Mixtape

Continuing on the theme of my few but painful failings and second to sucking at being sick is sucking at making mixtapes. Yeah, mixtapes. That's what we called them in my youth. Now the youths call them playlists. Same diff. It's a bunch of songs you hand picked to mean something or other to the someone or other the mixtape is intended for. Problem is mixtapes are excruciatingly difficult for this someone to put together. Thankfully I'm not working with the dual tape decks of yore but still.

Rewind:
I'm going to pin this colossal failing of mine — the failure to properly mix — on my junior year prom date. He was pretty into me, as far as a teenager who looks like Vanilla Ice can be into another teenager who looks like the most depressed human alive but is really just super faux goth. He had really dark arm hair.

I dumped him. I probably wasn't very smooth about it. I probably wasn't very nice either. This boy cried much to my surprise and made me a mixtape to get me back. (Get me back in the sense that he wanted to desperately reunite, not exact revenge on me, as far as I can tell.)

I remember being kinda pumped someone had gone to the trouble of making me a mixtape. (Mixtapes were the RAGE when I was a teen faux goth.) I remember playing this mixtape for the first time at my girlfriend's house.

First song: 
Sinead O'Connor "Nothing Compares 2 U"
Wow, heavy dude. I must have really done a number on this kid.

Second song:
Sinead O'Connor "Nothing Compares 2 U"

Weird. I guess he recorded it twice. Cool.

Third song:

Sinead O'Connor "Nothing Compares 2 U"

Uh...what?

Yeah, you're seeing a theme here, right? Two sides of that cassette tape with the same song over and over again. I was FREAKED OUT. I mean, we made out a couple times but nothing to warrant this depth of loss, this chasm of feelings. This kid ruined the mixtape; and the mixtape let it happen.

Fast forward: 

This past week, a funny thing happened when I heard these words come out of my own damn mouth, "I'm going to make you a mix." 

Come on brain. Work better with mouth hole.

Now shit, I could easily just not make the mixtape. The someone for whom it's intended probably wouldn't even remember. But damn if I didn't say I was going to do something, I'm going to damn well do it. 

Pause/Play (Fuck! Rewind, Rewind!):

So now here I am. Trying to figure out how the hell to make a mixtape, or playlist for the youths in the room. Let's put aside the hard work of finding the songs —I'm already resigned to the fact this mixtape will supremely suck and I'm okay with that. 

Am I at all worried about being critiqued for my selection of songs? Hell no. I'm about 20 years out from caring what anyone listens to and how that will/won't affect how we'll get along or what my song selection says about me. What I'm staying up at night over is this: 

How in high holy hell do I deliver a mixtape in 2013? 

CD? Do the youths even know what to do with a CD? Do I even have the software to burn a CD? Fuck if I know. Is a thumbdrive too 90s? Too corporate? Should I put a PowerPoint on that thumbdrive just because? Apparently you can share a playlist via email or Spotify. Like it's so caaaaaaasual of me to make this mixtape that I can just shoot it over in an email. You're a jerk, iTunes. 

It seems impersonal not to deliver something tangible to show the sweat and tears that are inevitably going into the making of this mixtape. But shit, I might get lazy or just procrastinate until the very last second this mixtape is due. And then email it or Spotify it or Cloud it or Google Whatever it into the stratosphere and over to the someone for which it was promised. 

Stay tuned for further developments. I can guarantee Sinead O'Connor "Nothing Compares 2 U" will not be on it. Or will it. . . 

Stop.

I suck at being sick

It's hard to come to terms with sucking at something. Especially when you're so well versed in everything. But after much reflection, I've accepted the fact that I suck at being sick. Some people really excel in this arena and I am duly humbled by your success. I just cannot seem to master being sick with any grace or dignity.

There was the time I accidentally took four 24-hour Sudafed in the space of six hours because A) I threw out the box and didn't know the dosage B) didn't have my contacts in and read the aluminum backing incorrectly C) am dumb.

There was that other time I was so bored of being at home sick that I decided to clean my apartment and threw my back out vacuuming.

There was that other time I ended up in the ER with no shoes.

I digress. In the interest of saving time, I submit this list of things not to do while sick in the hopes that you will recover from sickness sooner rather than dead.

WHAT NOT TO DO WHILE SICK IF YOU'RE LIKE ME AND SUCK AT BEING SICK

-- Showering. On the surface it seems like a great idea. Wash off the muck and the sick smell. Yes! For the first 10 seconds of said shower, you will feel exhilarated. This is quickly followed by either chills, sweating, or the lucky combination of both. Just try to lift those weak wings to wash your hair. You can't. And you will cry. And then you will scan your body and see it in a new sick light that no one should see and now you will never unsee. Do not shower.

-- Makeout. Although I look best when at my weakest, most don't. And nasal fluids should never touch anyone other than your own self to which that nasal instrument belongs.

-- Vacuum. As stated in the Showering section, this seemingly mundane task requires Herculean strength which you do not have. It will end in tears.

-- Eat anything delicious. If ever there was an exercise in futility... Everything tastes like feet. Even the delicious hot bowl of popcorn will taste like styrofoam. Starve. It's just better that way to contain the disappointment.

-- Talk on the phone. You sound like shit. No one wants to hear that.

-- Interact with fresh air. Stay indoors. The sunny outdoors doesn't want you. You're bumming everyone out with your sad, sick sack of a face and you're sucking up fresh delicious cool non-germy air that you clearly don't deserve.

-- Shop online. No matter how much water weight you've lost in the hours and minutes since you've been sick, your selection mechanism (aka your brain) has been compromised by viruses. Do. Not. Shop.

-- Weightlifting. You're already sweating so fitness seems like a no-brainer. And in one sense it is. If you deprive your brain of any more oxygen by attempting to lift weights. . . you get the idea.

-- Wink. You're not thinking clearly. You've lost weight. You have an odd glow about you. Do not under any circumstances wink at anyone. That includes the doorman, the UPS man, the deli lady, children, dogs, etc. No one. In all likelihood, your winking eye is also tearing up or very possibly oozing eye juice. No bueno.

