Completely Unnecessary

Are you a girl? Is it Halloween?

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It’s paper time again, so I’m well on my way to spending hours on the internet. What does it have in store for us today?

Without asking why, let’s say I went to a Chinese horoscope compatibility website. Let’s just move straight from that fact to reveling in the glory that is Master Rao’s Compatibility Between the Signs.

You have to enter a sign for the man and a sign for the woman, and - like the Love Calculator before it - it predicts your ability to love and be loved on completely uncontrollable factors.

So what does ancient Chinese wisdom (clearly) have to tell us about relations between the sexes? Well, mostly things like this:

To get her views across, this woman is likely to react in her usual way - by nagging and displaying vehement emotional scenes.

That’s a Monkey (man) and an Ox (woman), but rest assured that all the other combinations I tried yielded roughly the same results for the women.

Rooster women (i.e., me) appear to be particularly unlovable. Here’s Goat (man) and Rooster (woman):

The Goat only loves mysterious and profoundly feminine women. Obviously, the Rooster falls short of this criteria and cannot expect to be fully appreciated as a woman by him.

Obviously. Thank you, Master Rao.

In other combos I am sulky, brooding, stupid and frigid. Surprisingly, given that last one, I am also incredibly randy:

On the sexual plane, the partners are likely to encounter some difficulties as the Rat man will look for quality while the Rooster, superficial and overrestless, will prefer quantity.

Strangely, with others I am jealous and possessive.

But I don’t want to end on that sour note. Let’s instead look at a Horse (man) and a Snake (woman):

Even in the best of conditions this union is unlikely to last, for the partners’ love is so intense that it will burn itself out completely. But they will ever keep bedazzled memories of each other.

I just hope they ever keep that Beadazzler - gonna be worth money someday.

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h/t to Danny, who sent me a link this morning about the Chaser boys’ breach of Bush’s uber-security in Sydney:

The group staged a faux motorcade, pretending to be the delegation of Canada with one of the comedians dressed as Osama bin Laden, and made it past two police checkpoints before being stopped.

Eleven people were charged. Apparently, you can’t just walk up to the American president like you can the PM. Weird.

Ha. The Age’s reporting is more humorous:

IF ONLY the police had stopped to read the fine print on the “APEC 2007 Official Vehicle” sticker.

“This vehicle belongs to a member of The Chaser’s War on Everything. This dude likes trees and poetry and certain types of carnivorous plants excite him.”

Two police security checkpoints into the sniper-ridden “ring of steel” later, and it took a comedian in an Osama bin Laden outfit to rouse Sydney’s $150 million APEC security monster into action.
…
The Chaser’s bogus motorcade of two black vans, a hire car, two very unofficial looking motorcycles and jogging security heavies remained undetected until Morrow and Licciardello got out of their car outside Mr Bush’s hotel, where police grabbed them.
…
Police had been worried the Chaser team would cause trouble and had warned them to behave responsibly, Mr Campbell said.

This, however, is the best part - the ABC going to bat for their most popular show:

Last night, the ABC issued a statement saying: “The Chaser team had no knowledge that they had entered a restricted zone.”

“When the Chaser reached the perimeter of what they thought was the APEC restricted zone, they voluntarily turned around,” the statement said.

That is funnier than than the stunt.

White House Mum on Comedy Group’s Security Breach [The Hill]
Chaser Comic Convoy Beats Summit Security [The Age] - oooh, alliteration

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So, it seems as though this might be a joke - the most convincing evidence is that there are rosary beads on the website and those aren’t so popular with the Evangelistic crowd. It’s still amazing, though.

I keep thinking about things like the (god help me) Gray’s Anatomy fracas and how much we allow gays to be battered about in the media. For context, one actor on the show has repeatedly called another actor “faggot,” even at the Golden Globes when denying that he ever said it. There are too many clauses in that ridiculous sentence, but it’s kind of a ridiculous story. Isaiah Washington seems unable to keep his mouth shut, despite glares, angry comments, and punches in the face from his fellow cast members. I keep thinking about what would happen if the tables were turned, though. Washington, the offending actor is black; somehow, I think coverage of this story would be pretty different if it had gone down the other way. And I think Knight would be out of a job.

Then again, this video isn’t really about gays at all; it’s really about an intolerant community. I would probably laugh at a send up of white supremacists, too. But I think one could argue (as I will attempt to do inarticulately here in a second) that a parody of the KKK is harder to do because the minority group targeted by the hate group is better respected in the United States. Maybe it’s easier to bash gay-bashers because it’s pretty acceptable in the US to make fun of homosexuality in the first place. So, when someone sings, “God Hates a Fag” it’s more acceptable to laugh than at a video of a klanner singing, “God Hates a Negro.” It’s even hard to type.

