Rosemary’s Boobies

Thanks to those of you who commented on my maintenance post, weirdos. I mean that affectionately.

Ok, things seem to be fairly finished now and working regarding the new spanky layout. It’s sort of “in your face” isn’t it? Just how I like it, baby. It works in Chrome and Firefox anyway. If it looks like a giant unicorn took a rainbow coloured dump on your screen, you’re probably using an old version of Internet Explorer, in which case, you should get a browser that doesn’t suck the joy out of the universe, loser.

I bet you use AOL too, you sick bastard.

Onto the meaty part (that’s what she said!)

I read something really alarming today. I read that Hollywood is thinking of remaking “Rosemary’s Baby”. At first, I couldn’t believe anyone thought it necessary to remake such a classic movie, but then I punched myself in the face for my blind stupidity, because of course someone was going to remake it. Someone always remakes classic movies and makes a mockery of them, because somewhere in Hollywood, sits some over-stuffed executive who thinks people can’t cope with any piece of film more than ten years old, therefore, sets about producing lame new versions full of special effects and pretty people who can’t act and destroying everything that actually made the original, work.

Plus I don’t get it – there are thousands of talented, starving screenwriters out there producing wonderfully creative material, so why do we have to continuously remake movies that already exist? Why people? It boils my giblets, it really does.

Also, I heard Michael Bay is going to be the one making it. I’ll let that sink in for a second. Michael Bay wants to remake “Rosemary’s Baby”. No, I’m not shitting you. I wish I was. I guess in this new version, Rosemary’s going to have enormous tits and explode at some point.

The exploding part might not be such a bad idea, since I also read that Lindsay Lohan is in talks to play the Mia Farrow character. Once I stopped laughing (because really, if you can you think of a less appropriate actress to portray an innocent, sympathetic and pure newlywed than la Lohan, I’d like to hear it) I figured they must be remaking it as a comedy or something. Unless I missed the part in the original where Rosemary pretended to be a lesbian, had a war with her crazy father, went to rehab, snorted coke off an anorexic himbo’s ribs, swigged vodka like water, shagged half of America and threw tantrums because she couldn’t get into clubs without waiting in line.

The only part I can buy about the idea of Lohan as Rosemary is, I can totally see her pregnant with Satan’s child.

Bottoms up!

Oops, pardon!

Pardon my maintenance, peoples!  Sorry for hurting your head.

Of Mice And (Wo)Men, Part Deux

Early Monday morning…

Mouse:  BOO!

Me: What the shit!

Mouse: Sorry about that.  I thought I’d surprise you.

Me: But… I plugged up all my holes.  You shouldn’t still be here, you little Hugh-Granty-sounding motherfucker.

Mouse: Yes, about that.  It was a valiant effort, really it was.  I applaud it on principle.  It even worked for a few days.  However, duct tape?  Really? I have sharp teeth you know.

Me:  But duct tape is strong.  You can rapel off a building using duct tape.

Mouse:  Really, you’re too cute.  And you watch way too much “Mythbusters”.  However, maybe it’s just not such a good  idea to use duct tape for blocking up gaps under your dishwasher.  I’m just saying.  So that next time you can perhaps find something more daunting to plug that hole with. I like a challenge.  Duct tape, frankly, is a little insulting.  I’m not an amateur, you know.

Me:  Well I’m VERY fucking sorry.  Why can’t you go annoy someone else, Mousepants McGoo?

Mouse: It’s Baxter, remember?  And for your information, I visit quite a few apartments.  Don’t go thinking YOU’RE so special.  And truthfully, I’m starting to think most of my other humans might be nicer than you. Which is sad because I had high hopes.

Me: Oh that IS sad.  Maybe you should spend all of your time with your other humans then.  I recommend that.

Mouse:  Sadly while they’re more polite than you, they are significantly less interesting.  I mean not one of those other humans like to dance around the room on Friday mornings in only their star covered pyjama pants and a bra, shaking their money maker and singing a made up song about not having to go to work.

Me: That’s my Gwen Stefani impersonation!
 
Mouse:  Of course it is.  Although, I believe Gwen has ribs.  And something called “coordination”.

Me;  Screw YOU, rodent boy.
 
Mouse:  And I sincerely doubt that Gwen stops every so often, raises a leg and rips a raucous air biscuit.  And then proceeds to get delighted with herself and rate it for pungency and vibration and then emails her sister with the results.

Me: Well how the hell do YOU know what Gwen does or does not do? Maybe she’s the goddamn Queen of Farts! And stop spying on me.

