tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191181062024-03-14T01:33:30.958-07:00Things That Are Better Than Other ThingsA list of things that are - I assure you - better than other things. From the interwebs to pop culture to my shoe (and my inferior shoe).Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-7139746778507731922011-10-05T10:28:00.001-07:002011-10-05T10:28:46.337-07:00Test<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GyGB4SLgQbo" rel="0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-30412331311577543492011-02-07T22:30:00.000-08:002011-02-08T21:38:39.536-08:00A Tale of Utter Disdain<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 1: The Expansion</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDjGNpXkfI/AAAAAAAAA18/kQNGWpYltlE/s1600/IMAG0134.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDjGNpXkfI/AAAAAAAAA18/kQNGWpYltlE/s400/IMAG0134.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571202434939195890" border="0" /></a>Hark. You. You with the face. What are you looking at? What are you saying? I hate you.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/41/Tsar_Nicholas_II_-1898.jpg/170px-Tsar_Nicholas_II_-1898.jpg"><br /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDoF8RobeI/AAAAAAAAA2E/mQOfL0X_9t4/s1600/taft.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDoF8RobeI/AAAAAAAAA2E/mQOfL0X_9t4/s400/taft.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571207927834373602" border="0" /></a>Did you say I look like 27th president William Howard Taft? I could kill you. I could kill you right now.<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDpU-ZY4PI/AAAAAAAAA2M/3BHdStXauOM/s1600/IMAG0153.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDpU-ZY4PI/AAAAAAAAA2M/3BHdStXauOM/s400/IMAG0153.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571209285613445362" border="0" /></a>Cease your blabbering. Do not dare patronize me. I do not desire your scratchies. I'm attempting to find and thenceforth lick my own asshole. Leave me.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDtNeqa2TI/AAAAAAAAA20/1Aa5o-rgL4Q/s1600/IMAG0127.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDtNeqa2TI/AAAAAAAAA20/1Aa5o-rgL4Q/s400/IMAG0127.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571213554882369842" border="0" /></a>'Sblood! What's that?<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDrWAf6E9I/AAAAAAAAA2c/pU_QOyc68FQ/s1600/IMAG0140.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDrWAf6E9I/AAAAAAAAA2c/pU_QOyc68FQ/s400/IMAG0140.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571211502380782546" border="0" /></a>What's this?!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDrpBFMqXI/AAAAAAAAA2k/NEHc3smrP7E/s1600/IMAG0141.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDrpBFMqXI/AAAAAAAAA2k/NEHc3smrP7E/s400/IMAG0141.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571211828954704242" border="0" /></a>Oh. It's a stick.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDr5oz2oOI/AAAAAAAAA2s/9ttePTiyogw/s1600/IMAG0151.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDr5oz2oOI/AAAAAAAAA2s/9ttePTiyogw/s400/IMAG0151.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571212114497282274" border="0" /></a>Fuck you.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 2: The Shaving</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDuHkfZfQI/AAAAAAAAA28/N0JG9BX5T08/s1600/IMAG0199.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDuHkfZfQI/AAAAAAAAA28/N0JG9BX5T08/s400/IMAG0199.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571214552879168770" border="0" /></a>I did not think I had within me greater hate. I thought my abhorrence of your presence was total and complete. But I have found within my soul a hidden cavern brimming with a new venom.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDvfn1q1kI/AAAAAAAAA3E/uBh-iuns5jw/s1600/IMAG0200.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDvfn1q1kI/AAAAAAAAA3E/uBh-iuns5jw/s400/IMAG0200.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571216065606374978" border="0" /></a>I hate you so much right now.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDwFKJDwiI/AAAAAAAAA3M/vAufp-XlMh4/s1600/IMAG0220.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDwFKJDwiI/AAAAAAAAA3M/vAufp-XlMh4/s400/IMAG0220.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571216710469665314" border="0" /></a>Dear God. Smite them now.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDwfRt6yII/AAAAAAAAA3U/3SJAvpXmeDQ/s1600/IMAG0221.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDwfRt6yII/AAAAAAAAA3U/3SJAvpXmeDQ/s400/IMAG0221.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571217159179913346" border="0" /></a>Satan. Master. Avenge me. AVENGE ME.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDxCRXi4jI/AAAAAAAAA3c/L3yw4MI5XNU/s1600/IMAG0224.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDxCRXi4jI/AAAAAAAAA3c/L3yw4MI5XNU/s400/IMAG0224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571217760381493810" border="0" /></a>Why are you leaning down? Why are you... Why are you coming toward me?