Takk Fyrir

Today I learned how to say thank you 465 different ways, because I'm 465 times grateful that I don't have to babysit my mother's stupid ass dog for the next two weeks.

The one she calls my "beautiful and smart 4-legged sister."

Bioluminescent Brain

So I was searching around the internet for a picture of a brain today, when I found this website.

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

I only wish each image had a description under it.

I seriously was looking for a picture of a brain though. Today I interviewed my amazing neighbor, who just wrote a book about his theory on the development of the conscience in the brain. I thought I'd just skip across the street for an hour or so, but two hours later I was still in his backyard and my own brain was spinning with enlightened thoughts and possibilities.
I've read a fair amount on brain development and how the brain works, and I find it absolutely amazing. But usually when I think about it too much, I get the same kind of empty feeling in my gut that I get when I think about the size of the universe, and the possibility that there might be something outside of the universe as we think we know it. It was strange though that after talking with David today, (not the one in this picture) I felt surprisingly calm and peaceful. Maybe it was because he helped me understand how we actually do create our own reality, and how every 10 seconds (or something like that) we completely recreate ourselves.

At least according to his theory.

Here's his website if you're interested.

Psychespalace.com

A Grand Grand-Opening

If you build it, they will park illegally and ram into you with their teeny little carts.

Today was the grand opening of Whole Paycheck Market here in town, and you would have thought from the stampeding crowd that they were giving away free organic, fair trade coffee beans by the ton. I couldn't believe how excited the entire town was over the opening of a simple grocery store. I love Whole Foods, don't get me wrong, but it's not like we used to have to walk miles and miles in the snow to find a Paraben-free bar of soap.

Ah, but they had Indian food. And warm naan. And spicy chocolate. And bread pudding covered with whiskey sauce.
And my favorite shampoo was already on sale.

Diva Donna Day

Today is National Columnists Day!



Thank you.
Thank you very much.

Just Another Crack Kase

Today I learned...

Or should I say didn't?

Tartar Control Alcohol Free Mojito

If I was fried yesterday, then I'm charred today. Burnt and crispy. But I had a great time abusing my media privilege's, taking pictures and eating free food. Now it's time to pay the piper, as they say, and I've gotta regurge some of what I took in these last two days, which means I'll have to make this a quickie.

Don't buy the $8.00 Sprite/Mouthwash combo they're calling a Mojito at the next NASCAR event.

You're much better off with a $12.00 beer. Just don't bring it into the media room.

Decadent and Depraved

I. Am. Completely. Fried.

Physically and mentally. What a day. I could only handle about 4 hours out at Infineon Raceway today, but not for the reasons I expected. I'm very surprised to say that being there was a completely thrilling experience, especially being down in the pit area. For the record, I am NOT a racing fan. But, as my informative and knowing companion today Mr. JMB pointed out, hanging out in the garages with the NASCAR drivers and their pit crews was like being backstage at a Led Zeppelin concert, and I couldn't help but get off on it a little bit. Ok, a lot. I loved it. I learned so much today that my head is spinning. But, since I'll be writing all about my experiences with NASCAR for the newspaper, I'm going to share my other newest favorite addiction I picked up today- the press room.

Ahhh, the press room. Or as they call it out at the former Sears Point Raceway, the media room. I couldn't wait to see it. I admit, the main reason I agreed to this adventure was hopes of experiencing something like chapter two of The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson. But sadly, or actually more likely luckily, they no longer serve alcohol to the media. Oh well. They had just about everything else though, just there for the taking. A huge refrigerator full of food and drinks, baskets of candy, trays of cookies and cheese cake, and Red Bull everywhere you turned. I had 2, so this might be a really long posting tonight. Oh, and let me never forget the beautifully catered lunch tent, exclusively for the media peeps. Sweet Gonzo, what did I do to deserve this juicy reward? Just hanging out in the company of the Associated Press, ESPN, TNT, and every major newspaper I've ever heard of, was excitement enough for me. I know, I'm completely weird. But I just love the press atmosphere and I felt so, I don't know, pleased or something to be a part of it all, even though I'll probably only get out 600 words to a weekly small town rag.
So I was happily enjoying the little room with the big windows, my mouth full of M&M's, when I peeked my head into an adjacent room and discovered something even more magical- the Deadline Room. The best thing I learned about today.