Mouse:  Please.  It’s the most entertaining part of the week.  And it’s free.  I video tape it to show all my mouse friends!  They think you’re hysterical.  Especially my girlfriend, Maybelline.  She laughs until she practically chokes!  One day I shall put the video on YouTube and we shall have a viral hit.

Me:  I WILL SUE YOU.

Mouse:  Come on now.  I’m a mouse!  You can’t sue a mouse.  Don’t be ridiculous!

Me: I will…wait a second.  Her name’s Maybelline?  MAYBELLINE?

Mouse:  There’s no need to make a scene, she’s heard all the jokes.

Me; Hey Baxter?  Is she pretty?

Mouse:  Yes she’s…I think so.  She’s quite pleasing to look at, yes.

Me: Hmmm.

Mouse: Hmmmm?

Me: I was just wondering.
 
Mouse:  Oh no you don’t…

Me: Maybe she’s born with it…

Mouse: You are monotonously predictable.

Me: Or MAYBE IT’S MAYBELLINE!

Mouse:  Sigh.  I do enjoy our little chats.

Me:  One day mouse.  One day I will set an elaborate trap you won’t see coming.
 
Mouse:  Oh?  Will it involve duct tape?  Oh, oh, oh, I know!  Maybe you could get another one of those clever little boxes that say MOUSE TRAP on the side in big, red letters.  Those are HILARIOUS.  I peed with joy last time you tried that.  I gasped and I said, “OMG! What can THAT possibly be?!”  It was so amusing, you can’t imagine.

Me; You’re still a sarcastic little fucker aren’t you?  Anyway…I thought mice couldn’t read!

Mouse:  Well we can’t talk either, but hey.  Looky!

Me:  You need to go away now.

Mouse:  Cranky!  Anyway, you’re right, it’s past my bedtime, what with me being nocturnal and all, and looks like you’re running late, so guess I’ll see you tonight then? Around midnight? Don’t figure on sleeping, we have things to discuss.  Bye bye.

Me: *$&%^*!

It’s a Meme, Sue Me

I’ve been meaning for a while now to thank the five lovely people who recently and inexplicably gave me awards, obviously because I am such a goddamn wonderful and deserving human being. In fact, I believe all the awards were named “The Just Because You Are Fucking Awesome Award” although I could be mistaken. Even though all the awards demanded slightly different tasks, I’m going to make up my own meme, because frankly, I’ve done all the other ones before, several times and also because, clearly, I make my own rules.

So for the lovely Georgina, for the slightly loopy Muummmmeeeeee, for the excellent Mr. Peevers, the fabulous Brandi and for the totally bonkers Claire, thank you all and here are five things I (mostly) haven’t mentioned before, that might just make me insane.

1) I like to eat ranch flavoured sourdough croutons like potato chips. They’re tasty and crunchy and any old asshole can eat a potato chip, but it takes a monumental genius to eat dry croutons as a snack.

2) I have imaginary conversations with a mouse, for fuck’s sake. Or are they imaginary? You’ll never know.

3) I give things names because I believe all things deserve names. Like my toes. They get names because they’re always feuding with each other. Alfonse (middle toe, left foot) has real problems with Cyrus (neighbouring toe next to pinky toe) so I’m always having to butt in and stop things escalating. The right foot toes have staged a boycott of my Converse stating reasons of crowding and unpleasant working conditions. The ringleader is Big Toe-ny who bullies the others. I know what you’re thinking too. “Why are all your toes male, Veg?” Well they just are.

4) I love the smell of gasoline. I will happily stand in the gas station for ten whole minutes in a state of bliss, eyes closed, breathing in those delicious fumes and feeling at one with the world.

5) I sometimes have elaborate fantasies about living in my car and travelling. Taking out the back seat and building in a bunk bed and some storage and living like a bum. A really freaky awesome bum with great taste and mystique. Whatever that is.

There, wasn’t that enlightening?

Alrighty. Till next time, crazy blog buddies.

Pretty Awful In Pink

Last night, after a hard day of being bossed around by a little project I’m working on for my own personal amusement and managing to break my Tina Feyesque reading glasses (I now look like the remedial kid in middle school who had to tape his frames together, only substantially hotter), I decided to lounge around lethargically and eat Peak Freens Lifestyles Shortcake cookies (things are wonderfully addictive) and watch the John Hughes marathon on TV. Well I watched “The Breakfast Club” anyway, as it’s pretty much the only Hughes movie I can sit through without weeping in agony, which always makes me think BeckEye is going to come round and kick my ass for my audacity in not worshipping the Altar of Hughes.

