Bunnies & Bachmann

Today’s post will be gripe-lite.

First, this is wicked cute. If a smile doesn’t crack your lips while scrolling through these pix, there’s something wrong with you. Time to call for back up. Or it’s time to start gulping down happy pills if you don’t get it because this is just too damn adorable.

For those of you who are too damn lazy to click through the above link, here are a couple of photos.


And, this one.


I need to weigh in on Michele Bachmann.

Normally, I don’t like to write about politics because I think there are so many others out there who do a better job at political commentary. Some of my close friends keep urging me to write about the political circus because I follow it so closely for work and for fun, and I do have many an in-depth convo with friends & family about the political quagmire this country is in.

Some folks like shopping, but I like politics.

Back to Bachmann.

Why the cray-cray has been dialed up so high with her is beyond me. She’s so full of hate for those different from here and her (lack of) Congressional work speaks volumes. She hates women. She hates gays. She hates minorities–all while she claims over and over that she’s a God-fearing Christian. Her latest “Oops” just proves that she has no business representing the public–not even as county dog catcher. Even though she claims she was joking about God sending the hurricane and earthquake to punish Washington for not curbing spending, it was a dumb, poorly timed “joke.” The more Bachmann and her ilk opine, bitch and moan about God doing this or that because federal dollars are being spent on whatever social program they don’t understand has gotten under their skin, the more I worry about how the line separating church and state is fading away. The positive thing is, she’ll be out of the race by early-winter. That’s my prediction.

Bachmann is a bad idea. She’s bad for women and families. She’s bad for Christians and folks of all faiths. Bachmann is bad for this country. Fortunately, it appears that folks are realizing they don’t like the cray-cray lady and her creepy, gay “curing”  husband.

Now, onto Rick Perry. Give me a few days please.

When the sky went gray …

… You didn’t turn away/Somehow we had to stay together…

Nick Ashford died this week at the age of 70. Along with his wife Valerie Simpson, they wrote some of the finest lyrics in recent history, including “Solid” released in 1984. It was one of THE funnest songs EVER to sing along to. I have fond memories of driving the freeways of LA, singing along with my crappy radio not caring who saw, or even heard, my dulcet tones. It was probably more like screaming, but it was fun nonetheless, especially when I had a crooner-in-crime, like John Groom, singing Nick’s part.

Ashford’s death wasn’t the only notable music industry death this week. Jerry Leiber, who wrote such memorable songs as “Hound Dog,” “Stand By Me,” and “Is That All There Is?” with his writing partner Mike Stoller, died at age 78 on August 22. This morning, I watched a snippet of an interview he did for CBS back in the ’90s. The reporter asked why he and Stoller wrote mainly R&B songs, and I’m paraphrasing here, Leiber said that Black folks were nicer, cooler and easier to write for than White folks. That’s a helluva tribute.

RIP, Mr. Leiber. I doubt the music business will ever experience anyone quite like you or Mr. Ashford ever again.

Now, onto the FUN.

The East Coast was rocked by two huge-ass forces of nature this week: an earthquake and a hurricane. Having survived many an earthquake whilst living in LA, I was nonplussed about the earth shaking up things a bit. I watched the reactions of folks on Twitter and Facebook with the right amount of smugness. Sure, it’s scary, but what they experienced was nothing compared to quakes I’ve been through. It brought back memories of being semi-buried under debris right after Northridge in 1994.

Hurricanes are another matter. I’ve never experienced one–just the leftovers of the ones that mosey up the Mississippi River after unleashing their terror on the Gulf Coast. I was impressed by the preparedness by the states in the hurricane’s path.

Looks like lessons were learned after Katrina. I should fucking hope so. While we’re on the subject of music, this song is quite appropriate for Irene & her aftermath.

This site is awesome. The entries are only a few sentences, but they bring stirring and sometimes funny scenarios to mind.

What the shit is the matter with Florida? I know, I know, the answer is a long one but it has to be answered. Maybe not all at once, but something has to be said about the assfuckery that’s going on in America’s Wang. How the hell Rick Scott got elected is beyond me. Same with Marco Rubio. Both of these half-wits haven’t been paying attention to anything but their (probably) limp, tiny peens to get that what they’re proposing for the citizens of Florida is downright dangerous and stupid. Completely out of touch they both are, and if they’re considered the future of the GOP then the best solution is to pull back and nuke Florida from space. It’s the only way to be sure.

I’d take Blago over Scott any day. Sure, Blago’s a tool, but he’s OUR tool!

This is probably fake but, dammit, it’s fucking hilarious. I wish I could write funny too.


This is probably a smart move. One wouldn’t want to be upstaged by the smart guy.

