Letterboxing

Call me a dork, geek, loser, lame-o, whatever you want. But today I learned something so cute that I'm actually excited about it. When Rebecca stumbled across it at the office and read it to me, I couldn't wait to come home and find out more. Unfortunately though, I don't have a lot of time to write about it tonight.

Letterboxing is sort of a treasure hunt, where people hide weatherproof boxes someplace, and leave clues, mainly on internet sites, as to where they can be found. Inside the box is a log book and a stamp. Finders carry their own log book and their own personal, hand carved stamp. The finder will take the stamp from the letterbox and stamp their log book with the date. Then they put their stamp into the logbook inside the letterbox, again with the date. Sometimes their will be a smaller box in the letterbox called a hitchhiker. If you find one, you get to take it with you and put it in the next letterbox you find. Some peoople have what's called a personal letterbox, which they carry around with them, that can be opened by anyone who knows the password. There are also parasites, which are placed unknowingly into someones personal letterbox, which of course have to be discreetly placed into another box.

There's a lot more, but since I've got a lot of shit to do right now, here's a link if you want more information. Ya big geek. Letterboxing.info

It's really pointless, but it sounds fun. I've ALWAYS loved treasure hunts!
I was looking around at some sites where you can find some clues and stuff, and I found several hidden here in town. I think I'll carve a stamp tomorrow and then start hunting. Maybe I'll even make my own letterbox and hide it somewhere special. Ohh, and maybe I'll leave clues here in my postings.
Maybe I'll just make my own version of the letterbox game. What a dork eh?

Loco Coconut Facts

The other day we saw coconuts at the store for a buck each, so we got a couple just for fun. When we got home, we drilled a few holes in those eye things and drank the water inside. Then we cracked it open with a hammer and tried to eat it. Suddenly, the fantastical survivalist in me who often makes birthday wishes to be stranded on an island, thought it might be a good idea to do some training and figure out how to open one without the wonder of tools and electricity. (stop looking at those freckles) But, as usual around here, I got sidetracked and forgot to look it up.
My fantasy island life was in full effect today, and I was reminded that I still don't know what to do if I were dying of thirst and a drill-bit didn't get washed up on shore with me. But now I know that I will survive if there are coconuts on my island, because I know how to open one without electricity.

The first thing I would do, assuming I was alone, is look for a mute native boy in his early twenties. Then later, when I got thirsty, I'd get a stick and sharpen the end by rubbing it on a stone. Next, I'd find the soft eye, which is usually like the black sheep of the three coconut eyes. It's darker, and not symmetrical like the other two uptight hard ass eyes. Then I'd just start gouging it out until, voila! Fresh, sterile, tasty water. Then I'd bash it with a big rock to get the "meat" inside.

So now that the serious stuff is taken care of, let's look at some dumb coconut facts. (or you can just stare at those freckles)


The word "coco" was the Portuguese word for goblin, which is what the early Portuguese explorers thought the three eyes on the end of the nut looked like.

Charcoal filters used in gas masks and cigarettes are made from burnt coconut shells.

In Zanzibar, diesel fuel is made from coconut oil.

Wood from old palm trees is called "porcupine wood" and is used to make furniture.

In the Northern India old days, coconuts were fertility symbols, and when a woman wanted to get pregnant, she would go to a priest to receive her "special coconut."

People in New Guinea think that when the first man died on their island, the first coconut palm tree sprouted from his head.

Women in Bali are not allowed to touch a coconut tree, because men think she will drain the tree of its fertility.

In World War II, coconut water became the emergency room glucose supply when there was no other sterile glucose available.

Lauric acid found in coconut oil can be effective in treating the measles, the flu and Herpes.

A wine called "tuba" can be made from palm sap.

I think that's enough for now. Does anybody have a boat?

Berry and the Bung Hole

Like the rest of this town this morning, I was feeling a little wrecked when I woke up. For some reason, people around here really party it up on St. Patrick's Day. We went to three bars last night, and they were all packed like I've never seen, and I've seen a lot. Then somehow we ended up in JMB's garage, where we stayed drinking whisky with him and his fun wife until 2am or something. All I really remember is what I learned.

The hole in the middle of this wine barrel is called a Bung Hole.



This thing over here is a Bung Hole Plug. ------>








And this thing over here is a Bung Hole Reamer. ------>

And this is a woman with her finger in the bung hole.

I'd like to thank Mr. Berry and the lovely Miss S for this classic lesson last night. I'll forever think of you when I hear the words, "Bung Hole."

Cryptic and Clover

Look closely at this picture and see if you can see what it says.
You might want to click on it first to make it larger.
Did anybody get any of these today?

Here's a tip:
Relax your eyes and sort of cross them.

If you DON'T eventually see the word, click here.
If you do see it, and you want to see more, go here.

What I learned today is the Irish word for shamrock. It's "seamrog." It means "little clover," but can refer to any number of plants having three leaves. And a clover is a clover, and a shamrock is a shamrock. They are not exactly the same thing.
The reason shamrocks are associated with St. Patrick's Day is that St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, once used one to explain the trinity to the people. One leaf represented the Father, one the Son, and the other the Holy Spirit.

Oh! Today is the anniversary of the first time Lora and I had whisky!
I don't know how many years ago that was....
So now I'm off, in search of more Irish WhiskEy.

Comamos Pintxos

I learned a new word today.

Pintxos

Pintxos (peen-chose) is the word people from the Basque Country in Spain use when referring to tapas, particularly those with toothpicks (pinxos) holding them together. I learned it from a new restaurant that opened today in Philadelphia. I'm not there now, but I keep up. I love Philly.

Then I learned that Spain is made up of 17 autonomous communities, which I think basically means that each one is like a state but has it's own government. Fascinating. I need to know more about this, but I think I'll learn about it tomorrow. Now it's time to play.

Human Bodyflight

Why hasn't anybody told me about indoor skydiving?!?!

