Friday Photo #12 

or is there something going on this weekend? 

Unless you've been in a coma the last two weeks, you know this Sunday is the Super Bowl. The battle this year is between the Arizona Cardinals and ...ta da!  The mighty Pittsburgh Steelers!!! 

Since the closing of the mills in the 70s, Pittsburghers have been forced to move near and far for work. The distance from their beloved city has only strengthened their resolve to maintain their loyalty to the Steelers and all things Pittsburgh. Thus creating what is known as a Steelers Nation. You can find Steelers fans EVERYWHERE... vocal, adamant Steelers fans proudly wearing their black and gold in designated Steelers Bars run by ex-pats of course. My sister found such a bar (owned by a Burgher) while traveling through Alaska last year. 

This photo (shot in Afghanistan) was taken by Bobby McGrath, an instructional designer at the Naval War College in Rhode Island. The pilots are out of the North Carolina air force base named... wait for it... 

Seymour Johnson.    Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha (sorry.. that makes the 12-year-old in me laugh)

 

Let's just hope the Steelers can clip the Cardinals wings, because if the black and gold would lose to a stinking red bird... 

Oh January... Won't You Ever Stop Being a Be-Yatch? 

... and give me back my traker, dammit!

Okay, so today In-AccuWeather finally got it right. Boy did they ever! Armageddon struck late last night and continued on... well, it's still continuing as I write this around 5:15pm EST. What the eff??@!#*!?

It started snowing last night. No biggie. But this morning it was 28 flippin' degrees and it was POURING outside. 

Rain. Seriously. RAIN. 

How can it rain at 28 degrees? How is that even possible. In the meantime, there was at least an inch or so of ice on everything... sidewalks, trees, bushes, neighbors' dogs, leftover creepy Santas, Dick Cheney's discarded soul... 

Being the smart sh*t I am, I stretched on my Yak Trakers (the absolutely, most wonderful rubber-and-metal-spiral thingie ever made to help us less than graceful types stay upright and mobile on ice) over my fabulous Lands End snow shoes and scaled up Mt. McBiltmore to the trolley. 

Wrestling with the hundred pound suitcase I call "my bag" and the umbrella (did I mention it was raining, in like biblical proportion?) I managed to maneuver down the lesser mountain path to the train. Wherein I noticed I had lost one of my Trakers!?! These things are so tight on a shoe it's like you need a frelling crowbar to get them on and off. How the hell did it get sucked off my shoe?! Frake!

It continued to rain all morning until afternoon, when the precip (settle down...I know weather jargon makes you all hot and frisky) turned to snow. So to recap... pouring rain at 28 degrees... snow at 34 degrees. 

That's messed up, Dude. I don't get it. I think the globe has tilted backwards on its axis, because that ain't right.

Lucky for me I walked today because the roads were still treacherous. Even in my one Yak Traker--yes, I'm a dork and wore the one Traker--I made it up the hill when this poor slob couldn't. I feel your pain, Bub. 

Alright... I'll concede it is pretty, especially now that I'm inside. 

But January's just been a bitter, old, nasty-assed, surly, seismically sadistic Bee-Yatch of a month. It needs to stop snapping my butt with its cold, icy towel and make room for February.

And if that little, good-for-nothing-but-road-kill-stew critter, Phil sees his shadow... 

"There Once Was A Man From Nantucket..."

or the wiener of the week story 

(continuing with last week's whole trouser-trout theme)

Okay, so there's this young woman with whom I work who pretty much has it all going on. She's young, trim, gorgeous, extremely talented at her job and super sweet, too boot.

I should hate her.

But she does ungirlie stuff like belch, make off-color remarks and generally act like a 12-year-old, so how could I not like her? Seriously. She's a kid after my own twisted and depraved heart.

So last week we started talking about dating. She has recently ended a long-term relationship with a lovely young athlete, sporting an equally lovely posterior. His line of work has taken him across the pond and beyond to Sweden. It's too bad. They made a really cute couple. But honestly, she is so gorgeous she could be dating anyone.

