balding angrily

Jerry and I made a deal yesterday. We’re going to look good naked (quothe Lester Burnham) by Labor Day. That gives us more than 3 months. My goal is twenty pounds, and I didn’t ask his. Jerry pisses me off a bit because he is so skinny, and I like to blow off his tales of weight loss with, “Well, he’s just got a high metabolism.”

That simply isn’t true, though; he’s a conscientious eater at the office. I’m a snacker at work; I eat because I’m bored, anxious, or the distracting, more common combination of the two. I go out of my way to snack. I walk to Starbuck’s and order a medium double chocolate frappuccino with extra whipped cream and a coffee cake. There are enough calories in those two things to keep my body running for a whole day, albeit without the benefit of vitamins, fiber, and those other important things that keep it running without the feeling that I’m dragging my face on the ground.

We have different motivations. He likes to stay focused on “This is healthy for my body. I am being a healthier person as I do this.” This works for me in a way, but when I get to my ideal weight, my mind switches to, “I look really hot. Someone should really be taking a picture of me right now because…seriously…if I flex my arm and poke out my chest thusly…damn.” I’m going through this internal monologue while I stand in front of the mirror, obviously.

Last year, I pretty much said that to Jerry ad nauseum. “Hey babe, look how hot I look.” After the fourth or fifth time, Jerry said, “Yes dear, you look very hot,” not looking up from his magazine.

When I am in this shape, I have fantasies of doing a boudoir photo session (link NSFW, but worth it for a few larfs) and sending the pics into Playgirl or somesuch. Then I think, “But what if I want to run for President someday, and those pictures are out there?”

And then I think, “The chances of me running for President, or any public office, are the same as me giving money to Focus on the Family.” (Look it up; I’m not going to link them.)

And then I think, “But still, don’t you have any pride in yourself?”

And then, “Of course I do; that’s why I want to do this. I worked damn hard for the last 3 months to get this body. I want other people to see it.”

As this is a forum that my mother knows about, I’ll never publish said pictures here if I ever have them made. But if you’re really curious, write me and I’ll send ‘em to you (in the event). I only require that you write a 3 page rhapsody on how hot I look.

Jerry infrequently reads the site; about two weeks ago I got sick of saying, “Hey, I added something to the blog. Go read it.” So, last night I was surprised when he said, “You’re mean, writing stories about me, making people think all I am is stinky.”

I said, “Babe, you’ve had every opportunity to respond to any disparaging remark I put up on the blog. Would you please, just once, write a little something?” I have a hell of a time keeping the blog fresh, and I crave hearing different voices here.

He was inches away from writing a response to Magnus’s comment, and then demurred. His issue is that there’s been all this expectation built up at his appearance. He likened it to Vera Peterson, Maris Crane, or Stan Walker. Because he has no voice, he remains intriguing. I wanted to publish Jen-An and Owen’s pictures, but he had the same argument. I see his point.

However, Jerry is a real person to me, and while it’s great that he’s okay with being such great fodder for the blog, it prevents you from seeing him as a real person. Believe me; that isn’t going to stop me from exploiting him, but my wee conscience gives me pangs sometimes.

That’s all. No concluding remark.

Ooo! I got one, a little something you can take away from this post.

If you are a blogger and want to keep it entertaining, you need to make sure that you’re married or partnered to a freak. If you’re married or partnered to a bore right now, poison him or her and make it look like suicide. Inherit all his or her money, and find a freak. You’ll thank me later.

To wrap up yesterday’s cuteness with cats, I wanted to show this, found by Matthew Baldwin. Jerry and I watched about three times, and we laughed harder each time.

If you’re not one for America’s Funniest Home Videos, “Stupid Pet Tricks”, or Cute Overload, you won’t like this. Otherwise, enjoy:

Lazy Cat on a Treadmill

My cat’s a star!

Yes, I used the same joke about her lack of agility twice. Sue me.

(Though, she really is quite clumsy.)

Since I put that little Amazon advertisement down there underneath all the other detritus in the right column, I’ve been paying attention to what comes up. Amazon calls it an Omakase link, which, according to them, is Japanese for “leave it up to us.”

It is commonly used in Japanese restaurants for a meal where the chef uses their experience and knowledge to select and prepare the meal for a customer without specific directions.

Omakase - try it, you’ll like it!

In other words, Amazon is reading your browsing habits right now - RIGHT NOW, I TELL YOU!!! - to select the perfect product for you. If you’re scared that this is a little too close to Big Brother, you can read their privacy statement under the ad. I’d hate to lose you as a reader. Though, if by now you don’t know the government is reading your every move through the internets, you’re hopeless and very naïve.