Posted outside the Deadline Room a seating assignment listing the names of major newspapers, television and radio stations, and more. Inside was a giant wall of window, lined with rows of laptop covered tables and chairs. Each workstation was equipped with individual electrical, phone and internet outlets. The Boardroom of the Non-conferring Gods. This is where those hard working, well fed, lucky people get to puke out what they see to the rest of the world, as fast as technologically possible.

Somehow I didn't know such a place existed, and I'm not exactly sure why I'm so enthralled with it. Today wasn't a big race day, but tomorrow... Tomorrow is the Superbowl of racing, and I can't wait to see that room in action.

Reclining Nude

I'm not a huge Matisse fan.

I mean, I like his work, but perhaps in his case, less would be a lot more. I spent today at the MOMA in the city, where I saw so many nude sculptures, drawings, and paintings that they all started to look the same. I stopped seeing them. Maybe if I cared enough to read every little description under every "Reclining Nude," I would have appreciated them more, but I just wasn't interested enough. I liked them, but how many do I need to see in one day? And why did he have to keep doing the same thing over and over and over? I started to get a little uncomfortable thinking about this guy sitting there killing the same dead bird again and again.

But I did love his gouaches découpés, which were like kindergarten construction paper cut out collages. Very much.

Now I feel like eating paste.

And this was AMAZING! I can't stop thinking about it. Check out Anthony McCall for more information.




It was like a dream. Like dying in a good way. I'll never forget those moments or that indescribable sensation. I hope this is what the end is really like.

Discovery Kingdom Indeed

I think the flat tire this morning should have been heeded as a warning to stay home today. But no, Miss Persistent and Determined had the nail pulled out and the hole repaired so 3/5ths of her family could be 5 dollared to death at a "Theme Park," or whatever Marine World, I mean Six Flags, I mean Discovery Kingdom qualifies as. It should be called Six Minutes, which is exactly how long it took me to remember why I don't go to places like that anymore. The people, the lines, the ricockulous prices. After the second ride, which lasted about 1/10th the time it took to wait in line to get on it, I started questioning the intellectual capabilities of the employees whom I just entrusted with the life of my baby. What kind of questions does this place ask during the hiring process these days?
Wait, I don't want to get into this right now. What I want to get into, or onto or under or something, is the shark. THE shark, in the Shark Attack, underwater exhibit thing.
Wow.
I thought the thing had legs. Seriously. I was confused. (wow, i haven't heard that phrase in a while.) I honestly (really, truly, not kidding) thought this was a walking species of sharks that I'd never heard of because I don't really pay much attention to trendy, blown out of proportion scary things. See this picture here? That's nothing. The shark I fell in love with, which was called a Longnose Sawshark, was the Ron Jeremy of the giant aquarium. Which reminds me of a new favorite blog I found, Weird Meat. Go spend some time there. Anyway, when I came out of my stupor, I realized it was pretty unlikely that this shark could walk on land and that these were probably just his extra giant reproductive organs. Plural. Double. Dos. Two.
But, I wanted to be sure, so I came home and immediately image searched "shark penis," which wasn't as interesting as it sounds.

My gentle giant's "legs" were in fact, a dual set of peni called "claspers."

I'm starting to feel like I should be doing a blog titled, "Weird and Hot Ways Animals Get Laid." Check out my spider sex lesson, and lobster love and you'll see what I mean. I wonder if I could make a career out of it?

Ok, I'm done with what I learned today, but I somehow feel the need to blahhg about how the power went out a few hours before the park closed, and how we all had to leave early, and how I'll never forget the look of "Now what?" on all the newly freed faces leaving the turnstiles, and being caught in the fleeing crowd with the feeling of marching in Exodus through the hot and dry land of Vallejo, California, with 40 lbs strapped to my back while I tortured my 3-day chain smoked lungs uphill to our $15 parking space Six Miles away.
Wow. I think I need another cigarette.

Room 108

If the hotel you're making reservations with suddenly offers you a 40% discount for no apparent reason, it isn't because they value you as a frequent visitor.