-- Watch the movie Awakenings. This is how IMDB sums it up: "The victims of an encephalitis epidemic many years ago have been catatonic ever since, but now a new drug offers the prospect of reviving them." Funny, I remembered it differently. On second watch, this movie really is hopeless and depressing. So depressing in fact, that I need to not be sick NOW because what if I have encephalitis and go undiagnosed and then become catatonic and then have Robin Williams as my doctor and come out of catatonia for a hot minute and then go right back into it forever? Smash TV now.

All of the above have been tested time and time again by yours truly, in sickness. To your health!

Cautionary emails for single women

Shit, girl, don't move to New York if you want to not be single. If you want to be single, fuck it and move here and have the time of your life.

I have no opinion either way.

But I've collected some evidence over the years on why there are so many single women in New York. It's due in part to the epidemic known as online dating. It's a disease so insidious that I dare not speak its name, but I already have so if you're reading this and you're single, you're doubly doomed.

Anthropological study commences here. From the archives: Real, unedited pickup lines from the online dating field. This shit is so good I can't even make it up.

WHY SINGLE WOMEN OUTNUMBER MEN IN NEW YORK. A LIST. 
(Actual email messages received, some excerpted to protect the innocent and ridiculous.)

-- "What shade of color is your hair?" 

This was the entire message. Way to start strong.

-- "I am attracted to your high pain threshold. I found your profile by searching for the word, 'strangle.'"

How jealous are you, married people?

-- "Hello"

Man of few words.

--"heythere!"

Two words now one. This guy is into efficiencies.

-- "You've got a really interesting face...Michelle Pfeiffer meets Bjork."

Thanks?

-- "hey sexy, you single? men around blind or dumb? you sure you 39 you looking younger, hot sexy, like a 26 yr old Victorias super model, how old you? you so hot, sexy, curvy, sorry can't help but notice curves, i work for Victoria secrets."

My pictures were all head shots. A+ for imagination though.

-- "Would u say u can/may dominant a man full dominations?"

Please try Google Translate again.

-- "do you want a part time houseboy? I would come clean your apt for you, give you foot/back massages, and do as you say in private. I would come once a week or every other week for a few hours depending on when you want me there."

Now we're talking. If I wasn't convinced you'd murder me in my apartment and then thoroughly power clean all evidence of said killing, we'd be in business. What a pity.

-- "Thoughts on younger men??"

Shit, kid, I have plenty. Can you be more specific?

-- "...now I'll sound like every idiot writing you -- the most beautiful woman, not only on here, but anywhere. Yep."

Before you get all melty, consider that this email was preceded by six paragraphs of resume braggadocio which fully negated the impact or believability of this compliment.


You know when the President says something totally cheesy after a tragedy like "I"m going to hug my wife and kids tighter tonight"? Consider this your tragedy, jealous married people and single women considering moving to New York. . . unless of course you have an excellent sense of humor, are into anthropology... and need a houseboy.

Dear Mr/Ms/Mrs Mayor

Some people still write letters to their politicians. I appreciate keeping the post office on its toes. If I were to write a letter to the government, I'd start with the Mayor of New York City. I admit I'll be sorry to see Bloomberg -- Captain Ban -- go. His rejection of stuff is something I can get behind. Except for the smoking ban. That still pisses me off.

Anyway, I thought better of sending all my great ideas to some nimcompoop and instead created this list of STUFF I'D BAN IF I WAS MAYOR OF NEW YORK CITY OR THE WORLD, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST.

A LIST OF STUFF I'D BAN IF I WAS MAYOR OF NEW YORK CITY OR THE WORLD, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST

-- Backpacks on wheels. Defeatists and quitters will have to find another way to cart their shit around.

-- Brushing your hair in any public place. Keep that shit on the private.

-- Stopping short. Jerk move.

-- Shortstops. Made-up position. Commit to a base already.

-- Big and Tall stores. Unless I start seeing Little and Squat stores, what's fair is fair.

-- Babies in strollers in bars. Sorry parents. It's too much equipment for drunks to navigate. Wrap that thing in one of those burritos and we're in business. Also would like to point out that they have these places called liquor stores where you can buy delicious beverages and enjoy them in your own home with your kid asleep or locked up.

-- Donut holes. Pointless. For babies who can't commit to a full-on doughnut.

-- Doughnuts. Again, pointless. They'll never be cake. You can keep saying, "These are cake doughnuts," but my cake isn't fried and it sure as shit doesn't have "nuts" in it, literally or figuratively.

-- Filberts. No one eats them. They're the black sheep of the mixed nut bag.

-- Hazelnuts too can suck it. Especially those that dare to flavor coffee. Vomitrocious.

-- Bedazzling. Please don't call it a comeback.

-- Pets on airplanes. Sitting in your lap. I can't believe this slipped by the FAA. Hey lady, your "emotional distress" is best served by Xanax not your furry yip-yap.

-- Paul McCartney's pass. Dewd can't sing anymore. I'm sorry too but facts are facts. Zip it, buddy. Lennon asked me to pass along that message. And Yoko.

-- Debates about birth control. Unless you're a lady, talking about your own lady parts and choices, please shut up. I don't care what garbage issues from your mouth hole or any of your other holes for that matter.

-- Hole, the band. We don't have to worry about a reunion, do we?

-- Reunions. If I wanted to see/talk to you, you'd know. Chances are I don't remember you anyway and that's embarrassing. . . for you.

-- Biting your own tongue. That smarts!

-- Using this list or any part of it to get yourself elected as Mayor of New York City or the World.

Buried alive!

If I don't die drowning, I will surely meet my untimely end in an avalanche of someone's pile of crap. Like in one of those old lady apartments jammed with 70 years of newspapers and Ladies Home Journal. A tidal wave of New York Posts smothering me. 

Please don't let me die under a pile of New York Posts. The headline the next day will be insufferable. 

If you have teetering columns of useless shit all over your dwelling, please don't invite me over. For clarification, I give you this list. 

