Five Things-The Boobs Edition: 4/16/14

1) I’m so glad misogyny is still a thing.

 

2) I went to this the other night. It was spectacular.

I love John Doe’s voice, so much so I told him afterwards at the merch table. He blushed and smiled. Said he liked my freckles. Bought a t-shirt from him. Met Dave Alvin too, made him laugh.

He sang this.

 

3) I’m thinkin’ that MAYBE they should make these machines a little less accessible to tots.

Nebraska toddler gets stuck inside ‘Bear Claw’ toy machine at bowling alley

(Via UPI)

“LINCOLN, Neb., April 16 (UPI) — A Nebraska 3-year-old who escaped from his mother’s Lincoln apartment was discovered at a nearby bowling alley, but he wasn’t interested in rolling 10 frames.

Kael Ireland was found inside the “Bear Claw” machine at Madsen’s Bowling & Billiards after he somehow wandered into the establishment and crawled up the game’s prize slot so he could play with the toys inside.”


The photo is priceless. The kid just looks so damn happy, so I says just leave him there. 

 

4) So, in India, public defecation is a huge problem. What, you say? Believe it or not, there aren’t enough toilets to service a billion people, so out-in-the-open-dumps are a thing.
Until now.

Indian officials and UNICEF are working hard at getting the message across to the world’s largest democracy that public pooping is kinda gross, not to mention completely unsanitary.

Enter the Poo2Loo program. Of course, there’s a vidya explaining why public-loaf-pinching is a bad thing.

 

5) I don’t see mahself getting sick of this song any time soon.

 

Five for Friday: September 20, 2013

So, I’m going to continue with this Five Things idea for a bit to see where it takes me.

1) I got this little gem via a journo listserv I’m a member of.

“An unnamed digital media company in Chicago seeks stories at $7 a pop.”

I’ll keep the next few sentences simple since I’m sure you’re also in a state of shock due to what you just read. We want four AP style stories a day with a word count hovering around 400 per story. Great communication skills are a must. Please send your resume and 4 clips to fuckthewriter@bohica.com.

After I fashioned a bag of ice over my sore noggin (it’s sore from banging it against the wall after reading the listserv email), I tried to imagine the level of the mind that believes it’s okay to pay a writer a measly $7/post. Why the hell not? Them’s just words! Anyone can do it! You know, that makes total sense so sign me up!

I’d rather eat ground glass.

2) I wanna know the methodology that was used for this study.

Penis Map Of The World Exposes Weenie Size In Each Country

Plus, ain’t it kinda a cool that dong size has little to do with potency? See, that’s how it’s done denizens of certain South American and African countries. Not only are the Indians and Chinese kicking our asses in so many other ways, their wee schvantzes are helping to produce shitloads of humans to ensure that they’ll be kicking our asses for generations to come. In other words, size ain’t an issue … in some instances.

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

3) This is real. Not kidding.

(via Inquisitr.com)

(via Inquisitr.com)

It’s the latest Boeing 777 in Eva Air’s fleet of flying machines. Eva Air, by the way, is the Taiwanese airline. You can get in touch with your inner-confused hipster who sports ironic tats, facial hair, piercings and fedoras, by taking one of the three flights between Taipei and Los Angeles each week. Then, you can Instagram it, put pix of you acting all goofy inside the plane on one of your many Tumblrs, then get a tat of the plane on your lower back.

4) Now, this tat was on a “20 Tattoos That You Should Get Removed” page. I’m confused though–I don’t see what the problem is.

(via RedCastle83)

(via RedCastle83)

5) Aaaaaaaaaaaand I’ll just leave this here. Enjoy!

Can You Get the Door For Me? THANKS!

News flash for those of you who aren’t paying attention: I’m a curious critter by nature. I read a lot, I like to try new things, I seek out new experiences—you get the idea. I get curiouser and curiouser with each passing day. Tis a blessing and well, a curse. Why a curse? You’ll see in a sec.

The Internets have added so much to my curious ways–mostly for the better, but then there are instances when I just want to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick then move to Antartica where nothing of this sort could EVER hurt me.

This is one of those instances.

Here.

Can’t really see it? Allow me to open up your world just a wee bit more.

ERMAGHERD!!

ERMAGHERD!!

ERP A DERP IS THERE FOOD HERE?

ERP A DERP IS THERE FOOD HERE?

"I heard you needed pest control!"

“I’d like to talk to you today about religion.”

