In Which I Have A Romantic Getaway Before Summer Camp Deters My Will To Live

Hey guys.
Sorry to neglect you- the boy whisked me away to Cape Cod this weekend. Romantic, eh? Ignoring the fact that our first two destinations fell through: Central Pennsylvania to make films with his best friend from Ithaca, or a weekend in Vermont doing puzzles with his aunts.

First, the boy took me on a tour of his childhood in Sandwich, where he spent his summers.
Dear people of Sandwich, I wish you the best on your insane caterpillar epidemic. I spent no more than five minutes on unpaved grounds in your town, and I found the fuzzy bastards crawling on my pants. Maybe if you change your name, they will go away. May I suggest "Hungrybird"? Love, Raechel.

Next we explored Hyannis, for two reasons: a giant candy store the boy remembered from his boyhood and the Cape Cod Potato Chip factory. Oh, it's love. If you're not familiar with the kettle-cooked snacks I'm talking about, please scour the earth until you find them, they are amazing. We didn't find the factoy, but hey, there's reason for another visit.

The jewel, of course, was Provincetown. People kept warning me I would "see strange sights"- they really shouldn't work my hopes up like that. I only saw two drag queens. Two! And I didn't get hit on by any girls, though I suppose walking hand in hand with a boy deters that. I did get advertised to by a lesbian club promoter. The food was delicious, the beaches were beautiful and the commonplaceness of rainbow flags made me feel like I'd reached some kind of homeland. I loved it, and I hope to get back there many times.

I know I should include some pictures, but I've been working on a new project today (inspired by one of my souvenirs, one of the many volumes of Dykes to Watch Out For) and I'm sick of resizing things. So, I'll leave you with two pictures I took in Provincetown. I call this game, Was That Intentional?



The Prince Albert Guest House. I heard other tourists giggling about it, so I think it might be intentional.



Seamen's Bank. According to the date on the building, they've been around for over a century, so this is probably not intentional. They are near the sea, after all. This one is just a lovely coincidence.

Oh, fine, one more picture. Because I love.



I love Provincetown, that is.

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In Which I Have Time To Waste Talking About TV Again

Ok, it's about time I offer up something on Last Comic Standing. But, damn! At this pace I'm going to be at church camp before they get into the house- and then I'll be catching LCS and PR reruns on weekends, and heck knows I won't have the energy to recap them both. Considering my schedule the next few weeks (road trip, college orientation, camp training) this could very well be my first and last LCS update. How sad. Well, maybe not that sad, but mildly unpleasant.

At this point, we know the first five in the house. Let's start with my favorite, who I was going to label my underdog last week, but after tonight, he's obviously the front-runner:

Josh Blue. He got a standing ovation tonight and was dramatically presented with the last spot in the house. Not because he has cerebral palsy. Because he's fucking funny.


I can see Chris Porter going pretty far- he's genuinely funny, in a universal sort of way. His material is delivered in a semi-rant format that will make you laugh even if you don't agree with him. Though it's hard to disagree with him, because he pulls off being just barely political. It's a good strategy.


Joey Gay intrigued me, and I couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was his risky, loud, abrasive delivery. Maybe it was his interview comments, which I found way funnier than his actual material. Or maybe, just maybe, it was his scary fucking mouth:

Gah! TEETH.


Roz was going to make it in the house. Duh. Besides the fact that she's really funny, she talked about her history with drug addiction and her gratitude towards God in the very first episode. Strong black women with a heart of gold = the stuff of which reality TV is made. Any coincidence that she's the first thing that comes up on the video player on the official website? I like you, Roz, but the producers are going to milk you. Speaking of the producers...


I couldn't get a picture of her on the website, so I plucked this from her myspace. She was pretty funny; in that predictable, safe way that NBC seems to love. And in a move to increase their shaky credibility, they've cast a former contestant's girlfriend. Brilliant.

I was sad to see a few of the contestants go- namely Wild Willy, Niki Glazer, the guy who talked about a naked pope, the guy who did a lot of material on racism ("Don't give me that crap- that stuff's for Jews! Pay me in fireworks."), and the guy who reminded me of Mitch Hedburg with a business haircut. You know what I'm saying, Hollywood. If that's even your real name.
Of course, the first two would probably wear quickly depending on the crowd, and the fact that I can't recall the latter three's names is a sign of their fate on the show.

Next week, I have high hopes for Nikki Payne, Kristen Key and Malik. Of course, the only one I'm sure as Roz is moving forward to the house is that guy with the big head. He's not my favorite, but the judges are eating him up.

Who else thinks that there will be at least one challenge sponsored by Capital One?