IT'S NOT COOL TO HOARD THE FOLLOWING AND EXPECT ME TO COME TO YOUR SHITHOUSE, A SHORT LIST

• CDs. If you're still buying CDs, we can't be friends. Mix tapes are acceptable. 
• Dolls. You're an adult. The end.
• Lamps. I read an article about some guy who had 100s of lamps in his one-bedroom apartment. Ri-goddamn-diculous.
• Toasters. I have trouble with this one because on the one hand, who doesn't love toast? Only Communists. But do you really need more than like five toasters max? Nah, you don't. 
• Animals. Two should suffice, across species. Unless you're a zoo. 
• Money. I read today that Oracle's CEO received +$96,000,000 in compensation last year. Who needs that much money lying around? 
• Papers. Two words: silver fish. 
• Wine. I know, surprising. But what's really shocking is why you're not drinking that delicious wine. You are dumb. 
• Tools. Unless you're a serial killer, it's disturbing to hoard so many of the same type of tool. No one cares. Unless of course, you're about to murder them. 

I can hear you whining, "but this is my treasure." Let me file that under I don't give a shit. If you still need convincing, watch this through to the end. 

Shocking discovery: Part II

Not so long ago, I alerted you to the dangers of the house cat.

(Tiny furry murderous killers, you are on notice.)

A gift of a chocolate bunny this morning reminded me of another tiny furry murderous killer.

BUNNIES

Maybe when you think of BUNNIES, these words come to mind: fluffy, white, brown, cuddly, hippity-hoppity happiness on tiny bent legs with beady murderous holes for eyes and razor-sharp fangs to sink deep into the hind quarters of even smaller, fluffier prey.

You're only half right.

BUNNIES KILL.

I know. I've seen it.

We had BUNNIES when I was small (but no less powerful). These BUNNIES had babies. Little fluff balls of cotton yip-yip-yipping around in their turd-filled cage.

I would stare at these BUNNIES, wishing I was as puffy and miniature and light. Then one day, the father BUNNY ate his baby BUNNIES.

Ate them. With his face. In front of my child eyes. Do I recall the first murderous stab into baby BUNNY? No. I remember the happening. And that is enough. (Lest you suspect this incident as pure imagination, I checked with kin and they confirmed the facts. Gung gung.)

Like the house cat, BUNNIES cannot be trusted.

Food for thought:

• Slaughter the lamb and not the BUNNY? What kind of BUNNY mafia is running this holiday? 

• Who's funding the BUNNIES? The NRA? (National Rifle Association, my ass. More like National Rabbit Association.) 

• Is it any wonder the hare is such an asshole in his race with the tortoise? 
• Wasn't Bugs Bunny kind of a jerk? 

• What measure of evil created the Cadburry BUNNY which clucks like a chicken and lays chocolate eggs? Schizophrenic little fuckers.

• Remember Peter Rabbit? Yeah, bad to the bone. 

• Thumper? No friend of yours. Name says it all, kids. Will steal your boyfriend. Can't be trusted. 

• Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh? Masking his murderous feelings with cleverness and irritability. 

• Trix rabbit? Spoon-feeding kids sugary balls of death. 

• We cut off their feet and use them as luck and you don't think BUNNIES have a vendetta? Find me someone who's benefited from a rabbit's foot. You cannot. Rabbit's foot: REJECTED. 

My Easter message to you is this. Beware of BUNNIES, rabbits, hares, fluffy cottontails, hopping down bunny trails with or without their rabbits' foots/feets. Shocking, but no less true for part two of shocking discoveries. You're welcome. 

The great thing about HIVES

The great thing about hives is nothing. Hives are bullshit. Doesn't everyone know that?

But look, if you're going to go through with hives, then commit to it. See those tiny red assholes through to the bitter, itchy end.

Frankly, I think hives could become the next big trend if enough people get onboard. Where are you, early adopters and influencers?

Imagine Bill Cunningham on his intrepid bicycle, combing the streets of New York for all manner of hives' incarnations.

Hives in fur!

Hives in culottes!

Hives in houndstooth!

Hives on hives! (Well done, sir. Well done.) 

Soon people will be going all black market to get their hives on. Bigger, more badass, more hives, please. The more intensely painful, long-lasting, pronounced, the better. Some lunchbox will inevitably tattoo a limb or torso or neck with hives. This is your future.

Before you tsk tsk or dismiss hives altogether with your judgy judgment, consider the upside of hives as I've layed them out here in this handy SANCTIONED LIST OF WHAT HIVES CAN DO FOR YOU IF GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY.

WHAT HIVES CAN DO FOR YOU IF GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY, A LIST

• If you miss that sweet sting of your first summer sunburn, get hives now. You can scratch your way to glorious hot hives in seconds.
  
  
• If you suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder and crave the warm warm sunshine, eat some corrupt shellfish. Preferably right off the truck and raw. Hives will ensue.
  
  
• If, on the other hand, you're one of those night crawlers inflicted with Xeroderma pigmentosum (allergic to sunshine basically), simulate the sunshine burning your face by picking up some hives and putting down the blackout shades.
  
  
• If you're a skinny bitch with a secret big person on the inside and have always wondered what your face would look like a bit fuller, rub said face in some bee stings. You'll be puffed and blotchy in no time. And, watch as those wrinkles disappear before your swollen, half-closed lids!
  
  
• If you have difficulty standing out in crowds and your friends are always texting "Where the hell are you?", hives can not only solve that social strait but also add significantly to your confidence and presence. (Hives are also great at clearing space on the dance floor.)
  
  
• If you enjoy very much a side of garage with your plate of punk, all the way from Sweden, then sink your skin into The Hives' only hit: 
  
  
• If you just don't have anything better to do today, or for the next six weeks, raid that medicine cabinet and let the mixology begin. Hives on the rocks or straight up, friend?

Not as abysmal as you thought, right? Hives have real potential to shake up your static life and lead to important self discovery. Hives may save the world. Imagine UN peace teams bonding with rebels, dictators, freedom fighters over the size, location, and scarring potential of hives. Feel the enemy's pain, to its deepest levels. We're not so different, at least when it comes to uncomfortable skin conditions. Hives forever, papi.

