes in their reef ball.

I don't know...it all sounds pretty wacky to me. But I imagine that this is precisely what appeals to folks who want to do something like this. As you can see, Eternal Reefs customers seem to have a sense of humor.

Mocking Casey Serin on YouTube

Anyone who's been following the ridiculously comical and felonious tales of Casey Serin should definitely watch "Flipper Nation." This humorous mockumentary follows two earnest young entrepreneurs who are determined to successfully flip houses in a down market.

Casey Serin fans and critics will be particularly amused by the antics found on "Flipper Nation," complete with a smarmy mortgage broker. If you know the relevant players, you'll know just who to plug into each role. From a ubiquitous blue shirt to some sweet deals and close proximity to Starbucks, "Flipper Nation" is a funny take on real estate 's biggest "loosers."


EPISODE 1:



EPISODE 2:



EPISODE 3:

More Grandiose Entitlement, Courtesy of I Heart Huckabees

In case you haven't yet seen the YouTube videos of Lily Tomlin and David O. Russell's mutual meltdowns on the set of "I Heart Huckabees," it's worth a looksee. (A brief sidenote: why is it that people who utilize a middle initial usually turn out to be pretentious twats?)

Considering that this movie was released in 2004, I wonder why this took so long to surface. Yes, I am truly so jaded that I naturally assume that anything like this has some sort of back-end marketing tie-in.

Watching these clips, I realized that they're actually better than the movie. Because I couldn't remember the movie. It was remarkable for being so forgettable. A quick look back at a couple of reviews caused me to remember why.

Huckabees is like every book Russell ever read, every college class he ever took and every stoned discussion he ever had with his activist buddies at 3 in the morning, thrown into one movie and enacted by famous people. It'd be nice to think it is satirizing mystical mumbo-jumbo and endless navel-gazing, but that's giving Russell too much credit.

Aaaah...right, right. This was the movie where a married couple plays 'existential detective' to help a guy figure out 'what it all means.' Sounded interesting in the set-up, then fell really flat.

Which is kind of hard to do when your cast includes Dustin Hoffman, Lily Tomlin, Jude Law, Mark Wahlberg, and Naomi Watts. I mean, you do have to be kind of a shitty director to create a movie that's so lame that the presence of those five don't perk it up at least a little.

So the 'leaked' footage makes sense. Lily Tomlin has lost the plot, quite literally in a film making sense. In the first clip, David O. Russell had apparantly been shooting a scene in a consistent tone for the previous five or six hours. Then he basically told the actors to do the whole thing over again, with a delivery "by half." You'll notice that even Dustin Hoffman, who remains fairly calm during the whole thing, tells him quietly, "That's nuts."

In the second clip, Tomlin has supposedly been asking Russell to, well, direct her in the scene. He flips out in a kind of "I'm taking my ball and going home" kind of way. These kind of flare-ups on the Huckabees set must have been fairly regular, as you can see the crew just kind of lowering their eyes and shuffling out of the room like some sort of codependant children.

Before you hit play on either of these, just know that they're NSFW -- Not Safe For Work.







Thinking back, I'm reminded of the supposed physical altercation between David O. Russell and George Clooney on the set of Three Kings. Russell apparantly drove St. George to taking a swing at him, after Clooney called him on the carpet for abusing an extra.

What a winner. It does take a certain level of psychosis to be the biggest asshole in Hollywood. So if nothing else, Russell is certainly in the running for that award. Maybe he should stick to just writing the scripts, which everyone seems to agree he does well. But his supersized ego probably won't allow him to sit in a room with a few other folks and, well, collaborate. It's always the most grandiose fuck in the room who proclaims, "I want to DIRECT!"

Really, considering the repeated theme that I cover here, this blog should be subtitled, "Entitled Little Twats."

Checkraise, an Homage

Perhaps my all-time favorite blog is Checkraise. Its author, John, is a constant source of amusement. It is rare for me to visit his page without finding something that will actually induce a giggle. I have, in fact, even phone-assaulted friends with certain posts, calling them and reading off the computer screen before they have a chance to object.