Again, I should hate her.

Anyhoo...in our discussion about the trials of dating, the conversation took a turn for the knockwurst--namely wieners, if you get my drift. Now she's a nice girl, not a hootchie tart who's slept around a lot so her exposure to a variety of vienerschnitzel is limited. She hasn't seen many, and therein lies her anxiety. Her point is there are no surprises for boys regarding girls' attributes. Let's face it, the girls are out there--front and center for the world to see and judge--and women's junk pretty much all looks and functions the same. Let's be honest, the biggest mystery "downtown" is whether the carpet matches the drapes. (You can revisit the whole getting your "Betty Ready" thang here and here.)

But with Dudes, it's hard to tell what's prowling around in those pantalones. You know, like what if it makes this strange right turn halfway up... or it has like an extra ridge on its helmet like some freakishly mutilated mushroom cap... or is thin and wispy like a super model on a three-cigarettes-a-day diet ... or God forbid, is short and squat. Nobody wants a Stubby Malone. Seriously. What if Mr. Ding doesn't know how to "dong" properly, or is a little too familiar with a gal's mysterious island shrouded in shrubbery. As a single girl, she thinks about this.

Hey, these are her fears, and they're legit. I'm married. I'm immune to these concerns. But she's single and still has to test drive this year's model(s).

You know everyone thinks boys talk trash about chicks and their bits. But, surprise! this is what girls really talk about. So fellas, fair warning. Next time you see a gaggle of girls giggling around a desk, just keep walking. You don't want to know whose junk's being joshed.

January 26, 1960

or it's all about me today

Okay, so today is my birthday. I turned seven squared today which means there is a "9" in my age this year. Usually "9" birthdays freak me out a bit. I don't know why. You'd think the "0" year is the total freak-out year where everyone has to give you a pass because you're feeling like a relic starting yet an entirely new decade that feels a little too snug like a pair of brand new Spanks and has to be broken in gradually over say... three to nine years. 

Not so for me. I actually embrace the "0" year with gusto since I usually start referring to myself as 30, 40 whatever, long before I get there. Sort of like a test drive to see how she handles. Quick to the helm...still brakes pretty well...has a reasonably descent backside. 

This year is different. I'm remarkably cool with my 7 x 7. In fact, I'm so down with it, the very notion of being 49 makes me laugh...and not a little laugh either... like embarrassing large guffaw laughs. I suspect the reason may be I'm such a flaming IDIOT. How could I possibly be this old. I am totally immature and have no idea what I'm doing. Do you see the humor?

But it's okay. For the first time EVER I am completely cool with who I am. Sure I'm a little rounder and the lines around my eyes are a little deeper when I laugh and the junk in my trunk is a little more mobile, but I'm not beating myself up about any of it. I yam what I yam. I'm totally channeling Popeye here... and it feels great!! 

Plus, with this aging thing comes a freedom that is palpable. I so do not give a crap what strangers think anymore. I do whatever I feel like doing (within in legal limits, of course). Things I would have been self-conscious about before, require no second thought now. Perfect example: when I'm in a grocery or drug store and a song comes on that I love, I am totally dancing and singing in the aisle. It doesn't matter who's around. If we had kids, I would completely embarrass them. And that would be FANTASTIC! As it stands I have to settle for making my nieces and nephews cringe, which is almost as sweet. Score one for the non-parental unit. (fair warning, Reg)

A friend at work has great memories of his Grandmother. She always wore a bottle opener on a string around her neck, drove a smoking hot, super charged Camaro with a bottle of beer tucked between the bucket seats and would drive 100 mph just because he asked her to. 

She's my new hero. 

Hey, this maturity thing is way overrated. Just because you have to grow older, doesn't mean you have to grow up. 

Friday Photo #11  

or revisiting a high point of the week 

Okay, so rarely do we in television ever sit down to actually watch what's airing during our shift, especially during the morning. Frankly, it's just ... crap. Not just crap, mind-numbing, black-hole, vortex-sucking crap like the ubiquitous judge shows, soaps or locally produced drivel. We just have to stay conscious enough to role the breaks at the correct time. 