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Raison D'être

I'll start with a somewhat relevant story: On Monday morning, I freaked out and caused a scene at work for the first time.
Why? I gave one of the cooks, my acting manager, a big flyer from the Rhode Island Blood Center that a very nice volunteer had given to me to hang up, and after this manager and a younger cook scoffed at the thought of giving blood, insinuated it was some sort of conspiracy, and generally mocked the idea of doing a good deed for a person you don't know, he ripped up the flyer before my eyes.
There were customers. I screamed. I stole the pieces (with the panicky idea that I could fix it), ran to the bathroom and cried. I guess it was just a shock- maybe I've come to assume everyone has the compulsion towards kindness. I realize I'm just blessed to often be surronded by people who are so generous, loving and inspiring.

This is, of course, how I spent Sunday night.



Raison D'Etre (reason for being) was Sunday, and it was beautiful. The kids raised $500 for World Vision- and that's at the low admission price of three dollars.


(Psst, I'm pretty sure The Blue Rhoda is playing in this picture.)

I wish I got some shots of the art in progress- there were two big murals being painted outside, and ornate chalk arrows stretching down the nearby street to advertise. Oh well. Here's some of the art featured:








These two are by my friend Melissa. She's so talented, it might kill you.


These pieces are by Mike, who is possibly my current favorite person. What a kid. The top left one is by his girlfriend, Mindy.


This is the handiwork of Nick, who made an apperance, but was too manly or something to stick around all night. The furthest right is a self-portrait.


The portrait there is actually a self-portrait, by the leading lady of the evening, Katie! The trombone belongs to one of the boy's friends, but I don't know who painted it. Sure is swell, though.


These are mine! Huzzah. In case you are wondering, their titles from top to bottom are "Enlightenment", "Turn Your Pain Into Love" and "Yeah, We're Pretty Fucking Beautiful".

And now, a musical interlude:


This is an Izaiah, who possesses the very genes for musical genius. Not kidding. I'm pretty sure the members of his family were all born with a tiny guitar in their hands.


The painting behind him is also by Miss Katie. It's the Mona Lisa. The real one.


This is Kevin! He's one of the boy's nearest and dearests, and an all-around good kid. He was home for the weekend from Americorps*NCCC, and it's a bit depressing to tell that Ian was working at camp all weekend and didn't get to see him.


He was very good, and very modest about it. The word for his performance would be "endearing". I hope he keeps playing that thing.


This is Breathe Easy, who were quite good, and not as loud as they claimed they would be. I was in a band with the bassist, once. Guess he was too "committed to playing music" for a band that had two practices, one of which was dominated by playing video games. The lead guitar player, Tim, is pretty amazing. I don't know those other guys.


In this image, people are moving stuff around to accomodate the last band. I don't know who they were, actually, but they were crazy loud. It was pretty good, for a mosh band in an art gallery. The lady in yellow is top banana herself, Katie. I don't mean to discredit the other people who organized this, I just wasn't involved, so I don't know who did what. Not to mention that I don't have any pictures of them. Laura and Jen were the ladies who brought the whole idea forward, I believe, and worked with Katie as a team. There were plenty of others who helped out. From the outside, things seemed to go smoothly- so a pat on the back, an I love you, and a cup of freshly squeezed mango juice to everyone who made it happen.

Well. I'm happy I can say that this is the sort of thing I do with my life, and I'm practically in love with all of my friends. Did I mention Dave was there, after spending a week helping orphans in Haiti? That just struck me, when the cook ripped up that flyer. They were unrelated, really, but I just wanted to shout, "How can you be so heartless about such a thing, when people are out feeding Haitian orphans?"
Katie, Laura, Jen, Kevin, Dave; they're not crazed, or superhuman or anything. They're just nice people, seizing opportunities to do good.
I hope this hasn't been too shmaltzy for you. I'll talk about TV some other week. This week, I hope you're inspired by these friends of mine. I am, constantly.

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I LIKE ATTENTION: THAT'S WHY I WROTE THE ATTENTION SONG.

I thought I was free. I thought the show went down the crapper, and I wouldn't be spending another season calling my best friend at every commercial to bitch about how much we hated so-and-so or worshipping Todd Glass. I quit the livejournal community, I threw out my personal stand-up notepad, I stopped freaking out every time Gary Gulman or Rich Vos passed through Providence. How did I not know they shared a producer with Project Runway? The addiction tastes the same.



Roooooar! I am the cookie monster!
Ahem. I'm geeking out about this show being back on the air. I know the person who isn't supposed to win always wins, but it's the journey I love. I'm big on comedians. The boy and I had our first magic moment when we realized we could both quote Mitch Hedburg verbatim.