I had to find out about it in the lamest way. Someone in Perris, California was reading this here blogg-o of mine-o, and I thought today I'd make some kind of silly comparisons to Paris, France for their reading pleasure. But, alas, with the only thing to brag about being "miles of frontage on interstate 215" and the right to claim "the home of DHL," the town sounds about as interesting as a sugar beet. Then, hidden on the attractions page between the Southern California Fair and the Lake Perris Regional Indian Museum, was something that made my heart fly.
Perris Valley Skydiving. Ok, so what right? We have skydiving around here. Big deal. But since it was the only thing interesting on the page, I read the details.

"The new attraction to the skypark is the Vertical wind tunnel where anyone can experience the sensation of freefall without the fear. Click on the wind tunnel on their web site where they have live feed of people actually flying."

So of course I went to see the live feed, but I couldn't find it. Whatever. But now I really, really, really want to try it! Except that for 40 bucks less, maybe I'll just do the real thing.
In the real Paris.

Stardust is Dust!

I missed it!

Growing Up

When you have a baby, you sometimes try to imagine what they'll look like when they're 16. You care barely picture it because it's so far, far away. . .

Then suddenly, you're there.

Today is my sons birthday, and I'd like to say we had a really great party, but we didn't. We had a really great fight. So great in fact, that my other son decided to participate. Me against 2 bull-headed giants. Great fun.
So now I'm kinda blah and I don't feel much like writing tonight, but I'll blog what I learned today anyway.

I know what my baby looks like as a 16 year old.

I know that my 18 year old is learning what it's like to be an adult, and he doesn't like it very much.

I know that I could have been a better mom.

I'm sad. I'm tired. I'm glad tomorrow's Wednesday.

Happy Birthday P-imp! I love you.

Nature's Porn

Nature can be so sexy. A few years ago I saw a video of snakes mating, and it was the best porn I'd ever seen. It was so sensual and slithery and good. Then last night on TV I saw some big-ass giant spiders having sex, and not only was it interesting, it was kinda hot. I hate creepy, giant, hairy spiders more than just about anything, but when they described what was going on with these two super-sized boinking tarantulas, I was turned on physically as well as intellectually.

When male tarantulas get horny, the spin themselves a nice silky "sperm web" and rub themselves all over it. When he's finished, he'll suck up the spooge with his two little feelers and go looking for some real love. When he finds a willing she-tarantula, he carefully plays a few games of footsie with her until she rears back into threat pose. Since one bite from her can kill, he's equipped with "mating hooks" on his two front legs, which hold her dangerous fangs out of the way. Quickly, he'll run up and ram his hooks into her mouth. Then he is safe to explore her abdomen, searching for her "epigastric furrow." When he finds it, he slips one of his cum soaked feelers inside.
This can last anywhere from a few seconds to a few hours, but when he's done, he's done, and he runs away as fast as he can. About half of them don't make it out alive.

Ahhh. Precious, romantic, dangerous nature. I love it.
If only I could write porn.

Amen

I think I met Jesus last night. He was a beautiful (and clean) homeless wanderer, and though his name wasn't actually Jesus, it was a biblical name that started with "J", and I accept him as my personal savior. This does NOT mean that I'm redeeming my Agnostic views for Christian ones, so don't start worrying that I'll be preaching religious crap on y'all.

I may have enough sordid material from last night's bar scene to be a whole chapter in the book of my crazy life, so I'll try to keep this as brief as possible. First off, I'll tell you what I learned today. Then I'll tell you how and why.

NEVER EVER go back to -x- Tavern (name held to protect the innocent, which is in this case surprisingly enough, me) ever, ever again!

So, where do I begin? It was (another) one of those nights when after arriving safely back home, I wanted to get on the floor and thank anyone and everyone that I survived and would be living to see another day.
The tavern seemed normal enough. It could have been any bar in any town on a Friday night. Dimmed lights, pool table in the back, small stage in the corner with a live band playing, and a long bar down one wall, behind which a tough-chick, tattood, cleavage bearing, loud mouth and short tempered bartender ignored me for as long as was unpolitely possible. When she finally did get my drinks, they were wrong and I had to just ball up and say, "Listen bitch, I fucking said Bushmills with Coke. With Coke damn it! Not Bushmills on ice. Now get yer perty little ass busy making what I asked for. And don't expect a tip."
Ok, you know all I really said was, "I don't think you heard me, but I said Bushmills with Coke. If you just give me a glass of Coke, I'll mix them myself." But I was thinking the fucking bitch part. Especially when she rolled her eyes and said, "I'll just make you a new one with Coke," like I was some whiney little child needing candy. Fucking bitch. Did I say that outloud?