I’ve seen the movie a ton of times but not recently and not uncut, since usually it’s on early evening or some weekend afternoon so it’s sanitized for our protection, or some nonsense. I just love that TV stations won’t let us hear someone utter the word “fuck” in the afternoon in case it starts a revolution in the bible belt and maybe turns us all into Jesus-hating delinquents and makes the world an “Escape from NY” type of barren, dangerous wasteland filled with vicious criminals wielding rocket launchers and induces us all into eating our own children. Thanks for looking out for us, censors.

Anyway, I can’t remember the last time I saw it with all swearing intact. Also it was reassuring to find that after so many years, I still wanted to pummel Ally Sheedy to a pulp for being supremely irritating and emo and also that I still found Judd Nelson strangely attractive even though he looks sort of like a big sulky racoon with a bandana tied round his boot, is a bit of an asshole, and obnoxious as hell. Something about the scene in the closet with Molly Ringwald near the end where he lets down his defences, is just kind of hot.

There I said it. I find Judd Nelson kind of hot. Hold it against me if you must.

“Pretty in Pink” came on immediately afterwards but I struggle with that movie for so many reasons. See below for the three main ones:

1) Molly Ringwald dresses like someone’s granny who’s gotten a touch demented in her old age. Those hats. Those glasses. Those CLOTHES. What the hell, Molly Ringwald? You’re cute, but even you look like you’ve just been released from some halfway house in that get up. Have you no dignity? Do you own a mirror? I know the eighties were a fashion nightmare but I don’t recall young people walking around looking like they were extras on “The Golden Girls”.

2) Jon Cryer is annoying. He just is. I know he’s supposed to be the lovable sidekick in unrequited love with the heroine (did I mention she looks like someone’s granny?) but he’s just annoying. If he was my friend I’d set him on fire after five minutes of listening to him. Plus who dresses like that? Even in the Eighties you’d get laughed out of town if you wore the shit that guy wears.

3) James Spader. I’m pretty sure this movie is the reason I detest James Spader to this day. He is, bar none, the creepiest actor on TV or film. Honestly, find me someone creepier. It doesn’t matter what part he plays, the character instantly becomes a pervert. James Spader just sort of reeks of windowless vans, chloroform, dime store candy and clammy sweaty lips. I imagine kissing him to be like smooching a gigantic slimy slug. I don’t know much about him but I know this. Somewhere he sits in a crawl space and masturbates to pictures of amputees crying.

So I abandoned “Pretty in Pink” after a torturous half hour of talking to myself and yelling things at the TV, like, “You’re a weedy little asshole Andrew McCarthy!” and “If you’re eighteen, bitchy chick, I’m a pink rhinoceros!” and read some blogs instead.

This is why I’m the calm, peaceful, tranquil being, at one with the Earth, that you see before you today.

Announcement: I Am Not Irish

People need to stop asking me if I’m Irish. They need to stop asking me every St. Patrick’s Day “Are you excited? Are you celebrating tonight? Does it make you homesick?” Because people, I am NOT Irish. Not even a little bit. Quit that. I might be a pasty, strawberry blonde type who is allergic to the Sun and talks funny, but I’m not Irish. I like cabbage and potatoes, but I am not Irish. I have never set foot in Ireland. I have no Irish relatives even. Do I have an Irish accent? No, I do not.

Still, I wish you all a very happy St. Patrick’s Day if you are celebrating, even though it’s not even a real holiday in America. It’s just an excuse to get drunk, wear a silly green hat and kiss strangers while trying not to puke in your handbag, all in the name of a country a huge fuckload of you, like me, have never set foot in and certainly weren’t born in.

See, on St. Pat’s Day suddenly everyone is Irish. But it’s a fallacy, boys and girls. It just isn’t true. There’s an easy equation you can use to determine if you are Irish or not. Although there are some grey areas, for the most part, it goes like this:

If you were born in America, you’re American.
If your parents are both born in Ireland and you were born in America, you’re American-Irish.
If your parents were born in America of Irish descent they’re American and you are even MORE American.
You cannot claim to be Irish if you have never, in your life been to Ireland. Even if you’re entitled to a little passport that says so, because your parents were born there. That’s merely technical.

It’s pretty easy.

Americans have a confusing relationship with nationality. Everyone’s Irish, or German, or Scottish, or Italian or whatever. But most of you are not. Your ancestors might be. Your parents or grandparents might be. But if you were born in America, you’re AMERICAN. There’s nothing wrong with being American. Get over it. Celebrate it. Appreciate it. It’s strong. It’s valuable. It’s wonderful. It’s your home.