I say this all to convey the magnitude of the events of Tuesday. Everyone of us stopped and watched the ceremony and speech. No one said a word. We just...absorbed the historic moment of the inauguration of President Obama. 

President Obama... 

I still giggle with glee every time I hear that. 

That Will Be $168.00, Please. 

or only  four long months until the Farmers Market opens

Okay, so I'm hosting Card Club this Saturday. Now before you get all crazy thinking we actually sit around a table playing card games all night like our Mums, let me clarify. There are seven of us gals who get together once a month to basically bond and catch up over food, liquor and vibrant conversations about everything and nothing. Every year we go away together (sans husbands) for a long weekend at a Lake. Every other year we take our sisterly act on the road to Marco Island, Florida. We call it "Card Club" because, really what else would we name it? It's just simpler this way. 

Anywho, I went to the grocery store to buy some veggies for us gals to munch on, you know, to round out the party food pyramid... one part nutritious vegetable tray, three parts chocolate, salty snack goodness and liquor. 

Holy crap! I cannot believe how expensive fruit and vegetables are this time of year. 

Cashier: That will be $1,216.24.

Me: What? I only bought three red peppers, a zucchini, a pineapple and this pack of gum!?!?"

Cashier: Oh. I didn't ring up the gum. *cha-ching* That's be $1,218.24.

Me: Good thing I put the yellow-cake uranium back on the shelf

As I continue to hemorrhage money food shopping, I am reminded how much I miss our summer Farmers Markets during this time of year. They have the freshest produce (picked that morning) at the absolute best prices. The markets are a true joy of summer. We are blessed in Pennsylvania with lots and lots of local farmers. The market we shop at has a gyro/pita stand, Amish desserts booth, Italian breads vendor and five local family farms including those fabulous farm-boy Adonises, The King brothers. Wow.

 The King family has been farming for generations. True to form, Lisa (the amazing Mother of this gene pool of hotness) bore ten children--the oldest a girl, the rest boys. I've never had the pleasure of seeing the oldest son, but the next two in line Pete and perhaps Tim are worth the price of admission to the farmers' market alone. They are tall, blonde, strapping. Fewer sites are as compelling as the dread-locked brother hoisting burlap sacks of corn from the truck to the table, shirtless. 

*Sigh*  

Even my 87-year-old Mom, Big Mar, plays along. She was actually running cover for me to sneak a picture. How cool is she? Fortunately, their produce is as spectacular as they are. So there actually is a legitimate reason for stopping by.

I admit I didn't have the balls to actually go up to the boys last summer and ask to take their picture, so the photos aren't as ideal as one might like. However, you can still get the idea. I just don't have the nerve yet to walk up and nonchalantly say, "Hey fellas, do you mind if I fire off a few shots of the two of you so I can post them on my blog to allow other members of the female persuasion to ogle you in the comfort of their own homes?" without feeling like, you know, a creepy old chick. I guess I shouldn't feel weird, because eventually all of us ladies, young and old, make our way over to their section to chat up the King boys. Not only are these dudes hotter than Georgia asphalt in July, they're really sweet and respectful to their admiring public. 

Farmers Markets...great for the pocketbook, easy on the eyes.

Just A Little Quickie 

(that's what HE said) 

Okay, so quick story... we subscribe, okay I subscribe to an online daily hororscope--just for shits and giggles. It's fun to read. According to these folks, apparently we are all in a positive spin even though that bastard of a planet, Mercury is lurking in our unmentionables..er, atmospheres. Seems the rest of the ruling planets have effectively bitch-slapped his ass into behaving. But I digress...

Anyway, this is today's general forecast:

"Get ready for a bit of excitement today as emotional lightning strikes to shake, rattle and roll our lives. Our desires are strong and we may not be satisfied by the same old routines now as romantic Venus joins unorthodox Uranus for a cosmic dance. Additionally, feisty Mars forms a cooperative sextile (what is that?) with Venus and (planetary party animal) Uranus, raising the stakes and encouraging us to take a risk. The adventurous Sagittarius Moon fuels the fires and lifts our spirits." 