The thrill for me comes from the author's decidedly cynical worldview. Similar to the adage that "we choose the friends that best suit our own dysfunction," I think we must choose our blog reading the same way. I am continually in agreement with John's take on the world and its inhabitants. At the same time, I don't claim to know John beyond his blog. But many of my days have been incredibly enhanced after spending a few minutes in that world.

With that in mind, I've decided to compile a brief list of "Useless Things I've Learned from John at Checkraise.com" While some of this is new information, I have to include some of my Checkraise favorites, which blatently reinforce my own nefarious ideologies.

1. Microsoft Spaces bloggers, beware. Like it or not, Microsoft has extended the bizarre 'courtesy' of putting your profile on Match.com. John hypothesizes (I hope) the spousal abuse that could so easily arise from this bit of corporate malfeasance.

2. John compares a scary-ass former student to Tracy Flick. Are the accompanying photos a blatant troll? Maybe Freud would say that sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich, but the second photo looks like a straight girl who's taking a tentative swipe at cunnilingus.

3. It might be possible that there are worse old-fuck neighbors than mine. Although, until John's asshole retirees come loaded with their screaming fucking toddler grandchildren, I still say it's a toss up.

4. Feeling smarter than other people is often justified.

5. America is decidedly producing the worst generation of parents, ever. It is possible to conclude that now-fossilized single-celled amoebas provide more guidance to the nation's young.

6. Sometimes life defies logic and just gives us a good laugh.

7. There's a reason to keep exes around. Plus, it turns out that I'm not the only person in the world whose ex has the authorization, ability, and balls to pull the plug should the need ever arise.

Ultimately, I have to believe that if you're not amused and entertained by all of this, your sense of humor is suspect. And it seems like a nice "I told you so" to the churchies who have recently concluded in these pages that I am the most judgmental and dark human in the blogosphere.

Ironically, it's probably John's fault that I ever started blogging. Before the creation of this little repository of insanity, my friends were the only ones subjected to my wealth of knowledge and humor. They would like to thank all four of you for being willing readers since they now enjoy more job security without the steady stream of fuck-filled emails.

Casey Serin Jokes

What a week...

As my full-time-plus readers can relate to, work often finds a way of just handing you your arse. Several times this week, I have thought about the flighty existence of Casey Serin and how lovely it must be to loll about napping and spending money you probably never intend to repay.

Fortunately for society, most of us don't take that route. And I can only imagine how my world would come crashing down if I did. I mean, if I showed up at my parents' house for dinner out of an actual physical need, the would kick my ass to high heaven.

God forbid I tried that if I were actually married. It is no stretch of hyperbole to believe that my family would literally take up arms to hold some sort of reality intervention. Honest odds-makers would have to admit that the theoretical husband would not make it out alive.

This line of thinking has also lead to me randomly thinking of tired jokes, and inserting a Casey or Galina Serin ending to them. It's hoards of fun, and I highly encourage you to jump in with your own.

How many Casey Serins does it take to change a light bulb?

None, of course. Galina's supposed to be calling the contractor about that.


How many Casey Serins does it take to open the mail?

We don't know yet. He's still researching various options for outsourcing.


With a new business venture in mind, Casey Serin looks to his wife Galina. He grabs her tits and says "If these could produce diamonds, I could sell them on my website and I wouldn't have to work." As she walks away in a huff, he slaps her ass and says, "The same thing would be true if this created golden eggs." Infuriated, Galina turns around, grabs his crotch, and says "Yeah, well if this were worth a damn, we could finally move out of my sister's house!"


Casey Serin...if he were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.


Why are Casey and Galina Serin the ideal couple? Because individually, they can do nothing. Together, they decide that nothing can be done.


How many Casey Serins does it take to turn off a running faucet?

One. But he's blogging right now and asking his readers about the best mops to buy.


Since Casey and Galina Serin are having dinner at her parent's house yet again, his mother-in-law asks him to bring her a cup of tea. She tells him she wants sugar, but no cream. Casey comes to the table, empty-handed and confused. His mother-in-law asks him where her cup of tea is. "Well, you were out of cream, so should I make it with no milk instead?"