The main reason I decided to go back to this Hell Hole (yes, I had been there once or twice before) was to check out a band I'd been wanting to see. So I'm standing there, totally enjoying myself, when Bozo the Hippy Clown wants me to dance with him. I told him I just wanted to watch the band, and then he grabs me. He grabbed my arms and starts pulling me! I was pissed and I pushed him off and gave him a "Listen mother fucker, I don't want to fucking dance with you," look but I'm sure it really looked more like, "No thanks, I'm busy right now." Then I ran like a little girl to the safety of my Colonel, who thankfully wasn't on stage yet. It was then that I realized I had abandoned my best friend's (who wasn't there yet) husband in the back over near where the killer clown was dancing maniacally with himself. I had to rescue him.
I found him trapped in retarded conversation with an strange couple, whom I was surprised to find out later had twin 2 year olds. They looked so much older than me that I instantly assumed they were one of those couples who's careers were really important and they waited too long to have kids so they adopted 2 at a time to catch up. That or fertility drugs. Wait, this story is about me. Anyway, while I'm talking to this woman about mothering stuff, Bozo pulls her out to dance. She is totally loving it, but not as much as her freaky ass, professional looking but definitely on some kind of drug husband who's about to ejaculate watching his wife dirty dancing with some dude. I mention this not because I find this unusual for this kind of scene, but because later that night, I found myself watching the same scene over and over and over again, but each time Bozo has another victim and he's right in front of me no matter where I try to hide.
Wow, this is getting long. I'll try to cut this short.
At some point in the evening I met the beautiful homeless stranger outside in front of the bar. We had some good conversation, but I left him to go inside and hear my favorite song. Later on I went outside for some fresh air, and here comes the hippy clown. Seriously, he paced around in front of me about 10 times before he started coming over to me, and I know he's going to ask me for a light. It's the usual pickup line in places like that. In 2 seconds I decide that I'm going to say no even though it was totally obvious that I did. Before he could even finish the word "do," my savior appears from nowhere with his lighter already lit, and cuts right between the clown and me. And then he walked away.
I was so relieved. This creep had been following me around all night. When he left the bar earlier, I laughed at myself for thinking he was probably a serial killer and I was his next victim. But when he returned, I was sure he'd just gone home to sharpen his knives for his next kill. A little while after that, I thought I was off the hook when some completely scary psycho chick came in that he took a liking to. Better that he cut up and eat this freak that, I'm serious, was talking complete and utter nonsense gibberish. I couldn't understand a word she said, and she said a lot. She wouldn't stop talking to me. She'd give me this serious look, blather some gibberish verbage, and 3 seconds later, give a head thrown back, toothy laugh. Over and over. Wait, I did understand something she said. She offered me 50 bucks if I'd do something, but I just couldn't understand what the something was. When I asked her to say it again, the offer had dropped to 40 bucks. When I still didn't understand what she wanted to pay me to do for her, the offer again dropped, this time to 20 bucks. I don't know which was worse, her talking to me, or the smelly clown who was dry humping her right in front of me while stepping on my feet.
Somewhere in the mess of all this, my fabulous amazing Lala arrives to claim Her husband that I've kidnapped. I decided soon after she got there, that I'm going to write a book about Her called, "My Keys Were in the Sugar." More on that later. So eventually She must brave the bartender, and even though all She wants is water, She politely stands there with cash in Her hand like a meaty bone, trying to get the bulldogs attention. It must have been 30 minutes later that I see Her (I've also decided after this next incident that when referring to Lala, a capital H is required) walk out the front door and disappear. Since freak clown is on the loose, I went looking for Her, but she was gone. Completely gone. A few minutes later, I see this Glorious Bitch best friend of mine trying to get in the front door with a giant cup of water from the restaurant next door. I can NOT contain my love, adoration and total respect for this Woman. I was super pissed when the bouncer wouldn't let Her in with it because I would have loved to see the bartenders face when She sat down at the bar with it. But I was impressed again when She told him why She did it and he took Her with him to the bar and got Her a bottle of water himself.
So there's a lot more, but my ass hurts from sitting here so long and I must go. I hope I gave a pretty good explanation as to why I won't be going back there. And I hope you can see how after a night like that, a near stranger lighting a cigarette for my stalker could seem like an angel from Heaven.

And I'd like to give Steph Lehman the credit for this image that shows exactly how I felt last night.

Last Call

Today I learned why Daylight Saving Time starts at 2am.

To avoid confusion in the inner drinking clocks of regular barflies, the change doesn't take place until after last call. If it were to happen earlier than that, you'd have a bunch of pissed off drunks every spring who were cheated out of an hour of booze. Plus, every autumn you get an bonus hour, and who'd complain about that?

I also learned a few trivial things about DST.

• In Europe they call it "Summer Time" and it starts at 1am the last Sunday in March, and ends the last Sunday in October.

• The whole idea of Daylight Saving Time was Ben Franklin's. He was a night-owl and a cheapskate who wanted to use more natural light to save money by burning less candles and using less oil in his lamps.

• The US supposedly saves something like 300,000 barrels of oil a year by using less artificial lighting and because people spend more time outdoors. Supposedly.
  

• This fall, DST is a few days later which is going to suck on Halloween. The idea was to make Halloween safer for kids (kid deaths are 4 times higher on October 31st), but really, who's going to go Trick-or-Treating in broad daylight? All that's going to happen is the kids are going to be out later and more bratty the next day. I KNOW I'm right about this.
  

• In the fall, when the clocks go back an hour, Amtrak trains stop running at 2am for a full hour so their schedules don't get messed up. In the spring, they just keep going, hoping to catch up. Why don't they just change the schedules for those days?
  

• There are less traffic accidents during Daylight Saving.
  

• There is no "s" in Daylight Saving. It is NOT Savings.

Don't forget to set your clocks ahead tonight!

Xica

Well, cable TV has done me in. I even left the "Press Club" meeting early this evening. Not just because I'm having the Pavlovian response to the words, "Press club" by having "liver quivers", I have a new favorite show called Xica. To tell you the truth, I don't really feel like writing about it. I just want to go watch some more. Terrible, I know.
Here's a little clip, so hopefully you'll understand. It's a true story about a sexy, kick-ass, black slave girl in Brazil during the mid-19th century. Known for her sexual prowess, she obtained her own freedom by sexually manipulating powerful patriarchical figures. She ultimately became a Brazilian folk hero, and now she's mine. Part of what makes the show great is that it's in Spanish. I can't understand a word of it, but I understand everything.
Since I'm completely handicapped at using the cable remote control, I can't tell you how to get there. I hope you can figure it out by yourself.

The Real Jethro Tull

When I was doing some reading about dry farming yesterday, I saw the name Jethro Tull somewhere in the mix, which prompted me to take another look today.

The original Jethro was a farmer in the early 18th century. Not being satisfied with his crop yields due to the haphazard seed planting methods employed by his workmen, Tull decided to make a machine that would do it better. And he did. Inspired by the workings of an organ, (the musical kind you pervs) he rigged up a device he called a "seed drill," that could dig the holes, plant the seeds, and cover them up, three rows at a time. Not only did he waste less seeds this way, he also had less weeding to do since the seeds weren't cast about and growing everywhere. Like me, he must have hated weeding because he also refused to fertilize his crops with manure, figuring that horse shit would contain weed seeds.
Like a lot of inventors before their time, he took a lot of crap for his ideas. It took about a hundred years before the world caught on, and a lot of his seemingly neurotic farming notions can be seen today.

