That Look You Give That Guy

Watch this totally approved Eels' video for "That Look You Give That Guy" from the new album HOMBRE LOBO.

First off, I can't even process the awesome beards happening in this black-and-white video. What I wouldn't give to tangle my digits up in there. Damn.

Secondly, this song warms the cold, black heart inside my chest box. Almost makes me want to shed a tiny tear. I am totally crying on the inside, Eels.

Thirdly, this album's title does not only appear in all caps, which I am on board with, but it's in the espanol, which I am also on board with. The translation is "werewolf." Also on board with.

Fourthly, the members of the bearded band include E (vocals), Knuckles (drums), and Koool G Murder (bass). Do you really need any other reason to mad love the Eels? No, you do not. Do it.

Fifthly, eel is delicious. Try it on a tiny pillow of rice.

I'm feeling vulnerable now.

A short aside. There's a rest stop off the Pennsylvania Turnpike where an infamous guinea hen (a.k.a. turkey) used to loiter. Every damn time I stopped in this rest stop, there was that damn guinea hen. Walking around like he owned the place, hanging around a little too close to cars, taunting people with its guinea hen sounds. One particular stop, I was sitting in the car awaiting a delicious cold beverage from my driver. The owner of the car next to mine came outside and saw this guinea hen leaning on his car. The conversation which followed was thus:

Man: "Where the fuck did you come from?"
Guinea Hen: "_"
Man: "Get the fuck out of here."
Guinea Hen: "_"

Yeah. The tension in the air was thick. Murderous even. But that fucking guinea hen stood his ground. I don't know where the fuck he came from but he most assuredly did not get the fuck out of there.

That look that guy gave that guinea hen was not the same as the look that fictional guy from the awesome Eels' song would totally give me.

Sweet.

Groomsmen

Oh my! I’ve watched the above video several times. You should watch it several times. I didn’t even know dudes did this kind of stuff to the ‘hair down there.’ I’m kind of speechless. There are so many awesome things about this video that I don’t even know where to begin. I particularly enjoyed the way they shot the post-shave moisturizer.

I would also like to formally announce that I should be working at Gillette if this is what Gillette is working on. I will write them a cover letter (in my mind) right now to request they make me some kind of high-powered executive pronto.

You’re welcome.

I like to be on top.

It’s come to my attention that the FTC (a.k.a. Federal Trade Commission) wants to be all up in my blogging business with their “regulations,” trying to “legislate” my ethics, and shit.

Listen here, FTC, I will not be controlled or limited or otherwise inconvenienced by the Man. You can’t hold me down with your big government thumb. I like to be on top, and damn it son, I will be on top.

So I’m writing a letter (in my mind) to the FTC to discuss these regulations that were apparently debated and passed without my consultation. Rude.

The FTC’s main beef is with bloggers who accept freebies from advertisers and then write positive reviews of aforementioned freebies. You know, ‘cuz word of mouth is super powerful among the unwashed masses. The FTC claim they want to protect consumers.

From what? Protect consumers from their own whoring, thieving, cheating, backstabbing, lying, otherwise crummy lives? Why?

Hey Mister FTC, that’s the American Dream. To whore, thieve, cheat, backstab, lie, and otherwise lead a 100% crummy life—for free! I’m pretty sure it’s like Article 1 in the Constitution. Yay, America.

As for those bloggers on the dole, that’s too bad. Too bad you’re too unoriginal to write anything original or unbiased or uninfluenced. How sad for you. Everyone wants to be a writer, and that too is the American Dream. For free! But Mister FTC says you can remain on the dole but you just have to admit that you’re on the dole whereby also admitting that you are an unoriginal cog, nay meatball, whoring for the Advertising Man. I hate to slander the meatball which in 99% of cases is delicious but in this case is a whore.

Rest assured, I cannot be bought by anyone. I influence for free! I am only an ambassador for myself and my opinions which are far superior to yourself and your opinions. I exercise my judgment upon you freely and without agenda. If I so choose, I will freely misguide you, if only for my own amusement. The Truth is out there but I take no responsibility for leading you there. Take some initiative for once and find it yourself.

I’m over the FTC. You are not the boss of me, mister. You might be able to crush the dreams and hopes of the common people, but not me. Not. Me.

This concludes our unpaid conversation, brought to you by me as the sole sponsor of me and all things me related.