In order to achieve his goal of becoming a licensed financial advisor, Casey Serin must first sit for an ethics exam. Galina is thrilled when he comes home to tell her that he passed. "My God, Casey, how did you manage to do that?" He looks at her, smiles and says "I cheated, of course." They spend the rest of the evening discussing how everyone who sits for the exam does that.


Casey Serin visits his religious advisor and admits that he believes he has committed a sin. The man of God breathes a heavy sigh of relief, "Finally, young Casey, you have realized the detriment of your lies and fraud." Casey is stunned. "Father, what are you talking about? I think I have committed the sin of vanity. Every morning in the shower I am reminded of how intelligent I am." The man sat quietly for a moment, then replied, "I have good news for you, Casey. That is not a sin. It's just a huge mistake."


Like I said, these are tired old hundred thousand year-old jokes. But inserting Casey or Galina Serin into them is a kind of silly fun, like adding "in bed" to the end of a fortune in a cookie.

Please share your wit and wisdom with the rest of the class. I'm still looking for a good "A priest, a rabbi, and Casey Serin walk into a bar..." joke.

Welcome to My Award Winning Blog

It’s official! This is now an “Award-Winning Blog”

The best fuckin' weblog name in the known universe: TwelveYearsOfBeingAnnoyedByChloeSevignyDotCom

I’m of course taking my cue from the incoherent ramblings of a certain smarmy Salt Lake City-area mortgage broker, who likes to refer to his dot-blogspot site as ‘award winning.’ Now, of course, this is a blogspot blog as well, but hey, I’m just here rambling and telling stories. I’m not sending out press releases and trying to run a business from a free fucking Google page.

(Yes, Nigel, I’m talking about you. You’ve become quite the regular little visitor here, haven’t you? Nary a day goes by anymore when I don’t see your dirty electronic fingerprint.)

Now most of you come here and are rightfully amused by my little rants and ramblings. Others come here and want to tell me what to do in these pages...hell, what I should be thinking! My respect for the First Amendment causes me to publish comments with which I don’t agree.

But I was thinking today about the rather silly comments that some folks leave, telling me, in essence, to ‘take it easy’ on someone or other. Well, guess what, kitty kats. That’s not ever going to happen. Allow me to take this time to remind everyone of the very definition of the blog.

“Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer.”

“A public web site where users post informal journals of their thoughts, comments, and philosophies, updated frequently and normally reflecting the views of the blog's creator.”

“Visitors typically visit blogs to read the latest news and opinions of the blogger.”

No one’s begging your acceptance of the opinions contained herein. And if you think I’m being too harsh on, say, the Barbie Bandits…well that’s just too damn bad. Because you see, we as humans make a conscious decision to either contribute to or drain from our communities. This is what we call a Society.

Within this society, most people contribute. They work, they love, they donate, and they create. Others simply take. And once you decide to suckle off the collective teat of the contributors, then we get to jump in and have a say.

Now I understand that some of you take a different approach. I’ve gotten a lot of notes from people who tell me they’re praying for certain criminals who have graced these pages. And I’m not trying to take that away from you.

But don’t get all uppity about my decision to spew a few choice words in the direction of the offenders instead. Because they’re parasites. You can go ahead and pray. I'll stick to my witty repartee.

I have to admit that I giggled a little this morning when I got another one of those ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone’ comments. It’s too fucking easy...because my mistakes have never included fucking bank robbery!

You see, those of us who are contributors to society tend to make mistakes like missing a few curfews, occasionally getting a poor grade on a paper, or snogging someone we ultimately wish we’d never met. We’ve inevitably said something cruel to someone we love; we’ve broken someone’s heart; we may have irreparably damaged a friendship.

These, my friends, are examples of ‘mistakes’ and ‘youthful indiscretions’—-not fucking bank robbery, not fucking mortgage fraud. From the way some of you sound, you really might be shocked to learn that most of use make it through our lives without committing felonies!!!

And those who choose to take from the contributing members of society are sometimes subjected to opinions on those actions. So when Casey Serin is eventually living rent-free in a federal prison, the rest of us will continue our daily lives of contribution, including funding his three-hots-and-a-cot.

Not quite an even trade, is it?