The folk (or whatever the hell you'd call that music) band Jethro Tull got their name from a booking agent, who was also a history buff. Back when they were just starting out, they must have sucked ass because they would often change their name just to get repeat gigs. When they actually got a call-back using the old farmers name, they decided to keep it.

Coincedentally, last night we caught something on TV, thanks to the cable we've yet to shut off, called, "The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus," which had JT as the opening song.
Luckily I missed that part. The seed drill I understand. Mick Jagger I understand. The music of Jethro Tull, I just don't get.

Lunch Lessons with Lala

Long Lovely Lunch with Lala Lora today, Lounging Like Lizards in the sun. Sounds like page 12 of the Wine Country Divas Animalia book, doesn't it? Well, if I have my way, it will be. Learn your ABC's with the Divas! Maybe next week.
But I did have a nice long lunch with Lala today, where we talked about everything under the spastic, semi-cloud covered sun, Literally Lounging in Lounge chairs. We talked about things like capitalizing on the owners of spoiled-ass dogs who send their poochies to dog spas, (it's true I'm afraid) to the joys of picky-bitch brides coming to the wine country for a storybook wedding. We complained about stupid people, marveled at the brilliant, and dreamed some more of starting our own country. The usual conversations. But while we were discussing which local winery I should choose for my next writing project, Lora said something I'd never heard of before. When I asked her what the hell she meant, she calmly explained it to me.

"Dry farming" is what some grape growers do to produce a smaller, higher quality grape. By not watering their vineyards, the vines get stressed-out and start producing small amounts of tiny, yet intense, little grapes. It's supposed to give them a totally different flavor, and make a better Zin. It only works with old, well established vines with deep roots.

I don't know much about wine, which is surprising since I've lived all but 3 years of my life surrounded by vineyards and wineries. I do know that my favorite is called Malbec, and thanks to Lora I now know that it's a "Rhone varietal," which I'm guessing means it originates from France. All I know about it is that it's red, I like it, and the top candidate for my winery writing project is growing it. And watering it too.

Exported Files and Gemstones

Today I learned a few things at work, that amazingly enough, I didn't know already. What a bragger eh? But it's true. I'm actually learning new things at work. It seems like its been a long time.

We're getting ready to do our first "e-blast" and I needed to get our e-mail list from our address book to our new "self service direct marketing" peeps. So I exported our list to my hard drive, and then imported it into their whatever you call it. The file I used was a .csv file, but I didn't really care. It could have been .monkey for all it mattered to me. But when I read the formats needed for a successful transfer blah blah blah, I got nervous because I didn't understand what they were talking about. Delimit what? Comma how? Then somehow, in a freaky flash not unlike that migraine I got yesterday, I saw it. I got it. I can't explain it now, but like the lingering scent of salmon when we attempt to cook it at home, here is what remains in my brain.

CSV stands for Comma Separated Value.

That's it. I know, boring and stupid.
I don't completely understand why it's important to separate comma's or whatever. I think it has something to do with getting the right field information transferred into the correct corresponding field or something, but I don't really care. I was just excited that I figured the shit out and it worked.

I also learned some stuff about one of our new stones, Tanzanite.

It used to be called "Zoisite." Tiffany's fell in love with it and wanted to use it in their breakfast, I mean jewelry, but they thought the name sounded too much like "suicide." Since suicide doesn't really sell, at least not at places like Tiffany's, they decided they would re-name it after the East African state where it was discovered, Tanzania. Ironically enough, legends say that Tanzanite relieves depression.

I'm attracted to this stone because we have a lot in common. We were both discovered in the same year, we both get better with heat treatment, and we're both amazingly beautiful. Plus, as of 2002, it's my birthstone. Thankfully. There's only so much Turquoise a girl can wear.
And I love that according to another legend, it's been said to "cause an integration of etheric desires and physical realities."
Just like me.

Water on Glass

My eyes are freaking out right now.
I can only see with the left one because my right is totally blurry.
I might be getting a migraine.
Fuck.

Food Power

For a long time now I've been wanting to hook my computer up to a bicycle and power it like the radio on Gilligans Island. I used to ride my bike to work every once in a while, and wondered how much Ben and Jerry's it took to get me the 5 mile round-trip. When the Colonel showed me something interesting he saw this morning about calories and exercise, I started doing some math.
If my calculations are correct:

I could eat a whole quart and ride to work, back home, and to the office again the next day, just on Chunky Monkey.

If I drank a gallon of gas, I could ride for 6 months! Of course I can't drink gasoline, but I could, maybe, drink a gallon of vegetable oil, which contains the same amount of calories.
OR, I could just use the 2 and 1/4 gallons of gas equivalent that I have stored in my ass.
I also learned that:

You could drive a car for approximately 50 miles with the energy stored in 123 Big Mac's from McDonalds. If you know how to use a vacuum cleaner, you could run it for an hour and a half on just one.

Alright, now I'm getting crazy, and I need to go pick up my son who is approximately 30 Big Mac's away from here. When I get back, I'm going to figure out how much of this blog I could have written if I had the Professors bamboo bicycle trick, using the Chinese food I just ate.

Meez and Youz

I just spent the last two hours playing with this site I found today.
Meez.com

This could be me, except there was no button to add 20 pounds.

Scheme, Connive, and Maneuver As Well As Any Man

Wow, we just had a little earthquake a few minutes ago. How fun! I like the little ones. I was just sitting here trying to decide who I was going to write about tonight, Matilda Joslyn Gage or Anna Ella Carroll, and since I was looking at a picture of the latter when my desk started rattling, I'm taking it as a sign. Today is the first day of the National Women's History Month, so I wanted to learn about some of those UN-well-behaved women who did make history.

During the civil war, President Abraham Lincoln took military strategic advice from Anna Ella Carroll that helped kick serious ass against the Confederacy. Of course, because she was a woman, Lincoln decided "for political and military reasons," it was better not to tell anyone. Yet. He promised that he'd give her public recognition later, but he went and got himself assassinated before he actually did. The only real recognition she received was indirect, and by another cool woman. In 1864, Francis B. Carpenter did a painting of Lincoln and his cabinet signing the Emancipation Proclamation, where she left an empty chair for the "unrecognized member of the cabinet."



