And here we find all our internet icons...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
another reason i love 'em...
Just another reason why McSweeney's is awesome – they have lists for every occasion!
A Picnic
Date Ending
in an Awkward
Sexual Encounter,
Told Chronologically
Through Board-
Game Titles.
BY JEFF RUSSELL
- - - -
Enchanted Forest
Ants in the Pants
Girl Talk
Intrigue
Risk
Go for Broke
Break the Safe
Guess Who?
Mole in the Hole
Take It Easy!
Can't Stop
Trouble
Crossfire
Sorry!
Speechless
mcsweeney's on sex
sex practices of the freelance writer
Amusing. I hope far-fetched and entirely false...
... Especially the "compensation" part.
Amusing. I hope far-fetched and entirely false...
... Especially the "compensation" part.
Monday, June 23, 2008
we're all kids on the inside
This absolutely restores my faith in humanity in every way. Ethan is the happiest baby in the world!!! The littlest thing makes his entire day! Every time I'm feeling blue, I just YouTube this and all is good again... it may be a bit strange, but whatever works right?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
i have to get all hot and sweaty in front of you?!
It should be mandatory that all gym employees be ugly, or at the very least, uglier than the majority of your average, 95% sedentary gym goers.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against attractive nutritionists and physical trainers. Of course, people in these fields are statistically just more likely to be attractive, and more power to them. Everyone dreams of finally making it to the gym and falling (quite literally) into the hands of their new, extremely fit physical trainer. It's a nice story. The reality, however, is far from appealing.
I joined my neighborhood gym the other day, in an effort to fulfill one of my summer goals – to craft myself into the stereotypical gym goer (like one of the regulars they use for brochures and advertisements, one who's in such good shape it's obvious they frequent weights and cardio, one who positively exudes the aura of a well-broken-in membership card), rather than the all too familiar gym attemptress (the one who joins, whole-heartedly, and then after a few days of witnessing the gym goer in her naturally-good-looking-sweaty habitat, is discouraged and begins to wear her workout clothes at home while she digs into a newly-opened jar of peanut butter).
I joined with my mom, figuring we could bully each other into actually going. (For the record, I used to work out a lot. And then I didn't so much).
While my mom was negotiating costs with the fit and not entirely unattractive manager, I was struck up with a long and semi-flirtatious conversation with the manager's friend, fellow gym employee and entirely too attractive guy behind the counter. This lasted about 40 minutes, and in that time he managed to inform me of his dedicated work schedule – six days a week.
It was such a tragedy! I was soooo close!!! But now, every time I went to the gym, I risked running into him. This meant I had to look cute in workout gear and even worse, maintain said cuteness while panting on the treadmill, frizzing my not-so-cooperatively-straight hair and dripping buckets of sweat... Not an easy feat.
Why couldn't he just have been ugly, or even just sub-par? Blah? Psh? Meh? That I culd have dealt with. That I would have felt comfortable with. I would have gone to the gym, become exceedingly sweaty, and looked at him and seen camaraderie, understanding, just another fellow gym attemptress (or attempter in this case) on their way to physical betterment. But ohhhh no, he had to be cute.
Intent on not letting this cute-counter-guy hiccup ruin my latest attempt and re-gym-acclimation, I decided to go the next day, assuming my physically-fit-speed-bump would be there. He was. I made sure to do my hair in cute-sporty pigtails, carefully affixed with bobby pins (with extra on hand to use in an emergency). Not wanting to wear makeup, but afraid of my concealer-less appearance, I dabbed a bit of powder on my face and headed out, somewhat appeased.
I thought I might be able to sneak by without him seeing me until I was tucked away in the most discreet corner I could find. I walked in and surveyed the room. He wasn't behind the front counter. I demurely made my way to the back where the ladies changing room was. 30 feet to go. 20 feet. Almost there. I could just see it...
Something to the left caught my eye. I turned and there he was, sitting at a desk in the back, mid conversation with a coworker and waving at me. I waved back, ducked into the bathroom and re-pinned my hair.
At the end of an hour-long workout, I was sweaty and tousled. I made a b-line for the back, splashed cool water on my face, adjusted my hair, adjusted my bangs, which I had smartly pinned back in order to keep them from becoming a casualty of my workout, and went to stretch. Aware of the cute-counter-guy's whereabouts (going through some of the weight machines with another gym attemptress like myself), I slipped through to the back room, stretched out, rechecked my hair, and opened the door to leave.
I walked right into him. At the end of a few minutes of misguided talk, all the while I was slowly moving towards the exit, he asked me when I was coming in for my personal training (you get 2 for free with the membership). My mom and I had arranged to come in together, on Friday night.
"I'll be here," he said, smiling.
"Alright then," I said, waving and attempting to mask my anxiety as I made my way towards the door. Great, juuuuust great! I thought to myself. He better not be my personal trainer. I don't want to have to start spending my afternoons with a peanut butter jar and a spoon!