It means they already knew that room 109 was planning an all night raging party and that room 107 is undergoing some pretty serious reconstruction. It also means the vending machines and all the safety lighting and munchy-needing party traffic are directly outside your door. It almost goes without saying that Big Bertha is taking dance lessons up in room 208. It most definitely means that the bathtub plugger-upper thingy is broken and you'll have to keep the water running constantly if you want to take a nice relaxing bath, which sorta ruins the spa-like atmosphere you're desperately trying to create. And it obviously means you'll be on the floor crying while searching for an outlet to plug in the teeny tiny little one cup coffee maker, and when you find it, it will be just about an inch too far away from actually making the necessary connection.

The good thing is that the black-out curtains worked really, really well. Or maybe it was the wine. Anyway, I slept great. There were 2 big beds, and with the exception of about 45 minutes, I had an entire queen-size all to myself. Somehow I managed to sleep more hours during the last 3 days than I did the entire month of May.

Black Water

I'm on vacation this week. I wish I could say I was spending a few months in Greece, but I've only got a week so I'm just hanging locally. We just got home from a little camping adventure in our "White Trash Weekend" trailer. It's been years since we've taken that thing out, and it's the first time my 4 year old got to come along. It was quite the learning experience for all of us. Here are some examples-

All of the other camper-trailers made in the early 1970's have been destroyed by now, or are living in hidden places guarded by guns and dogs.

Surrounded by newer and considerably bigger versions of the RV family, we stood out like a hitch-hikers thumb. I loved it. White trash power activate!

If some day you find an extra can-opener in the kitchen drawer, it probably came from the camper.

Few things suck more than trying to open a can of baked beans with a Diva Picnic army knife, so I pussy'd out and went to the on-site general store to buy a replacement can-opener. (Yeah, this wasn't a real camping trip.) For some backwards ass reason, there were plenty of apple corer's, measuring spoons and potato peelers, but not a single, useful can-opener. I couldn't believe that I could buy an ironing board cover and gerbil food, but nothing to open my can O' vegetarian beans. So then I had to crawl barefoot over to the urban professional campers next door to borrow theirs. When I was done, I scratched my ass and farted and left without saying thank you.

Crapping in a real toilet is a privilege I've been taking for granted.

I'm currently living with 4 year old who is completely enthralled with all things potty. Everywhere we go, we have to check out the bathrooms. I'm certain that the biggest thrill of this whole camping trip for him was the toilet in our camper. We've never even used it before, but since that's all he's been telling his friends about, we indulged him with a little pee-pee a la closet. I have to admit, it was kind of convenient not having to walk way down to the public bathroom and wait in line. And it was great when I was too chicken to walk down by myself in the dark when the urge to purge struck after dinner. BUT. It also totally sucked. My ass is too big to squeeze cheese in a Barbie sized throne that doesn't really flush. Every 2 seconds or so, a preschooler would open the unlockable door to see how everything was going. And then there's the end-of-trip emptying of the cache, which leads me to the next thing I learned- the smelly, frightening and comedic technique of dumping "black water," and about a product called "Break-Up Plus" which is a "solid waste liquefier" you're supposed to add to your whatever-you-call-it so it empties easier. We didn't do that. Fun.

Just wear the fucking sunscreen.

I love the sun. I hate sunscreen. I don't know why. It's kinda like wearing a condom or something. When I'm in the sun, I want the sun in direct contact with my skin. Yes, I know the sun rays can be damaging and I could die from skin cancer, blah blah blah. I've been good about protecting the innocent and vulnerable skin of my children, but I just don't want it for myself. Now my shoulders and thighs are totally fried after spending all day kayaking on the river yesterday, and it was painful sleeping last night. But it IS my own fault so I'll not complain. Too much.

Now I'm going to go shower and try to get the campfire smell out of my hair before I run off to do some kid-free gambling, drinking and smoking for a few days. And crapping in private.

Pole Position

I've been asked to write about the "NASCAR fan encampment" next weekend, over at Infineon Raceway. There's so much more to say about this, so I'll come back here to finish this posting and bag on race fans, but right now I've got to get to a few other things.

I have to spend next weekend at the Blue Lizard Sunscream 200 and the Toyota/Save Mart 350, whatever the fuck that means.