A kinder, hunkier, brain-munching week in review

It’s been a busy week for serious news. Since everyone is commenting on the goings-on, I’ll stick to the lighter side of the news.

First, he’s really pretty. I may have to go see “Conan” just to experience him on the big screen, larger than life.  Yeah, yeah yeah … I know. I’m old enough to be his mother.


Nice work, Lisa Bonet.

Here’s one more — since it’s Bonus Friday. The chin pubes work for him–a rarity in my book.  

Will Cleveland, Ohio ever catch a break? This is rough. First, Drew Carey was sent from the Cleve to punish society with his dumbass comedy and now it’s been discovered that the air is about as clean as dog shit? The Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame cannot save this city by itself. I doubt Joe Walsh could either. Not that Joe Walsh, the other Joe Walsh–you know, the one who has something interesting to say and who isn’t a dooosh.

Of course he was shirtless. And in Texas. Enjoy!

It’s time for this whole vampire craze to stop. Now. Vampires are everywhere–on our tee vees, in our bookstores, on the Internets, and in our jails. This fad is officially dead. It’s boring. Done. Over. Same with Zombies. Especially when Zombies do stupid stunts such as this one. And movies that feature horrible deaths as rollicking entertainment. I’d rather watch really bad porn than some of the shit that Hollywood is spewing forth these days.


This is freaking me out too. What a horrible way to die. I just hope Hollywood doesn’t take this tragedy and turn it into an opus for some teen queen who was discovered at a corn festival in Iowa. They could, however, turn it into a reality show OR unleash these amoeba into the water at the Kardashian household. Hmm.. if they did that, I’d tune in more.

And now, a few words about yoga snobs

I’ve touched on this subject briefly in the past, but a few instances happened in the last month or so that warrant mentioning it again: There is nothing worse than a yoga snob.

Yoga snobs are the antithesis of yoga, and from what I can tell, this snobbery is uniquely American.

Gee–what a surprise.

Americans are some of the biggest snobs around. This country is filled with wine snobs (get over yourselves), food snobs (eat shit–it’s food not the Second Coming), label snobs (it’s all made in China anyway, hypocrites), education snobs (you know how hard it is to flunk out of Harvard?), and car snobs (“you are what you drive” should’ve died with the Reagan presidency). I know there are many more snobbery-induced items, but these are the ones that stand out the most to me. You get the idea I’m sure.

Recently, I’ve encountered quite a few yoga snobs. As soon as I mention that I practice Bikram, I get the gamut: “Oh that’s such shit. It’s not even yoga. It’s not pure. Bikram’s an asshole. It’s gross. It’s disgusting…. blah blah blah…yadda yadda yadda.” The BEST is, “Well, if you tried Ashtanga/Vinyasa/Hatha/Kundalini/Fuckme/whatever you’d hate Bikram so much.”

Really? I strike you as the type of person who would REALLY hate something as peaceful as Bikram SO MUCH if I gave another type of yoga a shot? Sorry, I save my hate for the assholes who are trying to take over this country and piss on everyone else in the meantime.

These Bikram haters are so tiresome. It’s boring to hear, and such a huge waste of breath and thought. It’s at the point where I just smile and politely tune them out. It’s not worth trying to explain why I like Bikram because every reason I give is shot down and dismissed as ignorant. As these hater-rants spew forth, I think of pleasant, wonderful things like Ba Le sammiches, owlettes and Steve Coogan. Then, if they’re still pissing on Bikram, I take inventory of all the “Om” tats on their body. It’s easier to think these happy thoughts than listen to some Snooty McHolierThanThou vehemently chastise a yoga practice they probably know very little about. What kills me is none of these folks have the patience, and perhaps the maturity, to ask why I chose Bikram. I guess it’s easier to bitch, whine and moan about it than, oh, I dunno LISTEN to someone else’s reasons for a change?

I’ve tried them all and Bikram works best for me. It’s my thang–see how this works? Here’s the rub: What may work for you, may not work for others. Yeah, I know, it sucks to hear that the world doesn’t revolve around you and your chosen yoga practice, but that’s one more thing you can “dialogue” with your guru about. Make it second on your list–right after discussing which Sanskrit name suits you best.

What surprises me is that allll of these so-called devoted yogis and yoginis are missing the point: There is an appropriate yoga practice for every body. No one practice is better than another, just like no one god is better than another. Whatever works for you should be their philosophy too. Differences should be appreciated and celebrated…isn’t that what yoga is all about?

Perhaps that ‘the world doesn’t revolve around you & your yoga practice’ memo should be sent out again.