Check out the judges this season!



How stoked am I? More stoked than when I bumped into Cory Kahaney in New York City. She was buying a case of cigarettes. True story!
If I end up making this a weekly occurence, it will be less picture-heavy than Project Runway and more analytical. But not in a creepy Dat Phan chart-making kind of way.

Glee!

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Oh yeah, and I don't like American Idol, either.

I don't have any exciting news. I'm just writing so I'm not tempted to watch the season finale of LOST. The boy is obsessed. Not in the totally extreme, taping-every-episode and watching-with-a-notepad kind of way, but in the watches-every-episode, goes-over-theories-in-commercial-breaks kind of way. I've watched for the past two weeks with him. This week, I didn't invite him over on Wednesday. Because the damn show stresses me out. As tempting as the twists and turns may be, I can't stand two hours of build-up that never gets resolved.

Seriously! Why do I want to watch the adorable fat guy's struggling girlfriend get shot up with heroin, mutter her murderer's name and die? I understand, the intrigue, the mystery, ooooo. However, I was sincerely depressed about it the next day. Of course within the story it was sad that Libby died, but more personally, I was bummed that I couldn't get away with ogling Michelle Rodriguez instead of following the plot.



At least Ana Lucia was already dead on the inside.
What crap is it that Michael just-so-happened to shoot the two characters whose actresses recently had their drunken mugshots on the internet?
And Michael! I'm already sick of his melodramatic storyline.



Of course, they're all melodramatic bu-
...wait a minute. Get out of the way, Michael, who is that behind you?



Hello there Alex, also known as Tania Raymonde, also known as my new reason to watch the show. Can you believe it's that nerdy little girl from Malcolm in the Middle, all growed up? Maybe I'll go catch the second hour to see if she makes an appearance. Don't worry, the boy knows I'm an avid lady ogler.


If you're sick of me ogling girls and complaining about tv shows, you can go read about how awesome my state is.

"In the latest victory for advocates of comprehensive sex education, the Rhode Island Department of Education last week said state-funded schools should cease participation in a federally funded abstinence-only curriculum."
Great news, but it doesn't affect me much- I got comprehensive sex ed at church camp. I actually heard about this a little while ago, but Feministing made a note of it today, and I felt the urge to brag. Rhode Island is, in fact, cooler than you.

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In Which My Friends Are AMAZING

I love being surronded by such inspiring humans.
Some girls that I love are doing good deeds in a fabulous way: raising money for kids in Africa by hosting a big show for local artists and bands this weekend.

You can check out their beautiful website. If you're not of Rhode Island (as many people are not), don't fret, I'll be taking plenty of pictures.

Later, babies.

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In Which I Question The White Hollywood Machine

Ok. I wasn't sure if I ought to post this in "Congrats" or here. It's not really anyone being an asshole- it's more so a face-into-palm, you-can't-be-thinking-clearly situation.

Looking for creative ways to waste my time, I played this game a few days ago. I'm not promoting the game- it's a Nickelodeon game, who apparently think kids are too stupid to do more than play one level, so they made essentially the same level with ten different themes. The thing is, it's based on their new show, "Genie on the House", which I couldn't find much internet information about. Why was I looking up a kid's show no one (my age, at least) has yet heard of? Because I care.

If you clink that link, you'll be greeted with this image:



Now, you may be wondering why "Adil" looks like someone photoshopped his face to match his shirt. If you look at his hand, it's not hard to tell that his skin has been tampered with. This was not the image that appeared when I first played the game. You can see what the kid is supposed to look like in this tiny picture, the only one that comes up when you search for "Genie in the House":



It seems someone has painted the young white actor playing the genie a light brown. I guess this only struck them as insensitive a few days after they released an online game about it. I was hoping, in vain, that it was his natural skin tone, and only looked like brownface due to lighting or something. The touch-up just added to my worries. They can filter out their bad idea on the internet, but what are they going to do with the show? Digitally edit every scene? Claim it's a natural tan?

Look, if you're going to do a kid's show about genies- and first of all, why are you doing a kid's show about genies? As if genies haven't been done a million times, there's already a popular show on Nickelodeon about kids getting wishes.

Now let's pretend having a show with a genie is still an original idea. Why oh why would one put a teen actor into that puffy, creepy, old-timey, stereotypical genie outfit? Thankfully they omitted the typical pointy ears and bizarre ponytail, why not just totally westernize him and throw him in jeans and a t-shirt? You could give him wild green hair or something to identify him as "supernatural".