I just got an all-access media pass, and I don't even care one little shit about racing. I'm sure there are people out there who'd trade a truck of Coors Lite and their 2 remaining teeth just to get in, let alone have all-access, but I guess the spoils are wasted on the spoiled.

I wonder if my editor has any idea who he's sending?

Brut Sauvage

There are 56,000,000
bubbles in a bottle of champagne.

I know, 2 days in a row with the champagne.
I've been working in the city.

Grease Me

Some sweaty guy told me today that a little nose grease will make
the foam on your cheap plastic cup of champagne go away.

He was right.

Then I didn't want to drink it anymore.

But I did.

What can I say? It was good champagne.

The Un-funny Joke of the IWC

It's been a long day today and I still have too much shit to do. I'm totally tired, but a bitch's work is never done, so I'll just keep going. I suppose I could have been getting some of my shit done while I yakked on the phone for a few hours this evening, but, well, I didn't. For reasons soon to be disclosed (I fucking hope) I had to do some ass kissing on some guy who may hold the key to my near (again, I fucking hope) futuro chango, so I had to give him some undivided attention. And then I talked to my cousin for a while, and for some reason I need to lay on the floor and play with my hair whenever I talk to her. Some kind of teenage regression takes over me that I can't explain.
So what I'm trying to say in these wasted 150 words is that I don't have time for this, but I learned something interesting from Cousin Jenn today.
She told me the whale tale where that 100 year old weapon fragment was found embedded in the blubber of a recently killed Bowhead whale off the coast of Alaska. In case you missed it like I did, read it here. I didn't know people were still killing whales, so today I learned...

People are still killing whales.

Why? Does anybody use whale oil anymore? Are we so hungry that we need to eat whale meat? I love whales, but I'm not one of those whale-loving freaky chicks getting my panties pulled too tight (mainly because I'm usually not wearing any). I just thought whaling was an out-dated, old fashion practice that was banned a long time ago.
So I did a little research. Admittedly little, but here's what I found.

Whale oil is rarely used anymore.

Obesity is a global epidemic. 1 in 10 children are obese. Even developing "starving" countries are starting to show percentages in their overweight population.

The International Whaling Commission is about as effective as our current immigration system.

Basically what I got out of the 4 minutes of scanning the IWC on Wikipedia is that participation by countries in the organization is voluntary, the IWC has no authority to enforce whale killing quotas, and even if they did have authority, there are two HUGE exceptions to the rules, which basically leaves the whole idea of regulation as water tight as swiss cheese.

Too Busy to Hate

It's 85 degrees in Atlanta right now.

For some reason, I can't seem to write anything else right now.
I think I'm lost.

Zoogleal Mat

What a fucking day.

It's been a non-stop cluster fuck. I've been running around like crazy, just trying to keep up with myself, let alone my special needs family, (just kidding guys) and I'm still not there yet. It doesn't help that I'm PMS bitchy either. I usually look forward to the day before I bleed, because I'm a total hardcore bitch and I get shit done. But not today. I'm just cunty without a cause. Or effect.

Have I accomplished anything other than hating, carpooling and barking commands all day?
Yeah. I finished my article for the paper. I'm happy about that, even though it was about my ex-husband and his wife. It's nice too, if you can believe that. Yeah. But the "great pictures" they said they have are crappy and the wrong dpi so I can't use them. Of course.

I did have a nice little respite this afternoon though. Since it's near impossible for me to get any writing done at home during the day (and I'm now 2 days late on my promised deadline) I took my laptop up to the coffee shop with hopes of getting something accomplished. I felt completely pretentious walking in with my bag slung over my shoulder. I hate those people who sit in public and write. Go home and take up your own space with all that shit. Nobody cares that you're a writer. Except I totally get it now. These poor hacks have children.
Anyway, would you believe that when I finally got over my apprehension about walking into my sanctuary all uppity writer like, I am met with a loud ass band playing? Where was my quiet little sunny table, with the hot, other-writer guy sitting across the room? Where's my jasmine green tea? And who the hell are these well dressed people clapping at mediocre music? FUCK.

Luckily, amazingly, thankfully, the owner of the tattoo shop next door was standing in line. As you may know if you've been a faithful reader, or even a semi-faithful one, Jim has become a friend of mine since I've been spending some time in his shop with my tarot card reading friend. He invited me to come use the old piercing room in the back, to which I nearly got on my knees and started kissing his cool shoes.