So here I am, conflicted between my love of gays and my love of satire with good production values.

Well! I guess this was a fortutious time for Orgin of Love to come up on iTunes. Love for the gays it is.

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I’m about to seriously cross a line, one from which I may never recover.

This article in the NY Times today is about the cutest thing I’ve ever read. And it’s not about puppies, it’s about Dick Durbin, Bill Delahunt, Chuck Schumer, and George Miller all sharing a two-flat in DC. Clearly a puff piece to humanize legislators, it is still incredibly adorable.

Here is an example:

In fact, the roommates have never resorted to violence, at least with one another. (Crickets are another story.) Their weapons are verbal, and often aimed at Mr. Schumer, who admits to a serious dereliction of roommate duties, like grocery shopping. He is also prone to a blatant disregard for conserving a most precious household resource, cereal.

“I love cereal,” Mr. Schumer said, digging into his second bowl of granola, going a long way toward depleting a box that Mr. Miller had just purchased.

The picture of Schumer’s unmade bed is also hilarious.

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The recent re-upswing in my interest about the whole ritual child abuse hysteria in the 80s has required the purchase of numerous books. Some of them have fabulous titles, such as Behind Playground Walls and Michelle Remembers (which is also one of the most ridiculous books I’ve ever read). I also keep picking up copies of books at yard sales, including copies of thingsI already own. This even includes the unnecessary purchase of a coverless copy of The Poisonwood Bible. It is a fabulous book, but does not require the reader to own two different editions, one missing its cover.

My apparent desire to acquire more and more books at a time when I plan on leaving the country in January is not merely foolish. It has also required the purchase of a new bookshelf.

(Incidentally, it appears that everyone else in the world besides me calls a structure on which to place books a “bookcase.” It made craigslist searches weird and made me feel silly. I sometimes call a vacuum a “vacuum sweeper” or “vacuum cleaner.” I’m not really sure which is correct. Also, I feel comfortable calling cordless phones by the title “remote control phones.” I feel my parents taught me a completely parallel form of English. )

Here’s the bookshelf:

I am in LOVE with this… bookcase. And when I saw it up on craigslist for a mere $30, I had to have it.

Which brings me to Luda.

Luda is my new friend who owned said bookcase. I emailed her with my interest, and then emailed again in desperation with my phone number, requesting that she call if it was still available because, “I sent an email earlier today and haven’t heard back.” I’m a bit sad.

The next morning, Luda calls me at 8:50 and we attempt to work out a time to pick up my newly aquired piece of lovely despite my only half-awakedness. She informs me that the dismantling of the bookshelf will take “several hours” and that I “should bring a man with [me] because it is quite heavy,” and she doesn’t know how “handy” I am. (I don’t mention that I started building sets and using circular saws at age 14 - a fact that would fail to impress Andrew not ten minutes later).

To make a long story short (too late), I call Luda at 6:30 that night to come over and take apart the shelf. She doesn’t think I’ll have enough time because they routinely go to bed at 9 pm, and again asserts that it will take “hours” to dismantle. We agree on the next morning as a “better time” to engage in the gargantuan tasks of removing an Ikea bookcase from her home.

The next morning, Jeremy and I arrive at Luda’s home no earlier than 9 am. There is some fiddling with the gate on their huge privacy fence (who expects a gate to slide?) and we are shown by Luda’s clog-wearing husband to the room. We are required to help in the putting down of cardboard and then left to our devices.

At 9:18 everything was in the car. Both Luda and the husband had mysteriously disappeared, so I chucked the money on the cardboard and we headed out.

While the bookcase may have only cost $30, I feel I took on a little bit of the pain Luda’s husband must feel on a daily basis. But as I stare at a copy of Harmful to Minors well-shelved in my livingroom, I know the emotional price I paid was worth it.

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Every week, I make an effort to read The Stranger, Seattle’s version of The Reader. I started this because it’s edited by Dan Savage, local hero and author of Savage Love. I’ve taken to reading most of the columns now, mostly because I could give a shit about whatever party Liz Armstrong went to this weekend. Last Days, a sardonic recap of notable events from the previous week, is one of my favorites. So much so, that I was moved to write to Mr. Schmader last week regarding an error in his column.