Get it together, girls

Ripped from the headlines. . . I hope Law & Order covers this shit:

Cookie hoax: Girl Scouts scammed out of $24,000

A girl's prank order for 6,000 boxes of cookies taken by troops in Oregon prompts a community bailout.

There's so much fresh-squeezed juice in this story. Where to begin?

First of all, I do not endorse the Girl Scouts as an organization and by extension any organization that promotes bunching, especially of identically dressed squirts. The Girl Scouts claim they build girls of courage, confidence, and character. But apparently zero street smarts.

Some questions:

          1. Who took this $24,000 order exactly?
          That Girl Scout should be fired. 

          2. Who orders $24,000 worth of Girl Scout cookies? 

          NO ONE. 

          3. Why do Girl Scout cookies taste so good even though they taste like cardboard?
          MSG probably.

Was this cookie debacle really a scam? Or better yet, was it a test of how gullible the Girl Scouts are? What practical skills are these girls developing if they can't spot a cookie fraud in progress? 

Get it together, girls. How are you going to make it in the business world where jerks are plentiful and infinitely more sneaky than this culprit.

And to think the fraud perpetrated was by a GIRL. I applaud her frankly. I mean, yeah she's a total jerk but at least she's owning her jerkness and by so doing, revealing the glaring flaws in the Girl Scouts organization. You'd never catch this jerk girl bunching. She probably hates cookies too. What a jerk.

“This was a really tough lesson regarding business ethics,” Sara Miller, spokeswoman for the Girl Scouts of Oregon and Southwest Washington, told The Oregonian.

Long-overdue lesson is more like it. Toughen up, 2.3 million tiny ladies in the making.

I don't feel bad for the Girl Scouts. Or for that jerk girl. I feel bad for the cookies. And for Oregon which most likely will experience a serious ramp up of diabetes soon from bailing out the Girl Scouts.

Gung gung.

Erin go Blah Blah Blah

St. Patrick's Day. Self-imposed sequestration for fear of encountering the green-clad hordes bunching drunkenly and disorderly, here and there. Although I'm not fraternizing with the inebriated masses, I hold a special fondness for the Irish. What better way to express my approval than this:

KISS THEM, BLESS THEM, TOAST THEM, HIGH FIVE THEM, HUG THEM WITH CAUTION -- THE SHORT LIST OF OFFICIALLY SANCTIONED STUFF ABOUT THE IRISH/IRELAND

1. Guinness: To quote my own genius: "the delicious Irish beer with the foamy cap that makes everyone smile and generally feel like a better person." Also a great source of iron and low in calories. BOOM.

2. James Joyce: Dubliners, Portrait of the Artist, Ulysses. Read something seminal. 

3. Potatoes: Taste explosion in every form. Is there a single human who doesn't like the potato? That person should be stoned. . . with potatoes. 

4. The International World Oyster Opening Championship: Held each year in Galway, professional oyster openers come from all over the world to shuck fast and clean. The best contest in the world. Should be an olympic sport. 

5. Freckles: I have them therefore they rule. You're welcome, Ireland. 

6. Unabashed winking: I'm making a generalization here based on my vacation to Ireland many years ago in which men, women, and babies all winked at me with wild abandon. I enjoyed it very much. 

7. Badass brogue: You may catch every other word if you're lucky. More likely, you'll pick up every third or fourth word but who cares because they sound fucking fantastic. 

8. Not including U2 on this list makes the Irish that much cooler.

9. Shitty weather doesn't get them down.  For real. The weather can really suck there and yet everyone is happy. Or tipsy. Or a leprechaun. It doesn't matter. 

10. My Left Foot. A two-hour film about a foot. True story. 

Bonus #11. "Nothing Compares 2 U," Sinead O'Connor. Someone once made me a mix tape of this song -- and only this song -- on both sides of a casette tape, playing over and over and over again. 

Slainte.

Thoughts on fitness

I hate running. I hate aerobics. I hate spinning, zumba, and whatever else ladies do in gyms these days. I hate the gym. I pretty much hate team sports too. I hate all of these almost as much as I hate drowning, which I fear will be my untimely end. Which leads me to why I can't swim. Can't swim because don't want to swim because I will die swimming — or not swimming as the case may be.

All of this is not to say that I don't partake in fitness and am not super fit. Because I am. SUPER FIT. Ask anyone what comes to mind when the word "fitness" is dropped in conversation and 9 times out of 10, it will be the image of me.

Back to drowning.

I can pinpoint the experience which led to my fear of drowning and death by drowning. My dad brought me into the raging ocean waves as a kid and I got knocked down hard.

A kid with glasses went into the ocean and got knocked down hard by some waves. Seems like an everyday occurrence. But my dad made me stay in the water. Not because he's a cruel master but most likely because he thought I could shake it off.

But listen, parents, kids with glasses don't want to go in the water and they probably hate the beach. We can't see shit without those things so not wearing them is not an option. Kids with glasses are wearing their glasses on the beach and usually in the water. Like a bunch of dorks. 

Maybe it was the humiliation of being that kid in the water getting knocked down by some fucking wave OR maybe, just maybe, it was the powerful combination of getting knocked down and not being able to see the prospect of getting knocked down because my glasses were covered in ocean.

Screw you, ocean.

Anyway, the CDC reported that between 2005–2009 there were an average of 3,533 fatal unintentional drownings (non-boating related) annually in the U.S. That's 10 deaths by drowning per day.

Now don't ask me what a non-fatal drowning looks like. Pretty gruesome I'd guess. All that bloating!

And don't ask me what the fuck the CDC has been doing for the last four years. Really falling down on the drowns is my guess.

I should feel reassured that those at the greatest risk for drowning are the following:

1. Men
That's right, nearly 80% of all fatal drownings are men. I'm breathing a huge sigh of relief. Too bad for you, dewds.