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDxfukpYTI/AAAAAAAAA3k/fdbPXtnsi4g/s1600/IMAG0145.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDxfukpYTI/AAAAAAAAA3k/fdbPXtnsi4g/s400/IMAG0145.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571218266437280050" border="0" /></a>Oh god oh god oh god<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDyEz-pluI/AAAAAAAAA30/-35Io7Mpbns/s1600/IMAG0148.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDyEz-pluI/AAAAAAAAA30/-35Io7Mpbns/s400/IMAG0148.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571218903543682786" border="0" /></a>Oh god oh god<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDyaxUo5xI/AAAAAAAAA4E/Q4hKPfw3i-0/s1600/IMAG0149.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/TVDyaxUo5xI/AAAAAAAAA4E/Q4hKPfw3i-0/s400/IMAG0149.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571219280787728146" border="0" /></a>Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The End</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-87947015450515443532010-10-11T19:10:00.000-07:002010-10-11T19:39:30.189-07:00The story NPR would never read on the radioSo I was listening to the NPR one day, as is my wont. Fantasizing about Kai Ryssdal, most likely. And then! What was this? They were having a short story contest! The story must be very short - it would take only a minute to read aloud - and begin with the phrase "They said the house was haunted." It should end, naturally, with "and things were never the same again."<br /><br />I began to write feverishly, terrible idea after terrible idea blossoming on the page. Yes, it would be about a Japanese tentacle monster. But it would be a retired tentacle monster! There would be no schoolgirl molestation in this story, no sir. "I should check the rules," I thought. "To make sure there's nothing to disqualify me from this contest other than my own inclination to write things that can never be broadcast in public." I googled. I googled again. This contest was nowhere on the internets. Not NPR, not PRI, not KQED, not KQED's elderly disfigured cousin, KALW. Alas, the contest appeared to have disappeared. And yet, my story remained, dripping slightly. And so I present to you:<br /><br />The Story NPR Would Never Read on the Radio Even If I Could Find Their Contest, Which I Cannot<br /><br />They said the house was haunted. And it was. But it was also leased. It’s not like he was staying there illegally. Being on the right side of the law was very important to the tentacle monster. Rather, the retired tentacle monster. To clarify, he hadn’t retired his tentacles–there’s no way to rid yourself of your own ungainly, seeping limbs without taking yet more ungainly, seeping measures–but he was certainly finished lurking in deep-sea caves, crushing the hulls of schooners, and doing whatever he did at his last job, of which he rarely spoke.<br /><br />“I was summering in Japan,” he’d say. He’d cough.<br />“Japan.”<br />“Look, I thought we were making an art film. We all had tea after. The girls were very friendly. I still get Christmas cards.”<br />I picked at a scab on my wrist, avoiding several of his eyes.<br />“I didn’t plan on becoming the symbol for everything that’s weird about Japan,” he mumbled, curling a long semi-transparent tentacle around a die and tossing it in a perfect spinning arc. “Yahtzee.”<br /><br />He never had visitors. I found him only after hearing a strange scratching emanating from the basement apartment. It came at odd hours, an unearthly echo. One night when the lights flickered out from a heavy rainstorm and the scratching filled my ears, I grabbed a dim flashlight and slowly walked down the steps. The door to the basement slid open, creaking, spilling out the dark within. I turned on my flashlight and there he was, a pile of overcooked pasta. The monster turned. “I was making an etching,” he said, showing me an exposed copper pipe. “It’s a schooner.” And nothing was ever the same again.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-33028405813374677972010-07-03T22:32:00.000-07:002010-07-03T22:39:29.940-07:00Werner Herzog reading Madeline > practically everything else I have experienced in life thus far<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/57EDxvldLD4&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/57EDxvldLD4&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><p></p><p>Moment when I realized that this was going to be amazing: They smiled at the good and frowned at the bad, but being children their concept of good and evil was not fully formed, and it would shock a grown person how much gray area existed along their moral compass. In truth, children are next door to sociopaths.<br /></p><p>Discovered via <a href="http://chateauthombeau.blogspot.com/2010/06/highly-recommended.html">Chateau Thrombeau</a>, which is itself quite delightful.