Among many other military and political things Anna spent her life working on, one was a writer. She wrote articles for several newspapers, and in the 1850's wrote a book, The American Battle, which was about political corruption at the polls.

Political corruption at the polls, even in the 1850's. Wow. I guess.

Now it's your turn. Go learn about some amazing women in history. Here's a good place to start, the National Women's History Project.

Pond Patrol

Wow! Who'dda thought there'd be a GI Joe Stop Motion Film Festival out in the world somewhere? It just so happens that I have actually made a stop motion short starring GI Joe, and I just got a message on YouTube from someone who wants to show it in his first annual, GI Joe Stop Motion Film Festival. How amazing is that? So not only did I learn today about this interesting cinamastic event, but I learned a little bit about this guy who's hosting the festival, and what else he does in his obviously plentiful and enviable free time.

Gio Toninelo is the creator of Pond Patrol, a weekly internet series of stories featuring a team of GI Joes characters. The pictures and stories are AMAZING! Check it out. The link above will take you to the prologue of the series, just to start you off.

Have fun!

I'm afraid my movie might be way too amateur for this festival though.

Rose-Scented Shit

I was so tired today that even during asskickboxing this evening, I just sorta girly punched and pussy kicked my big blue bag. And yawned about 45 times. It was kind of embarrassing. When I got home and started doing some research on something interesting I heard about this morning, I decided that I'd feel more up to a good blog session after a nice hot bath. I sooo enjoy the sensation of procrastination sometimes.
But, right after I got in the tub and long before my little fingers could even begin to think about getting all wrinkly and pruny, someone knocked on the door. (Yes, we're still in the 50's around here and have only one bathroom. I can't imagine why houses were ever built with just one.) Anyway, the monster shitter in the house, who is also my oldest son so I can't make too much fun of him, needs to crap "in like 30 seconds". So, what are my options here? Make him hold it and enjoy my heaven for a little longer, or get out for a few minutes and then jump back in? I quickly got out and thought maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to return to my paradise very shortly.

But no.

No way. After a few minutes I was begging for matches and I don't really even know why. I just knew that somewhere, sometime, someone told me that lighting matches after you excrete (I love that word) takes care of the smell, and I was desparate.
Then I was curious.
Then I was enlightened.
After some internet research where I learned that matches burn up the sulfur in the air, eliminating the source of the stink, I learned about something called Just-a-Drop.

It's a product "not sold in any stores" that will "eliminate 98% of embarrassing bathroom odors... everytime!". All you do is put one drop into the toilet before you shit, and odors are trapped.

I'm not sure if I'm willing to "buy one get one free" for $16.99 plus shipping when I have a bunch of free matches from Vegas lying around the house. But then again, it does come with a convenient carrying case. And this review was pretty good.

Alrighty then. Now I need to go drain the tub full of cold water.

¡Lotería!

Yesterday I decided it was finally time to check out the little Mexican dollar store in town. My little lambs "umblella" was broken, and I remembered that his Daddy-O had once gotten him a cute one at the Dollar Store and More, so off we went. Somehow I knew before I got to the door that it would smell like laundry soap inside, and I was right. I like that clean scent. I also knew that, being a dollar store, there was going to be a bunch of wierd crap. Of course I was right again.
But.
Amongst the agglomeration of unrecognizable kitchen gadgets, gag "flashlights" that shock the hell out of your hand, and an impressive selection of scented Sweet Love brand douches (in double packs), I found a new, sweet love of my own.
It's a little game called Loteria. I didn't really know what it was when I picked it up, but I was drawn to the cute pictures shown on the box. I figured for $2.99 it would be worth looking at the rest of the "54 playing-cards" inside.
When we got home, I noticed it said "Mexican Bingo" on the side of the box, so I opened it up hoping to read the instructions. There weren't any, but I figured out how to play it anyway. I love the pictures so much that I had to know more about this little game.

It's just like American Bingo, but instead of using little balls with numbers, a deck of illustrated cards are used. And instead of just calling out what's on the card, you're supposed to make up a little rhyme, story, or riddle about it. The players then have to figure out which card was drawn, and mark their boards accordingly. Each card also has a number on it, and the game is so popular is some areas, that people actually use the figures on the cards for numbers. Like, if someone asked me how old I was, I could answer El Nopal, the cactus card.
Loteria originated in Italy, where it was used to make money for the poor. In the 19th century the game had migrated to Mexico, where gambling was illegal. Due to the innocent appearance of the game, bettors could play without being suspect.

I'm totally in love with these game cards. I'm going to collect every set I can find!

Academy Award Winning Answers

Well, it's the Academy Awards night, and while I totally love watching movies as well as making small dumb ones, I don't really care who wins what tonight. I don't know why, but I've just never been interested. I know what movies I like, and that's all that matters to me.
It would have been fun to go to the big party put on by our local film festival this evening, but I just don't have the dress I imagined making my fabulous grand entrance in. Anyway, since I know basically nothing about these particular awards, I thought tonight would be a good time to learn something.

The first thing I want to know is, who exactly votes?

Voting is done by the 5,830 members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS). Sciences?

Who are these 5,830 peeps?

Well, that's a secret. Members are not publically disclosed, but Sid Ganis is the President, Tom Hanks is the Vice President, and Kathy Bates is the Secretary. I just found out that one of the 42 or so people on the Board of Governors is a local guy I see driving around town all the time.

How can I become member of AMPAS?

I'd have to be invited by a member, and then I think all the other members have to agree. I could also just win an Academy Award which would give me an automatic entry.

Are the voters required to watch the movie they vote on?

No. Can you believe that?

Why is the award statue called an "Oscar"?

First off, it's a statuette you moron. Don't you know anything? And secondly, there is no clear answer. Some say that Bette Davis named it after her first husband Harmon Oscar Nelson, and some say an AMPAS librarian once remarked that the statuette reminded her of her Uncle Oscar.