Oh the things I’ve learned …

Backbends. We’ve all done them, or attempted to. I’ve always viewed backbends as a gymnastics or yoga move. It never crossed my mind that it could be used as a stripper move. Sure, call me naive about backbends it doesn’t bother me in the least. I don’t have a problem with it since backbends are only on my mind when I’m doing yoga. They don’t penetrate my noggin during every day activities like watching commercials about cheese slices or wondering how my life would’ve turned out had I been named Tiffani.

I tend to pay attention to something as benign as backbends when they’re used in a raunchy manner. You’re surprised? Really? Time to start paying attention if you are OR do some McCrabass homework.

Back to backbends.

“Bridezillas” lured me in. I haven’t watched this show in a while because I think a lot of it is scripted. I find it hard to believe that some women can be so cunty, but they get a free honeymoon out of it at some sleazoid Jamaican resort, so there’s the motivation I guess. This one particular episode featured a risqué (read sleazy) bachelorette party complete with a beautifully sculpted and well-endowed male stripper. Strippers don’t bug me either. If they can figure out a way to slide up and down a pole and do squats in 5-inch lucite heels whilst exposing their coochie in front toothless truckers from Moline for money, then more power to ’em. If your peen can earn you cold, hard cash and you don’t have to turn tricks for said cash then you win. You’ve beaten the system, so to speak.

I’ve attended a few bachelorette parties in my relatively tame life, and they’ve run the gamut from going to dinner at a nice LA restaurant to an all-out, tongue-in-the-stripper’s g-string hootenanny. Don’t ask. However, I’ve never seen one like the one featured on this episode. Words can’t describe and I hope he was tipped well for swingin’ his schwantz around.


Time to take an ice bath.

What is the motivation behind a town’s name? I’m flummoxed by town names like Rolling Meadows, Illinois, Fresno, Cali and Anaconda, Montana. These town names make more sense to me. Although, Ding Dong could be interpreted in many ways.

If you’ve been paying attention to this post, you get it.

Copper Knickers for Lady Whiskers

Here’s something to consider adding to your fall wardrobe. For those of you who are too lazy to click on the link above, here’s what I’m talking about.
From Gizmodo…

“Chilean company Monarch has developed new underwear that’s made out of copper. And if that sounds uncomfortable, don’t worry! It’s totally not. Turns out copper can kill 99% of the bacteria and fungi that “naturally” develops down there.”

I had to read this several times before I caught the gist of it. I think I get it … sort of. So, to edumacate meself further, I continued.

It’s the sterilizing effect of copper that works the cleansing magic. The copper underwear is made by merging copper with polyamide to produce an oil that’s turned into wire.

“Sterilizing”, “polyamide”, “oil” and “wire” are four items I don’t think anyone would want near their private bits.

The wire is then woven inside your tightie whities so that the copper stays in contact with your skin so it can kill fungus and resist odor.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any type of wire touching my whisker biscuit, or any part of my body for that matter.

I’ll stick with soap and water thankyouverymuch.

Every man should wear this tie at one time in his life. Wait, scratch that–this look works for everyone.

Finally, we should all be as lucky as these pooches are on a hot summer day.

It's a dog's life.

On My Camel

Camel Vs. Camel

Life is filled with firsts. Your first period, your first erection, your first bra, the first time you cheat on a test, the first time you sleep with your college lit professor, the first time you get so drunk you pass out in Moe’s AMC Pacer and the first time you do Camel Pose without wanting to puke. Today, I experienced my first Camel without wanting to vomit on my rental mat. Oh, and it was my first erection EVER but that’s a story for another time.

For those of y’all who are unfamiliar with Camel, it’s this one. You’re probably thinking to yourself, “Ha! That doesn’t look too hard! Pfft! I can do that in my sleep after chugging cheap gin and eating Taquitos!” G’head. Give it a try, but when you do, don’t for get to breathe only through your nose, keep your ass-cheeks tight, push your hips and thighs forward throughout the entire posture, lift your chest up, relax your face and keep looking for the ground with your eyes. OH, and keep your eyes open otherwise you’ll get dizzy. Now, try to get out of the pose the same way you went into it: by moving your hands up your ass to your middle back one at a time without twisting around. Otherwise you’ll really hurt yourself. My camel even captured the attention of the teacher: She called my camel “strong and beautiful.”

Made my day.

So, why is this important? Anyone who practices yoga or does any type of exercise routine, or participates in a sport that requires using both your physical and mental being to work together, understands how important to one’s self-esteem an accomplishment like this it. This is a very difficult pose because it’s the biggest backbend in the series, and it has been known to cause one to puke. Also, photos of this pose are deceiving because it looks easier than it is. Once you start the pose, you quickly realize just how difficult it is to do–but that’s the challenge of Bikram or any yoga practice. It’s difficult but you do it anyway. You challenge yourself–your whole self, not just the physical.