But, oh, you want to be offended because I used the word cunt?!? Aren’t your delicate sensibilities being expended in the wrong place?!?! Just for that, you get a forced etymology lesson (yeah, yeah, I know how some of you hate the book learnin’)

“The earliest citation of this usage appears in the Oxford English Dictionary, in reference to a London street known as "Gropecunt Lane," circa 1230…. In certain circles the word is considered merely a common profanity with an often humorous connotation”.

And, yes, while I am a true-blooded American, I spent a great deal of time overseas growing up. And ‘the c-word’ as some of you call it, is very commonly said throughout the world. When you look at the origins of the word, it’s certainly a lot less harsh than the word ‘bitch’, which is bandied about in American slang with incredible frequency.

“It was being used thus as early as 1400 and referred to a lewd or sensual woman. It was not uncommon to use it in literature of the time in that sense. It was simply a metaphor, comparing lewd women to female dogs, which, if left to their own devices, will bear pups rather frequently, suggesting sexual promiscuity”

So there you have it. You managed to choke your way through my opinions and actually learn something today. Buy yourself something pretty and expensive on a maxed-out credit card for all of your hard work. You deserve it. And after all, you can always declare bankruptcy and rely on the contributors in society to keep food on your table.

Somewhere in a cold dank plot, Darwin turns in his grave.

Beauties and the BeastsThe Best and Worst Looking People on TV

Last night I needed a couple of hours of serious vegetation. Work has been grueling for the past couple of weeks, but will hopefully ease up soon. In the meantime, lowest-common-denominator television was called for. And I got just that by watching the weird-ass premier of the Pussycat Dolls show.

In case you missed it, "The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll," is pretty much a cross between "American Idol" and "The Girls Next Door." There's no real plot to speak of, which should surprise no one.

For some reason, the producers thought it would somehow add extra drama to the show to air repeated, graphic scenes of several girls vomiting when a stomach virus hit the majority of the girls. Unless you're into that particular fetish, it's certainly something that could have been handled a whole lot better. And considering the topic, I don't think I'm alone in wishing that "vomiting" had been replaced with "stripper pole."

I haven't really followed the "pop phenomenon" that the Pussycat Dolls have become. It was probably most interesting at its inception, when Carmen Electra and a bunch of her hot B-list celebrity girlfriends did the gig.

I remember they pretty much did Vegas and L.A. parties, and it always struck me as a sort of celebrity talent show. The famous faces in the crowd were mostly friends and family, who happily drank strong cocktails as the girls bumped and writhed.

The concept back then was more '40s burlesque as well. Standard-issue Pussycat Doll gear included garters, windowpane fishnets, and Moulin Rouge-esque lingerie. Frankly, it was a great look.

Somehow, this devolved into actually turning the Pussycat Dolls into some sort of Top 40 sensation. It's now a weird American version of the Spice Girls....as if the world needed that.

So the Pussycat Dolls are hunting for a new member. Good thing, too. The existing "girls" are way past aging out of the program. And that's what would have made for the best vegetative television last night, rather than the vomiting.

At one point, the wannabe's meet the Pussycat Dolls. While the newbies are all wide-eyed and starstruck, the existing members cautiously give each potential Doll a condescending and somewhat terrified once-over. When the girls are crammed in a room together, the physical differences alone become very clear.

The wannabe's are young, mostly 18-20. The oldest is 24. Next to the Pussycat Dolls, who've got to be in their late-30's with assloads of none-too-subtle cosmetic surgery, the newcomers look like they're 12. The Pussycat Dolls themselves wind up looking like the "Don't" list of cosmetic enhancement. As in, "Do..." get enough sleep. "Don't..." pull the skin of your face so tight that your eyes are suddenly near the sides of your skull.

So, yeah, the Pussycat Dolls should worry. Some of these new girls can sing. And there's one 'contestant' that I could have watched all night. I guess she's had years of ballet training, and fuck it shows. Her legs are about nine miles long, her dancing is beyond graceful, and if this Pussycat Doll thing doesn't work out for her, she could easily walk right in and take over for any showgirl out there.