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against attractive nutritionists and physical trainers. Of course, people in these fields are statistically just more likely to be attractive, and more power to them. Everyone dreams of finally making it to the gym and falling (quite literally) into the hands of their new, extremely fit physical trainer. It's a nice story. The reality, however, is far from appealing.
I joined my neighborhood gym the other day, in an effort to fulfill one of my summer goals – to craft myself into the stereotypical gym goer (like one of the regulars they use for brochures and advertisements, one who's in such good shape it's obvious they frequent weights and cardio, one who positively exudes the aura of a well-broken-in membership card), rather than the all too familiar gym attemptress (the one who joins, whole-heartedly, and then after a few days of witnessing the gym goer in her naturally-good-looking-sweaty habitat, is discouraged and begins to wear her workout clothes at home while she digs into a newly-opened jar of peanut butter).
I joined with my mom, figuring we could bully each other into actually going. (For the record, I used to work out a lot. And then I didn't so much).
While my mom was negotiating costs with the fit and not entirely unattractive manager, I was struck up with a long and semi-flirtatious conversation with the manager's friend, fellow gym employee and entirely too attractive guy behind the counter. This lasted about 40 minutes, and in that time he managed to inform me of his dedicated work schedule – six days a week.
It was such a tragedy! I was soooo close!!! But now, every time I went to the gym, I risked running into him. This meant I had to look cute in workout gear and even worse, maintain said cuteness while panting on the treadmill, frizzing my not-so-cooperatively-straight hair and dripping buckets of sweat... Not an easy feat.
Why couldn't he just have been ugly, or even just sub-par? Blah? Psh? Meh? That I culd have dealt with. That I would have felt comfortable with. I would have gone to the gym, become exceedingly sweaty, and looked at him and seen camaraderie, understanding, just another fellow gym attemptress (or attempter in this case) on their way to physical betterment. But ohhhh no, he had to be cute.
Intent on not letting this cute-counter-guy hiccup ruin my latest attempt and re-gym-acclimation, I decided to go the next day, assuming my physically-fit-speed-bump would be there. He was. I made sure to do my hair in cute-sporty pigtails, carefully affixed with bobby pins (with extra on hand to use in an emergency). Not wanting to wear makeup, but afraid of my concealer-less appearance, I dabbed a bit of powder on my face and headed out, somewhat appeased.
I thought I might be able to sneak by without him seeing me until I was tucked away in the most discreet corner I could find. I walked in and surveyed the room. He wasn't behind the front counter. I demurely made my way to the back where the ladies changing room was. 30 feet to go. 20 feet. Almost there. I could just see it...
Something to the left caught my eye. I turned and there he was, sitting at a desk in the back, mid conversation with a coworker and waving at me. I waved back, ducked into the bathroom and re-pinned my hair.
At the end of an hour-long workout, I was sweaty and tousled. I made a b-line for the back, splashed cool water on my face, adjusted my hair, adjusted my bangs, which I had smartly pinned back in order to keep them from becoming a casualty of my workout, and went to stretch. Aware of the cute-counter-guy's whereabouts (going through some of the weight machines with another gym attemptress like myself), I slipped through to the back room, stretched out, rechecked my hair, and opened the door to leave.
I walked right into him. At the end of a few minutes of misguided talk, all the while I was slowly moving towards the exit, he asked me when I was coming in for my personal training (you get 2 for free with the membership). My mom and I had arranged to come in together, on Friday night.
"I'll be here," he said, smiling.
"Alright then," I said, waving and attempting to mask my anxiety as I made my way towards the door. Great, juuuuust great! I thought to myself. He better not be my personal trainer. I don't want to have to start spending my afternoons with a peanut butter jar and a spoon!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
the pc-ness of plush diseases
Okay. I have to say it. I love Giantmicrobes!!! They are absolutely genius!
They're cute. They're cuddly. They'll infect you with their cute cuddliness...
But seriously, they're adorable. My friend Steven and I spent a good 20 to 30 minutes in a tiny boutique in the newly-realized hip Ballard, picking up each and every disgusting microscopic ailment, bursting into laughter, drawing eyes and then rummaging for the next, evermore hilarious pet disease.
Here were a few or our favorites:
Varicella-Zoster Virus – aka Chickenpox:
Streptococcus pyogenes – aka Flesh Eating virus:
And the one we just couldn't part with, so we bought and took home... Multiple-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus – aka MRSA (I mean common, he has a cape!):
There were a few we weren't too sure about, such as Chlamydia, Gonorrhea and Herpes (why the hell does he look so sunny and happy?! It sends a mixed message – STDs are pleasant, like sunflowers? :/)
OK. It's all in fun. But I fear they may have gone just a tad too far...