Of course, most importantly, if you're really committed to that classic Western image of the ornately dressed Arabian genie, why not get an actor of Middle Eastern descent? They do exist, and would probably be delighted to get a role on a widely viewed television station. If you've been watching TV lately (or, well, ever) you might noticed the dearth of Middle Eastern (and Indian, and Asian, and Native American, and etcetera) performers in major roles. Unless, of course, they did try that, and every single kid walked out in horror when introduced to the creepy outdated genie costume he would have to wear. So they hired a white teen actor, and by paint or by lamps, changed his skin. I guess the minds at Nickelodeon thought kids are also too stupid to tell the difference.

edit: Genius as I am, I neglected to click the "Nick" logo above the game and figure out that this is currently only airing in the UK. I'm no less worried- aren't they supposed to be smarter than us?

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Lisa Loeb wants no scrubs.

A friend with mutual swooning tendencies when it comes to the lovely Ms. Loeb pointed me in the direction of this late night talk show performance. Oh, wistful sigh, Lisa Loeb was my first celebrity girl-crush, and I love when the special place in my heart devoted to her (quite near the special place for Oscar Wilde, and alongside others for Alan Cumming and Sarah Silverman- the "long-standing nerdy crush" section of my heart) is warmed by little reminders- "Stay" comes on the radio at work, I catch an ad for her reality show, a friend sends me a video of her covering TLC (who, coincidentally, did their own part in causing young, queer swooniness)...
If you're not as enraptured by Lisa Loeb as my friend and I, you'll have to wait out the first song to get to the cover. But, come on! How can you not enjoy it? She's adorable.

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Geek Gone Wilde

Can I give quick props to Rich of FourFour for referring to Oscar Wilde during his ANTM piece this week? As if Rich needs props from li'l old me, but it really made my day. I know I only mentioned it in passing, but I have a special place in my heart for Oscar Wilde. Sure, I "like" Virginia Woolf and Samuel Beckett, in that I own a few works of theirs, but that's half for intellectual street cred. I haven't even gotten through a third of Orlando- too damn long! Oscar Wilde, however, graces my bulging shelves only once- with a hardcover collection of his complete works. I don't read Oscar Wilde to sound like a good little English major. I read Oscar Wilde with extreme affection. Excuse me while I geek out:



Could this mention in FourFour mark a new trend among blogs? Bitching about Tom Cruise out, quoting Oscar Wilde in! Just kidding, bitching about Tom Cruise will never be out. What would D. Wils do if her arch nemesis fell from the public eye? Besides perhaps hold a party. Actually, I hope this switch comes to pass, I could go for some cake. Keep an eye out for further Oscar Wildeisms in the blogosphere, my friends.

...did I just use the word "blogosphere"?

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So, what have I been up to this week?

Oh, the average bohemian this-is-a-new-stage-of-my-life rituals before the summer job grabs me by the throat and drains my will to live. Or at least, my will to wake up at three a.m. every morning and escort kids to the bathroom. I think the weekly updates over the summer will be a good means of venting about the childrens, and of course the summer camp drama. It's way more involved, frustrating, and ridiculous than high school drama, of which I largely chose not to partake. Unfortunately, camp counselor drama is above all impossible to avoid.

Speaking of camp, I put in my two weeks on the waitressing job. Being a camp counselor is stressful, but it makes one more responsible, compassionate and inclined to hugs/soulful group cries. I'm not exaggerating to say that waitressing has made me a worse person. On the job I get irritable, spiteful and judgemental. They had a thirty dollar check and left an eighty cent tip? Fuckin' cheap hicks! Drink less beer next time! I hate everyone, and the bitches on the night shift didn't thaw the strawberries!

So, sticking it to the man is step one of the bohemian transition from small-town existence to independence. Step two requires a public act or physical transformation. Some people I know get tattoos every time their life changes, some people chop off their hair, Kevin Smith makes another Clerks, and I got this:

This nose piercing represents the pain of my adjustment into adulthood!
Just kidding! It represents looking awesome.

Step three? Why, a futureless passion!

A zest for painting! I found out they sold canvas at the dollar store, and I was hooked. I'm submitting this and three others to a friend's art show. I've submitted to her shows before, but usually, you know, in a medium in which I was either talented or educated. I suck at painting, it just feels good. Listen: I know the breasts are messed up. I'm just going to tell everyone I intentionally left them imperfect as an additional statement on body image, and soak up the pretentious hippie street cred.

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No Time To Blog!