With this in mind, I wonder if later episodes of Pussycat Doll boot camp will have the girls going through forced lip injections, boob jobs, rhinoplasty and microdermabrasion. Because the existing girls are already well on their way to becoming surgical clones of stretch-faced, ropey-armed PD choreographer Robin Antin.

Considering that future episodes threaten to drag out Mark McGrath and Li'l Kim, I doubt anything short of my own stomach virus will have me tuning in again. And considering my low, low expectations to begin with, that's pretty bad.

My overall impression of television today is that of overworked plastic surgery victims, which brings me to the next "Worst Idea on Television." Some-damn-body has agreed to put the heinous Star Jones back on television. Thankfully, it's cable, but still.... expect to have your home invaded by this goofy bitch via CourtTV's airwaves.

This woman is such a fucking train wreck. The promo photo of her is just too much to not include. Because, above the tits, she looks like the vagina fruit that would be produced if Skeletor and a chihuahua were to mate.

Why the fuck should the viewing public have to see this in their homes?!?! And the problem is only compounded with Star Jones Reynold's queen-sized sense of entitlement. I'm pretty sure that Star called in her last favor or a thousand when she decided to throw that grotesque spectacle of an elaborately-sponsored wedding.

In a word, my feeling for television right now is BLEEEEECH.

Funny Videos

This is another "Diet Coke and Mentos" experiment. This time, the wacky dudes at Eepybird actually recreate the famed fountains at the Bellagio hotel in Vegas. It's pretty crazy, and makes for some fun viewing.











In the next one, over two hundred liters of Diet Coke are used to create a "domino effect" of cascading Diet Coke Fountains.











And finally, I've gotten some grief for previously calling Britney Spears a crazed crack-whore. To which I have to say, didn't the girl herself open that door? Have you all forgotten about Chaotic???

How To Write Chick Lit In Ten Easy Steps

Maureen Dowd has come under fire. Again. This time for making the audacious statement that "chick lit" has overtaken the bookstore shelves. She judges the genre as fluffy at best, and bemoans the dumbing-down of American literature, noting that "I even found Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" with chick-lit pretty-in-pink lettering."

Commentators and chick lit fans everywhere are taking up (exfoliated and moisturized) arms over her dismissal of the vag-centric books. Novelists and their readers seem to feel that Dowd's column was an opening shot, and taken to the flame war to both intelligently defend their the niche and make juvenile personal attacks against the journalist.

I find all of this to be incredibly ironic. The day before her column appeared, I had just sent off an email saying almost exactly what Maureen Dowd printed. As I read the New York Times piece, I wondered if the journo hadn't truly fallen on hard times and was resorting to stealth email reading programs for her next controversial scoop.

The only exception I take with Dowd's column is that she's, frankly, several years late to the party. Her anchor hub for the chick-lit movement is the ubiquitous The Devil Wears Prada. Anyone who's cruised the endcaps and displays of a bookstore within the past ten years knows that the genre took over those areas like kudzu years earlier, with books such as Bridget Jones's Diary and The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing. (For the record, I'll go ahead and say that I actually enjoyed "The Girls' Guide..." when I read it in 1999.)

With all due respect to chick lit novelists and readers, I have to say that I find their impassioned defense of the genre to be haughty and without merit. By and large, this is not the great literature of our time. This is not the cutting-edge prose of the 'zipless fuck' in Erica Jong’s revolutionary Fear of Flying. This is not the analysis of globalization offered in Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. And it's certainly not up to snuff with the lyrical writing of Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winner Toni Morrison, whose novels' opening lines I can still recite verbatim, years after first taking them into my brain.

No, this particular genre is not any of that. What we're now calling chick lit used to be known by another name. The Harlequin Romance Novel. Yes, the seedy-for-its time paperbacks that our mothers and aunties and grandmothers kept hidden under their pillows and in their sewing baskets for a quick read when the men and children weren't in the room. Fabio isn't on the cover anymore, inviting us into a fantasy world. Now we have clever cartoons and pseudo-sophisticated graphic design that allows us to project a lifestyle that we believe we can, should, and might be desperately trying to have.