<br /></p>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-55428225919210212842010-05-21T00:14:00.000-07:002010-05-21T00:15:31.022-07:00Online dating Part II"So have you met Mr. Right on here? Or just me hahaha"<br /><br />Why would you inject your awkward nervous laugh into a WRITTEN CONVERSATION. Mother of god. These people.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-40385884637560904302010-05-09T23:00:00.000-07:002010-05-09T23:18:07.879-07:00Top 5 Parting Gifts Given Me by the Elderly5. Empty cream-cheese container filled with sugar cookies.<br />4. Beige scarf, long sought, eventually located in plastic bag. Musty.<br />3. Small plastic sandwich bag of cooked noodles.<br />2. An exchange receipt good for $14.21 at McCaulous Department Store, which is apparently a place that exists.<br />1. Glass bottle, label scratched off, quarter full of herring.<br /><br />A visual representation of numbers 5 and 4 and the joy they brought to my life:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_Yas9_BkT9qE/S1ZZn2rIiaI/AAAAAAAAGKQ/V-XYQTCX39A/s512/1-19-10%20006.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 342px; height: 512px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_Yas9_BkT9qE/S1ZZn2rIiaI/AAAAAAAAGKQ/V-XYQTCX39A/s512/1-19-10%20006.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-88905920551673983572010-05-01T12:57:00.000-07:002010-05-01T13:24:19.584-07:00Joy Showers > Regular ShowersUnfamiliar? A joy shower consists of the following steps:<br /><br />1. Get on boat.<br />2. Feel alive.<br />3. In addition, feel sticky.<br />4. Dive into the warm embrace of the sea.<br />5. Climb back on boat.<br />6. Lather entire body down with dish soap. Joy is the preferred brand, but any handy solvent will do.<br />7. Fall back into ocean to remove soap. Scrub thoroughly. Aquaint self with passing sea-life.<br />8. Back on the boat.<br />9. Grab handy water nozzle and quickly rinse off salt water.<br />10. Don't forget the crotch.<br />11. Lick arm to test for saltiness. Taste nothing but the sweet flavor of LIFE.<br /><br />You may not actually be clean, no, but BY GOD you feel it.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-91884873218158169222010-04-28T23:41:00.000-07:002010-04-28T23:57:21.989-07:00Efficiency in online datingThank you for your message, but due to the volume of applicants, I am unable to write you a deeply personal <span class="il">letter</span> in response to your own. For your convenience in future dating endeavors, I have checked off the reasons why we will most likely not be getting a drink in the near future:<br /> <br />___ You're horribly disfigured.<br /><br />___ You have made vaguely creepy comments about my body. I know. I'm tricksy. I include a picture with the boobs, but am then creeped out by your vocal appreciation of them. Oh, fickle woman!<br /><br />___ Your sincerity and honest emotion, while sweet, are not really my thing. Honesty has no place in online dating.<br /><br /> ___ I have an old-fashioned attitude toward body modification and your hair/tattoos/facial piercings/weird whatever cause me to judge you harshly. Oh, cruel societal norms!<br /><br />___ You said that you're passionate or that you work hard and play hard or could go out on the town but are also happy to stay in to watch a movie or some other painful dating cliche I can't abide.<br /><br /> ___ Your profile is a wonderland of typos and/or you don't know how to use commas and/or you don't spell out "you". For future reference, this makes you look stupid. Even if you're not. But you probably are. <br /><br />___ You're a pescaterian/vegan/locovore/<div id=":pq" class="ii gt">whatever the kids are doing these days to prevent themselves from eating bacon.<br /><br />___ You appear to be super political. While I'm not opposed to politics, you know, <span style="font-style: italic;">existing</span>, people who consider themselves "political" tend to spit when they talk and make me tired.<br /><br /> ___ You seem cool, but we're in a business of snap decisions here and, sadly, I'm just not thinking it's going to work. Sorry, dude.<br /><br />___ Other:<br /><br />Please keep in mind that this online dating thing is a cruel game of roulette based on random whims and miscommunication. You really do seem quite pleasant and I appreciate the fact that you made the effort to message me, but as the great Pat Benetar once sang as she aggressively danced with a troupe of quasi-hookers toward their quasi-pimp in order to break free of their gender roles and return to their suburban families who missed them and will never know they were maybe-hookers: love is a battlefield.<br /> <br />Best of luck!<span style="color:#888888;"><br /></span></div>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-71180516535803920122009-06-13T22:27:00.000-07:002009-06-13T23:51:53.616-07:00Stephin Merritt: Better than Happy PeopleStephin Merritt: small, roundish individual. Writes and sings primarily for <i>The Magnetic Fields</i>. Employs ukulele and deep, rumbly voice. Crotchety. Covers ears when forced to endure applause. Gay, but only in the sense that he has sex with men. Pauses for long periods of time while speaking, thus confusing and alienating interviewers. Hates touring and beach vacations.