2. Kids
Squirts between 1 and 4 have the highest drowning rates among all kids. Thank God, I dodged that bullet.

3. Minorities
African-American kids drown at a rate 3x higher than white kids. Pretty racist, CDC.

The CDC goes on to list some factors that influence drowning risk. It's pretty much the worst list ever created, in terms of entertainment value and therefore usefulness. I do feel it necessary to point out the following paragraph:

What has research found?

• Swimming skills help. 

Way to go, CDC. It's comforting to know this top-ranked government agency really asks the hard questions when conducting life-saving research. I'd also like to point out that the CDC's tag line is:

CDC 24/7: Saving Lives. Protecting People.

I reject this tag line. What about those 3,500+ people who drowned a couple years ago? What about the people drowning RIGHT NOW?

I don't really care about those people.

I don't wear glasses anymore. I still can't swim well enough to save my life from a fatal, unintentional drowning. But I'm determined to get on the beach this year and in the ocean. . . and push some kid with glasses down hard. "I saved your life, rugrat. You're welcome."

What's Happening in Asia: A Roundup

Yeah, I keep track of Asia. The preternatural shit coming out of Japan never ceases to surprise me. And of course Korea. Love that peanut of a country. It's seriously weird. South Korean teens on the subway are my favorite. They're all electric neon and five feet tall (with heels) and giggling incessantly. How can you control the urge to kidnap one? Put them right in the front pocket. Then there's North Korea. High heels, pompadours, movie sets, oppression, abject poverty, and missile tests. What the fuck, North Korea?

Anyway, I read three stories on Asia-Pac this week that bear repeating. Two totally bizarre and one ass kicker out of Vietnam of all places.

1. JAPAN. You tech behemoth. You Vegas-esque wonderland of lights and robots and bullet trains and delicious sushi meat. And yet. . .

In High-Tech Japan, the Fax Machines Roll On

Wha? Yeah, fax machines. Remember those dinosaurs with their paper rolls and stomach gurgling sounds and error messages and constant berating "Send FAIL." The Japanese are WILD for the fax machine. 

TODAY. 

Last year, Japanese households bought 1.7 Million fax machines.

ONE POINT SEVEN MILLION FAX MACHINES!

I can hardly process that stat. Here's another.

Almost 100% of businesses have a fax and 45% of homes. 

Half of homes have a fax machine? What the hell are they faxing, these fax bandits? Oh, you know, handwritten lunch orders for bento boxes. I am not kidding. 

At Tamagoya, they get 62,000 lunch orders a day — half of those come in by fax. That's THIRTY THOUSAND FAXES PER DAY. 

I can't. I just can't talk about this anymore. The Japanese do some crazy shit. I really need to get over there and fax the shit out of my lunch order. Wait til they hear about 3D printing!

2. Over in SOUTH KOREA, things are a little less light-hearted. Apparently the elderly are offing themselves in record numbers. This is very sad because everyone knows how cute elderly Asians are. Almost as cute as South Korean teens, just tinier and a little less brightly colored. Still pocket worthy though. 

As Families Change, Korea’s Elderly Are Turning to Suicide

The New York Times is calling this "explosive growth in suicides," quadrulple that in recent years. Woah! What the hell, Korea? Is it all the neon? Gangnam style to blame? Your crazy Northern neighbor? 

Turns out it's the kids who are to blame. And the government. A conspiracy against the elderly! Not really but kids are ditching the farms to make it in the big cities and leaving mom and dad to figure it out on their own. And then the government gets all up in everyone's business only to f things up royally:

The law denies welfare to people whose children are deemed capable of supporting them. That leaves some parents the humiliating choice of asking for help from their children or their government, which can grant exemptions if they can prove their children are unwilling or unable to help. 

So in an effort to not lose face, the elderly are killing themselves in record numbers. This situation sucks. I'm really disappointed in you, South Korea. Get it together or my pockets are going to start filling up real fast with your olds. 

3. Ending on a high note in VIETNAM, gimme a big ol' holla to the ladies of Loi. 

A Tiny Village Where Women Chose to Be Single Mothers

Hell yeah. Thirty years ago, a small group of gutsy ladies gave the old shaking fist "Screw you, buddy" and said I'm gonna have myself a baby solo. And shit, they did. A bunch of them. They scraped by meagerly at first but made it and turned a whole community's disapproval into acceptance and support. I love this story. I mean, yeah it's fucked up that at age 20, these women were passed by because they were deemed too old but way to take control of a situation. Here, the best line of the article:

One by one they asked men — whom they would never interact with afterward — to help them conceive a child.

Wham, bam, thank you, Sam. So it's like that, dewds. 

So that's what's what in Asia-Pac this week. I could paste the links to all these stories for you to follow-up on but shit, have some pride and DIY, like Asia would.

Domo arigato. 

Groundhogs win.

Spring is coming early, according to weather experts. Not Doppler 4000 or Sam Champion or even Al fucking Roker. I mean, the groundhog, of course.

How shitty is your profession when you're upstaged by a rodent every damn year?  

I'd like to see the data on how many meteorologists overdose on pills, strangle themselves, drive their cars off bridges today to escape the shadow of Punxsutawney Phil, Staten Island Chuck, Atlanta's General Beauregard Lee, and Ontario's Wiarton Willie.

Writing out that list just depressed the shit out of me.

What do we even know about these little animal fuckers? Well I did some research. Get ready to have your tiny mind blown.

“Teenage males are capable of many things,” said Robert S. Voss, a mammal curator at the American Museum of Natural History. 

Tell me about it, Bob. I was a teenage girl once. Oh shit, you meant teenage male groundhogs. 

These little jerks only live about six years. TOTAL. No wonder they're so intent on spoiling shit for other people. Picking on the weather(wo)man seems like a weak play, since those jerks are hardly ever right to begin with. 

Who's really to blame for this full court press on the groundhog? You, of course. Why are you filming this shit? How low on the totem pole do you have to be to get the groundhog day assignment? I say to you, reporters, revolt! Take back the news. Join your beleaguered weather colleagues and shut down this groundhog business. Do your job for once and uncover the facts like I did in 2 seconds:

According to the StormFax Weather Almanac and records kept since 1887, Punxsutawney Phil's weather predictions have been correct 39% of the time.^[108] The National Climatic Data Center has described the forecasts as "on average, inaccurate" and stated that "The groundhog has shown no talent for predicting the arrival of spring, especially in recent years."^[109]

And you know what else?