Seriously. I'm blogging during dinner right now. I'm working late tommorow night and even skipping out early to attend a rally at Jen's college, but then I've got to rush home to get my preliminary shit together for an event this weekend and deliver it to someone who can actually make it to that event. The boy comes home on Friday night, though I probably won't get to see him, which is alright because we'll need sleep that night, as I have to work in the camp kitchen for the third weekend in a row at seven thirty, and we won't be sleeping all weekend due to volunteering for an event in support of the already aforementioned event. If that doesn't make a lick of sense, don't worry about it: the point is, I'm frigging busy. On Sunday I'm probably either going to church with the family for the one-year anniversary of the death of my grandfather or I am, drumroll, getting my nose pierced with a friend for her birthday. I'm debating if God would smite me for that one, or at least if my Poppy would wag his finger at me from the heavens. But then, I don't imagine he'll be watching the service if they get baseball in heaven. He's probably still too busy cursing at Johnny Damon to be upset with me. Fucking Johnny Damon.

So, I'm leaving a minimal-effort something to hold you over until next weekend. Why do I even bother? Because, Congratulations, You're an Asshole is back up, and apparently better than ever. It's been linked to from The Church of Annette, which is linked to from FourFour, which is linked to from Queerty- there is a chain from Queerty to this blog! Long and obscure as it may be, there is a chain. CYAA has been getting steady comments, and what if I'm next? I can't deal with more than a half-dozen people checking on my shitty corner of the internet! At least not until Season Three of Project Runway starts and I actually have something to write about regularly. Oh, woe, angst and agony, I might have an audience.

I've got to run, but as I've not made my love for the Man in Heels explicit enough, I'll leave you with pearls of wisdom to keep you chuckling in my absence. If you want the full expirience, run to your local quality DVD provider and buy everything he's ever made, now, please.



from Dress to Kill:
"The National Rifle Association says that, 'Guns don't kill people, people do'. But I think the gun helps, you know? I think it helps. I just think just standing there going, 'Bang!' That's not going to kill too many people, is it? You'd have to be really dodgy on the heart to have that... 'Bang! Rat-tat-tat! Boom!' I think they should just try that, you know. But yeah, shooting clay pigeons, I think, go for that! Shooting clay pigeons, they’re fuckers! Come round your house, whiz through- they do nothing, they don't even eat flies! You know? Spiders eat flies, so they're all right, keep them, you know? Flies don't eat fuckall, so kill 'em! And clay pigeons - everyone shoots them in the air. Wait 'til they land! Then go up to the clay pigeon... pow! Much easier."

from Unrepeatable:
"Nowadays, we’re more sophisticated as consumers. We go into supermarkets and we read the labels. ...This jam is made by Nazis with dead trees, bits of mud and spit. Well, I don’t think I’ll have that one. This jam was made by groovy people! And fruit who agreed to be in the jam in the first place."

from Sexie:
"Guide dogs, they are bright, they get chosen especially chosen: You! You have the look in your eye, the look of intelligence, you’ll become a special dog.
And the dog goes, Food?
You know what I’m saying, don’t you? Come, and I will make you a leader amongst dogs!
Food, now? With marrow? The yummy bit of humans?"

Thanks to auntiemomo for the transcripts and picture. Except this one:


Did I ever mention that he flirted with my mother?

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In Which I Break My Own Rules!

I usually refuse to grab items from other blogs without having something original to say about the content, but, this link I just spotted at feministing really must be passed on.
Some apparently really cool kids wrote some really good speeches for President Bush (that may or may not contain the phrase "doo-doo head"), and got them recited by an impersonator.

This next item was featured on bookslut, but I was directed to it from someone else, so it's not (so blatantly) stealing. The judge who acquitted the author of The Da Vinci Code of plagarism charges worked his own secret code into his ruling. If you're not registered for The New York Times website, you can read the full text as posted by some nice kid on livejournal.

Odd! Inspiring! Right?

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I Lied, Again.

Monday-Wednesday-Friday set? That was a bit of a lie. I didn't realize I'd be visiting a college all day on Friday, and working at church camp all weekend. I've been so busy, just be thankful I can still form coherent sentences.

I do have treats for you, my pretties. If college fails to provide inspiration to my mind or spirit, it will at least surely inspire my blogging material.



I caught this mess during the three-hour ride. You can just see the corner of the giant tipi to the left. We passed at least three Native American (specifically Mohawk, I think) themed souveneir stores, but this was the most outrageous. I had to wonder if there was actually a solid Mohawk population around, if they were involved with these shops, or if other people were just exploiting the fact that, you know, "Native Americans used to live sort of nearby, maybe I can sell some shoes, blankets and cheap plastic shit".

Oh, and by the way, guess what I found during spring cleaning?



Creepy.

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An Item That Falls Directly Between "Freaking Bizarre" and "Inspiring".