Along with our skirts, perhaps?

Looks like the Cosmos is getting freaky-deaky today. Grab your fancy dancin' duds, Ladies. Apparently it's not a party until you're getting down with Uranus. And THAT is what she said.

The World According to Enzyte

or the gift that keeps on "giving"...if you know what I mean

Okay, so one of my many duties at work (she said doodie) is inserting commercial spots into our server. Now I don't know about you, but I'm sick of all the dong-drug advertising on the boob tube these days. I mean really...what the eff does a couple sitting in two separate tubs have to do with "male enhancement"? Or is that sh*t so powerful, the dude's johnson is going bust through the porcelain and come at his intended like a heat seeking missile. I don't think so.

Honestly...do we really need a bunch of bitter, old men walking around sporting crotch rockets in search of a landing strip. Again...I think not. And besides... EEeewwwww!

Anyhoo, one of the many gazillion spots I dubbed today was an Enzyte ad, the "male enhancement" drug that claims to magnify your man-marbles. For a pork steeple drug advert, at least these are highly entertaining. You know the one where this goofy dude is dressed as Santa and he's smiling like a butcher's dog while the voice over guy says clever stuff like... "Bob has a sleigh full of confidence and a sack full of pride and the one thing that every lady likes...the joy of the gift that keeps on giving." Tongue firmly planted in cheek.  

This put me in mind of an email I received at home the other night, coincidentally about male enhancement drugs. The peculiar thing is the sending address was my actual home email address...like I sent it to myself. What the?!? I had been totally Spammed. I'm virtually clueless about computers, but I did see a notation to "click here to unsubscribe". So I clicked unsubscribe.

Holy Crap!?!? My Eyes! My Eyes!

Usually when you unsubscribe it takes you to a fairly blank page wherein you type your email address to be rid of the foul spam. Not this one.

It was...uh, rather colorful and eye popping, if you know what I mean...and I think you do. Filled in fact with multitudes of man-meat in before and after photos. I searched the page...albeit, sloooooowly... for the unsubscribe link. Not finding a link, I thought, well...since I'm here already... you know... what the hell. Why not have a look-see. Check out the before and afters to see if the comparative packages had the same dimples or the images were *gasp* doctored. Purely for research purposes, mind you. Besides I was already emotionally scarred by my initial viewing, so what's another week or two of therapy.

Damn if the pix didn't have the same weird dingly-dang dents and scrotum saggage before and after. G0 figure. Maybe there's something to this stuff. *snort* Yeah, right. Whatever.

In any case, note to self: do not reach for the "unsubscribe" button unless you want an eyeful of the south pole, if you get my meaning... and I think you do.

"It's A New Day From Now On"

(Ron Sexsmith) full lyrics here  

Ladies and Gentlemen...may we present to you our 44th President of the United States of America, Barak H. Obama.

In an extremely unsettled world, the transfer of power happened without gunfire, guerilla warfare or any other violent force. It happened peacefully in a dignified and orderly manner.

As I choked back tears witnessing this momentous occasion, I was filled with renewed pride to be an American.

May God bless him with wisdom, courage, grace and the ability to inspire those here and abroad to do the right thing.

Here We Go Steelers! Here We Go!

or pack your bags, Lucille... we're going to Tampa

Okay, so today is a holiday in honor of Martin Luther King. Most folks, except for us morons who chose a 24/7 profession, are off today. Good thing, too. You see last night the Steelers managed to win a berth in the Holiest of High Holy games...the Super Bowl. They didn't just win the game...they won the game at HOME, which hasn't happened here for a long 13 years.

Even though the evening's performance was less than inspiring, all was forgiven when the long-flowing, raven-haired Adonis, Troy Polamalu intercepted a Raven's pass and scrambled into the end zone with 4:24 left on the clock--bringing the 65,000+ to their feet in a golden Terrible Towel waving frenzy. (Of course I had to call my big sister in NJ to celebrate her boy's victory. I knew she'd be cheering her head off. She was.)