"They’re known for their aggression..."

Yeah! Groundhogs are totally hulking out all over the place. Aggro little bastards. They don't care who they take down. Live fast, die hard. Pump their burrows full of beta blockers or antipsychotics or any of this crap: Ativan, Haldol, and Thorazine. 

Maybe they're just misunderstood. Like so many of you unwashed masses. It's possible, right? Read the hell out of this next paragraph:

"Yet another challenge facing New York City’s groundhogs: their populations are so small and separated from one another, some probably have trouble finding mates, naturalists say."

I could cry. No wonder they're such animals. They just want to be loved. Don't despair, groundhog. Your soulmate is out there, probably banging another groundhog. (Credit to Will Ferrell for that insight applied to humans.) 

And now I've made the groundhog even more popular. Damn you, woodchuck! You win today, but just remember this. . . tomorrow you'll probably be dead. Six years can really fly. Enjoy it now, gangsta. 

Hasta luego, D.R.

You can really tell a lot about a country by its airport. The Reykjavik airport is sterile and cold and the seats are hard as shit. But isn't that what all of Iceland is like? Chicago's hub is sprawling and somehow unnerving in its gigantic danger. Just like that damn city. In Philly, you can expect to get in / pick / defend yourself from a fight at any and all times. Rome, nobody gives a shit about you because everyone is busy looking awesome while doing nothing. Cusco, I fully expected to see a line of chickens board the plane alongside of me, which would have been fine because everyone is so damn quiet and nice there.

Then there's Punta Cana. What the fuck, Dominican Republic?

This airport defies all logic, order, common sense, safety, and really fails on the bunching. When you arrive, you're greeted by giant fans blowing your airplane-swept hair in all directions. This will distract you from the lack of signage on the tarmac, in the airport, pretty much everywhere. Get in line with the hordes to approach some sort of desk where I gave some lady $10 and got a fortune (?). At least that was the size of the receipt. Someone mentioned it was a tourist fee. You're paying me to enter? Get your shit together, D.R.

Someone should really open a sign business in the D.R.
They'd make a fucking killing. 

Luckily getting into this country is relatively quick. No one seems to really give a fuck that you're there. In fact, when I tried to ask someone a question, they looked right through me. See here, I know I'm pale but that's just rude. Can you not see me or do you just not care? Make up your mind, D.R.

I'm going to skip the actual vacation part because that's my business and not yours. I will tell you that it has made me reconsider my feelings about the "all-inclusive." Normally, I'd think "no" when the subject of all-inclusive comes up. Nothing all-inclusive can end well: buffets, booze, polyamory. 

Anyway, it was a good time. A good time was not in the cards for the return trip to the airport. Never go to the Punta Cana airport hungover and sleep deprived. You will need every sense to A) find the ticket counter and B) make it to the right gate and C) not strangle everyone in strangling distance.

Bose should also open up shop for those noise-canceling headphones.
They'd make a fucking killing too. 

In case it's not clear, this airport defines shit show. Two ladies in some kind of costume forced me to take a picture with them and then jammed another fortune-like piece of paper in my hand. I still have no idea what that was for.

People are in snake lines everywhere you go and since there's no signage, you should avoid the instinct to just get behind them.

Security was an exercise in futility. I brought three plastic water bottles through security without thinking and all the "security guy" said to me was "Hey lady, don't forget your water."

Don't think about sleeping in this airport. Two ladies will alternate yelling incoherently through microphones while crowds of people mill around confused. I can't even emphasize enough what kinds of feelings the yelling will unearth in you.

The NRA should never open a shop here. 

Once your flight seems ready to board, you'll stand in a long line; then get split into two lines; then walk over to your plane on the runway in a giant mess of a line; then some lady will scrupulously check your passport. Really? Now you're going to take a close look to determine whether I'm who I say I am. Shit, girl, I'm getting on this plane and out of this batshit-crazy airport.

I'd post this shit on Travel Advisor but those jerks can't handle the truth. Consider yourself afortunado. Paz.

Just let me sleep, damn it

Apparently forgot to post this flash of genius so enjoy...

As a super cultured higher being, I attend the theatre as often as possible. Considering my brain is always working overtime, the suspension of disbelief is a welcome change from making world domination decisions. (If you watched the debate last night, what a 100% shit show the world is.)

There seems to be this new and disturbing trend in the theater wherein the audience is called to participate. Initially I was on the fence about interactive theater. Hell, some of these unwashed masses may have skills; let's see what you can do, dummies.

But not surprisingly, people disappoint when called upon to not act like animals.

Case in point, two interactive theater performances I recently attended focused on one of my favorite activities: sleeping. The performances in question:

Sleep No More at the McKittrick Hotel
Never Sleep Alone at Joe's Pub

Both required the audience wear a mask either during the entire performance or a portion thereof. This in itself is revealing. Hide your telltale stupefied faces, unwashed masses. (P.S. No one looks good in a mask. Ever. This is why Halloween should be banned forever.)

SNM I was on board with almost the whole time. A wordless Macbeth in a former hotel requires the participant to explore various floors, observe, inspect objects and papers, and follow one of the players who interpret Shakespeare through dance. The dancers, I wholly commend for their ability to totally block out all the idiots in masks surrounding them, running after them, and generally cramping their space. Yes, it's true, even in the context of theater, people will act like animals if given the chance. I very well could have been stampeded by those following Lady Macbeth.

Remember that episode of Bernie Mac's show where he had to coach the peewee soccer team? He advised those tiny people that to win, you must not bunch.  No bunching! The kids botched it in that episode. And not surprisingly, adults botch the no-bunching rule as well. Bernie Mac was ahead of his time.