ANYways, I noticed today that its pick for me is the soundtrack to Jerry Springer: The Opera, but it’s hard to see “The Opera” part. I just saw “Jerry Springer.” I found that a bit offensive. This little bit of Japanese sushi is telling me that I would really enjoy Jerry Springer? Sure, I loves me some Project Runway and I loves me the first couple of weeks of American Idol when all the crazies come out and wag their fingers at Paula and I loves reading on the internets when Paula gets all crazy drunk and nearly falls out of her chair during an interview and I loves me some Britney actin’ a fool, thinking she’s Kojak with a lollipop in her mouth.

But Jerry Springer? Come on. A man’s got to draw a line somewhere. Then I read “The Opera” part, and I felt dumb. ‘Cuz Jerry Springer: The Opera sounds delightful.

Which leads me to this: How can I get that bit of Sanrio code down there to come up with, say…The Joy of Gay Sex or Our Bodies, Ourselves or Zamfir Plays the Most Beautiful Melodies: Volume 2 or Helen Reddy’s Greatest Hits? I’m not sure why suddenly I want to be swamped with pulp from my parent’s generation, but that’s not the point; I just want it to.

Or, what about a book on apples? I want to learn about apples. How are they made? Who puts the seeds in them? How come my local Albertson’s is only stocked with mealy, smushy apples that fall apart in your mouth like pre-chewed food from a momma bird? (I imagine.) Why is it always the apple that Eve supposedly took from the tree of knowledge, leading to millennia of suppression of the fairer gender? Why not a passion fruit, mango, or kiwi? Would it have made a difference? Would it have been a deadly, furry kiwi instead of an apple that poisoned Snow White? Is it the shape of the middle of a sliced apple that gets people all atwitter? The fact that it looks a little like, erm, lady-parts? Is the apple in the creation story supposed to represent lady-parts, thereby reinforcing the sin of woman? If the apple had been a furry kiwi in the creation story, would fuzzy bald men’s heads be a symbol of sin? Would I have to wear a hat to cover up my sinful, fuzzy head? Ooooooooh! Maybe it originally WAS a kiwi! That explains the Yarmulke! But then, what about Superman? When he’s Clark he wears a hat, and when he’s Superman he doesn’t! Does that mean Superman is sinful? Does that mean that saving people from falling glass using your heat-vision is sinful? Does that make Kryptonite some sort of holy instrument like a papal relic? I wonder if the Pope would bless a piece of Kryptonite…like if Lex Luthor somehow snuck a piece in front of him in a crowd and the Pope accidentally blessed it. What would happen? Do you think Superman could be cool with a blessed piece of Kryptonite? He’d be like, “Yeah, I know it could kill me, but come on! It’s blessed! Whaddaya gonna do?” I’m not sure why Superman had to turn into a Soprano just then, but it probably wasn’t the first time. And did you know that Miss Teschmacher’s first name is Eve? How’s that for a coincidence?

So, yeah, let’s just see what Okinawa down there comes up with now. Call this experimental theater.

-Update-

If you’re reading the comments below, this post used to have a lot of boldeds where now there are italics.

Yesterday I talked to a guy in my office about a possible path to get into professional writing. This same guy is the editor of Columns, the monthly newsletter of the Dallas chapter of the American Institute of Architects (AIA). A month ago I submitted a piece to him for publication; he liked it and will publish it in the coming months. I’ll keep you abreast.

He suggested that I write a few more pieces and submit them to the editor of the newsletter for the Texas Society of Architects (TSA), and then work my way up through there. I am having some difficulty thinking of subjects for these kinds of pieces.

You people know my strengths and weaknesses. I’m strong when writing about my personal experiences, and less so when writing about more abstract, big picture issues. It is my thought that I will have to bring in these big picture issues in a piece for the TSA. I’m positive that I do not want to write an architectural criticism. I can write about my experience with a building, but not an objective criticism. (Is there such a thing?)

I’m opening it up for discussion in the comments. Any and all ideas are welcome and valid, but I reserve the right to mock you.

A very wise person remembered my love of Xanadu and posted a link on the boards to the Broadway production that opens in June. When I went to the site, I shit myself with glee. In honor of this momentous event I present this. Thank you Gods of Broadway.

Seriously, I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking of the possibilities.

Remember when I told you I had a small surprise? It’s out now.