A coworker was at the game and said about three quarters of the fans hung around for the ceremony and Zambelli fireworks. It's Pittsburgh...there are ALWAYS fireworks. We're fireworks happy here. And they are the best! Somehow I don't think these folks minded the long wait to get out of the parking lot. I know people in our neighborhood were hooting and hollering long into the night.

Here's another reason why I love my town...

At the Pens game earlier in the day, fans were encouraged to bring their Terrible Towels to wave in support of the Steelers match. Which they did, along with signs like "You're in Steelers Country". I'm happy to report my beloved Boys of Winter defeated the Rangers 3-0. When our goalie, Marc-Andre Fleury skated out to acknowledge being the #1 star of the game, guess what...he was donning a gold throwback Steelers helmet and waving a towel. You gotta love it.

Yep. We're all family here.

Friday Photo #10  

what the??!?? *teeth chattering* 

Okay, so I wake up this morning to a definite chill in the air. I run downstairs to punch up the heat when I see this... 45 degrees!?!!! What the?!? 45 degrees...the HOUSE is 45 degrees!?! 

The furnace, she is making noise, but she no produce the heat. Sassy wench. 

It is literally -5 degrees outside...and the furnace isn't working. Are you KIDDING ME? I'm like freaking Bob Cratchet here! I'm in layers...I'm in a coat and scarf...my hands are so cold, I have to stuff them in my crotch for warmth between sentences. YOW! That's cold...even through the long johns. 

The furnace dude promises me he'll be here some time between now and the vernal equinox. Great. Take your time. I should be an ice fossil by then.

AND to top it off, I exited iPhoto without ejecting my photo card properly and have now lost all of my videos of my beloved fantasy second husband and hottie, Rhett Miller from said card. Stupid Stupid procedures!

 *whimpers* ice crystal tears scraping her cheek*

*sigh* This day has the potential to really blow. 

On a positive note though, I won't need ice cubes for the numerous cocktails I plan to consume today... you know, for warmth. Yeah, for warmth. Cheers! 

A Hockey Night In Pittsburgh 

or hmmmm...who knew it could be so dirty 

Okay, so our little nephew won free tickets to last night's Penguins game. It was a crushing 6-3 loss for my beloved Pens. The final humiliating blow being an empty net goal with three minutes left and us with a TWO-MAN ADVANTAGE!!?! Oh the pain! *sob*

Anywho, I'm very vocal at games. Surprise! (not) It's difficult not to get caught up in the atmosphere and start screaming things at random. The thing is... I never noticed how dirty sounding the crowd banter is when taken out of context. Last night I suddenly became aware of the off-color nature of my (and others) remarks...

"Get it in!!"

"Get it out!!!"

"Keep it in!

"Get back in the crease!!"

"Get out of that end!"

That'swhatshsaid!That'swhatshesaid!That'swhatshesaid!That'swhatshesaid!That'swhatshesaid!

...I think I need a cigarette.

On Golden Globes

Yeah...I'm talkin' about you, Rita

It's January which means only one thing...tis the awards season. It starts with the People's Choice and motors on until the Mother of all awards shows... the Oscars (which seems to be scheduled earlier and earlier every year). And although all the glitz and glamour surrounding the Oscars is a great treat for me personally...I have to admit the Golden Globes is my favorite.

Seriously. If I was ever able to be a seat filler, the double Gs would be my choice, hands down. I love, love, love how they're so loosey-goosey. I mean, come on...they have a bar. Not just a bar--an OPEN bar, which is tapped quite often by the attending honorees. As the amount of alcohol consumption increases, so does the entertainment factor. By the time the last of the statuettes is dolled out, the accepting tongues are quite free-wheeling.