Is the Oscar statuette really made of solid gold?

Ha.
Ha ha.
Hahahahahahaha!
NO. It's 92.5% tin and 7.5% copper, with a gold plating. Gold plate.
And it weighs 8.5 lbs if that was your next question.

How much could Kate Winslet get for the one she's going to win tonight? I haven't seen the movie, but I like her so she should win.

Well, believe it or not, $1.00. That's it. One US Dollar. Winners can only take Oscar home with them if they agree not to sell it to anyone without first offering to sell it back to the Academy for a buck. And you know what that means.

Why is the event always hosted by a comedian or comedienne?

Because A- It would be boring as shit if some regular schmuck had to stand up there droning bullshit for hours and hours.

Because B- Funny people NEVER win. They get asked to work that night so they don't feel left out.

Why are the Awards now held in February?

Because February is "sweeps" month and more than a billion people are tuned in to ABC right now, that's why.

So, that's all I care to know about the Academy Awards.

And to the President of AMPAS, who blessed us with such, um, award winning flicks as Big Daddy, Mr. Deeds, and Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, for using his "talent" to help decide who wins tonight, I award my Oscar:






Good night.

Stripped

I'm getting ready to head out to a surprise birthday party
for an OLD (she's 40 now) friend, and we've hired a stripper.
Yay. Not yay! Not yahoo! Just yay. Period.

Maybe I'll learn something later tonight.

Update! February 26:
Just thought I'd share what I learned that night. Meet Officer Dick.
Yayy!!!

I Hope Google Doesn't Own Comcast

I've had my brain on automatic today, and really, it's been quite lovely. I didn't learn anything and you know, it's OK.
Well, I did learn a tiny something.

The Colonel had cable TV installed in our home this morning.

And I was really really really really really really really really really pissed about it. I don't want fucking cable TV! I hate television. We, thankfully, don't even have time to watch a movie these days, let alone mind numbing, retarded ass TV. Plus it makes me ill thinking about giving money to cable companies.

So, we're keeping it for one week and then pulling the plug. Jesus or someone, please help us.

I'd like to thank the wonderful and talented L'Nhoj Yesdnil (?) for this perfect picture here today.

Figment

I made this art today, as a 20 year memorial tribute
to the late and still great, Andy Warhol.
For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea.

And another of my favorite Warhol quotes:

"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."

He also thought, "It would be very glamorous to be reincarnated as a great big ring on Liz Taylor's finger."
Well figgy, now you can. Well, you can't but someone could.
Check this out. LifeGem. Because love lives on... and a diamond last forever.

So what I learned today was that some people have an e-mail addiction, where they can't stop checking any available computer to see what may have arrived in their In-Box, and that if they don't receive an e-mail every few minutes, they'll send one to themselves. I also learned that there is now a 12-step program to help these E-holics.

Now, I don't consider myself an E-holic, but I do leave 1 of my 6 or so e-mail programs running all day, and I check another one just about every hour. I like e-mail. It's handy. I can respond when and if I want to, or just let it sit there for days. I can communicate clearly and specificly with just about anyone I want, and I know I will get a thought out response. Most of the time. Unless the Diva Alert system is malfuntioning. Mr. Howell.

The Hedgehog

I learned a new word today, thanks to Ron Jeremy and one of my favorite peeps, Eric Spitznagel.

"Hirsuteness" means hairy. Shaggy. Covered with long stiff hairs.
I also learned who the hell this Ron Jeremy guy is.

How is it possible that I could be alive and not know who Ron Jeremy is? I guess maybe I wasn't reading the credits all those summer afternoons when my little sister and I would have all the neighborhood kids over for some, "our parents are at work right now" porn festivals. It's possible that back in those early 80's, my moms husband had the best personal porn collection ever, and we had complete and total access to every single one of those Beta tapes. It's more than likely that Mr. Jeremy's 9-plus inches pulsed, throbbed and spewed in front of my young and admiring eyes, but I never wondered who's cock that was.
So last night at Eric's birthday dinner, (where I gifted him of a personally made, dolphins doing 69 necklace) he told how he got a special phone call that morning because of this review in the New York Times. I'm sure he'll be telling the story on his own blog tomorrow so I won't spoil his story here on my little rag, but let's just say that after the stories I heard over our straight Scotch with no rocks last night, I just HAD to know who this Jeremy dude was!
And now I do and I'm eternally grateful because now I have a new hero.

Fat Fat Tuesday

Out getting beads...
BRB

Snips and Snails and Paintball Tales

Ah, teenage boys. What weird creatures they are. Scary thing is, I feel like one myself sometimes. I guess that's to be expected since there are usually at least three of them at my house at any given moment. When I was a little girl, I once made a wish to be surrounded by boys for the rest of my life, but somehow this wasn't exactly what I meant.

I don't know which is worse; getting up at a ricockulously early hour to do the paintball team drop off, or riding home in the afternoon with a car full of sweaty, paint splattered boys. I was on paintball carpool duty yesterday, and since I'd already gotten away with having the Colonel doing the early morning drop off, it was my turn for pick-up. I actually quite enjoyed it.
I like hearing the conversations that 15 and 16 year old boys will have. I like hearing stories from "on the field." I particularly got a kick out of my sons friend who climbed into the front seat of my car and asked completely deadpan, "So Donna, can I buy you a drink?" Shit, I'm still laughing about that.
So anyway, after watching dozens of discarded yet still un-splattered paintballs being eaten by a gathering of crows, there was some argument in my mini-van about what paintballs are made of. I have decided to find the answer myself and end the war, right now.
Here it is.

The outer skin is made from gelatin, and the fill is made from Polyethylene Glycol (PEG) and colored crayons. Here's a really interesting video.

Other places you'll find PEG are:
Sex lube, laxatives, skin creams, toothpaste, cough syrup, Visine eye drops, foam rubber, Dr. Pepper and spandex.
PEG has been used to preserve objects which have been salvaged from underwater, as it replaces water in wooden objects to prevent them from shrinking when dried.
It has also been found to speed spinal cord recovery in guinea pigs, and is being tested for use in tattoo's.