Sometimes I think this blog should be equipped with a defibrillator because posts like THIS and the ones about arachnids and clowns, tend to make my heart stop cold. I’m sure it does the same for my three readers.

This is how I roll folks– zombies, Freddy and aliens don’t scare me. This kind of shit scares me because it’s real. It’s a living, breathing being and not something that was created in one’s mom’s basement whilst wearing worn out boxers that have been hanging off one’s ass since high school.

Evolution decided King Cobras were a necessity to this planet for whatever gat-damn reason.

More like a necessary evil.

All I know is, that’s one more door I won’t be opening.

February Can Blow Me

Well, February did blow but not in the way we all know and love.

I got nothing out of it except that I got to celebrate the 18th anniversary of my 29th birthday with some friends/family (got an iPad out of it–SCORE), learned that I’m a reporter/writer/editor and NOT a research editor. and was provided with even more evidence that I need to live in warmer climes and take bets on hermit crab races.

While I was reeling after the latest shit sandwich of a temp job that ended up with me ‘not being a good fit’ (whatever the fuck that means), a few awesome stories almost got past my radar.

The first is my fave. I don’t know how else to describe this particular yarn except, well, to wonder why I am not a drug addict after reading such a tale.

From Oddity Central.

Indian Sculptor Makes Creepy Bust of Favorite Politician from His Own Blood

My head hurts now.

(courtesy of FooYah.com)

(courtesy of FooYah.com)

Apparently, some loyal constituent in the world’s largest democracy, decided it would be neato to pay homage to his fab fave politico by sculpting a bust of said pol. Nice and not that unheard of in this day and age. However, busts of this sort are normally sculpted out fo marble, or stone or clay. Maybe even shit if certain materials are not abundant.

But, this particular bust was made out of … wait for it … BLOOD. (Thank god my gag reflex has calmed considerably after my years of being bulimic because my computer would be covered in puke right now)

Read on…

“An Indian man known only as Hussaini has recently unveiled a shocking work of art – a bust of J. Jayalalitha, Chief Minister of the Tamil Nadu state, made from 11 litres of frozen human blood, donated by him and 32 of his students.

Apparently, nothing shows admiration for a person like making a creepy sculpture of them from human blood. At least that’s what Hussaini, a sculptor and archery teacher from Chennai, must have thought when he got the idea to create a bust of Chief Minister J. Jayalalitha out of his own frozen blood, for her 65th birthday. The noted artist wanted to thank the politician for being the “most sports loving CM of India” and for her support to his archery association, and since he had a few liters of his own blood stored for special occasions, he decided to put it to good use. You see, Hussaini has had his blood drawn at three-month intervals, over the last eight years, waiting for an opportunity to use it as a medium for his sculpture. But he only had 6.5 liters of blood, and this special project required 11. Luckily, his 32 archery students were more than willing to donate the extra 4.5 liters needed to complete the project.”

Oh no, not just Hussaini’s blood is in this masterpiece, but the blood of his archery students too. There are so many jokes there that my mind can’t handle the overflow, and my stomach is starting to churn, so the need to down Maalox by the gallon starts NOW.

I know you’re all probably wondering how the entire fuck he did this, so grab a pen and paper and write it down. Or, to really get in the mood, you may want to write in your own blood.

“To create his blood sculpture, the artist first created a made one from clay. He then prepared a silicone mold, encased it in a hard outer shell and filled it with the 11 liters of blood. The mold was finally frozen at -27 degrees Celsius, for two months. On the day of the unveiling, Hussaini revealed the other big idea behind his plasma artwork – blood donation. “If I can organize 11 liters of blood, then every other citizen can follow suit and save many lives,” he said.”

I hope Hussaini realizes that donating blood to make art is not the same as donating blood to, you know, save lives.

(Courtesy of New India Express)

(Courtesy of New India Express)

I hope the recipient has proper storage for this since India is not exactly known for its mild climate and low humidities. Ahem. Craaaap–can’t get that image out of my noggin. Fuuuuck.

On a somewhat happy note, the Chief Minister was none too pleased with this tribute and advised Hussaini to never do this again.

I hope he heeds her advice.

The parade of weird continues in the south Pacific.

Indonesian mother kills son over ‘small penis’

From Raw Story.

Apparently, whilst mum was prepping her darling son for his circumcision, she said “Fuck it, I’ll just kill him because his peen is so wee, he’s in for a lifetime of hell because of it.”

And she did.

Nothing else can be said about it by your’s truly here.