As you may or probably do not know, I'm a playwright. An award-winning playwright, at that. (Try to guess which one I am! Hint: I have a vagina.) I've got a fucking plaque and everything. I know I'm not a genius at it or anything- I'm definitely not one of those drama kids who say things like, "You know, my professor is simply fascinated with O'Neill, but I don't understand how she can call herself a drama lover when she says she's never cared for Beckett." I'm actually glad I haven't read a lot of classics, because I can write without worrying that I'm taking too much inspiration from other work (read: ripping off better writers). My first play was about lobsters, my second was about mimes, and currently I'm writing a carthatic piece about the college process. I'd just gotten to thinking I'm good at it this sort of thing, when I stumbled upon a piece that makes me ashamed of my lack of creativity. It's not Beckett, it's not O'Neill, it's not even Wilde- whose fandom I would belong to, if more 19th century writers had fandoms- it's this.


A Very Merry Unauthorized Children's Scientology Pagaent.

I haven't seen it, I haven't (yet) heard the soundtrack, I haven't read the articles in New York Times or The Village Voice. By the way, why am I only hearing about this now? It's apparently been around for years, and my so-called "friends" never thought mention it to me?
No, I have only gazed upon the website- which I initially thought to be a really cool hoax. When I realized it was legit, just reading the title of the play caused me to utter that phrade that tears at every artist's heart: "Why didn't I think of that?"



In costumes slightly resembling The Polyphonic Spree's robes (creating some kind of meeting of the bizarrely brilliant), children- God bless them, children play L. Ron Hubbard, Tom Cruise, John Travolta, and, of course, the great Xenu (pictured above, in more Conehead-esque garb). They sing songs such as "Hey! It's a Happy Day!" and "Mister Auditor". Who doesn't love a musical? Well, probably not actual Scientologists.

An unwanted but obligatory rant about scientology itself: I try to be open-minded about Scientology. It would probably be much easier if they ever tried telling anyone what they actually do. Seriously, scientologists. First of all, thank you for visiting my blog. Tell your friends. Secondly, I know being all secret and exclusive is your "thing", but you're hurting the cause. Your founder, the guy who wrote Battlefield Earth, simply looks shady. I don't know if The Simpsons modeled the Leader in their cult epsiode after L. Ron or if it was just a happy coincidence because he looks like a cult leader. I'm afraid famous people keep defending scientology because they can afford it. I know Christians pass around a collection plate, but there's not a thousand-dollar tab on baptism and confessional. We will stop treating you like a cult when you stop acting so damn culty. When one of your famous members jokes about eating his baby's placenta and people automatically believe it- it's time for a change.
Really, Scientologists, this pagaent is probably the most positive cultural reference you're going to get. Start letting your kids put it on around Christmas or L. Ron Hubbard Day or what have you. Everyone likes kids. They're adorable.

By the way, the one image that qualified this play for Bizarre Week:



Nothing more fantastically creepy than emotionless twins in rainbow socks and a giant brain costume.

I love it.

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Freaking Bizzare Dead Thing. Warning: Pictures.

Personal life issues are slowly settling down, so hopefully I'll be back to semi-regular updates. That is, until summer hits, at which point I'll be away five days a week to work with brats lovely children at that God camp I've mentioned. I am at this point praying that Project Runway doesn't launch a new season in the middle of the summer, as I have heard they're rushing to start season three. Oh well, at least I hope I'll have interesting stories on the weekend. As for now....

It's been occuring to me that, while definitely a bit fruity, my blog is not as totally bizarre as it could be. Look at my subtitle- shouldn't I be blogging about robots or leprachauns or robot leprachauns or something particularly out of the ordinary?
It turns out it's pretty hard to find inspiring topics to write about several times a week. But, I think I've gathered up enough material for at least a Monday-Wednesday-Friday set, and so I announce this week to be
FREAKIN' BIZZARE WEEK.

Let's start with what I did on Easter. While my hippie, vegetarian, antique-collecting aunt and uncle's giant, museum-like house where horses occasionally run through the back yard might be bizarre to some people, that's just one piece of the puzzle that is my upbringing. What really freaked me out this weekend was stumbled upon at a nearby beach.
I've seen horseshoe crabs, regular crabs and shellfish in general washed ashore plenty of times. I live in the ocean state. These things happen. However, Sunday afternoon, my uncle took my brother and I to a lesser-known local beach, where we witnessed what we initially guessed was a dead seal.

Now, maybe I should, but I do not know how to make cuts, jumps, or in any case, post a picture without you seeing it right away. Do I provide a wimpy link? Of course not, friends, I improvise. Here is a preview of a picture that I took of the thing, the gross bits tastefully blocked out by something slightly nicer to look at.