<br /><br />If you have neither seen nor heard Stephin Merritt, I would recommend watching the following video (particularly the first two minutes), during which he cruelly finds himself on a chipper morning talk show. I imagine a similar interaction would occur were Proust trapped in a glass box with Kathy Lee.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/L9Ob9TJueBQ&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/L9Ob9TJueBQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Now, I am not one to applaud a tortured artist for his depression. I don't find people more enchanting when they stop taking serotonin re-uptake inhibitors and start stabbing at their thighs with butter knives. However, Stephin Merritt isn't tortured. He is simply grumpy and filled with disdain. He reminds me fondly of curmudgeony old men, silently glaring at children.<br /><br />I adore him because he so clearly doesn't fit with any reasonable stereotypes, because he creates intelligent lyrics with delightful melodies, and because though I desperately want to meet him, I imagine he would immediately find our conversation dull and wander off into a dark corner to write love songs about flesh-eating bacteria.<br /><br />A few of my favorite Magnetic Fields songs:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GhO1XlDFqxE&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GhO1XlDFqxE&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rdd26gutN80&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rdd26gutN80&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3uwvLuvTXZ4&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3uwvLuvTXZ4&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-3419383861933978762009-05-14T21:10:00.001-07:002009-05-25T19:50:01.919-07:00A love songMy assertion is this: snuggies are not novelty items. They're not simply electric-blue sheets of poor quality polyester, slowly lifting the hairs on your arms with static and shame. The snuggie does not deserve your mockery, should not be characterized as simply the blanket for people who find blankets too complicated.<br /><br />The snuggie is revolutionary. The snuggie is better than pants.<br /><br />BEHOLD:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/SgzxxR5TgHI/AAAAAAAAAJg/tTFmbp-mns0/s1600-h/DSCF1091.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/SgzxxR5TgHI/AAAAAAAAAJg/tTFmbp-mns0/s400/DSCF1091.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335905487446835314" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I am sheathed in glory. Note my legs - unencumbered. My arms - elegantly draped. Am I frail? Girthy? Pretending to be Jesus? Impossible to tell. Imagine what a snuggie-based school uniform would do for the various body issues of teen girls with the vomiting and the myspace and the whatnots. Imagine how it could bridge the divide between nations - when arms are no longer cold, perhaps hearts could follow. Imagine a world of floating blue lint.<br /><br />I will give you the positives:<br />1. Has the ease and "one size fits all" mentality of a muumuu, yet encourages you to lead an active lifestyle of playing backgammon on the floor.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.trutv.com/.a/6a00d83451d24369e2010536f7b8c4970c-200wi"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="http://blog.trutv.com/.a/6a00d83451d24369e2010536f7b8c4970c-200wi" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />2. It's a blanket with sleeves. Sleeeeeeeves!<br />3. If you're cold in the feet, you can shove whatever extremities you'd like into the sleeves and still have the capacity to read magazines while clutching at bewildered and illiterate children.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/Sg0AeBYN9CI/AAAAAAAAAJo/e0eANmU2jeE/s1600-h/snuggie2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NduUnK-Yzmw/Sg0AeBYN9CI/AAAAAAAAAJo/e0eANmU2jeE/s200/snuggie2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335921649269994530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The negatives:<br />1. It's true. Your ass is fully exposed. However, I feel this is a small sacrifice in my brave new world where man and couch are one.<br />2. The lint and the static, they are plentiful. They also strike most cruelly against that which the snuggie should love as a brother: microfiber.<br /><br />And yet, the score is 3 to 2. The snuggie, conclusively, is better than pants.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-58635499770151051362009-04-27T22:47:00.000-07:002009-04-28T00:36:10.251-07:00A Good Thing: Lala.comI am incapable of stealing music. This isn't due to any moral rigor on my part, nor some weird deficiency in the tensile strength of my finger bones, making them give way all jelly-like when typing "Pirate Bay." I simply can never find what I'm looking for, nor am I skilled enough in the ways of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Interwebs</span> to avoid whatever traps rabid music labels set forth to snare 75 year-old women illegally downloading <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chamillionaire</span> or 15 year-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">olds</span> hellbent on learning the ways of life and love through <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Fergie</span>.