I am the future. And the future rejects Twitter.

I don’t understand the Twitter. Yeah, I have an account and I’ve spent a solid week trying to unearth its appeal, usefulness, or really any redeeming quality.

What’s with the character limit? You are not the boss of my characters, Twictators!

What’s with all the following? Why can’t you people add some value instead of always sucking the lifeblood out of me? “What I’m doing” is highly confidential and not open for public forums, let alone debate. I refuse to be compromised by your perverse voyeurism.

Have you even read their Terms of Service? Apparently Twitter rejects those under the age of 13. I take issue with this. On rare occasions, those under the age of 13, particularly those around the ages of 2–4 say some truly funny shit that should be captured in a short-character forum like the Twitter. I will fight for the rights of this voiceless minority.

Therefore, as a result of my intensive research, I reject Twitter. I also reject its make-believe language:

-- tweet
-- Twitterati
-- Tweeters/tweeps
-- Twitterverse
-- Egotwistical
-- Puntwit
-- TwOOb

Et cetera. There’s even a Twictionary.

I feel sick.

It’s not often that the unwashed masses side against my very high-minded, super-informed opinion. But that seemed the case with the Twitter. Marketing wonks practically cream about Twitter, as do a bunch of celebrities and sports-type people. The more I heard about Twitter, the firmer my conviction that the great majority of Twitter is for the illiterate, attention-deficit, self-absorbed idiots (nay Twidiots) of the InterWeb. But why do so many people do the Twitter??? I cannot get my super intelligent head around it.

And then this came into my top secret inbox:

Despite the fact that 99% of Generation Y consumers (ages 18-24) report having an active profile on at least one online social networking site, only 22% of this same age group say they currently use Twitter, according to a study from the Participatory Marketing Network (PMN).

So there’s hope for the youth. Well, at least for 77% of you unwashed youthful masses.

I do like that tiny bird on a branch. The Twitter bird on a branch can stay. I am extremely benevolent to small creatures. I’d also like to extend some leniency to the folks behind the Twitter. After reading the About Us, FAQs, and Support, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Twitter employs emphatics and you know how I feel about emphatics. They are super excited about almost everything and so I cannot reject their enthusiasm and free-love-like use of the exclamation point, no matter how much I’d like to.

Wow, that was really generous of me.

To sum up, the bird can stay. The emphatics are pardoned. 22% of you are a total lost cause. I am still the future and the future which is me is awesome. And you are welcome.

Pizza: The Sport of Champions

Some times in life you happen upon something really dynamite, and although skeptical at first, upon further investigation you quickly realize your world has been upended. Tossed this way and that.

This is how I feel about the World Pizza Champions.

Apparently there are not only competitions and teams devoted to pizza but also expos and newsletters and fuck, yes, jackets and buttons!

I know. You can't really get your head around this amount of mind-blowing information. Maybe take a break and come back later.

I always assumed the pizza toss was mainly for show and show-offs. Au contraire. Only pizza acrobats truly understand the art of the toss. There's like a whole ritual behind this shit. If and when you visit the very awesome World Pizza Champions site, you will learn of both The Setup and The Toss. Apparently it's important to first remove your watch and rings (?). I can't even go into the particulars right now. You'll just have to do a little of your own legwork for once.

Not surprisingly, the World Pizza Championships are held in Italy. Because all awesomeness issues out of the boot.



The dude above is a champion--and not bad looking either. Look at him toss! He's pictured with a certificate as well, which leads me to believe he is the supreme Master of Pizza Tossing. I can respect mastery of anything being a master of everything myself. I'm confused by his religious tattoos but perhaps he finds the power to toss from a power higher than himself. I can totally get behind that.

Admittedly I am a little confused as to what makes you a World Pizza Champion but I've totally subscribed to the newsletter and intend to find out all of their pizza secrets soon enough.

You should really get over to this site immediately and educate yourself. I can't spoon feed you everything. For example, did you know Finland has two World Pizza Champions? Who knew they even ate pizza -- or ate anything at all -- in Finland? And did you know Japan has its own Pizza Acrobatics Team? Of course you didn't. This doesn't surprise me one bit as I've said numerous times before that the Japanese are all up in everyone's shit and better at it than 99.9%. Konichiwa!