All that and a paintball too. Who knew?

The Year (and day) of the Pig

I was one whisky shot away from coming home early last night and blogging about disappearing bees, but an impromptu press club meeting around midnight pulled me down for more. My Colonel and I had gone down town to a local bar to hear a few songs of the Whiskey Thieves, with the intention of being home by 11 or so. As we were preparing to squeeze through the crowd and out the door, our good friend David came in, and then Lala with KevyBaby. I ordered what I thought would be my last drink for the night, danced for another hour, and then left at the still decent hour of midnight. A block away from the bar my phone rang, and since I can't say no to my editor (not that I wanted to), our night was instantly extended by two hours and another whisky. No complaints, I just needed to get my blog-lack excuse out there. So now you know. On to today.

Gung Hei Faat Choi!
Today is Chinese New Year which brings in the year of the Pig. For me, the last few years have been the year of the pig, so maybe this year I'll actually stop being so gluttonous. Maybe.
Speaking of pigs....

A pig is only a pig until it's a hog. In the swine world, it goes a little something like this; a young female swine is called a gilt. At 32 weeks old she can become a mommy pig and is then called a sow. Piglet birthing is called "farrowing" by the way. Male pigs still lucky enough to have kept their balls are called boars. An unlucky, castrated boar is called a barrow. Any swine under market weight is referred to as a pig, but once it reaches about 250 pounds, it becomes a hog.
I think.

If you'd like to learn more about your piggy self, try the Draw-a-Pig Personality Test. Here's my pig.


According to this picture, I am a realist. I am direct and I enjoy playing the devil's advocate. I neither fear nor avoid discussions. I am analytical, cautious and distrustful. I am secure, stubborn and stick to my ideals. I'm a good listener and my sex life needs improvement.

What? My sex life needs improvement? How?

Whisky, Whiskey, Whatever

There's a band in town that calls themselves The Whiskey Thieves, of which friend and fellow columnist JMB has written about numerous times in his Sonoma Valley Music Scene section of our local paper. Thinking he just had a little typo a few weeks ago, I let him know that there was no "e" in whisky. It always drives me crazy to see a word spelled wrong. Well, today Diva Lora (Lala) and I had one of our traditional Diva Picnic in the Plaza lunches, in which our favorite whisky was consumed incognito. When I returned to the office, I had to send an e-mail to Mr. JMB, telling him that I was in no condition to give him feedback on our company website (he is also our new webmaster). A few minutes later I got a return e-mail from him, with a considerate little link to Wikipedia's whisky page, where I learned something about my booze of choice.

The word "whisky" is from the Gaelic word, "uisce" which means "water of life". Indeed.

Traditionally, if whisky is made in Scotland, Canada or Japan, it is spelled without the "e". Whiskey spelled with an "e" refers to that which is made in Ireland. A long time ago, whisky from Dublin was THE shit, so to differentiate it from the rest of the world, they added the cute little "e".
The official ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms)(I love that those 3 things are linked together) spelling in the US is without the "e", but for some reason, most US distilleries use the Irish spelling anyway.
I also learned that "malted barley" refers to barley that has started to germinate but was quickly dried before it could grow more, and that the word "Mod" when used in "Royal National Mod", aka the Whisky Olympics, refers to a festival of Scottish Gaelic song, arts and culture that is held every October in Scotland.

It's been an interesting day today.

We CAN Feed the World (and reduce waste too)

Today I had to do one of my least favorite things to do- spend money on something un-fun. Not being a very domestic kitten, kitchen appliances do not excite me in any way. Well, I probably would have an orgasm if I came home and found my old Kitchen-Aide dishwasher replaced with one like my friend Tim has, but it would just be a mild, single orgasm, and like the excitement of having actual food in my refrigerator, the thrill would be gone within a day or so.
In the fading glow of yesterdays chocolate and little conversation hearts, I bought the least romantic kitchen appliance ever- a garbage disposal. I know I should be grateful that I had the money to buy it, but, ew. I'd rather blow the 90 bucks on drinks and hors d'heurves at my favorite restaurant. Shit, even at my least favorite restaurant.
Watching my handy (and ever-so-appreciated) Colonel installing the damn thing this evening, I kept wondering why on earth we even needed to buy a "powerful food waste disposal."

Food waste.

Those words have been taunting my abdominal roll of fat for the last hour or so. I wondered about the statistics of our food wasting, gluttonous, obese nation and learned this today:

According to a 10 year study by anthropologist Timothy Jones, 40 to 50 percent of US food goes to waste. In California, 16% of disposed material is food waste.

There are numerous contributing factors to these numbers, and there are also several plans in effect to deal with them. Food donations, composting, and smarter buying at the grocery store are the major ones, but here's something I found somewhat clever-
3 college women have started what they call the "IHO" concept. Their idea is to take some of these food wastes and make them into packaging for what they call "street food"- what I'm guessing is what we call "fast food" here in the US.

From dried fish skins to dehydrated orange rinds, these women might be taking things a little too far. But since I admire creativity, especially when used to find solutions to our ever-fucked-up environment, I'd be willing to eat french fries out of a discarded salmon skin. Maybe.
How about I just donate the skins from my next preferred money-sapping endeavor?

While we're on the subject, I HIGHLY recommend one of my favorite movies, The Girl in the Cafe.
Trust me, it's good. It's not one of those sappy romance movies like it sounds. I wouldn't do that to you.

Happy Deathday, Tight Lips

If you're looking for sanctuary from pink glitter hearts today, welcome.

Today is Valentine's Day, but the only red hearts here are bleeding ones. Bleeding from bullets. Bleeding from murder. Murder by gansters.
Yep, today is the 78th anniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, when Al Capone's South Side gang went and shot up "Bugs" Moran's North Side gang.
Just to keep my balance on this sugar-coated, red wine and roses day, I did a little reading on this bootlegging business bloodshed. While it is a somewhat interesting story that I've known for years, I think the trivial facts I learned today are more entertaining.