I truly believe that anyone with the discipline to construct basic noun-verb agreement for 180 pages or more could write a successful chick lit book. For anyone willing to take a stab at it, I'll offer my handy guide.

"How To Write Chick Lit in Ten Easy Steps"

1. INTRODUCTION: A female protagonist, in her 20's or 30's, living in an urban setting.

2. STATIC CHARACTER: Endless descriptors of name-brands. Particularly shoes. Mention of Manolo Blahnik and/or Jimmy Choo is mandatory.

3. DEVELOPING CHARACTER: Body issues. Must be examined thoroughly and repeatedly throughout the novel.

4. EXTERNAL CONFLICT: By second chapter, protagonist's otherwise perfect world will be upended by relationship or job loss.

5. RISING ACTION: Protagonist goes into a cocoon of self-pity, dragging the reader along with her.

6. INTERNAL CONFLICT: Incessent self-analyzing ensues. This is the body of the novel.

7. INTERNAL CONFLICT BECOMES EXTERNAL CONFLICT: A hundred pages past the point of extreme self-absorption, even the protagonist's closest confidantes become infuriated with her. Insert another several dozen pages of whining in solitude, adding the "no one understands me" complaint.

8. CLIMAX: Peripheral character emerges to give protagonist a moment of clarity. Because there are typically only about 5 characters in a chick-lit novel (7 including the designer labels and body issues) it is not difficult for the reader to identify this hero-on-the-sidelines fairly early in the story.

9. FALLING ACTION: Suddenly, everything in the protagonist's shattered world comes together.

10. DENOUEMENT: Cue happy ending, which means an even better guy or job than the one that initially started the whole crazy chain of events.


One area that chick-lit enthusiasts like to point out in defense of the "lit" element is the overly-analytical 'journey of self-discovery' that they claim occurs over the course of the novel. Personally, this part of the ride really bothers me. It seems to embody the "Oprah-zination" of our society. There are no boundaries. In fiction and real life, incredibly intimate details are doled out like canapes at cocktail parties. Everyone gets their 15 minutes to cart out their old wounds and childhood traumas to display for the world.

Anyone who's gone on a serious self-pity bender knows that point where one suddenly realizes, "Ugh...I'm sick of myself!" Chick lit protagonists do not possess this internal filter. Their capacity for self-analysis is numbing, and as a reader, I often find myself rooting against, rather than for them. After surviving endless pages of introspection that borders on a clinical diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome, I find myself cheering the 'bullies' in the novel, so lacking is the protagonist in redeeming qualities.

Because of this, reading chick-lit often feels like listening in on a series of therapy sessions--most of the content is vapid and dull. In the rare moments of salaciousness, it feels dirty and inappropriate for the main character to suddenly graphically convey sexual content. By the time this happens, I've already read hundreds of pages of the protagonists' inner dialogue, detailing their deepest fears and secrets.

When that character suddenly shifts to genitalia-speak, I find myself wincing, reading through the barely-parted fingers of my hand, much in the same way I watch a scene in a horror movie. It's the same sickly feeling I would have if I were to walk in a room where the older ladies in my family were detailing a particularly hot blow job. It's just too creepy to be either titillating or educational.

On a lesser note of aggravation, I'm sick to death of everyone acting like their lives should or somehow do resemble a season of Sex and the City. I'm sick of cosmo-swilling twentysomethings with $600 highlights. Whether in literature or out at a bar, I'm baffled when I see a $30,000 a year grade-school teacher sporting a $1,500 handbag, $300 sunglasses, and $500 shoes. What is going on in the world that weekly mani-pedi's and Brazilian waxes have become de rigueur for high school girls?

I'm going to make this clear to everyone: Unless you have been approached by a legitimate representative of the entertainment industry who wishes to convey your life story in novel, television or film, you don't possess the lifestyle you're trying so desperately to project.

It is this same cookie-cutter characterization that makes chick lit so bland. Rather than cultivating any kind of unique back-story, attributes, or lifestyle for their protagonists, novelists and publishers continue to crank out the same formula ad nauseum. But until chick lit's popularity wanes, we're going to continue to see more of the same in bookstores and libraries. And judging from the lifespan of the Harlequin series, I doubt we'll see this shift anytime soon.