According to one of my fave websites, The Sartorialist, these are the penny loafers to own. Of course, they can’t be bought stateside, so you have to wing on over to Milan to purchase them.

(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)

(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)

Not your style, eh? Well shit howdy, at least they ain’t made out of blood–that’s enough to get me to buy ’em and I don’t even wear penny loafers.

Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Picture 3Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

ffym

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

I love India

It’s the largest democracy in the world, and gave us folks like Gandhi, Mira Nair, Vijay Amritraj and V.S. Naipul.

Vijay Amritraj

Aaand Aishwarya Rai.

Oh and countless PhDs, MDs, patent holders and uber-smart people. You know the types — the Bell Curve demolishers, National Spelling Bee winners, valedictorians, film directors, artists — I could go on and on but that would be a big bowl of dull. Of course there are felons and real dumb politicos. It’s not unusual for the good, the bad and the ugly to come out of India considering it’s the second largest country — population-wise — on Earth. What’s even better is the 24/7 news cycle that craves all sorts o’ stories from the farthest corners of the this planet.

Those of us who are news junkies — especially odd news — love India. So much weird shit comes out of there it’s tough to keep up.

For instance — here’s a great story for you. It is sure to warm the deep, dark crevasses of your soul. How do I know this to be true? It worked on mine.

From The Independent. Edited for, well, everything.

The ‘Tampon King’ who sparked a period of change for India’s women

Well played, copy editor, well played.

“When Arunachalam Muruganantham spotted his wife gathering dirty rags in their home one day he asked her what they were for. If he was shocked by her reluctant response – that she was using them for her monthly period – he was even more taken back by her reply when he asked why she was not buying sanitary napkins in the shop. “If I buy sanitary napkins,” she had told him. “It means I cannot afford to buy milk for the family.”

First, I’m not going to do the obvious ‘on the rag’ joke here. You’re welcome.

But what disturbs me is how a gal in India — the land of one of the fastest rising middle classes in the world — has to choose between buying milk and maxipads. It boggles my first world, well-educated, WASP senses so much so that I can’t imagine having to choose between nourishment and cotton donkeys. *shudder*

“The conversation spurred Mr Muruganantham into a frenzy of invention to try and produce an affordable napkin for women such as his wife. Such was his dedication, bordering on obsession, that he once wore a football bladder of animal blood to trial a prototype. He was forced from his home by villagers who thought his methods had become too perverse after he started collecting used napkins from medical students and storing them in his home. He was even abandoned – albeit temporarily – by his wife and mother, who believed he had gone mad.”

How does one wear a football bladder? What the crap is a football bladder? Why use animal blood–why? His obsession reminds me of the guy who invented intermittent windshield wipers. You know who I’m talking about — Greg Kinnear starred in a dull movie about him. Remember? Nope, I don’t either.

“But 14 years later, the 49-year-old, who never finished school, has few regrets. His award-winning napkins are being produced on simple machines by groups across rural India and helping to revolutionise women’s health.”

What’s great about this guy is he’s busting his ass to help the women of not only his country, but in other 3rd world countries as well. What I — and countless other American women — view as a basic need is being introduced into Indian culture as a new, basic need. Once Muruganantham dove deeper into solving this sanitary issue, he realized that there’s much more to women’s health than just tampons and maxipads. As a result of this epiphany, Muruganantham took it upon himself to teach the women in his village, as well as the surrounding villages, how to take care of themselves and their families. He started by holding workshops and from there, others took the reins and started reaching out to other villages to share their knowledge.

Bravo to them all.

Grand Dames in Tuk-Tuks

If you want to see a sweet movie, go see,

Even though I spent years working in the movie business, I am not a movie reviewer.

Surprised?

A lot of folks think you can’t have one without the other, which is horseshit. I love movies and worked on a lot of them. I watch a lot of movies but loving them and working on them doesn’t automatically make me a film critic — even though I now make my living as a journalist. I’ll leave that to the pros like AO Scott and Roger Ebert. Plus, reviewing movies just doesn’t do it for me. I’m too cerebral when it comes to movies. Why? I don’t know.

If you want to read simple, intelligent and straight-forward reviews, check out my friend’s blog. He doesn’t post that often, but when he does, it’s an entertaining read.

But sometimes, I break my own rules. I saw “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” today with a friend and we both dug it. It’s charming, heartfelt and fun. The cast is stellar and the scenery is breathtaking.

Go see it.

Now I want one of these to tool around in.