That’s yoga. At least, that’s what yoga is to me.

This is a huge victory for me.

Now, if I’m able to do this again tomorrow, I’ll be even more surprised.

Who knows … maybe the dam is starting to break.

PS: Oh me oh me oh my. I wanna go.

Fox on the Run

I love music. I love iTunes. Love. Big love.

Since I’m not working, I have music on all day long. The tee vee is only turned on when I go to Bikram so the cats have something to watch when I’m not around. Also, it’s on at night so I can catch up on all the news–and to watch some of my guilty pleasures.

Go ahead and judge. I don’t care because you all have your own guilty pleasure demons to deal with everyday. Instead of shaking your head whilst saying, “That sad, sorry McCrabass. What shame her friends and family must feel whenever she talks about the magic that is Richard Marx’s ‘Don’t Mean Nothing.’ ” To that I say, hold that Danielle Steele yarn up high and praise its anorexic, overdone plot. Be proud of your guilty pleasures, dammit! Thanks to iTunes, I am now able to buy allll the guilty pleasure tunes I can get my paws on. Like this one. This gem too. England is the home of some of the most innovative pop music, but it owes us all an explanation for Sniff n’ the Tears. Don’t laugh Canada. You have some splainin to do.

The muses of hip hop have to answer for this tune. I do love it and can’t wait to teach the lyrics to my niece, India. Explaining my musical choice for my sister and brother-in-law’s darling daughter will be worth buying court side seats for.
This song feels like foreplay. Hey, I’m just going by what Mr. Smith says because he’s the oracle of one-note actors and musicians.


(can he really be called a musician though?)

I have Mr. Donny Iris to thank for this evening’s final selection.
Here we go again, McCrabass ain’t learned her lesson yet.

A little post about nothing

I’m in a quandary about what to write about today. I asked a friend and he said “Boobs.” Of course he’d say that. He’s a guy. Oy. The thing is, what could I possibly say about boobs that anyone would find interesting? Yeah, I have ’em. Big whup. Everyone has them, it’s just that some are more significant than others. This society is too boobage-obsessed as it is, so I’m not going to add to the breastess-cacophony.

So, it’s Mob Week on AMC. The same friend who told me that I should write about boobs also informed me of this mob marathon. And what film is on right now? Yep, you guessed it, “The Godfather,” with part two following immediately. If I happen upon either one of these films whilst channel surfing, I will watch it no matter where the story is. I used to teach parts of “The Godfather” when I taught film here in Chicago. My students were not aware of such things as parallel-editing, sound design (unless it’s over-the-top loud & annoying), story & character development and the lot. You see, many of them believe that Michael Bay is the end-all, be-all of movie making, so they tend to study every frame of the shit he makes. They feel the same way about Peter Jackson. I had to restrain myself from failing all of them right then and there. Michael Bay? Really? Peter Jackson is a’right I guess. I hated “King Kong” so much I wanted to stab myself with an Ebola infested needle halfway through it because I was too lazy to leave and thought that a painful death was the proper punishment for wasting 8 bucks on a ticket. Now I’m getting upset, so I must cease-and-desist the Michael Bay bitch session.

But, back to “The Godfather,” even though I love these two films, I also somewhat agree with this assessment.

Bikram is coming back to me after my hiatus. I didn’t feel like refunding my breakfast after yesterday’s class and my muscles felt all loosey-goosey. There must be some truth to that whole muscle memory theory folks are always yap-yapping about.

To continue on with the randomness of this post, here are a few tidbits I’ve come across during my time keeping the couch down.

Is this woman a criminal or a magnificent genius? I don’t see what the big deal is. So she included sexy time with her donuts. Big deal.

Isn’t it a titch late in the summer to be concerned about whether or not your bod is beach worthy
? If it isn’t already, I doubt it will be by summer’s end (which is just around the corner). Wait, maybe I should preface that by saying that my bod won’t be beach ready by, well, never.

File this under why didn’t I think of this? It’s pure genius. I’m in awe of the inventor because you know damn well EVERY living being would kill for a pair of these fine knickers. If you aren’t as thrilled about these as I am, then you ain’t livin’.

Is this even necessary? Discuss.

Before we continue, all spas and salons should be shut down if they play Enya. Even the ones who used to play her music back in the day when it was popular.

This list made me giggle. Green Day? Really? I dig their music a lot but aren’t they just The Clash 2.0? Glad to see Bad Brains on the list though.

And, finally, I miss headline writing.