I love how the redneck cousin Television contingent gets to mix it up with the Hollywood elite. It's such a great party atmosphere. They all sit at round tables stocked with a generous bucket of champagne and are free to roam about chatting up their peers and idols. Plus there is no straight line to the stage. Each winner is forced to weave around table after table where they are met with high-fives, broad smiles--even some celebratory whoops. The decibel level is so loud and chatty returning from the breaks, they practically needed a bullhorn to settle the troops down for the presenters to be heard. Who wouldn't want to attend? Everyone has such a great time. It's a Hep-Cat Hootenanny awash in tuxes and ta-tas!

Speaking of "ta-tas", this year the path to the stage wound past the cheering section of Tom and Rita Hanks. I don't know if that was indeed the quickest way to retrieve their candy-coated prize or the dudes just wanted to get a closer look at Rita's spectacularly displayed globes.

Yowza! Seriously. The girls were promenading proudly. I mean, she walked into the room, and then... she walked into the room. If you know what I mean. Not bad for an old broad. Mrs. Hanks wasn't the only one either. Salma took her Hayeks out for a lovely spin as well.

As my hubby would say, "I'm sorry. Were you speaking?"

Other highlights (yes, there were other, non-physical highlights)...

Tracey Jordan delivering the acceptance speech for 30 Rock.

You know, he sounds drunk to me even when he's sober, but tipsy he's extra slurry. He delivered this non sequitur "Welcome to postracial America--I am the face of postracial America. Deal with it, Cate Blanchett!" (wha???) Then he proceeded to thank random posse members, DJ Dave, Crotch Rot Carl, Pencil Dick Pete...who the hell knows. Honestly I couldn't understand him, but his ramble was funnier than anything else I'd heard him do before. Finally, Alec Baldwin (being all Alec Baldwinie in his cool, Alec Balwin whisper) leaned in to remind him to at least thank the producer.

Tina Fey was her usual brilliant wit, claiming to own all of the Foreign Press action figures and calling out all the bloggers who slammed her during the year by telling them all (in particular "Dianefan") to "suck it".

But by far the biggest surprise was Mickey Rourke's fairly amusing acceptance speech which was sprinkled with more than one reference to someone's balls, and ending with his producer jokingly flipping him the bird. I guess it's safe to say NBC wasn't broadcasting in delay. Naughty Naughty, NBC. 

Plus, the top movie honors went to Woody Allen's Vicki Cristina Barcelona and an relatively unknown Indian entry Slumdog Millionnaire. You never see that at the Oscars.

All that and they finished on time. Yep. The double Gs are definitely worth the price of admission.

The Curious Case of The Crowded Cinema  

or baby blogger's first movie review... 

When Geo was a freelancer in the 90s we went to a lot of movies. A LOT of movies. At least one or two a week. It was great. We'd go in the afternoon, armed with the requisite ten gallon vat of popcorn and 55 gallon drum of liquid, and settle in for an afternoon of darkened theater escapism. Most of the time we'd end up being two of maybe 10-12 people in the theater. We saw everything...independent movies, foreign films, mainstream. Whatever. 

Nowadays we're lucky to see a handful per year. You see Geo has a lot of rules for movie going now. He hates, hates, HATES when people talk during the movie and he's not too fond of crowds these days. Ergo, we don't go in the evenings, weekends or holidays. Being that he works until 6pm, that leaves zero situations for us to visit ye olde cinema. Although he usually takes off a day or two for either my birthday or our anniversary so we can spend the entire day in the dark slowly swelling up from eating waaaay too much popcorn. 

That said, I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last Saturday night with my sister and her husband. Not Geo, you know, because of the whole "rules" thang. 

By the time we got there for the 2:45 showing, the previews had started. We bounded up the ramp, turned the bend at the top and found the ENTIRE THEATER PACKED!?! What the Eff? I realize I haven't been to a theater on a Saturday afternoon in a while, but... come on! There were only singles sparsely scattered throughout. Three of us...single seats, no thank you. Then I noticed a half wall in the back which corralled a smaller section of comfy leather lounge chairs. 

What kinda fascist caste system is this?  