European Commercials

Free of the puritanical restraints of our particular national psyche, our Euro brethren are able to laugh and love more freely (at least on television) than we are.

I feel safe in assuring you that there will never be a national discussion about 'wardrobe malfunction' in Spain. Hell, the Page 3 girl has been a daily institution in the United Kingdom since 1970.

With that in mind, it's often fun to see just what takes place during prime-time in Europe. This commercial is a good example, and quite a good laugh, even though it's been altered somewhat for American audiences.

Enjoy:

Hysterical Videos - Joe Rogan

All right...I'm feeling like a little Joe Rogan tribute. So if you're in the mood to laugh at things that you know you shouldn't, join me for a hearty chuckle. If you're way into the politically correct tone of things, go ahead and pass on this one.

This first video is So Fucking Wrong. But here's the lesson: if you're a 24-year old drunk girl, you shouldn't heckle a professional comedian.








All right, now that you've watched it, I can finally say that the absolute high point of that clip is the part where he says "I'll wrap my dick around your neck and start you like a lawnmower." Holy shit. That is officially the worst put-down ever.


The second clip I've chosen for your viewing pleasure isn't comedy so much. It's just kind of fucking hot. It starts like a bad joke..."So Joe Rogan and Jenna Jamison walk into a bar..." But then they spend the next three minutes discussing how to get a woman off with one's tongue.

Straight guys will watch this and hopefully learn something. Straight women will watch and be surprised to find themselves nodding vigorously in agreement with Jenna Jamison, mentally encouraging Joe Rogan to shut the fuck up and let the expert talk. Lesbians will bask in their superiority, while gay men should run screaming *now*.







Seriously, raise your hands if, when Jenna Jamison says "I've seen you in action," were thinking, "Not as many times as I've seen you" ???

Liars.

Oh, fuck. I just realized that, after watching that again, I've got some weird aftershock going on in my brain and I keep hearing the chorus to Oscar the Grouch singing "C is for cookie." Well that's just fucking great.

How to Ruin Valentine's Day

I'm pretty apathetic when it comes to Valentine's Day. For me, Valentine's Day falls into the same category as, say, President's Day. I just don't really give it too much thought. Of course, I know people who absolutely love Valentine's Day....these are typically girlfriends who have been trolling for a little blue Tiffany's box since Christmas; and I know people who loathe Valentine's Day....typically the folks with girlfriends who haven't shut up about Tiffany's since December.

Last year, I was in the grocery story at about 6:00 on Valentine's evening. I saw a steady procession of harried men with frenzied looks in their eyes, haplessly snatching one of the last picked-over bouquets and rushing to check out. I imagined their wives at home, anxiously waiting to see what their husbands would bring them. I conjured up the thought that most of the women had spent the afternoon cooking a dinner that would work well by candlelight, then put the kids to bed early and squeezed themselves into some semblence of lingerie. I wanted to pull them aside and tell them that they'd probably get more ass if they just went home and offered to do the festive Valentine's Day dishes. But I digress...

My favorite Valentine's Day was the one I spent with a good friend in college. That year, we were the only two out of our group of friends who weren't dating anyone. So we decided to go out to dinner together, and deliberately chose the least romantic place we could think of, lest anyone treat us like a couple. (My lack of a penis conclusively precluded any interest he might have in me.) So we headed off to a place where we were regulars, a bar in the city that was known for its pizza and beer selection.

When we walked in, we felt betrayed. Valentine's Day was in full effect. All of the high-top tables were covered in white tablecloths, and waiters we'd never seen before were traipsing around in starched white tuxedo shirts and bow ties. We stared at each other for a full minute, both wary and amused. "What the hell?" the look said, "They got us." We grabbed a table near the bar, and a waiter came scurrying over to fawn over us. I think my friend grew even more pissed, as the waiters all clearly lacked any ability to pull off their formalwear for the evening, immediately pegging them as straight.

We asked for menus, but were told the only option was their Valentine's Day prix fixe menu, consisting of--get this--a heart-shaped pizza and a bottle of either red or white wine. We could order beer if we chose, but the wine was included in the price regardless. I wondered what teetolers would think of their $30 pizza, then began to scan the room looking for anyone who might fit that description so that we could score their bottle of wine as well.

