Snack Sized

Wednesday, March 16th, 2011 – zoning out, harbouring serious St. Patrick’s hate, requiring haircut

Apparently it is zero degrees today. I’m not sure if Canada's just not having any weather – maybe a weather strike since everyone's so fed up with winter – or if it’s actually a sign that maybe snow is about to start melting. I’m bouncy with excitement. However, my excitement was somewhat short lived after I realized that I’ve bought four Tim Horton’s coffees in the last week, during their famous, “Roll up the rim and win” season, fully believing my cup contained the keys to a new Toyota, a tropical island vacation, a lifetime’s supply of chocolate, a new season of “Lost”, or at the very least a free goddamn coffee and for what? Nothing. I hereby suggest they should change the name of their stupid game to, “roll up the rim and weep, LOSER”.

There, I feel better for having got that off my chest.

How are YOU fine specimens today? You’re all looking fancy. Yes indeed. Fancy and flirty. But seriously, put on some underwear.

My mood is a bit uppity today. It’s the changing of the seasons (and the clocks). I go from worrying about the people in Japan, one moment, to thinking about nude vs. bright nail polish in the next. I go from debating the intricate nuances of the French language, to “OMG, the Slatkin & Co. ‘pink sangria’ candle at Bath and Body Works might be the most heavenly scent ever invented, I want to take off all my clothes and rub it all over me.”

I also strongly suspect there’s a rogue wire in my bra making a bid for freedom. Something pointy is definitely interfering with my mellow in that region.

Lastly, why does Gwyneth Paltrow keep bleating indignantly about the supposed 10lbs of weight she had to put on for “Country Strong” and how her body repulsed her afterwards? She looked the same skinny, undernourished string bean she did before, to me. Maybe it was 10 lbs of angst, Gwyneth? Eat a goddamn sandwich and shut up.

It All Comes Down To Satan and Pie

Monday, March 14th, 2011, mid-March, still kinda wintery

I can’t really fathom what it must be like to be in Japan right now, amidst a giant crock pot of fuckery, where every conceivable force of nature or man, seems to want to wipe your very existence out.

 It’s making for most unsatisfactory thoughts and I’m thousands of miles away. Those poor people? I wager they’re not sitting there safe and comfortable, sipping hot coffee and sucking on some toffee chocolate balls, like I am. They’re trying to be someplace where there’s less possibility of expiring from radiation sickness, lava or their house falling on them. If they still have a house. This is making me frown an unnatural amount.

I hate to mention him again, but I have slightly worrying idea that Charlie Sheen might factor into this. It seems the more insanity he spouts, the harder Japan gets pounded. I’m pretty sure there’s a correlation there somewhere, if we just look hard enough…

Anyway, here’s to those people having some sanity and semblance of normalcy restored again someday.
In other news, I’m not sure what I did to deserve this, somewhat illiterate, word verification:

So close, Blogger, so close

Finally, for the person (and you know who you are) who emailed me the other day complaining about the severe and unforgiveable lack of pie charts on my blog recently, here, just for you, is a long overdue pie chart.

Happy now? Okay.

Rocky Mountain Hi!

Friday, March 11th, 2011 – aaaaaaaaaaaaagh

So are we all ready to learn something outstanding about Colorado?  I’m sure you’ve been camped out here since Monday, trembling with excitement.  Who can blame you?  

Let’s get on with the titillating subject of Colorado’s claims to fame.  To sum it up succinctly, it has snow and mountains and old people, the Columbine massacre and Hunter S. Thompson.  The end.

I’m kidding. Mostly.  It also had John Denver, who named himself after its capital city.  Mr. Denver had a great love for Colorado, a penchant for flying (and crashing), and the haircut of a 1970s’ Bavarian milk maid.

You’d have to be Rocky Mountain High to sport that hairstyle
I’m not even going to mention the shirt.  Oops.  Just did.

Okay. Here’s some pseudo geography for you.  Colorado forms the north eastern corner of the “four corner” states and is stock full of every kind of scenery imaginable – forest, sand dunes, mountains, plains, desert, mesas, canyons, rainforests, jungles, black holes and quicksand.    At least some of those are true, which ones, are entirely up to you.

Colorado is obviously famous for its snow sports and mountain resorts like Aspen and Vail, due to its hosting the state’s most famous residents, the Rocky Mountains, which take up most of the western half of the state, while plains and forest land occupy the eastern side. The Continental Divide also runs through the Rockies. I’m not sure what continents it divides exactly, but I like to imagine they’re the continents of “batshit insane” to the east and “bat-Sheen insane” to the west.  See what I did there? Now who’s winning?  I am. 

Most of Colorado’s population lies east of the mountains – in cities like the state capital, Denver and its close northern neighbour, Boulder.  Now if we can talk about Boulder for a second here.  I always imagine Boulder was named by idiots.  They reached the foothills of the mountains, surrounded by giant stones, started a settlement there and then thought, “Hmmm.  What to name this rocky outpost… Oh I KNOW!”
  