Adam Kempenhausen and Sam Val Kilmer let me write this week’s Dope Sheet. Like I said, I was honored, and humbled now that I see all the mistakes.

Take a look; I write about Lisa Kudrow and cute guys.

I was originally going to call this “Things That Remind Me Of Oregon,” but I started gushing so much about Poi Dog Pondering, that I thought they deserved a full treatment. I’ll write about Oregon in a later post.

I worked at a record store, my dream job, as soon as I hit 16. In order to get the job, I had to prove to The Simpson’s Comic Book Store Guy-type manager that I really wanted to work there. I came back to the store week-after-week just to check in with him, and to convince him he should hire me.

One of the assistant managers, a lanky, long-haired guy, played Poi Dog’s self-titled debut albummany, many times throughout my shifts working behind the video rental counter. I remember at first I hated it. Frank Orrall’s voice - which Jerry says reminds him of The Housemartins - isn’t exactly pleasant for a 16 year-old trying to pinpoint his taste in music. His voice isn’t exactly unpleasant either, and it’s not like I ever listened to Debbie Gibson or Tiffany-style 80s bubblegum pop.

I wish I could adequately describe this album. It has a lot of acoustic guitar, backing vocals from band members that sound like friends come over during a jam-session, and the lyrics paint pictures of biosphere cycles, right-before-you-wake-up, slumbering dreams, and poetic sex.

After a couple of months of listening to Poi Dog in the store, I really started looking forward to it. For one thing, there was the trombone solo in “Aloha Honolulu.” I am a trombone player, and how often do you get to hear a trombone solo in modern songs? There was still the matter of the female voice on “Falling,” which to me at that time, was like nails on a chalkboard. Now, I love this song; she sounds like she took voice lessons in India, but it works. For a touch of irony, there’s a song called “Wood Guitar,” which, I believe, is the only song with an un-hush-able electric guitar hitting against bullish drums. After the last whine of it, a ballad-like acoustic guitar plays out the song.

Christmas came, and we visited my family in Oregon. I stayed a couple of nights with my cousin in Eugene where I made her boyfriend drag me around to all the electronics stores to look for a Discman. I bought one eventually, and later bought Poi Dog Ponderingand the soundtrack to The Little Mermaid. I played those two CDs back-to-back in my cousin’s furniture-less, starving-student apartment. She noted that my tastes in music were a bit inconsistent.

I believe I have CDs in my collection that I’ve had longer than these two, but very few. Poi Dog’s first album is still one of my most played. Whenever I want to feel happy and slightly hippy-ish, I find it on my iPod and sing along.

Here are lyrics from “Pulling Touch,” which, to me, is the most beautifully worded song about physical intimacy. It features Susan Voelz’s atmospheric violin in its long intro.

You are a butterfly and my eyes are needles
The cold has your breast and my hand is on fire
Are you resting and reposing? Oh, my veins are pulsing
And nothing can cure me, but your pulling touch
And nothing can cure me, but your pulling touch

I’ll stretch you out and lay along side you
Run my hands along, devour, and divide you

In the cool of the night under a rain-pelted roof
Beneath cotton-white linen our love is spilt
Are you the cup that I hold by the cheekbones?
I pull you close and I drink you up
Are you the cup that I hold by the cheekbones?
I pull you close and I drink you up

I’ll stretch you out and lay along side you
Run my hands along, devour, and divide you

Consider this post your Overlooked CD of the Week. I can, without reservation, recommend this album.

I goatse’d [Don’t worry; link completely safe.] Jerry yesterday; it was the highlight of my weekend. I didn’t actually show him my own personal version of the offending picture; I found the original on the internets and made him look at it. If you’ve never seen the original picture, click around; you’ll find it. You’ll lose your immortal soul upon viewing it, but that’s the price you pay. There’s also this helpful Wikipedia article.

Oh. And mom, please for the love of God, do not try to find the original goatse. You will be horrified and, as I said, lose your immortal soul.

I wish I had taken a picture of his reaction, but I just so badly wanted him to experience that instantaneous gut-punch that I didn’t think ahead. He screamed at me, and was genuinely angry at me until he saw me bent over in my chair with tears coming out of my eyes from laughing at him. Then he came around.

Which gets me to thinking, can you call yourself a true user of the internets if you haven’t been goatse’d? Or is it more of a rite of passage like sticking a bone through your nose or chasing a tiger? Can we classify people into pre-goatse and post-goatse?

And further, is this the new goatse?