With the waiter standing ready, we proceeded to have a bitchy conversation about the 'correct' wine to drink in a downtown dive bar with a heart-shaped pizza. The humor was lost on our clueless server. We went for the red, which of course, turned out to be some table schlock that I'm sure the bar had procured for about $2 a bottle wholesale. Like the pizza, it was shaping up to be a heart-shaped night, the very thing we were trying to avoid.

My friend spotted the jukebox and pulled out a $5 bill as we waited for our Valentine's Day pizza. I'd already slugged back a glass of the wine, complaining that I could still taste the feet of the hairy bitch who'd crushed the grapes. We headed over to play some music, and a few pages into the catalogue, I started furiously punching numbers into the machine. My friend grabbed my hand, trying to pull it away from the box as I repeated the same four-digit code over and over again. "What are you doing?" he hissed. The giggles growing inside of me threatened to become tears of laughter as I shook free of his grasp.

Just then, the music I'd chosen began to play over the speakers. Paul Simon's melancholy "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" was starting to get the attention of the erstwhile romantic couples. My friend froze, his eyes grew wide, and he doubled over in the same fit of laughter. I continued to hit the code on the jukebox, and when our credits were exhausted, we returned to the table to survey the Valentine's Day carnage as the song played over, and over, and over again.

The Valentine's Day revelers were looking pretty annoyed as we each poured another glass of the cheap wine. Our heart-shaped pizza came, and we could finally appreciate it. Just as the offending song ended, it would start up again, each time sending both of us into another fit of laughter. By the time our obligatory chocolate dessert arrived, we had effectively reclaimed Valentine's Day.

On the drive home, my friend developed a conscious about how we'd thoroughly fucked up the holiday for everyone else in the building. I reasoned that anyone who would seriously take a date to the pizza dive on Valentine's Day deserved to be cock-blocked. And any woman who found it acceptable for her husband or boyfriend to get by with such a lame display of affection needed the encouragement.

Years later, I still don't feel bad about what we (I) did. It's still one of my favorite Valentine's Day memories, and I think it probably always will be. Because the revelry came in a form that is too often lacking in these monstrously pre-planned holidays--spontaniety. No way would that Valentine's Day be as memorable if we had planned to go out and bitch-slap the fun out of everyone else's night. But that's the way it just so happened to work out. And every Valentine's Day since then, I think of my college friend at least once during the day, and always wind up telling a shocked co-worker the story.

Happy Valentine's Day, all. May it be what you make of it.

Remembering Stories from the Past

I got an email today that talked about spam bots and how certain words indicated to him the absence of said bot. (In this case, it was the word epicurean) It made me laugh, and I remarked that it must be like a secret handshake to use words that bots wouldn't know.

That, of course, reminded me of the truly ingenious plan I developed for homeland security. Back in the day when there was almost constant talk of sleeper cells and the like hiding out in America, I had a sure-fire plan to weed them out of our neighborhoods. (And at the time, to hear Fox News tell it, every one of us had a terrorist living next door.)

The problem with finding those who would do us harm, was that they were clearing normal American society too well to be discovered. So I thought that the feds should conduct a simple door-to-door search, asking only one question. To prove that you're a true American, you would be required to complete this phrase:
"Conjunction Junction....." Anyone who did not know the next line would be immediately put on the next plane to Guantanamo.

My idea thoroughly amused me. And pretty much only me. So I found that it had a secondary purpose....sussing out people with no sense of humor. This just made me tell the story even more, and I found myself in a variety of social settings repeating those lines. Most of the time, I saw shock (horror?) on the faces of those standing in front of me. Often, they would launch into their own political diatribes. Once in a while, the other person laughed. And then I knew I could and should continue the conversation.

Now that I'm thinking about it, we must have spam bots in real life, also. The drones who chip away through their day, only picking up fractured information cues to tell them where to shift. They wouldn't necessarily use 'epicurean' and they don't get the joke. But there are some people out there who understand subtext and know it's okay to laugh.

What's your function?