Nowadays, Boulder is a liberal city, known for its generous sprinkling of patchouli scented hippies, who arrived in the 1960s and never left, the illegal substances that come with hippies and a bunch of university students, who possibly also come with illegal substances and who smell even worse than hippies.   Screw all that though.  Who else when they hear about Boulder, immediately thinks of Mork and Mindy?

I used to love “Mork and Mindy”.  What was I thinking?  Any dude that hairy who was as annoying  as Mork in real life would get his ass handed to him in ten seconds. 

Also a popular destination in Colorado is its second largest city, Colorado Springs. Now I COULD go and look it up on the Information Super Highway and tell you all sorts of interesting true facts about it, but I prefer to think that it was named after some very special hot springs that contain the fountain of youth, which might explain why these little Colorado residents have been nine for about fourteen years.

.

Lastly, you’ll be thrilled as I was to find out that a whopping 25% of Coloradans are delightfully dirty heathens, making it the highest percentage of any state we’ve covered so far. Hooray! I also like to think that fine statistic is due to the above young gentlemen and their potty mouths. Who doesn’t love South Park?  A moron, that’s who.

And that about does it for Colorado.  I know it’s a little thin, but goddamn it, I’m tired.   You all have a fine weekend, okay?

Can You “Like” a Tantrum?

Wednesday, March 9th, 2011 – what is my skin tone, croissants, like, like, like

People, what’s up with everyone having to “like” every damn thing? Has the whole world turned into Facebook now? Are we going to have to click “like” buttons in the supermarket when they have an especially abundant crop of tomatoes? Are we going to start actually growing crops and inviting people we hardly know to water them? Will real life “poking” of strangers ever be legal?

I don’t WANT to “like” everything. I DON’T like everything. And even if I loved the shit out of everything, I don’t really care if the rest of the world knows I like it or not. Because, I know they don’t ultimately CARE. Plus I don’t give a giant donkey scrotum if YOU “like” something or not, all I want to know from anything is, will it entertain me, bring me cake on demand or fuel my flagging ego with flattery.

For the record, I don’t click “like” ever. I object to even having the option to register my indifferent opinion. Which isn’t even an opinion anyway, it’s a generic statement. It just means “I read this thing you posted and somewhat concur with your opinion but in the grand scheme of things I don’t really care and have already moved on and this is merely a reflex reaction as the button was there and I am a sheep.” If I like your article/post etc., I'll leave you a comment not click some button.

Really I just don't like being told what to do.

Where’s my “This Sucked Balls” button? Or maybe a “You are clearly bonkers” button? I’d settle for a good, hearty, “Fuck off” or "who gives a rat's ass?" option. On the positive side, there could be a big, blingy "You are a genius and deserve cake" button for those very extreme occasions you just can't help yourself and have to declare your admiration.

I’m starting to think people who “like” stuff have an addiction because they seem to feel they have to “like” anything they see that they don’t actively DISLIKE. I protest, I really do. I also just know some wise ass is going to find a way to “like” this entry, just to fuck with me. So don’t do that. Because I have boots and they have a magnetic attraction to your ass.

I think that’s it. Please continue and I’ll take my bad ass mood someplace else.

A Quick One With Vaginas

Tuesday, March 8th, 2011 – craving a cold, icy beer

I don’t want you all thinking I’ve been debating ladies’ front bottoms all night or anything, because I haven’t, I much prefer thinking about men and their delightfulness, however, did you ever wonder how ladies, in the glamour days of old Hollywood, dealt with uh…how can I put this politely? Their AREAS? I mean, there’s a distinct possibility this hasn’t even crossed your mind, since not everyone is as inquisitive and badass-smart (!) and possibly deranged as I am, but I can’t see an old movie, where some beautiful, perfectly made-up starlet is relaxing by the pool in a swimsuit that looks like a romper suit, without thinking, “I wonder if that beguiling creature is smuggling a noonie like a sasquatch under that high waist swimsuit, ready to terrify Cary Grant later?” and then staring at it to see if I can catch a glimpse of any of it trying to escape.

So I have a few issues.

I mean we’re all used to modern times, where it’s just understood that a girl will do a little carpet taming in her private basement, if you get my drift. We all know that a little trimming or landscaping or shaving keeps things in check and guarantees we don’t scare any small animals, large men or passing postal workers, when wandering around the house in our birthday suits. And we’ve also seen photos of ladies in the terrifying seventies, when free love was all the range, complete with organic foodstuffs, smoking anything not nailed down, holding chickens and sporting a bush you could hide a family of illegal immigrants in.