To sum up, pizza is delicious at any time of day or night. People all over the world eat the pizza. There are those who consider themselves master tossers (I can think of a few I'd gladly nominate in that arena as well). Pizza is sport. I will divine all future plans of the World Pizza Champions via their very helpful newsletter and continue my world domination.

You are welcome.

My Sexy 12-Step Program: Abridged

I was consulting some old Smoove The Love Man posts recently (Educate yourself here: http://www.theonion.com/content/columnists/view/smoove)

Smoove is a real hero of mine, as much as anyone can be more heroic than myself. He lives in Cincinnati! Exciting! And sexy!

And he manages to squeeze in time from his very sexy agenda to dispense love communication fundamentals in silky tones and silky attire at the very reliable Learning Annex.

Anyway, Smoove makes mention of his sexy 12-step program which got me thinking of my own 12-step program, except mine is much shorter because I'm an incredibly fast learner and pick up skills like a ninja.

I thought "Wow, my shorter than 12-step program is really sexy and I should totally share it with the world."

I thought better of that though. You can't just give it away for free. But I'm feeling a little generous so I'll give you a totally sexy peek into my sexy world and maybe throw in a sexy step here and there. I feel for you after all.

MY UNOFFICIAL SEXY 12-STEP PROGRAM: ABRIDGED PLUS SOME OTHER SEXY TIPS

-- Unsexy: ponies; post-it notes; pickles (naturally); vomiting of any kind, shape, or form (even if projectile); a medicine cabinet full of medicines for all of your unsavory and unsexy ailments; barber shop quartets, quarters (so bulky), rainbows; Scrabble; and of course white sweatpants.

-- Definitely sexy: beards (duh); bedazzled anything; inventions and those who invent them; pennies; Abraham Lincoln; scrambled eggs; HORNS; showers (clean = sexy time); Boggle; my taste in music, art, film, and literature (duh squared); on-demand a capella; Nina Simone's "I want some sugar in my bowl." (period, the end.)

-- How to Feel Sexy Every Time: Find someone who embodies the Unsexy items above. Stand next to them.

-- How to Make It Sexy Time With Your Partner Who May or May Not Be As Sexy As You: Say something sexy like "Girl/Boy, I'm thinking that since I'm infinitely sexier than you, you should really treasure this moment in my very precious but infinite sexy time to really go to town on me. Do it. Now." Another option is to steal directly from Craig’s List Personals. If that’s not a treasure trove of sexual feeling for you moderately sexy people, then I don’t know what other recourse you mediocre sexy people have.

-- How to (Un)Dress for Success: What you’re wearing before, during, and after the sexual business at hand cannot be taken lightly. I suggest sexy materials like Velcro, those little snappy buttons that are really snaps on cowboy shirts, hospital gowns, unitards or anything uni, maybe a pair of Clarks and nothing else (me-ow).

Also important in the (Un)Dress for Success is how you remove said sexy items. I’d suggest maybe practicing a horn solo to accompany your state of slow and sexy undress. Either that, or some good old-fashioned, set-the-mood phrases like “yeah girl/boy,” “oh yes, I did,” “grrrr,” with an occasional grunt to mix it up sexy like. Works every time.

-- How to Position Yourself in the Best Possible Sexual Position: Don’t try to reinvent the sexual wheel here. You have sexy limitations and we all know it. If there are mirrors in the room, make sure your partner cannot see how totally unsexy they look right now, especially when they make that face that they think is outrageously sexy but is really akin to ponies in white sweatpants playing Scrabble.

Another good tip is to position yourself close to the nearest exit just in case your partner gets that crazy unsatisfied look and you need to run for your life. This is also good if aforementioned partner forgets to inform you that their equally batshit crazy significant other just got back into town and hasn’t relinquished his/her keys. You can still look sexy making a fast getaway!


Wow, I'm blowing my totally sexual mind with all this free advice. You're well on your way to being 10% sexy, which is about a 100% gain. I'd suggest printing the shit out of this entry and keeping it folded in your pocket at all times.

You are very welcome, somewhat sexy people.

Bed of Meat!

I love meat. Everyone knows that. Or should. I’d much rather receive a box of meat than flowers or candy, unless of course it’s meat candy because there’s no denying that meat candy would be both delicious and nutritious.