Now this NSA was a real thrill-a-diller. Singles are bunched together (I know, Bernie. I know.) in small tables and forced to do as the hostess/emcee/aggro female sex therapist commands. First of all, no one tells me what to do. So we have a real problem in the first five minutes of this show. The hostess then precedes to select random singles and demand they makeout, take off shirt, sit on lap, simulate oral sex with a watermelon -- in the lap of a strange girl.

When asked to act like animals, people will. It goes without saying that I was horrified. I try not to mix among you too often and clearly this is why. Thankfully I was not called upon to participate because I can assure you, it would have ended badly for someone who is not me.

So all this interaction has me wondering what the hell you have against sleep/sleeping/sleeping alone? I, for one, love sleeping. When I'm tired of being awake, I can nod off just about anywhere. Cars, planes, waiting rooms, hairdresser's. You name it, I can sleep there. It's part of my super power. To shut down, naturally, on command.

Seriously, you should try it. Turn it off, people. You're not doing anyone any favors staying awake. And damn it, stop bunching.

Pain in my assets

My last entry was on my best asset: my powerful brain. The following will cover my second best asset: my awesome ass.

How can you describe a rear of such import? One doctor commented, "You're pretty bony back there." followed by "not much meat." Don't be fooled though. I have just enough pounds of flesh and not an ounce more.

Why bother with all this detail? Well normally, I reserve the viewing of my ass for a highly select few. Unlike Chinese tots whose pants have cutouts in the seat so they may poop at will (See image.), I cover my backside with normal pants.

Yes, the above is disturbing. Try to keep it together. 

Anyway, I've been having pain in my lower back and down my very attractive left leg. Self-diagnosis revealed my spine was unhappy with the recent uptick in activity. Fuck you, spine. Who told you to disobey the powerful brain? Self-diagnosis also revealed I may have pinched a nerve. Whatever. Shut up, body. 

So I went to the doctor several times to address the pain. On a whim, I decided to get an epidural yesterday. (Cross that off the bucket list! And, I didn't even have to shoot out a kid.) 

Yeah, you read that right, epidural. This is the momma of all needles and injections. Pregnant women get it because they're champions of pain and can pretty much handle anything pre-birthing. Well, I've proved myself just as strong (surprise, surprise.)

Let me set the scene. Young, bearded, attractive physician assistant (PA) and whatever middle-age doctor prepare the injection. I lay down on my stomach with a gown open in the back. 

My interior monologue: "Oh, you're going to pull down my underwear now? Great. Oh yeah, thanks for that sheet around my upper legs -- it really does the trick."

PA now begins to prepare the injection site, for all intents and purposes, my ass, with iodine. 

Interior monologue: "Hi, my name is Shiny Penny. I usually don't show my assets to people I've only known for 15 minutes so please consider this a rare gift. You're welcome."

Doctor inserts first needle to numb the area. Why does the numbing needle hurt exactly? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Way to go, science. 

Now comes the big one. I didn't catch a glimpse of this 18 foot needle which was inserted directly into my spine at the tip. I can tell you that it hurt as much as I thought it would. During said injection,

Doctor: "You okay?"
Me: "Sure. Dynamite. Never been better. Can't imagine anywhere I'd rather be."
Doctor: "So, what do you do for a living?"

Really? We're going to have small talk around my bare butt?

Me: "I'm conquering the world."
PA: "I have a buddy who does that too."

Whatever. Losing points PA.

Doctor: "We could use someone like that here. No one's creative enough."
Me: Silence. 

This lasted all of 10 minutes but it felt like an eternity. My upper legs and butt were numb for a good hour, which is really strange and not as awesome as you'd think. 

We'll see what wonders unfold 24 hours post epidural. I'll be flying by the seat of my pants on the follow-up course of action but I'll be sure to keep you posted on the backend. 

Pain in the brain a.k.a. brain pains

Many a child and adult alike have bitched at some point in time about "growing pains." From the physical pain of growing into your legs, nose, chin, ego, etc., to growing accustomed to a new city, job, home, relationship, you really know how to make a mountain out of a mole hill. Babies. Those pains are ridiculous. 

Brain pains are another story entirely. Some would call this a headache or its more evil cousin, the migraine. The debilitating stab in the temple, aversion to light, nausea at the smell of Subway sandwiches – all are symptoms of the head storm. My particular migraines are the result of actual growing pains. My brain is always actively expanding and it hurts, damn it.

I know you can’t possibly wrap your head around this so let me really dumb it on down. My brain needs more space due to all the awesome knowledge contained therein. Imagine one of those IBM server farms with the rows and rows of gigantic black servers. My brain has double the knowledge and .00000001% of the space. You’d have a headache too.

I tried to sleep it off.

Brain won.

I tried to drug it out.

Brain won.

I tried to distract myself with menial tasks.

Brain laughed quietly to itself.

I should invent a brain goiter to take some of the pressure off. Like a side brain or a porch for my frontal lobe. A quick Google search revealed a band named GOITER with a song entitled “Brain Expulsion.” I doubt they have expertise in brain add-ons. 

You know what I hate most about brain pains? When people ask, "Why do you have a headache?" Often I answer, "Because of all your dumb questions, you dumb dummy. Now beat it."

So that's the situation with my brain. It's a real pain.

What you missed while I was somewhere awesome

I've been away. Out of the country. Pushing my superior body to its limits, in high altitudes, unfriendly terrain, outdoor residences, foreign cuisines and tongues. Most of you unwashed masses barely dip a big toe in another culture  if and when you travel farther than the Olive Garden. Good job.  

I dove deep into the belly of a country of small tan people to uncover their secrets and secret trails. It was a journey not without misfortune and mishaps. Don't think I didn't notice your attempts to slow me down by misplacing my contact lens -- while it was in my eye; by pushing your altitude sickness upon me with its all-consuming headache, nausea, and shortness of breath; making my fingers numb for 20-minute periods; and of course the "accident" of my sprained ankle. I'm onto you small tan people. You're small but not that crafty. Well, actually, you're very crafty as the many craft tables with your crafts proved and your constant soliciting of buyers for these crafts, but not in the crafty underhanded way.