That's right guys. This is a stuffified version of H.I.V. And I fear, the joke, yeah, not so funny. I mean, who laughs in the face of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus? Laugh at the common cold. Roll on the floor over a fuzzy flu stuffed animal? Hell, clutch your stomach in the throws of hilarity, and by all means, in this case even The Clap can be funny... But who laughs at AIDS, honestly?!
The store where Steven and I found these pets didn't carry the STDS, and certainly didn't have the H.I.V. stuffed decor. It did however carry a key chain that made an astonishingly realistic impersonation of the female orgasm (on a very, very good day) that was surprisingly loud and went on far longer than expected (again drawing eyes and making Steven and I bolt for opposite ends of the store). (This store is called Gifted by the way, and it's the new-trendy-Ballard version of a good ol' B-town classic, Archi McPhee's).
In any case, I'm not sure about our fuzzy ribbon-clad friend (or foe?), but there is one bright side to the pc-less-ness of Giantmicrobes, if you've got a faux-friend, coworker, professor, boss, who you secretly hate but cannot tell-off within the norms of civilized social behavior, you can always give 'em the Black Death and get away looking like the nice guy! :D
They're cute. They're cuddly. They'll infect you with their cute cuddliness...But seriously, they're adorable. My friend Steven and I spent a good 20 to 30 minutes in a tiny boutique in the newly-realized hip Ballard, picking up each and every disgusting microscopic ailment, bursting into laughter, drawing eyes and then rummaging for the next, evermore hilarious pet disease.
Here were a few or our favorites:
Varicella-Zoster Virus – aka Chickenpox:
Streptococcus pyogenes – aka Flesh Eating virus:
And the one we just couldn't part with, so we bought and took home... Multiple-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus – aka MRSA (I mean common, he has a cape!):
There were a few we weren't too sure about, such as Chlamydia, Gonorrhea and Herpes (why the hell does he look so sunny and happy?! It sends a mixed message – STDs are pleasant, like sunflowers? :/)
OK. It's all in fun. But I fear they may have gone just a tad too far...
That's right guys. This is a stuffified version of H.I.V. And I fear, the joke, yeah, not so funny. I mean, who laughs in the face of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus? Laugh at the common cold. Roll on the floor over a fuzzy flu stuffed animal? Hell, clutch your stomach in the throws of hilarity, and by all means, in this case even The Clap can be funny... But who laughs at AIDS, honestly?!The store where Steven and I found these pets didn't carry the STDS, and certainly didn't have the H.I.V. stuffed decor. It did however carry a key chain that made an astonishingly realistic impersonation of the female orgasm (on a very, very good day) that was surprisingly loud and went on far longer than expected (again drawing eyes and making Steven and I bolt for opposite ends of the store). (This store is called Gifted by the way, and it's the new-trendy-Ballard version of a good ol' B-town classic, Archi McPhee's).
In any case, I'm not sure about our fuzzy ribbon-clad friend (or foe?), but there is one bright side to the pc-less-ness of Giantmicrobes, if you've got a faux-friend, coworker, professor, boss, who you secretly hate but cannot tell-off within the norms of civilized social behavior, you can always give 'em the Black Death and get away looking like the nice guy! :D
why americans are so damn fat
It's true. Americans are fat – or fatter, at least, than say...the rest of the world.
I've decided, after much careful consideration, that the reason for this is the existence, or rather, lack there of, or resealable snacks. That's right kids, it's not that we're overly obsessed with television and the sedentary lifestyle of the technology savvy computer culture. It's not that our idea of exercise walking from our car to the store to pick up a Wii Fit.
It's not the our food is packed with preservatives, that we buy and eat in bulk, or that fast food is the sodium-packed solution to those who are too busy to cook, too bothered to cook and every penny-pinching student in the country. Ohh, no. We owe our blatant obesity to a tiny, adhesive strip of plastic that, until recently, was absent from every family size pack M&M's, Doritos and other assorted sweet and salties in the States.
During my semester in London, I came across the junk food revelation: when European's buy an ultra-large-king-size-jumbo bag of sugar sweets, they devour not in one sitting, but across a number of days, perhaps even weeks. This is thanks to the clever indulgence inhibiting intention of the resealable snack sticker:
[Here I tried to find a picture, but apparently Google Images is partial to the resealable zipper packaging readily available in every American store, ever.]
Like I said, we unhealthy American's have seen the resealable zipper. We are far too familiar with it. We laugh at it as it taunts us with the prospect of saving some for later. But the snack sticker is a whole other story. It involves folding and affixing an adhesive tab. It taunts us if it goes unused, and takes more skill to utilize, thus discouraging us from reopening the package once we've finally closed it. It intimidates us. It must be used, otherwise it is an entirely purposeless package appendage. It psychologically tricks us into taking our time with our snacks.