Case in point: chocolate-covered bacon. TASTE. EXPLOSION. Yes! I haven’t actually enjoyed the chocolate-covered bacon just yet because I fear my heart could not withstand the enjoyment. I might die. And seeing as I’ve already had my near-death episode, I’m going to take a pass on you delicious chocolate-covered bacon taste explosion. For now at least.

Back to meat.

I seem to have found someone who enjoys the meat as much as I do. This lady made a bed in the shape of a hamburger, nay cheeseburger, with pickle pillows and a genuine slice of cheese, and tomatoes and shit. This is crazy stuff right here. It’s not for sale right now and that’s probably a good thing. Create some demand in the marketplace. The Hamburger Bed has its own Facebook page. I see this really taking off. It could very well be the waterbed of its day.

Here’s the thing.

I love hamburgers. I do not love hamburgers all junked up with pickles (which I reject categorically) or ketchup or any of those other disgusting condiments you commoners ruin it up with. I like it straight up with some cheese and maybe some delicious bacon and quite possibly some onions.

Yes I love the hamburger but do I want to sleep inside one? Do I want to become part of the hamburger? Clearly any hamburger with me as an ingredient would be fucking phenomonal. It would have to be housed in a museum or something. I’d totally rock the Guinness Book of World Records for most delicious human hamburger ever conceived. Peoples would be licking the windows where my human hamburger would be housed. It would be sad for you. And yet exciting!

This is all fact.

However, why do I want to nod off with my awesome dreams while encased in the hamburger and its sesame-topped buns? Maybe this hamburger bed smells like meat. I might be on board with that.

A long, long time ago I practiced the vegetarianism. I was young and undeniably stupid, more so for forsaking the delicious meat for an equally young and indubitably more stupid boy. After we split, I continued on this tree-hugging ridiculosity until I became tortured by dreams of hamburgers. This is all fact. Night after night I would dream of delicious, bloody hamburgers with their cheese all oozing out the sides just like hot melty cheese can do. After many weeks of such unconscious torture, I ate a hamburger. And it was ri-goddamn-diculously amazing. End of interlude.

With my own hamburger bed, I fear some burglar would unknowingly take a bite out of me when he’s innocently trying to rob my secret headquarters of all its awesome stuff. If that should happen, rest assured I would destroy said burglar after crying a tiny tear on the inside for his dashed hamburger dreams.

I digress. I’m really on the fence with this Hamburger Bed. It’s going to keep me up at night. Those pharmaceutical people should really come up with a sleeping pill that tastes like hamburgers to counteract the sleeplessness caused by the Hamburger Bed. I’m going to write a letter to someone now. Stay tuned.

As always, you’re welcome.

You are wrong and will admit it.

Hello. I've been busy doing top secret stuff for several months so pardon the absence. My return has been heralded by an attack, nay an affront, to my keen sense of fashion. As we all know, I not only have my fingers on the pulse but I am the pulse of all things fashionable. So this particular assault was completely ungrounded, and one might say ludicrous. My attacker will rue the day.

So let's begin.

IN DEFENSE OF THE GREATEST SHOE OF ALL TIME
Yes, our defense is of the Clarks pictured above. This particular stalwart of fashion is known as the Wallabee. (Sidenote: my assailant claims to be of Australian descent and yet attacks a shoe named after a relative of the kangaroo. Self-loathing, much?)

Ahem. Clarks are a long-established English export, dating back to 1825. I know this because I am an excellent detective and read the Clarks timeline. If you are unfamiliar with Clarks, perhaps you grew up in a burrow somewhere burrowish and that is very sad for you.

Prepare for educational download. Aforementioned Clarks history begins thus:

It began with a flash of inspiration.

Well, in fact, every day I too begin with a flash of inspiration!

It was the very first Clarks shoe and the opening chapter in a remarkable story that continues to unfold to this day. In the decades that have passed since the young Mr. Clark’s eureka moment our shoes have seen social, political and economic revolution. They’ve seen fashions in footwear come and go, and come again – everything from court shoes and winklepickers to wedge heels, sandals and sneakers. They’ve tapped to the beat of crooners, rockers, Britpoppers and hip hoppers. They’ve walked, marched, strode and sashayed through an ever-changing world.

What have your shoes done lately? Mine have weathered unrest and winklepickers! They've sashayed for Christ's sake.