So I stayed until they closed. It was heaven. My own little room with power, internet and cool music. And cute chairs in my favorite shade of green, and a picture of Johnny Cash staring at me. The only time I was interrupted was when he gave me a beer, and told me about something I'd never heard of. I nearly cried out in orgasm.

Wait a minute. What am I writing here, a diary?

Well, now that I've wasted all of my time just getting to the point and I still have my column to write, I'll have to be brief with what I learned today.

Jim let me try some new tea thing he had, called Kombucha. It's a fermented, sugar sweetened black tea. It's made by throwing in some wad of yeast culture science project thing and sitting for a week. It's supposed to be really healthy for your body, for reasons I'm too tired to explore. Here are a few links if you want to read it yourself. You'll see stuff like "a bacterial product from the gut microbiota that can cleave the glucuronic acid conjugates."

Kombucha.org

Kombucha on Wikipedia

The Sorcerers Apprentice. That should tell you something.

I'm afraid to post any pictures, as the ones I found look like abortion, or liposuction byproduct. But what did it taste like you ask? Well, it was weird. But, as someone just recently pointed out to me, "weird" describes nothing so I'll see what adjectives I can come up with.

Bitter.
Acid.
Alcohol.
Vinegar.
Wrong.
Addicting.

I'm going to go buy some tomorrow.

I Can't Think of a Good Title Right Now Because I'm Fighting With My Kids

I just got home from my first day as a volunteer at the art museum and it was fantastic! I clicked around in my cute little shoes and pretended it was my very own gallery, just like I've been dreaming about. It was just me and the security guard there, so I was the one in charge of the entire building. I loved everything about being there, especially discussing the exhibit with visitors as they left.
And it was quiet. Very quiet. I like quiet.
I got to sit and do nothing for a little while. Then I did some reading. Goya. Amazing man.
Spain in the early 1800's. Strange time.
The volunteer guide book. Interesting read. There was a whole page on multicultural manners, listing things to do and not do with people from other countries and people with handicaps.
And then I did some writing, because I promised I'd turn in two articles on Friday. The day before today.

So today was a day FULL of learning, but I'm heading out to a party and I don't have much time.

The art museum is my favorite place in town. It's also the best place for me to write.

Francisco Goya was deaf.

Spain was a horrible place to be in the early 1800's. The nobility to commoners rate was about 27 to 1, and crime was out of control. Look it up sometime. It's interesting.

In most other countries, it's rude to give the thumbs up sign. I'd love to elaborate, but I've gotta run.

Win-Win

Last night I took a $50 dare to wear my tiara for an entire week, wherever I go. Shit, doesn't he know I'd wear it every day for nothing? Then I traded my 50 bucks for a pack of smokes, 7 days early. Plus, now I have a legitimate excuse for wearing it in public.

I didn't learn anything today, but I thought I'd share how much fun it is riding my bike on the highway, wearing my beloved tiara.
Well, I guess I could say I learned a few things.

Like:

It isn't generally accepted by the public to wear a tiara for no reason.
At least 10 people asked me what the occasion was. I just said, "Shut the fuck up and fetch me my slippers."

and

If you really, really need some attention, put on a tiara and stand on a corner waiting to cross a busy street.
At one point on my way home today, at least 5 people were staring at me at the same time, for what seemed like an hour.

and maybe even

If you're some kind of freak and like having long, meaningless conversation with the woman working at the bank, wear a plastic tiara with the gold paint chipping off and missing a few fake gemstones when you make a deposit.
She'll tell you ALL about the "real one" she bought herself for her 40th birthday, and wore again on her 50th birthday, and everything that happened in between. When you've had enough, show her how the last pink, heart-shaped jewel on your "fake one" flashes when you squeeze it. That'll shut her up.

Legendary Legacy

Today is Daniel Boone Day.

So I think as his great- great- great- great- great- great- great granddaughter, I should get some special love. I wish I would have learned this a little earlier today since there's only 2 hours left to grovel at my feet. But I'll take it.

I know, I should probably spend a little time talking about the iconic stud, but I've heard all the stories a thousand times so it wouldn't really be like something I learned today.