Where once stood the SMC Cartage Company building, where these dirty deeds took place, is now a parking lot for a nursing home.
The former garage was torn down brick by brick in 1967, and rebuilt as a wall in the men's restroom of a bar called the Banjo Palace. Used as a urinal, the wall was painted with targets which drunken patrons would try pissing on. If they were successful, a waterfall would flush away the piss.
When the bar closed, owner George Patey tried to auction the bricks off on a website called, Jet Set on the Net. When that didn't work, he tried selling them himself, brick by brick, but I think he died before he finished.

Feel better now? I sure do.

Goodbye Naive Security

My favorite guest was on the morning radio show this morning. He runs our local internet provider in town, and was giving some updates about ricockulous internet laws and such.

Apparently someone's trying to implement a law that would require internet hosts, like himself, to keep records on all of their customers internet usage, and to disclose them to certain officials if requested. I really hope I misunderstood that, because included on the list of things "certain officials" would have access to is your instant messaging. Not just what dirty little websites you haunt, not just your personal e-mails, sent or received, but instant messaging!

I had NO idea this kind of communication could be stored, let alone read by anyone other than who you chose to have a private, un-trackable, internet conversation with. It makes me sick.

Then he told the story about a teenage couple in Florida who were arrested for having "child porn" on their computers, even though the pictures were of themselves!
"Neither teen showed the photographs to anyone else, --but somehow Florida police learned about the photos."
Somehow. Gee, I wonder.
The main reason they're in court about this is, are you ready, because, "they could have ended up selling them to child pornographers." Yeah. Child porn for sale! We have extremely rare pictures of teenagers having sex, come and get 'em!
Or, "...they could have shown them to their friends." The horror!
Or, "Computers can be hacked," which I guess makes them responsible.

I'm so intrigued by this story about this couple. I guess I'll be grateful that digital cameras and e-mail didn't exist when I was 16, or I might be in jail right now. E-gads, I could be arrested if someone broke into my house and went through the boxes in my attic!
I was totally afraid just now when I typed in "child porn" looking for a shocking picture to put up here today. Somewhere, someone got a blip on their screen. "Oops, someone's looking for child porn. We better investigate."

Today I learned:

Nothing on my computer belongs to me. Nothing on my computer is private.

I'm in a bad mood.

The Gift of Nothing

I've been sitting here for the last hour wondering what the hell I learned today. I wanted to write about Marc Jacobs and his ricockulous, murderer/dead woman advertising theme, but I actually couldn't find a good image to use as an example except on his irritating, high-maintenance website. If you have the patience, go try to find the ads yourself. Then I saw some photos by Steven Klein for Dolce & Gabbana that made me want to be a fashion photographer, and I wanted to learn more about him. I got over that pretty fast when again, I couldn't find anywhere on the net his image of Stefano Gabbana that I wanted. Kicking back on his own bed wearing nothing but his own brand of underwear and two jewel encrusted crucifixs, he almost looks fuckable in those gold chain, 3 inch spiky heels. If you were a man maybe. I don't know. This picture confuses my sexual reflexes.
I also love his shot of a bald guy lying on coastal, bird-shit covered rocks looking up a woman's skirt as she jabs his chest with a pair of ugly, wicked witch stillettos.
Do you see what looking through a W magazine can do to your mind?
Anyway, enough of that. I finally came to the conclusion that this was a nothing-learned day. But, when I began searching for an image to accentuate my dull day, I learned something. Something stupid, yes, but something is better that nothing right? Maybe.

For about $6.50, you can buy a package of nothing. "For the person who has everything... the gift of nothing is yours to discover..."

The package goes on to read, "Congratulations! You have received the gift of nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is the ultimate in minimalism. Less is more, more or less. Nothing is precious. Nothing is simple. Nothing is sacred. Open the pack and be enthralled when nothing happens. Allow nothing to flow through your mind and calm your soul. Savour the moment. Soon you'll discover that nothing really is so much better than something."

So, I don't know. Did I learn something or nothing today?

Winged Ant Sex Festival

Today was so beautiful outside that we opened up all the windows and doors and let some fresh air inside. It was a tiny bit cold, but it was totally nice anyway.
After dinner however, we started noticing a bunch of bugs in the house. They were ugly little things with wings, and I freaked out thinking they were termites. Then we found some ants by the front door having a party with these winged creatures, so I was pretty sure they were just winged ants. I decided to look up termites on the internet just to be sure, and I was right. They weren't termites.

Every so often after a few days of rain, ant colonies will send out swarms of winged ants. The winged ones are the reproductive ones of the family and, if they're lucky, other nearby colonies will have sent out their horny, winged members at the same time. For one single day, a winged-ant fuck frenzy occurs, after which the mated females go off and start new colonies while the exhausted males drop dead. Literally. The female eventually loses her wings, and the no longer used wing muscles provide nutrients for her during the early stages of colony development. Luckily for us, very few of these new queens are able to successfully survive this phase and never actually establish a new colony.

Creepy but cool. I totally feel like ants are crawling all over me right now. Yuck.

Oh, and by the way, this is my 200th post!

Get Your GV TV Here!

It's early yet and I've still to learn today, but I'm heading out the door and I'm sure to be out past midnight. It's almost guarranteed that I'll learn something tonight, most likely something unwholesome, but right now this is it.

Good Vibrations, the "best sexuality product retailer", (aka sex toys), now has it's own on-line television "channel." Filled with advice, information and humor, you can watch a puppet explain fetishes, get some oral sex tips, and everything in between.

GVTV <---- click there

If you're looking for smut, this isn't your place. Good Vibrations is:
"... a diverse, woman-focused retailer providing access to sex-positive products and accurate sex information through our clean and comfortable stores, catalog, and web site in order to enhance our customers' sex lives and to promote healthy attitudes about sex."

I love them. Have fun, and be sure to let me know what you learn today.
And mom, when you place your order, make sure you tell them how you found them. :)