So go and parade and drink green Guinness and have a good time. Go celebrate your ancestors or your family’s ancestral homeland or celebrate just because you like Guinness or Irish whiskey or leprechauns or kissing strangers in the street at closing time. You don’t need to be Irish. It's really ok.

You all hate me now don’t you? I totally stuck that to you without mercy. It’s ok though. The truth only makes you stronger. Honest. And not being Irish doesn’t make you a lesser person.

What else can I insult you with now? Oh yes, you should all know that the whisky that matters has no “e” in it.

Flame on, good buddies.

A Conversation

I’m sitting in my office/paint studio/bedroom, wondering out loud how to mix a “vague terracotta” coloured paint, when a mouse nonchalantly saunters under the door and into the room. We stare at each other.

Mouse: Well hi there. What are you doing?

Me: What the fuck?

Mouse: I know, you’re a little shocked I actually stopped to chat when normally I just run under the nearest piece of furniture.

Me: No. I’m a little shocked because you’re a talking mouse.

Mouse: Oh yes. I have many skills. I just thought I’d drop by and say hi. You know, since we’ve been cohabiting for some time now and usually I just come out at night when you’re asleep. It seems a little weird to me that we haven’t officially met.

Me: What are you doing in my house, interloper?

Mouse: Well it’s a funny story actually, but on the long side. Suffice to say there was a hole in the wall and voila! I have to say, I do like your decor.

Me: Never mind my decor. You don’t much like my little live trap full of delicious cheese and peanut butter, do you?

Mouse: Come on now. Do I LOOK stupid? I went to Harvard you know, give me some credit. A little suspicious black box suddenly appears in the middle of the kitchen floor? Did you really think I’d fall for that? Please! Oh, it’s Baxter by the way.

Me: What?

Mouse: That’s my name. Baxter? I thought you might like to use it instead of yelling “COCKSUCKER!” every time you see me, particularly when you get up to pee in the middle of the night and interrupt my detailed examination of your hallway. It sort of freaks me out if you want to know the truth.

Me: Well, excuse me! Maybe if you didn’t just appear from nowhere and scare the living shit out of me…

Mouse: Oh I see. Well I’m terribly sorry about that. Maybe I could do a better job. Perhaps I could play a tiny mouse bugle as a warning, before I pop out in the future? Or perhaps I could fly a tiny mouse flag when I’m in the vicinity, just so you know?

Me: What is that? Is that mouse sarcasm? Are you being sarcastic now?

Mouse: I’m merely making a suggestion. Incidentally, you might try a hard orange with a smidgeon of bright red and a hint of tan.

Me: Excuse me?

Mouse: You wanted a “vague terracotta”? Your paint?

Me: So what…you’re an art expert too?

Mouse: Well, I’ve been watching you for some time. One picks these things up you know. Incidentally, Vague Terracotta sounds like a band. A really lame eighties band with gigantic fringes who take themselves way too seriously.

Me: Who ARE you? And why do you sound like Stewie from “Family Guy”?

Mouse: Baxter. LaRue. My mother’s French.

Me: You need to get out of my house Baxter LaRue.

Mouse: Come on now. That’s a little hostile don’t you think? I’m trying to be polite and helpful here.

Me: You know what would be hostile? If I change that live trap for a springy loud trap that will snap your back in two.

Mouse: Well, you are really not a nice person at all. I could wait till you go out and piss on your pillow. But I’m a better person than that.

Me: Yeah? Well, when you pay the rent you can stay.

Mouse: How much is it?

Me: Six thousand dollars. A week.

Mouse: Ridiculous. Still, I have a rich uncle you know.

Me: Sigh. Of course you do.

Mouse: He bought a lot of tech shares back in the day.

Me: How interesting.

Mouse: Aw come on. I’m cute. I don’t eat much. I stay out of the way. I know about mixing paint. I put up with you listening to that rather mad Russian humming that inane song 30 times a day and I can probably explain about the whole Jacob and Esau thing going on in “Lost” so your brain doesn’t hurt…

Me: I understand “Lost”!

Mouse: Of course you do. That’s why you thought that Sawyer was going to turn out to be Kid Rock.

Me: Oh that was ONE TIME. And I had been drinking vodka.

Mouse: I’m just saying. I’m very smart. I can teach you things.

Me: Hmmmm. I’ll think about it.

Mouse: Please do. And if you need help mixing say, an “obnoxious teal”, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll be under the dishwasher.

Me: Was that a joke? That better be a joke.

So yeah. On to mouse capture Plan B.