Beware of Yourself

Your shit catches up with you.

Some day in the future, some little dumb-ass shit you do now will lay down on the railroad track and stop your happy train. You'll be fucked and it will be your own fault. A little gift to yourself for being so stupid and irresponsible.

Crack Habit

A miracle happened this morning. I got up early and rode my bike to work. Ok, maybe it's not so miraculous. I haven't been sleeping well, so getting up early was no big deal, and it's barely over 3 miles from my house to the office. It only took about 5 minutes longer to get there than if I drove my car, which was totally worth not getting all road rage-y about lame ass drivers in this town, who for some reason don't understand the concept of merging. Yeah, I'm kind of a bitch.
So by 8:45 this morning, I learned 2 things.

1. It only takes about 20 minutes to ride my bike to work.

2. It's a good idea to wear underwear when you ride your bike for 20 minutes or more. Your crack gets kinda sweaty and there's nothing there to really absorb the moisture.

Blah. I hate wearing underwear. Besides, all of mine somehow disappeared. Seriously, I have only 2 pair now, out of the 2 dozen I bought not too long ago. WTF?

And speaking of crack, this picture here is an ass painting. Male, obviously.

Read more about the art teacher who got suspended for selling these beauties, right here.

Cell Phone Rude-iquette

Today I spent half of my lunch standing in line at the bank. Apparently one of the entire crew of two tellers working was new and couldn't figure out how to use the computer, and the supervisor couldn't be disturbed while she performed the important task of inhaling smoke right outside the front door. So not only did I learn a great way to run a bank, I learned that some people are worse with their money than I am, and just about everything I might want to know about the girl ahead of me in line while she yakked to her boyfriend on a cell phone. Her friend Randy was just diagnosed with something terrible, she's going to Europe in three days, and the ATM machine at another bank ate and then shredded her bank card. There's more but I'll spare you. But what I really learned today was,

It really is rude to talk on your phone inside the bank.

I do it all the time, but I never realized how damn irritating it was. Thanks for the lesson, Brian's girlfriend.

I wonder why it's so irritating though. Would it be any different if Brian were standing in line with her while they discussed her stupid job? Is someone on their phone in a restaurant any more irritating than a large family having casual conversation at the table next to you? I don't know. Somehow it is, but I can't really figure out why.

And I thought this was interesting even though it's a bit dated.
Cell phone health risks for children.
(and rats)
(who are notorious for using their phone's while standing in the cheese line)

Sunshine on my Heart

I got a terrible sunburn today, right over my heart, but I sort of like it. I'm going to wear it with pride, like a badge of honor for my beloved sun. Or maybe like a badge of stupidity for not knowing when enough is enough. Perhaps I'll wear it like a badge of infidelity, for betraying the security of the moon. My son thinks it looks just like a butterfly, so maybe it'll be a badge of metamorphosis. Or something.

Besides realizing today that the sun has awakened a poetic streak in me lately, I learned from my four year old the true definition of perfection.

per·fec·tion /pərˈfɛkʃən/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[per-fek-shuhn] –noun

1. sitting naked outside in the morning sunshine, in front of an easel, thoroughly immersed in the pleasures of spreading color on every inch of white paper with a paintbrush. 2. being a mother, sitting quietly and observing this beautiful scene. 3. eating Chunky Monkey and listening to your favorite music while writing and reliving the beautiful moment.

21 Beat Street

Today I got to see my little guy perform on stage for the first time. He's the only boy in the class, and it was pretty cute seeing him up there tapping the alligator dance with a bunch of girls in tutu's. He really wanted to wear one too, but the teacher made him wear a bow-tie instead. Poor guy. But he had a lot of fun anyway, and we all had a great time watching the variety of dancing they teach at the academy, from Hip-hop to Hula.
I learned a few things too.

My son is a ham.

I like breakdancing.

The academy teaches belly dancing.

So today I decided to sign my son up for every dance class I can find, fuck the breakdance teacher, and start taking belly dancing classes.

Just kidding. I would never take belly dancing.
Ok, seriously. I'll take the belly dancing and leave the teacher alone. He's probably too young anyway.

Non-traditional Sushi

Sushi made with brown rice is fucking good!

And it's good for you too.