let's get lucky

guess what, guys?

this weblog's a-movin.'



please join me eventually.

Previously, on the OC

Will you hate me for moving my weblog yet again? Can you ever forgive me? What? NO? Well tough fucking luck, assface! I wanted a prettier blog. This isn't exactly as pretty as I wanted it to be, but let's face it, it's way prettier than my last blog. Not as colorful, no. But also, more organized and easier on the eyes, which is what I really meant by "pretty." The blue and the orange got to you, admit it. Also, I decided I wanted to delve into the wild world of uppercase letters. Oh yeah.
So. This will work the same way it did last time--I will post the last few entries from my previous site in order to acclimate my readership to the new place. Hopefully, all will go smoothly. Or as Andre3000 would say, smoofly. Please navigate to your heart's content. My links are kinda hidden over there on the right, but if you click around, you can find stuff.


tengo uno situacion con mi familia!

so i was watching advance warning on mtv...2 the other night. (you have to say it like ian robinson says it, with that pause and the devil horns: mtv...two. is it wrong that i have a mad mad crush on that bald doofy punk?) yeah. i've found that i can pretty much never watch music videos on regular mtv because the playlist seems to include crap, more crap and mc-crapitty-crap. mtv...2, on the other hand, while still deeply mired in craptacularity manages to sneak some good shit in from time to time. this episode of advance warning featured dizzee rascal (who is fucking awesome), lost prophets (who are okay, but have the worst name i've ever heard) and finally, joss stone, whose freshman album is kind of presumptuously named "the soul sessions." i wasn't sure what to make of her at first. she has an okay voice for that bluesy stuff. kind of an amalgam of fiona apple and allison krauss. right. then she starts talking normally and this girl is a) british and b) like 16 years old. and she looks like miss piggy. not unlike kelly clarkson, from whom joss stone has stolen her wardrobe (skinny scarf and all) as well as the set for her new video, a cover of the white stripes' "fell in love with a girl," re-born as, wait for it..."fell in love with a boy." yes. now i love the white stripes and i'm not afraid to tell you that this girl, joss stone's version? well...it SUCKS BALLS. oh my god, it was the biggest piece of crap i have heard in a long time and most definitely the worst cover i've heard since britney spears' "i love rock n' roll" but without the added benefit of seeing britney spears in a belly shirt.

fucking kids, man.

well, sorry doesn't put the triscuit crackers in my stomach, now does it, karl?

does anybody else think that johnny depp is sitting in a coffee house somewhere in france contemplating the existential hilarity of the acting genius of donnie brasco, edward scissorhands and what's eating gilbert grape winning a screen actor's guild award for pirates of the carribbean: the curse of the black pearl?

in other news governor schwarzenegger has made a statement asserting that though constitutionally prohibited, foreign-born american citizens who have lived in the country for a long period of time should be eligible for the presidency. the governor then went on to cite war criminal and devious mastermind henry kissinger as an example of that foreign-born political goodness. while i would tend to agree that denying the pursuit of the highest office of a nation built by fucking immigrants to slightly newer immigrants is arguable, i'd like to say that the best argument for keeping this one on the books is that is guarantees a future in which i will never have to refer to governor schwarzenegger as "president schwarzenegger."


you're a wee puppet man!

oh my god! Spot, the White House Dog died! That would be so sad were it not for the fact that I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT PRESIDENT BUSH'S DOG.


well they have god on their side, summer. i'm not gonna beat jesus.

i am so glad to see that one of my favorite news sources shares my immense love for the hotarity (yeah, i made that word up. hot + hilarity) that is the seth cohen. it never fails to please me when my worlds collide.


even maggie has the baby with the one eyebrow...

so, on sunday, as i scoured the local drug stores for discounted valentine's day candy (because, as you know, my amazing weight-loss diet consists almost solely of sushi, mcdonald's and a tonnage of chocolate), i made an important discovery: the easter confections have arrived. as we all know, easter has the best candy of all the holidays. you know i'm right. thanksgiving: nothing. halloween and christmas: all the same candy as the rest of the year, but in different wrappers. chanukkah: mealy gelt. valentine's day: chalk-flavored hearts. easter: solid chocolate bunnies. those egg-shaped gumballs that come in the carton. malted easter eggs with the bright candy coating that you can lick and use as lipstick. and of course, who can forget the one, the only, my chocolatey nemesis: the cadbury creme egg. oh, you milky devil. the cadbury creme egg is the second food that i remember throwing up (the first being kentucky fried chicken coleslaw that i spewed, half-digested over the tray of my high chair). indeed, i was 3 years old, returning home in the butterfield family volvo from a potluck of some sort. little did my parents know that i had raided the easter candy spread at the mattson house, downing handful after handful of sugary devilment. i had even tucked away a final creme egg of death in my jumper pocket, hoping to savor it on the ride home, and i would have, had i not linda blaired all over myself, my sister, my brother, the backseat and that little hump in the middle of the car.