I will admit that Clarks are not for everyone. You have to be of my supreme awesomeness in order to carry the weight of their history. Few can handle the pressure. But they are not in fact ugly. Non! They are a testament to industriousness and as their site says "chosen by those seeking authenticity and individuality. . . a timeless classic loved by millions."

Match point, set, game.

You cannot argue with me. Why would you even try? Resistance is futile. I will debate the pants off you and if you're lucky, your ridiculous, unoriginal shoes as well.

So viva la revolucion, Clarks! I embrace my suede upper and moccassin-like construction. I crush naysayers like bug under my thick rubber sole.

As I am an original, it's only fitting my footwear follow suit.

Formal apologies will be considered by the committee of me in due course and in order of receipt.

You're welcome.

The time has come, nephew

I took the writer's strike a little more seriously than most. But I've seen, heard, and read enough crap in the last few months to be sufficiently fired up to respond.

You best sit down for this.

First, I'll tell you a story since I'm kick-ass at that. I was taking in some culture this past week, which is not a surprising fact since I'm all high art and shit. Anyway, I took in my culture at the Lyceum in the above-ground hell known as Times Square. The avuncular man seated next to me was laughing so hard that my chair began to vibrate. I enjoyed this very much. The show was good, not great, not mindblowing. I could have written circles around this shit but I have more important (i.e. secret) things to do at present. The point is I was in a relatively good mood.

I get on the subway. (We're in the present tense now. Keep up.) Then this kid dressed as Mary of Bethlehem gets on my car and immediately starts talking all kinds of hate up and down the train. I'm all about free speech, except when it's stupid. Really people. If you're stupid (and you know who you are), shut it.

This particular kid apparently had a lot to say and said it loud enough for everyone to hear. He couldn't wait to kill this person and that person and there was something about crackers that was pissing him off. I avoided eye contact because he was a hot box of crazy and those kinds of hot boxes lean toward stabbing. Anyway, he was getting on my nerves. I could hear his rants through my iPod.

And as I am often want to do I started daydreaming. I approach said kid and tell him to "shut it" and he stabs me in the thigh. I approach said kid and tell him "I hate him too" and he starts to cry. (Pussy) I approach said kid and stab him in the thigh with my pen. I approach said kid and spray paint BABY on his forehead. In big bubbly letters. Pretty!

None of these things happened. The kid got off at my stop and I spared him.

I forget what the point of this post was but you're welcome nonetheless. If you need a wrap up because you're so goddamn dependent on me for everything, here it is. If you are lucky enough to see me on the subway, first of all do not approach me. That's a given. Second, if you are going to start preaching, try to avoid stupidity. If you cannot avoid stupidity, please speak in a funny accent so I won't want to stab you or vice versa.

L8r sk8rs.

Glory Be!

The writer's strike is over!

You thought I was kidding maybe all this time. Thought you'd get something out of me. That I'd crack? Poor puppies. So neglected, dejected, and sad.

I am back for full attack.

I've learned many important lessons during this radio silence. Not everyone can write. In fact, we are few and far between. It's a burden really. This talent.

Yeah, you don't care, you greedy bastards. You just want deliverables.

Typical.

So here I am with plenty to say. But are you ready for it? How bad do you want it?

We'll see. For tonight, put down your pens and go directly to the bar to rejoice that Shiny Penny has been released from her silent prison.

Cheers to that.

Negotiations continue.

I'm breaking my silence. I realize my absence had you reeling but I'm in great demand these days.

The WGA flew me out to L.A. this past week to do some sweet talking with my tribe. Writers are really opinionated. You may not have surmised this. They are excellent communicators as well, except when it comes to personal matters. Then they pretty much suck it.

As you know, negotiations broke down. The studios are accusing the writers of cheap tricks (not the great 80s band); the writers are getting lazy about their picketing. Everything's going to pot.

All this talk really bored the crap out of me so I took a spin around the Los Angeles parts with my agent and resident Los Angelen. What a confusing place. For all the cars, there are hardly any folks around, pounding the pavements and such. It's kind of weird.

My agent showed me an excellent time though. We sported, adventured, arted, drove by hideously ornamented houses, and such. I even lost my sunglasses! In no time, I had forgotten all about the writers. That's how it is with us writers. We're extremely "of the moment" or "in one ear, out the other." I love witticisms like that.

Once again, I set out to do a job and mission accomplished. I trust the writers and studios will come around soon; if not more Scrubs reruns which is pretty sweet if you ask me.