Considering the lack of ample seating below, but lots of empty, comfy seats above I figured, what the hell. Let's use them. So my sister and I plopped down in the first row. Our butts hadn't even had a chance to warm the cold leather yet when the Comfy Chair Nazi swooped down upon us demanding to see our VIP ticket stub, ID, proof of our lineage and a blood sample. Okay, so I'm exaggerating. They didn't want our ID. 

Testing the philosophy that it is easier to get forgiveness than permission, I said we didn't have the aforementioned bourgeois VIP tickets. I mean, come on. There were loads of empty seats here in the lofty lounge. Surely he would take pity on us and give us a pass considering the lack of seating below deck. 

Alas, the power-hungry, prickly-faced, pubescent cast us out of Eden into the bowels of the cinematic underworld. Did I mention he was "prick"-ly-faced? I think I did. Our only remaining choices for seating were the first two neck-snapping rows. 

Resigned to our fate, we plopped down.. scrunched down.. hunched down as best we could for the slimmest..I mean, greatest optimum viewing. The last time I sat this close to the screen, I was a very young and nimble lass whose neck sprang back to its original shape in seconds. Now...not so much.

We were so close, I swore I was going to get sucked up into Cate Blanchett's flaring nostrils never to be heard from again. As it turns out, the movie was engrossing enough for me to forget my physical discomfort. That is until the credits rolled and I had difficulty releasing my neck from its upright and locked position. After what seemed an eternity and a thousand LOUD crunches later, fluidity returned to my vertebrae enabling me to look forward once again. 

Did I mention the Teutonic teen was PRICK-ly faced? 

Wait...this was supposed to be a movie review, wasn't it. 

The film I highly recommend.  Besides being a terrific story, the energetic, youthfully restored Brad Pitt is worth the price of admission. Seriously. But for the love of your movable parts, get to the theater early. 

Them teenagers are mean.

To Slur, With Love (borrowed from VSL...sorry) 

or why Jeff Goldblum in slow mo rocks  

Okay, so I've mentioned in a prior posting about this daily online newsletter my Geo subscribes to called Very Short List. Its goal is to share what's hip and happening on the internet. 

Anyway, this week contained another gem...the eight best "Drunk Jeff Goldblum" videos. A YouTuber (is that a noun now? sounds like a veggie.. "i'll have the roasted duck with a side of mashed YouTuber, Ceasar salad and the Pinot Noir." "Excellent choice, Sir") took all the old--like ten years ago old--iMac commercials starring Senior Goldblum and  slowed them down for hilarious effect. They Are Brilliant!! 

Here's a sample:

You can watch all eight on this site here. Trust me, it's worth it.

I had the pleasure of meeting ole Jeffrey a couple of years back when he was shooting his "documentary" Pittsburgh. He is delightfully... wacky. I don't know how else to describe him. He tends to stare a bit when you speak to him and his cadence is a little unsettling and... off. He's definitely peculiar, but in a charming way. In any case, the movie is a decent rental. 

But, seriously, these videos ROCK!! 

Be forewarned--make sure you don't have a mouth full of soda when viewing, cause that puppy will be spewing from your nose. As Ralphie from The Simpsons says, "it tastes like burning". Enjoy!

Breaking News! Storm of the Year Update

or In-AccuWeather strikes again...

And the grand total of snowfall for the storm of the year is....

a whopping.... INCH!? Psyche!!

Oh AccuWeather. Will you ever stop toying with us? Why you alwayz gotz to play to our fearz n'at?

Kind of reminds me of that old joke...

"Why is sex like snow? You never know how many inches you're going to get or how long it will last."

Clearly this team of experts is clueless. Thank God I'm not bumping uglies with any of these guys. Seriously. All talk, no action. Oh well...winter just started. They're bound to get one right sooner or later. Right? Feh. Don't bet on it.