oh, cadbury creme egg, how you tempt me with your delicious sugared-milk interior and delectable chocolate shell. how i long to devour you without thinking of vomit. do i swallow you whole, like a snake? or bite a hole in the shell and suck out the creamy internal goodness, mongoose-style? one day...one day soon.


you can be blasé about some things, rose, but not about titanic

due in part to my insistence on viewing the entirety of angel season three in under three days in conjunction with all of the back-up episodes of season five i had on tape, i have developed a propensity to call people ridiculous nicknames in subconscious imitation of both spike and lorne. they drop such endearments as "angelcakes" and "freddikins" and "niblet" and "puff pastry" and "pet" with alarming frequency and i've found myself powerless to resist the urge. i was, at first, slightly embarrassed at the verbal slippage, but i've come to embrace the practice. from now on, i'm going to be the girl who rarely, if ever, calls anyone by his or her given name, preferring instead to replace said monikers with ones of my own choosing, included but not limited to the aforementioned spike/lorne-isms as well as such old favorites as "tiger," "guy," "honey," "sister-friend," "my little papaya," and "muffin."

and, from time to time: "cracker."


not for wrath, not for ruin, but for the red dawn!

so last night was movie night. someone over in queen anne throws one of these about once or twice a month. always a blast. among the past viewees: super troopers, zoolander, the texas chainsaw massacre (original), brain candy, the royal tenenbaums. that sort of thing. the idea is to watch a movie that we have all seen so nobody gets all pissy about people talking during the the screening, and there will, invariably, be talking since there are always like 15 people crammed into the living room. last week, someone suggested we watch barfly which angered me for several reasons, not the least of which being that it's a mickey fucking rourke picture. also, it's on my short list for crappiest feature films of all time and i have actually *seen* gigli, so i know from crappy. long story short, i get to beth and dave's house at 8:00 for cocktails, hauling 8 bags of chips to feed the hordes. by "hordes," i mean me, beth and dave. i was the first to arrive and i downed a gorgeous jamesons on the rocks while bullshitting with the lord and lady of the manor.

nine o'clock rolls around and we're still the only ones there. turns out everybody got sick or busy and whatnot and totally ditched out on movie night, the fuckers. so beth and dave said i could pick the movie and we watched titanic. oh, bet on it. and they have one of those widescreen tvs, high-definition, the works. it was beautiful. then we decided that every time something billy zane said that would have sounded better when followed by "bitch," we should drink. oh, and also anytime a poor person has a foreign accent. we got well-nigh hammered and ended up scarfing down scores of chips and laughing till our stomachs hurt. although, to be fair, that could have been the chips.

my comedic genius moment of the evening was when i realized that bernard hill who has recently garnered nerd fame as king theoden in the lord of the rings played the captain of the titanic. during the solemn, quiet moment that the captain awaited his watery death, i intoned "where is the horse and the rider..." and beth and dave busted up.

you know, i'm thinking that moment was much funnier that it should have been since we were all drunk.


plus, if i were arrested for coveting my neighbor's wife, i'd probably bear false witness

briefly: it occurs to me that if i pooled together the money i've spent on bikini waxes and manicures in the last 6 months, i'd have my marc jacobs venetia. or a month and a half of rent, however you want to look at it.

eat my wrath, gorilla throwing barrels!!!

as noted below, last week sunday (not yesterday, last week), i went to see the shins play at the showbox. i was very excited, as i had never seen them live and i love them with all of the good places of my heart. this is not always the best mindset with which to approach a live show because research has shown that for at least 70 percent of music groups, album quality is inversely proportional to performance quality. for instance: the minus five, built to spill, spoon, the walkmen--so awesome on disc, so crappy live; and coheed & cambria, sparklehorse, grandaddy, sushirobo--so crappy on disc, so awesome live. clearly, some bands suck or rock both ways like wilco, andrew wk, neutral milk hotel, bright eyes and modest mouse. i'll leave it up to you which ones suck and which ones rock and keep in mind, there are no right answers. just cool ones and dumb ones.

my point is, i went into the shins show thinking, oh holy shit, this is going to be awesome, which is always a bad idea when the statistics really aren't in your favor. luckily for me, the statistics were twainian and the shins were fucking awesome live, oh holy shit. they are one of few bands that actually sound, you know...like the album when they play. i mean, exactly like the album. which, i suppose, could be a negative thing to some people, but not to me. they played for like an hour-forty-five, which was extra cool since they only have two really short albums, so they literally played EVERY song on both albums, so no one went away disappointed that the band didn't play his/her favorite track like when i went to see bright eyes the second time and the fuckers didn't play "make war." also, the dudes in the shins look like everybody's next door neighbor--geeky everymen in baggy tee-shirts with bad hair. plus, they were kinda tipsy and funny when whena girl threw a bra onstage with her name and number, they had no idea what it was. the keyboardist was like "dude...is this...is this a bra? somebody threw a bra up here! whoa! and it's got a phone number on it...this is AWESOME!" i was pissed that somebody beat me to the bra trick because *i* wanted to make out with him.

the best part was when, during the encore, someone shouted that they should cover a postal service song and the keyboardist was all, "yeah, hold on a second and i'll press 'demo' on my keyboard." HAH-HAH...in your face, postal service!


it's D-Lux, son! it ain't hard...

so i went with carol to the atmosphere show at the old showbox and it was fucking crazy, man. doors opened at 8, so we drove down at 10-ish. when we got there, there was still a motherfucking line. so we tell them we're on the guest list and they shuffle us to a smaller line, but a line nonetheless, two hours after doors opened; it was fucking bullshit, man. when we got to the door, we discovered the hold-up...they were doing bag searches and pat-downs. it was so cool. instant toughness. like gough with a "t." i mean, with two Fs.