On closer inspection, we decided it was a shark. The problem being, we live in Rhode Island. You know how many sharks are around Rhode Island? Neither do I. I don't know because nobody cares, because there are so few sharks around Rhode Island that it isn't worth caring about unless you're a shark enthusiast, a title which I vehemently deny.
It's also only mid-April. Do you know how many sharks are around in mid-April, in Rhode Island? The answer, by all human logic, should be "none, silly!"
It was also pretty far up the beach. I would like to know the mathmetic probability of a shark washing ashore and dying, in mid-April, in Rhode Island. Someone get back to me on that.

Our third guess was that it was a porpoise of some kind, of course, that entails all of the problems with the idea that it's a shark. I described it to the boy, and he suggested that it could be a barracuda, but I find the wreckage hardly barracuda-esque.

WARNING: I am going to post the pictures now.

Seriously.

They're a little bit gross.

Stop scrolling if you're the squeamish type.

Exposed ribcage and everything, don't you know.

It's gross.

For real.

Here come the pictures.

Of the decaying animal carcass.

...

Ta-da.







Freaking bizzare, eh?

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A Few Items of Interest Pour Toi.

First of all, if you don't read Queerty (and why the hell not?), and you know anyone in Massachusetts, I must direct you to www.knowthyneighbor.org. I've already found one very close friend with his name on the petition to ban gay marriage and dropped him/her a note about it. Maybe he has leanings I'm unaware of, or maybe he's a victim of fraud. Why take the chance?


Also, I've got further support for the Santino as Gay Vampire Jesus theory thanks to pictures from the GLAAD awards. Santino is on page two. Though he appears more preist-esque than Jesus-like, come on. Look at him. Tell me this outfit and pose don't scream "queer religious undead". Is he trying to supply me with material?
(I did have a picture displayed here, but it was too damn huge and water-marked for my liking. Aesthetics, thank you!)


Last, and probably least, am I the only one who's been getting really good spam lately? You know, that kind of ranting, nonsensical stuff with a link slipped in the middle so they don't get picked up by filters? My inbox has been stuffed with it this week. Most are too long and mind-numbing to post, but I got one a few hours ago that had no ad, and was all of one sentence. I'm not sure what they're trying to acheive with this one. The spam in question, in its entirety:

"After the stuffy city, Judas was struck by the stupefying smell of the

dog's head."
I know these things are probably blogged about all the time, but when someone gives you an incomplete thought like this, everyone should share the magic.

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In Which I Have Immature But Legitimate Worries About The Cool Kids Not Liking Me

Links to Witch Doctor totally fixed. Why doesn't anyone point these things out?
The five of you are grounded.

Sorry, I've been in a bad mood the past few days- I was rejected from my top choice college (Ithaca, if you hadn't guessed) and facing a fast decision between my back-ups. It's pretty much down to Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts and SUNY Purchase. My aunt, who's very invested in my education, sent me to their respective Wikipedia pages of all places. Purchase had the most detailed page, and it sounds like an artistic culturally-subversive haven. However, it's not very aeshthetically pleasing. I wonder if my aunt was trying to steer me in a particular direction when she sent me this link....

"this school absolutely blows donkey testicles. do not go here is the only advice i can give you. it is the gay capital of the world, if you are straight it is very difficult to get laid."
And that's from an allegedly bright female. Of course naming something "the gay capital of the world" only draws me closer to it. However, I'm terribley afraid they're overjudging my abilities. The only accept thirty-one percent of applicants (much, much less than the other schools I applied to), and for the love of Parker Posey, look at their alumni! Moby? Wesley Snipes? One of the Petes from Pete and Pete? I'm pretty sure I am not hip enough to be going to this school. Just the fact that I used the word "hip" proved my point.

I'm away this weekend, and I'll be stressed out until this college problem is resolved- I fear the five of you might have to entertain yourselves for a little while.

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There Were Also An Inordinate Amount of "C.C. IS SO F-ING HOTTT" Threads, Who Knew?

I missed this week's Surreal Life- how awful, right? I was in New Hampshire all weekend. Do you suppose I should start recapping it? What would I say? Episode four- everyone still frustrated with everyone else. Signs point to future breakdowns and weird hook-ups.
Anyway, I watched some clips online, and then I decided to venture in to a place most people with, well, better-shit-to-do fear to tread. I've been tragically short of shit to do lately, and the VH1 message boards are not the bottom of the bottle. The bottom of the bottle is, in fact, watching an entire 5-hour block of VH1 countdowns cuddled up to several pints of ice cream.
I expected to see some moderate Alexis-bashing, and my expectations were fulfilled. But, I was pleased that for every "he is a dude, not a chick!" threads, there was about thirty "STFU, and don't call her he!", and several "whatever, man, she's pretty hot" replies. Ah, and this little gem made me miss my old days as a message board junkie:



By the way, "Alexis Saved My Child" is from the mother of an eight year old boy who wears his sister's clothes and asks his mother why God gave him a boy body and a girl brain. She finally "got it" when she watched Alexis on the Surreal Life. Of course, Daddybull The Troll replies to the effect of "either you made that up, or that kids needs an ass-kicking". If the story is authentic, I suggest to the mother the movie Ma Vie En Rose- it imagine it will pull very familiar heartstrings.