So there you go – the key to a healthy junk food attitude, sticker-latent packaging.
I've decided, after much careful consideration, that the reason for this is the existence, or rather, lack there of, or resealable snacks. That's right kids, it's not that we're overly obsessed with television and the sedentary lifestyle of the technology savvy computer culture. It's not that our idea of exercise walking from our car to the store to pick up a Wii Fit.
It's not the our food is packed with preservatives, that we buy and eat in bulk, or that fast food is the sodium-packed solution to those who are too busy to cook, too bothered to cook and every penny-pinching student in the country. Ohh, no. We owe our blatant obesity to a tiny, adhesive strip of plastic that, until recently, was absent from every family size pack M&M's, Doritos and other assorted sweet and salties in the States.During my semester in London, I came across the junk food revelation: when European's buy an ultra-large-king-size-jumbo bag of sugar sweets, they devour not in one sitting, but across a number of days, perhaps even weeks. This is thanks to the clever indulgence inhibiting intention of the resealable snack sticker:
[Here I tried to find a picture, but apparently Google Images is partial to the resealable zipper packaging readily available in every American store, ever.]
Like I said, we unhealthy American's have seen the resealable zipper. We are far too familiar with it. We laugh at it as it taunts us with the prospect of saving some for later. But the snack sticker is a whole other story. It involves folding and affixing an adhesive tab. It taunts us if it goes unused, and takes more skill to utilize, thus discouraging us from reopening the package once we've finally closed it. It intimidates us. It must be used, otherwise it is an entirely purposeless package appendage. It psychologically tricks us into taking our time with our snacks.
So there you go – the key to a healthy junk food attitude, sticker-latent packaging.
Monday, June 16, 2008
the hippest spot in town
I just got home. Good ol' Seattle. Gray and damp one second, sunny sailing the next. Not much had changed, but after two and a half years in LA (my lung capacity diminished from the smog) and six months in London town, the air felt fresher. It was good to be home. I made a vow, determined not to re-become the slothful entity that annually takes over my body in the summer months – this year I would spend two months doing exactly what I wanted.
The phone rang.
Steven: Thea how are you? You're back! How was the flight? Listen, I'm about to go to Ballard to do some shopping...
Me: Ballard? Where is there to shop in Ballard??
Steven: What?! Are you kidding me?!!! Ballard is the trendiest place in Seattle! It's my favorite spot!!!
Me: Ballard? Ballard?! Ballard where I went to high school for four years? Ballard that I've lived by my whole life? Ballard Ballard?! Since when is that Ballard hip?
I was immediately picked up and trekked to the old cobblestone streets off Market Street, where I saw trendy boutiques where anxiety enducingly attractive (although arguably sexually ambiguous – was he gay or straight? I'm still unsure) men silk screen interesting images onto eco-friendly cotton t-shirts. I saw wine bars and Italian bistros, vegan delis and tea obsessed cafes. The old skate shops and dusty second-hand bookstores I remembered were now contemporary art galleries and alternative design spaces displaying technicolor Nike shoes against white walls, handing out Vibe magazine and Radiohead bumber stickers without ever disclosing the name, or the purpose of the store? office? art exhibit?
Steven was right... Ballard has crossed over. Goodbye land of skateboarders and indie bands, hello carbon-copied Santa Monica. (Oh OK, it's not quite that bad yet... but it could go ) Please, let's salvage as much of the Ballard culture as we can. There's room enough for tea houses and good old Archie McFee's :D
The phone rang.
Steven: Thea how are you? You're back! How was the flight? Listen, I'm about to go to Ballard to do some shopping...
Me: Ballard? Where is there to shop in Ballard??
Steven: What?! Are you kidding me?!!! Ballard is the trendiest place in Seattle! It's my favorite spot!!!
Me: Ballard? Ballard?! Ballard where I went to high school for four years? Ballard that I've lived by my whole life? Ballard Ballard?! Since when is that Ballard hip?
I was immediately picked up and trekked to the old cobblestone streets off Market Street, where I saw trendy boutiques where anxiety enducingly attractive (although arguably sexually ambiguous – was he gay or straight? I'm still unsure) men silk screen interesting images onto eco-friendly cotton t-shirts. I saw wine bars and Italian bistros, vegan delis and tea obsessed cafes. The old skate shops and dusty second-hand bookstores I remembered were now contemporary art galleries and alternative design spaces displaying technicolor Nike shoes against white walls, handing out Vibe magazine and Radiohead bumber stickers without ever disclosing the name, or the purpose of the store? office? art exhibit?
Steven was right... Ballard has crossed over. Goodbye land of skateboarders and indie bands, hello carbon-copied Santa Monica. (Oh OK, it's not quite that bad yet... but it could go ) Please, let's salvage as much of the Ballard culture as we can. There's room enough for tea houses and good old Archie McFee's :D
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