Disgustipated

There's this really great song "Disgustipated" by Tool. Go listen.

I'm disgusted with the world at large. What follows is evidence:

-- Woman in Queens robbed and then had her eyes and mouth glued shut by assailants.

-- Woman potentially flogged for naming a teddy bear Mohammed. Her class named the bear.

-- Woman raped, nay gang banged, for being in a car with men, now faces flogging and jail time.

-- 13-year old girl hangs herself when her MySpace boyfriend breaks up with her. Turns out another girl's mother posed as the boyfriend to teach the girl a lesson.

What the fuck is wrong with you people? I mean, really. What is wrong with you? This is not normal. This is not acceptable. The world is beyond going to pot. If we we're going to pot, people would be much nicer to each other.

I'm disgusted with you. As a race of all people. I don't care what color you are or what you believe in. Disgusted.

I finished a novel the other night seemingly about two vigilantes trying to clean up Florida's corruption. The gist of the conversation is 'if you aren't mad about something, you're passive and letting it happen. So get mad.'

I'm damn mad.

Speechless Without Writers

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm on strike. I am a writer after all. I know it's hard on you but imagine how I feel with all these ideas locked up inside. It's gotten so bad that I've developed physical symptoms. My neck refuses to turn in any direction. I may start wearing a neck brace just so I can avoid the uncomfortableness of explaining why I can't move here or there. Maybe that popular graffiti artist NECKFACE will write NECKBRACE somewhere in the hopes that I feel better. That would be sweet.

In the meantime, writers being writers who can't write wrote a commercial. Genius. Here's the link:



It probably won't work because writers can't really do anything technological but we sure can write the heck out of technology. Shit, I think it actually works. Cool. Us writers rock it. (Just in case: www.speechlesswithoutwriters.com)

That's all I can write today. My legs are going numb. I may be totally immobilized tomorrow if this strike doesn't end soon.

Bright Eyes

So yeah, I went to see Bright Eyes at Radio City on Monday. Apparently a lot of folks really hate this guy. Well, too bad for you haters, because the show was loud and good. You can't really deny any show when there is a lot of horn involved. There was horn o'plenty which equals awesome in my book. (That was really a great Thanksgiving joke. I hope you appreciate it so much.)

Sure there was some weirdness and I'll be the first to admit it. Sitting down for an entire concert that is not in fact classical or jazz is weird. And civilized. And yes, weird.

Also weird was the family of of four sitting in front of me. Mom, Dad, brother, sister. The sister looked booooored; the brother took a lot of video; Dad may have been high; Mom jammed on it. Family outings to rock concerts are weird. Sorry if you have a family and go to concerts together. Just know most people think you are weird.

I'm really not going to go into the details of how surprising this Bright Eyes show was. I was expecting something depressing and quiet. Just goes to show that even I can be surprised. And that is surprising.

Captcha!

I attended a conference yesterday because that’s what high-powered executives like myself do. We sit in freezing cold rooms with strangers and listen to someone or another brag about how great they/their company are. Then we eat crappy food and listen some more.

Some speakers proved more valuable than others. The first admitted that he didn’t know what engagement he had this morning. It showed. In fact, he was thoroughly uninspiring and unprepared. Well done.

Other speakers however proved worth the wait. One in particular stood out as top notch. In appearance he was the exact opposite of everything my “industry” is. Thank god. (Everyone kept referring to the room as “the beautiful people.” I think everyone is blind.)

Anyway, the Professor, as we’ll refer to him, explained how he developed Captcha, which is that jumbled-up word combo you have to type in when you buy tickets and stuff online. Out of all the speakers, he was the only one who drew questions. And a lot of them. One woman asked how he comes up with his ideas. And instead of saying something smug like “you have to stop listening to the noise,” he answered honestly: “I don’t know.”

Did you just feel that breath of fresh air?

Yeah, bitches, so did I.

Unfortunately I don’t think the audience truly grasped or appreciated how valuable the Professor’s presentation was. At an idea conference, his was the only presentation that really demonstrated the ingenuity of a creative idea that could be spun out a million times over. He took a problem and solved it. Then someone figured out how to get around his solution so he created another solution. And so on and so forth.

That’s inspiring.