...is that even an expression?

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In Which a Well-Known PR Fan Has a Webcomic, Creating an Intersection of Sorts

Remember my internet friend Oolong, who did the lovely caricatures of the Project Runway designers?

Seeing as I mentioned my zest for webcomics in my last entry, I thought I'd plug his new webcomic, Witch Doctor. It's a bit more, hmm, comprehensive than his previous, titled Faggot House. It's still in the exposition stage, but the art is nice and the characters seem likeable, so I'll be following it for a while.

A sneak peak? Sure, why not? Hopefully he won't eat my face or anything for not mentioning this to him.



Give it a peek, support the guy- webcomics are definitely harder to keep going than lousy blogs like this.

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True Story!

There's a story that I'm pretty sure I have to share with the world. But there's a problem: I'm a webcomic geek. Hardcore. Every day I check two email accounts, one personal journal, one or two social network sites, three or four blogs, and eight to ten webcomics. I could try to defend my habit, but I'd just be securing my spot on the Geek Hierarchy: "It's not, like, the funny papers or superhero comics. Webcomics are, like, art SLASH comedy."
I run a blog and not a webcomic for lack of artistic talent and patience. I could always go the Ryan North route, but that would be ripping off Ryan North. I write well, but some stories I just feel would be best conveyed in pictures. Such as this story, that I am pretty sure I need to tell you. It will be slightly amusing to read, but it would be much more affecting to see. I would make a half-assed series of illustrations, but my scanner is permanently busted. Thus, I present to you, the first of possibly many True Stories, as accompanied with beautiful MSPaint illustrations.


I couldn't have been working in my restaurant more than three weeks when this happened. I had a few tables, all served and happily eating, so I was hanging out by the cash register when a voice from the take-out area beckoned to me. I turned around and see a very, very short man with a shining bald head, a curly red beard, great round glasses and business attire. If hobbits hired accountants, this would be their man. Now, I'm not saying he's a loser because he was short and bald and sported a curly beard. There are definitely very awesome, short, stout, bald, bearded people. I just needed you to create a mental picture to combine with his further inward creepiness, thus you get the full idea of the great weirdness of this encounter. This man said to me:



He was referring to the sign between the cash register and the take-out window that reads "WE DO NOT ACCEPT CHECKS!" Not completely understanding why we didn't accept checks, but obviously knowing there was a reason, I just shrugged. Then, he asked if he could hang up some flyers. He was, he informed me, a DJ. Yes, this hobbit-man made a living playing music at parties. I know a DJ. I think old guys who own a bunch of speakers and switch CDS for two hours should be called something else. Like "expensive fleshy jukeboxes".
Anyway, he hands me some of his flyers, which are a bit hideous because he used tiled dollar bills in the background. He made sure he pointed them out to me. He sure was proud of those flyers. "Only two-hundred dollars!" He insisted. "That's very cheap!" I nodded in vauge agreement, but I was distracted. In the corner of his flyer, there was a stamp that had nothing to do with disk jockeying.



No matter what you opinion about abortion is, if I know it within ten seconds of meeting you, you are probably an asshole. I told this story to the boy and he cried, "Why didn't you call him out on being ridiculously forward?" Well, I couldn't really call him out on that or, you know, not having a vagina in front of my other customers. Being paid below minimum wage and making half your salary on based on a stranger's opinion of you has its down side. Oh well. Maybe he was actually just a fan of WHAM?
He gave me his card, which was also graced with the Seal of Making Me Uncomfortable. Seriously, how much time did he have on his hands to stamp all of these flyers and cards? Was that part of his pitch? "I shouldn't just be a cheap middle-aged DJ. I should be a cheap middle-aged DJ that preaches pro-life. I'll have to keep the customers off me with a picket sign!"
He shook my hand. He stopped, and he smiled at me. Not in a friendly way. You know what I'm saying. He said, exactly:



He pointed to his ring to prove it, thanked me, and left. Even after he gave me the old creepy eyes, I didn't have the heart to throw out this odd little man's flyers, so I gave them to the boss's son.
He threw them out for me.
True story.

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