Journeys like these often lend themselves to self-examination as if the self (meaning you) was that interesting to begin with to require investigation. Lest you confuse yourselves, see Olive Garden comment in first paragraph. I, on the other hand, being of superior mind and body as stated earlier, generated several brilliant ideas and observations while in the jungle and the unwelcoming environs aforementioned.

INSPIRED IDEAS AND BRILLIANT OBSERVATIONS OBTAINED OUT OF COUNTRY, SOMETIMES WHILE IN THE JUNGLE

-- Toilet paper and flushing are underrated. More surprisingly, toilet paper was not invented by the Japanese, but the Chinese! Horrors! American Seth Wheeler put it on a roll in 1877.

-- You can in fact make a delicious cake in the jungle, without an oven.

-- Walking down 3,000 steps with a sprained ankle is a real bitch.

-- Whoever is engineering knees these days has really fallen down on the job. Way to go, humans.

-- Hiking is not a race, even though you really want to beat the family with small children to the campsite.

-- It's not the speed of your hike that matters, but the time spent -- the more, the better -- on the trail.

-- Panic attacks and altitude sickness are often confused for each other.

-- Guinea pigs produce milk. (Shocking.) You can make cheese from this milk. Small people are best equipped to coerce this milk from guinea pigs.

-- Tents are made for short people, an injustice I will rectify for those of us over five feet in height. Look out for a missive from my new nonprofit TENTS FOR TALLS.

-- It's best to remain in disguise throughout your trek and even "assume some outward physical weakness" to gain favor and greater access to knowledge. People can't help but divulge information to the weaks and the sicks and the frails.

There are countless others I could tack onto this abbreviated list. It's funny how journeys outside your comfort zone and time zone can really change you, readjust the old priorities. In addition to my regular world domination to-do, I'm adding this new, totally selfless and possibly time-consuming cause: my nonprofit TENTS FOR TALLS. I won't rest until this evil perpetrated by the shorts is corrected. I'm coming for you, shorts. Better look out -- and up.

It's curtains for you, kids.

It's become increasingly apparent that the world hates kids. Exaggeration? Let's consider some recent events to support this fact:

1. Unarmed 17-year-old shot dead by crazy lurking old for wearing the always-threatening hoodie sweatshirt.
   
2. The olds are pumping your school lunch meat full of pink slime. (Not to be confused with the fun kind of green slime that Nickelodeon dumps on celebrities at awards shows.)
   
3. MPAA slaps "R" rating on movie made for kids, about bullying among kids. So, kids won't be able to see the movie made for them about them.
   
4. NYC Department of Education compiles a list of 50 words to ban from standardized tests because kids will get too distracted to take the test when they see the super charged likes of "pepperoni" and "dinosaur."

Hey kids, you need to organize your tiny selves and fight the olds before they turn you into a bunch of shits with no vocabulary.

Now for the in-depth analysis (Clearly the kids won’t read this far because they all have ADD but maybe one rebel kid will.).

1. It's no surprise this event happened in Florida. Heimlich and I have agreed that Florida should be physically severed from the United States like a gangrenous foot and set to sea.
   
   Nothing good comes out of Florida. Residents have proven time and time again that they like to murder, whether it’s their babies (Caylee Anthony), their baby mommas (Michelle Parker), or apparently kids with hoodies (Trayvon Martin).
   
   Consider too that the senior olds go there to die. They're probably expecting to get murdered before their natural end. I bet the senior olds sign some kind of "I agree to be murdered" pact when crossing the border into Florida.
   
   Florida, you are akin to the penal colonies of old Australia. Except without the dignity of bars and the punishment. You really blew it, Florida. So we're done with you. Now get the hell out of here.
   

2.  Your pink slime meat is produced by Beef Products, Inc., “the world's leading producer of lean beef processed from fresh beef trimmings.” I just threw up after typing that sentence. Go on a hunger strike, kids.

3.    MPAA, what a bunch of dummies.

4.    Speaking of dummies, the New York Department of Education really takes the cake. Oh geez, should I strike “cake” from the record so as not to offend the gluten intolerant? F you, Department of Dummies.

What the hell is wrong with you, jerks? Are kids today so sensitive that they can’t take a test if the word “birthday” appears and they happen to be a Jehovah’s Witness because they’ll burst into tears? Hey kid, maybe you shouldn’t be a Jehovah’s Witness because birthdays are awesome. Or better yet, maybe you should steel yourself for a world of disappointment and hard things to deal with . . . because that’s what the world is.

This extreme sensitivity to offending anyone is really fucking offensive. I’d like to suggest a ban on banning or maybe just a ban on the Department of Education. Here’s their idiotic list of banned words:

Abuse (physical, sexual, emotional, or psychological), Alcohol (beer and liquor), tobacco, or drugs, Birthday celebrations (and birthdays), Bodily functions, Cancer (and other diseases), Catastrophes/disasters (tsunamis and hurricanes), Celebrities, Children dealing with serious issues, Cigarettes (and other smoking paraphernalia), Computers in the home (acceptable in a school or library setting), Crime, Death and disease, Divorce, Evolution, Expensive gifts, vacations, and prizes, Gambling involving money, Halloween, Homelessness, Homes with swimming pools, Hunting, Junk food, In-depth discussions of sports that require prior knowledge, Loss of employment, Nuclear weapons, Occult topics (i.e. fortune-telling), Parapsychology, Politics, Pornography, Poverty, Rap Music, Religion, Religious holidays and festivals (including but not limited to Christmas, Yom Kippur, and Ramadan), Rock-and-Roll music, Running away, Sex, Slavery, Terrorism, Television and video games (excessive use), Traumatic material (including material that may be particularly upsetting such as animal shelters), Vermin (rats and roaches), Violence, War and bloodshed, Weapons (guns, knives, etc.), Witchcraft, sorcery, etc.

Say goodbye to “fart!” and “Halloween” and “rap music” and “swimming pools" and "video games” and anything else FUN. 

Like I said, kids, get yourself out of here. Because all signs point to the olds ruining everything for you.