What’s funny about all this is that Captcha is a way to tell humans and computers apart. I often find myself encountering this very thing.

“Are you human or bot?” For serious.

I have blogged often enough on the massive population of bots and now there’s technology to identify you.

Be afraid, bots!

In conclusion, you should really open your minds to the possibility that someone other than creatives have creative ideas. Only I am permitted to judge you, whether it’s silently or in a public forum. Also, if you have an appointment somewhere, show up knowing where you’re going and have something to say especially if audience members each paid half a grand to see you. Dummy.

Forgiveness

It’s such a strange thing to ask for. Even stranger to say out loud.

I forgive you.

Whatever, dork.

You really have to fuck things up to ask for forgiveness. We’re talking major life-altering calamity. Like a tornado of wrong doing. Whoring comes to mind. Emptying someone’s bank account. Murder. Dismemberment. The drogas. We’re not dealing with small potatoes on the quest-for-forgiveness front. Or maybe I’m just too forgiving.

Anyway, someone asked me to forgive them recently. It puzzled me. Not exactly the choice of words I would have chosen given the situation, but then again my choice of words is always top shelf and on point.

I digress.

Am I really in a position to grant forgiveness? Have I been so terribly wronged as to warrant forgiveness? What is an appropriate method of asking for forgiveness? It seems like such a serious thing to do — asking for forgiveness. I think it’s incredibly revealing especially considering the person in question thought their indiscretion was so weighty as to warrant forgiveness. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just rhetoric.

I was treated shabbily. There’s no denying that. And true enough I was owed an apology and at the very least an explanation. And the whole situation was entirely avoidable, which is really unfortunate and sad. But forgiveness?

Perhaps forgiveness was sought in order to clear this person’s conscience. I’m unclear on the motivation behind this particular request. Or the intention thereafter. I don’t suppose it much matters because I’ll probably never know.

People make mistakes. (I, of course, do not, but I’m trying to imagine what it’s like to be you.) People hurt each other’s feelings all the time. Not that that behavior is acceptable but sometimes people deserve second chances. Shit happens.

So, what’s a girl to do? What would Bruce Lee do? I may have to do field work and really fuck somebody’s shit up and then ask for forgiveness. Nah, too much contact with the outside world.

In conclusion, be careful what you ask for. Even though I am great, it may not be in my capacity to grant your every desire. And it may not even be what you really want. So just be clear, you know.

The floor is open for conversation. Let's start there.

You’re welcome.

Broke Back

This was an aborted post from yesterday. I fell asleep before I could muster up the energy to hit publish. Rejoice, for I am in fact still alive! I am using my nose to hit publish because it's the only part of me that does not hurt. Right on.

10 hours of anything is ill advised. 10 hours of physical and emotional pain, however, is euphoric. Maybe not during or even technically after but let's say hypothetically it is because I may not be able to type tomorrow.

I have just endured 10 hours of pain. It's called a journey. I like to call it a painful journey as I am currently in pain in every crevice of my rock hard body. I sweated buckets. This is no exaggeration as I was in a room with 400 other people and I happened to be next to the heater.

I may in fact be dead right now. Wouldn't that be something?

So yes, you guessed correctly I was on a yoga retreat. A personal revolution as the brochure billed it. The dictator inside me was overthrown. Beaten into submission if you will.

The emotional part was not my bag. I do not like to share. This was an important lesson for me to learn. At one point we were asked to share with our neighbor. You know what? I'll pass. But in the spirit of being neighborly, I tried. My first words to my neighbor were: "I do not like to share." You can imagine it went pretty swimmingly after that.

Okay, that's about all I got in me. My fingers are starting to cramp up. My muscles may never relax. Which would be awesome!

Word to that.

Bio

I just finished writing a friend's professional bio. These are hard things to do. I don't think it's a small coincidence that bio closely resembles b.o. except that there's a great big fat I in the middle. See what I mean?

Anyway, it got me to thinking what I would include in my own bio. And so I submit:

THINGS TO INCLUDE IN MY UNOFFICIAL BIO a list by Shiny Penny

-- Awesome.

-- Humble.

-- Multi-talented.

-- Multi-lingual.

-- Multi-tasker.

-- Task master.

-- Master of the written word.

-- Owed dues from Stephen Colbert for use of "You're welcome" in book promo campaign.

-- Stephen Colbert's hero.