(by the way, this tomato bisque i'm drinking is fabu. oh campbell's soup.)

so we make our way inside to find rachel who is hanging with will by the sound booth on stage left. this should have been easy, but it turned out to be tremendously difficult as there were fifteen billion people in the venue. they must have seriously oversold the show or something because the shins were sold out on sunday (more to follow on that) and there was room to move. last night, there was scarcely room to breathe and people were fucking raucus with the dancing and the arm waving and the head bobbing. so we find rachel and watch a bit of one of the openings (i don't know who they were, but they were actually pretty good).

then all of a sudden, this big, burly red-head--and i mean big, he was at least 6 inches taller than me and i'm no pixie--guy throws his arms around all three of us (don't ask me how that is possible) and asks us if we like the act because he thinks they suck. he draws his equally tall friends into the conversation. i, of course, say i think they suck but tell him that rachel thinks they're the best band ever, so they converge on her and drunkenly ask her to elaborate. it was funny because rachel buckles like a belt under pressure. one of the guys asks rachel her name and she tells him and he's all "rachel? like that girl on friends! i watch that shit every night!" rachel, ever the polite avoider of conflict nods and agrees. carol,and i lose our shit laughing, i mean, come on, that is seriously the worst pick-up line ever in history besides "hi, my name is adolf hitler." it's like "hey, not only do i not have a life, i choose to fill that void with FRIENDS of all things." then, the big burly red-head tells me he likes my hair and it's cute. i thank him and he says "i'm not trying to spit on your game or anything." what? spit on my game? what the fuck does that mean? i mean, clearly, it means he's not trying to hit on me, but seriously, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? what's my game? and why would he want to or not want to spit on it?

then some other stuff happened and atmosphere started their stuff and it was pretty cool. i was a little distracted by all the rhubarb with the showbox security people charging into the throng to stop whatever it was they were stopping. there's this girl who works there, she's kinda heavy and has these big long braids and she is SCARY. not in a bad way, but in a whoa, if i step wrong, this girl will fuck me up kind of a way. it was seth-davely awesome. i know it may just have been the braids and her zaftig figure, but when she jumped off the stage to accost that guy smoking pot all i could hear was die walküre and then later everytime she walked by i inadvertantly hummed various bars from götterdämmerung. rachel said her name is johnna, but she'll always be brunnhilde to me. well, not to her face or anything. clearly.

my father will be glad to know that his incessant listening to the ring of the nibelungen cycle back in 1992 was not lost on me.


elope with me miss private and we'll sail around the world

so beth and allison's 4th annual 22nd birthday party was a hoot and a half. i wore my new capelet and felt very foolish initially, but very stylish 2 appletini's, 1 blue raspberry-tini and a 7&7 later. i'd never had such girly frou-frou drinks before, but it was a special occasion. as a side note, these four drinks were consumed BEFORE we got to the bar, so i was pretty much shit-faced before the party even started. yay me! i won't give you the details of the evening, for i remember few. i remember downing jack-and-ginger after jack-and-ginger at the bar and i remember some random guy grabbing me and kissing me (open-mouthed, dude, gross, i almost punched him in the face like i did that hipster fuck who put his hand up my skirt at the bright eyes show last year), but that's about it.

oh, i do remember having a nice chat with my ex-housemate dan morelli's older brother, tim. now the thing with tim is, yeah, he's cute-ish. kind of roly-poly and all. a little doofy, not the best dresser. oh, and this one time, he puked in my friend jene's bed. that said, this guy tim is like knee-deep in chicks, man. for as long as i've known him, homeboy has had like two girlfriedns at a time and not uggos either, cute, nice girls. i never got it, you know, never quite understood the tim morelli mystique. right. so last night, i'm talking to the guy and within the span of five minutes, he tells me he a) likes my shoes b) likes my purse c) likes my hair and d) thinks i appear 'luminous.'

i was like, oh right. i love you. it's so rare to find a charming young man nowadays, you know? the charm, of course, wears off as soon as he stops talking, so i suppose that's a good thing. i mean, it's practically a weapon.

(recycled title) you lie! on ceti alpha 5 there was life, a fair chance!

a short list of things that ahe doesn't have whilst drunk:

  • the ability to speak coherently
  • tact
  • control over the motion of her super-long monkey arms
  • volume control
  • emotional boundaries
  • fiscal discipline
  • shame