<br /><br />The result of this sad state of affairs is an addiction to streaming music that results, generally, in a plethora of free songs. Or at the very least heavily discounted songs. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">iTunes</span> vs Amazon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">DRM</span>/Variable Pricing/who-can-find-the-newest-way-to-screw-you-war means little to me. They scramble for my dollars for naught. I've got <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Lala</span>.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.lala.com/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Lala</span>.com</a> is better than <a href="http://www.last.fm/">Last.Fm</a>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lala</span>.com is also better than <a href="http://pandora.com/">Pandora.com.</a> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Lala</span>.com is better than a lot of things - olives, small ferns, medium-attractive sweaters.<br /><br />I will tell you why:<br /><br />1. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Lala</span> allows you to listen to any song in its vast library once for free, giving you the opportunity to hear an artist's entire <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">oeuvre</span> before <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">committing</span> to any exchange of funds.<br />2. Upon signing up, you get 50 free songs that you can save online and listen to endlessly from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Lala</span> free of charge.<br />3. Their site is a pleasant teal, reminding me of blue-raspberry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">AirHeads</span> and hygienic toilet bowls.<br />4. Once you run through your 50 free songs, web albums are all of 80 cents. 80 cents! Admittedly you can only listen to them online, but I'm rarely more than three feet away from an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">internet</span> connection, so this bothers me not. Full albums are also available for standard download - usually at about 7 bucks a pop.<br />5. The site works well, almost never stabbing me in the eye with the cruel spear of buffering.<br /><br />The competition:<br /><br />Last.<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">fm</span> rarely lets you listen to the exact song you want to hear, instead shuffling you into that song's "channel" where similar music you have no say in wafts through, sometimes pleasantly, often just a touch off-pitch. Pausing is impossible. Attempt to pause and you lose the song you were listening to, and will most likely crash the site.<br /><br />Pandora suffers a similar problem. While it pioneered the space of exposing listeners to new artists they'll probably like, it again falls behind when I want to hear a favorite song or a whole album. Additionally, there's no way to backtrack through a channel. (Please note, what follows is a helpful anecdote that makes me appear folksy and approachable). It's like the farmer who takes his cow up to the bedroom for a night of platonic cuddles, but cannot drive it back down when his vengeful wife appears, threatening steak sandwiches. Cows, like Pandora, can walk up stairs, but not back down. (That should have been read, by the way, with a slightly Southern accent. If you failed to read it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">thusly</span>, please backtrack and do so now).<br /><br />And thus, the winner: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Lala</span>. Better than Last.<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">fm</span>. Better than medium-attractive sweaters. Better than cows.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19118106.post-76456756531085356852009-04-27T20:29:00.000-07:002009-04-27T22:44:39.603-07:00A Word of IntroductionWith the coming Swine Flu apocalypse, now seems a good time to make judgments. To stake a claim for what is right in the world, and what is deeply, incontrovertibly bread-and-butter-pickle wrong. What Jesus would do, and what Jesus would only do on Mescaline.<br /><br />The opinions that will appear on this blog (hopefully posted with relative frequency), are admittedly mine alone. Rest assured, however, that they are correct. Exhaustive research and sleepless nights will lie behind every word, driving it to the path of righteousness. Snacks will be consumed often, but only in the service of the truth, and usually in the form Gummy Bears.<br /><br />So. Let's get started.Dinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12961563839158532046noreply@blogger.com2