The result? Last night at 3 am, with far too many tequilas in me, I saw this:

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 27
The week kicks off with a fresh chapter in the Great Gross Commercial Debate of 2006. Instigating incident: a Hot Tip from Natalie of Ballard, the “vegetarian and mother of one” who expressed her disgust over the Dairy Queen commercial depicting a pair of cartoon shrimp munching through a box of DQ’s new popcorn shrimp, then shrieking in horror after realizing they’d devoured their own shrimpy children. While sharing Natalie’s grievance, Last Days commiserated by declaring Dairy Queen’s incestuous cannibal shrimp ad the most disgusting TV commercial since Mucinex coughed up that anthropomorphized phlegm wad. Today Last Days was taken to task on both points, via a pair of Hot Tips.

First is Hot Tipper Michael, who writes, “Am I the only one that found it humorous that viewers would be disturbed by a commercial that accurately depicts the diet of adult shrimp? They happen to eat their young, thousands of them, every mating season.” Dear Michael: Thank you for writing and for understanding shrimp. However, the shock of the DQ ad comes not just from the fact that the parent shrimp eat their kids, but from their horrified reaction to the “accidental” deep-fried cannibalism. While shrimp may eat their young in the natural world, it’s safe to assume they don’t reenact Sophie’s Choice every time they do, and it’s this discrepancy that cements the DQ commercial’s status as disgusting.

But, as Hot Tipper Brie asks, how disgusting is it? “I’ve not seen the Dairy Queen commercial,” writes Brie. “But I was surprised that Last Days claimed Dairy Queen had stolen the ‘most disgusting TV commercial in history’ title away from Mucinex. You’ve clearly misidentified the previous holder of that title - Lamisil, the toe fungus medication whose commercials show a cartoon fungus thingie prying open a toenail and jumping inside, inducing nausea every time.” Dear Brie: You’re right. Lamisil’s toenail-jimmying fungus is 50 times worse than Mucinex’s phlegm wad. (If we remember correctly, the Lamisil creature actually pops the infected toenail open like a car hood.) We apologize for the error.

Titillated doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction. If all else fails in this life, I’ll be able to point to this article and say, “See? I was right about something.” Well, I’ll also be able to point to the theatre review I wrote in college where I offered to sleep with Jordan Catalano/Jared Leto. I was right about that, too.

Here’s all of Last Days from this week.

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So, I took the day off work today, and spent the early morning (for some reason I still felt the need to get up at 7am) watching Back to the Future. It’s one of my favorite movies anyway, but it got vaulted to new status today because of something I’ve never noticed before.

When Doc uses the remote control to drive the time machine at the beginning of the movie, they put the the remote control in the foreground and really ask you to focus on it. I think this is because Robert Zemeckis doesn’t want you to look in the car and realize that there is a man in a dog suit behind the steering wheel. He’s seriously looking out thru the dog’s mouth. I rewound that a couple times.

Completely changing tack: I was thinking about a conversation from about a year ago that actually I wasn’t even part of. Someone, I forget who, had a conversation with a girl who had apparently dated an ex-boyfriend of mine after I’d dated him. My name came up in the conversation, and this girl remarks “Oh, Brie. She hated me for that!” Not only did I have no idea that this chick dated my ex, but I also had no idea who she was. Still don’t. And for the record, I can’t really imagine me hating a chick for dating a guy I wasn’t anymore. All my exes are fair game ladies (if you’re ready to take one for the team). Clearly, she was still thinking about this enough a year or two later to say it to my friend. I’m one of those people who feels guilty for stupid, foot-so-far-down-my-throat-it’s-threatening-to-come-out-my-ass moments years after the fact. It occurs to me that the people I feel so bad about offending may not remember the incident, or even me. That makes me feel good enough that I’ll probably go out an completely embarrass myself several times tonight.

The most random memories pop up in my head. Right now, I’m vividly recalling drinking a box of wine that cost approximately $4.00 with this guy Wayne in Canberra (Wayne and I spent most of our three day trip on the wrong side of that box of wine). We then proceeded out with a big group of people to a Canberra nightclub, located like most Canberra scenes in a mini-mall. Wayne got absolutely blind, and we got separated from the group, wandered into a variety of bars before finding our friends at the very same mini-mall club at which we’d started. Dancing ensued and some random guy started grinding on me, and I amused my group of friends by making faces he couldn’t see. I forget the kid’s name now, but he thought we were really hitting it off. We weren’t. Then we went outside and I performed an ill-advised cartwheel, ripping my skirt straight up the back. In case you wondering, I just realized I’m wearing said skirt (dutifully repaired along the seam), hence the memory apparently. Also, cartwheels in skirts, no matter what your inebriated and hopeful brain might tell you, are rarely a good idea.

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