-- Not fond of hero sandwiches.

-- Very tall.

-- Very super.

-- Not a party pooper.

-- In awe of the Japanese.

-- Descendant of Bruce Lee. Not directly, but spiritually.


I could go on forever. That's the funny thing about bios -- they're so self-congratulatory and usually so full of shit. Except for mine of course. I encourage you to write your own bio or at least a list of things to include in your bio when you ask someone else to write it for you.

References available upon request.

Important Safety Information

Are your legs keeping you up at night? You might have RLS (restless leg syndrome).

For serious.

I had no idea such a syndrome existed but I saw a commercial for prescription Requip and now I am a believer.

Requip is some kind of crazy drug that I guess puts your legs to sleep, which seems like a cool idea when you are actually sleeping but kind of annoying the other 16 hours of the day.

The Requip commercial is genius. You see this woman very troubled by her restless legs. You see this in her face. You don't actually get to see her legs going at it. I suspect she doesn't really have restless legs. Anyway, after this big fat faker takes Requip, you see her pretty much doing the same shit she was doing in the beginning but happier: lying in bed, reading a book, hanging out.

Requip is pretty impressive. You could say I was riveted to the TV.

And then it got better.

Side effects, baby. Read on.

Prescription Requip is not for everyone. Requip Tablets may cause you to fall asleep or feel very sleepy during normal activities such as driving; or to faint or feel dizzy, nauseated, or sweaty when you stand up. Tell your doctor if you experience these problems or if you drink alcohol or are taking other medicines that make you drowsy. Also tell your doctor if you experience new or increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges while taking Requip. Side effects include nausea, drowsiness, vomiting, and dizziness. Most patients were not bothered enough to stop taking Requip.

Okay, so social contact may be a bit challenging in the beginning, what with the sweating and vomiting. What I find particularly awesome however is the risk of increased gambling and those other urges. I mean, wow! There's a drug that makes you want to gamble? I should have read closer to see what lab is behind Requip. The Tropicana maybe!

The other awesome thing about the side effects is that RLS sufferers were not "bothered enough" to stop taking Requip. That's commitment. Or sheer laziness. Or Bob just hit the triple cherry at Vegas. Ka. Ching.

In conclusion, you should always read the fine print of whatever drugs you are taking because in addition to the relief of your symptoms, said drugs may also induce weight loss (due to vomiting and nausea) or more urges! Who doesn't want more uncontrollable urges? And the gambling. Win-win all around.

Are your legs keeping you up at night? Are they?

This is not all together interesting.

However, you will read this post to its entirety because I deem it so. My will be done.

This week proved to be entirely uninteresting news-wise, unless you are me because my universe is always thrilling. A non-stop "thrill-a-diller" as John Sterling is fond of saying. I realize, of course, you do not know who John Sterling is. Your world is small. Turn on the radio and learn something.

I'd like to tell you something about sustainability. This is a "green" term. Not "green" in the sense of "it's not easy being green" although the irony is not lost on those of us smart enough to know Kermit the Frog was a visionary, way ahead of his time. Sustainability is about the future. If you suspend your disbelief long enough to believe there is a future.

I've been thinking about these big questions. What does the future hold? Do I even want to be a part of a future when the present is fairly shit-filled and unhappy for the vast majority?

Consider.

-- Colbert is no longer running for President.

-- The current roster of candidates are still running for President.

-- People, all over the world, act, for the most part, like animals. And by animals, I do not mean the cute and cuddly, inanimate kind on your bed but rather the Darwin "survival of the fittest", I-will-kill-you kind.

-- The poor outnumber the rich everywhere.

-- Mars is still uninhabited.

-- Mars Bars are extremely difficult to find and enjoy with abandon.

-- Mars Bars aren't even that delicious.

-- Today is All Souls Day. Have you prayed for the dead?

-- The dead are scary.

Faced with the above unavoidable facts, sustainability seems not so attractive. It implies a rather laisez faire, "oh just go along with it" attitude. Not quite a forward-looking ability but rather a survival tactic. What happened to progressiveness? What happened to hope? What happened to common courtesy?

Alack. A direct hit with the two-pronged goad seems almost welcome. Quick relief. But no, puppies. We're in this sustainability together.

So onward. This is my brief inspirational message to you on All Souls Day, otherwise known as Day of the Dead.

You are welcome.