It's Snowing!?! Run for Your Lives!!?!? 

or how local television yahoos try to scare the bejesus out of the public 

Okay, so here at the big K we use a weather service called Accu Weather whose accuracy is, shall we say...suspect. Seriously. This "weather expert" is wrong almost as often as it is correct. Hence we have dubbed it "In-Accu Weather". A fair moniker considering its track record. Although some would argue the inaccuracies are a result of the fact our little hamlet is snuggled between elevated topography which makes the actual weather event outcome unpredictable. yadda yadda yadda  Yeah, right. Pussies. 

Anyway, we live in the North East. The North East in the winter gets...wait for it... winter weather! You know like snow, ice, hail whatever. Go figure. So when the forecast calls for, oh say...3-6 inches of snowfall, there's no need to panic. 

Au contraire, mon frere! 

We loves to cause a panic! A mere dusting to two inches is enough to spur the public to rush to the nearest grocery store and stock up on toilet paper and milk, because...you know one might actually be trapped in the house, shut off from society for a grueling hour or two. Three to six inches (of snow--get your mind out of the gutter) and your staring down the face Armageddon! Run for your lives!! Break out that Y2K generator and the survivalist supplies. Load up the gun and position yourself by the door to fight off the inevitable anarchy and lawlessness. It's Accu-Scare!!

Now that's not to say we haven't had some major storms blow through our (deri)area. We've had actual blizzards. The real ones where we've all had to dig out from under two feet of snow and roads were actually closed for a day or two. All of us trapped at work for the weekend because our relief couldn't make it in to the station. But most of the time the "big weather event" doesn't come to pass. It's just hype to get ratings, and we look like schmucks for breaking into programming to report the storm that isn't. Reminiscent of the boy who cried wolf.

All that said, In-Accu Weather is calling for a relatively large amount of accumulation between now and tomorrow evening. It's been snowing that fine, quiet powder that suddenly is three inches thick for that last two hours...with no sign of stopping.  

Hmmmmm...  Could it be? Could they actually be...right this time? Are we headed for an honest-to-goodness, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die winter storm? We'll see tomorrow. Hey, even a broken watch is right twice a day. 

Friday Photo #9 

chair Jenga 

So where I work, the Mother Ship is so cheap she rarely ever forks over the dough-re-mi to buy us new chairs. Ergo, we are left to pilfer, er.. "liberate" chairs from other areas of the building.  On certain occasions, we've picked over the office equipment bones of defunct sister companies like hungry hyenas. We're not proud. Just need a place to sit our ever-expanding carcasses, is all. Don't be judgin' us. 

This particular type of chair is always blowing a tire, pitching the unsuspecting occupant hither and yon in the most ungraceful fashion. Okay... it is kind of amusing to watch. In true cynical newsroom fashion, someone put forth a naming challenge. The winning entry says it all. 

Attack Of The Fecal Spores 

or don't be dropping deuce in my neighborhood  

Okay, so at work we have two sets each of women's and men's rooms in our newsroom. The first two are for general po(o)pulace use. The other two (besides housing a toilet and a shower...yes, a shower. who takes a shower at work?) each contain a ginormous mirror surrounded by big ole lights so the talent can put their faces on. And trust me...some of them NEED to put their faces on. One in particular is so downright frightening without make up, she could scare dingos away. Seriously. If Zombies saw her in the morning, sans face goop they would scream and run for their very lives as if they were being chased by...well Zombies!! 

But I digress...

Anyhoo, this one blonde, chippie talent who hosts our little dog and pony morning entertainment show, without fail, drops a big, stinky deuce in our general bathroom. And then scurries off to her "talent" bathroom to fix her face, leaving us to fend off her fecal spore invasion. 

That. Ain't. Right. 

You know those spores adhere to the fibers of your sweater and then you end up smelling like whatever road kill she ate the night before. Seriously, what the hell is this chick eating?!? She's as thin as a toothpick, but she must be masticating on some major malignant meats to produce such a stench. Yiicccch! 

Honey, do us all a favor and drop those friends off at your home lake before you come to work. At least do a mercy flush half way through pinching a loaf to cut down on the seismic stank.

A little courtesy, Chip. That's all I'm saying.