But what about all those glamour girls of the thirties and forties and those prim, good girls-next-door from the fifties who spend their time making casseroles for neighbours and being very proper wives? I can’t really picture any of them perched in their boudoirs, one leg up on the bathtub, wielding a BIC disposable in one hand and a glass of gin in the other, while trying desperately not to nick off chunks of her business. I can’t imagine adorably perky Sandra Dee, trying to shave a love heart into her fleshy purse with a beard trimmer or Ingrid Bergman burning the hell out of her undercarriage with Nair, because she was too lazy to read the instructions.

It’s not that I’m consumed by these thoughts or anything, but I genuinely want to know. Were there secret, sadistic waxers already in business in the old days, ready to come to your house incognito, perhaps masquerading as the Avon Lady but armed and ready to rip the hair off your mary till it looks like Vin Diesel?

Those old time ladies were tough broads, you know!

California: You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011 – yogurt, fruit, shin bruise, balls

I’m sitting here, with what feels like a really angry man with a fistful of hammers bouncing around inside my eyeball, wondering what I can teach you all about this week’s guest state – California. Because there’s so much to know about California it could take a month. Of course, I’m not about to tell you any of that text book stuff. Pffft!

However, did you know that 75% of all American runaways and vagrants, head for the warmth and prosperity of California? Okay, I totally made that up, but it sounds like it’s probably spot on so let’s go with it. After all California’s got it all going on. Medical marijuana, sunshine, beaches, desert, wine, serial killers, ocean, good looking people looking to be stars, palm trees, agriculture and it’s all governed by The Terminator. What’s not to like?

Except maybe the serial killers. And that one rapey looking truck driver with the ZZ Top beard, one time near Bakersfield, who looked me up and down at a rest stop and suggested I might like to get to know him biblically in the cab of his truck. Sure dude, you’re EXACTLY my type.

Now California is a beautiful state, we all know it. Whether you’re a fan of the beach, palm trees and surf, of sampling wines in Napa, or doing whatever the fuck people like to do in San Francisco when not touching each other’s bottoms on The Castro or floating around Haight Ashbury (yes it IS 1967!), you’ll find something to like about it.

 I’d like to state right here that one of the happiest moments of my life was driving across the Golden Gate Bridge in a convertible, which might sound sad to you, but to me it was awesome. Because San Francisco is the bees knees and I always wanted to see it, so it was exotic to my poor foreign self.

Plus they have really good chocolate there so you didn’t have to eat that Hershey shit. And yummy sour dough bread. And if anyone knows anything about me, I can be bought really easily with either of those two items. Plus to get there I had to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur and well…if you’ve ever done THAT you know how kick ass a ride that is. Less so if you drive off one of those cliffs though, I imagine.

Now California was once part of Mexico, directly to its south (the southern part of California [appropriately named Baja California] still IS Mexico) and Mexico is, possibly correctly, still a little miffed about this. All I know is, California’s relationship and proximity to Mexico means it’s a prime location to get a decent margarita and not one of those pussy TGIF theme-bar type drinks either. I’m talking full-on, knock you on your ass, tequila-filled margaritas – the type where you have a few innocent drinks one night in San Diego and wake up next morning in a basement in Calexico, with a migraine, a tattoo of a rooster on your arm, a canvas sack full of pesos from a bank in Mexicali, a guy who looks like Danny Trejo sprawled naked beside you and no idea what just happened.

Come on, you know what I’m talking about…

California’s had many unofficial ambassadors in its time, like the Beach Boys who brought vocal harmonies to new, undiscovered heights and made you dream of vintage cars and Sandra Dee and SoCal surfing even if you’d never left Cleveland in your life, or like the slightly less desirable Manson Family, who were horseshit crazy and possibly indulged in a few hallucinogenic substances in their time, which turned them into crazy psycho hippies, some of whom wound up butchering people in their homes and writing messages in blood and having substandard TV movies filmed about them for all eternity.

California also hosts at least part of my favourite place on Earth – Death Valley. I can’t think of any place I’ve been that I loved as much as DV. It’s just perfect. Here’s a photo I took there.

Either you think it’s beautiful or you don’t. I love sparse scenery that looks like some alien landscape and of course sand dunes, so I was in my element. Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go there, do it. Plus there’s something freaky about standing way below sea level in 120 degree heat, knowing you could die at any second by all your bodily fluids evaporating.

What else? Yes. California is the most heavily populated state of all 50 states. Probably due to all those vagrants moving there and the size of all those big, Hollywood egos. According to Wiki-God-of-truth, only 34 countries on Earth have larger populations than California. Whoa!

Also, Los Angeles alone has more people than 42 STATES in the U.S. Does that blow anyone else’s mind like it does mine? The state most likely to have crazy people in it, has more people than almost anywhere else.

Whatever California is, it has a part of my heart due to its liberalism, its scenery, its weather and well…the margarita thing again, obviously. It bears repeating.

Let’s talk religion though, as we always do at this point. How many heathens doth California boast? 21% of the population actually. Higher than most of the states we’ve talked about so far but not nearly as high as I was expecting, what with all that free love and serial killing that went on in the sixties, not to mention people who worship trees and like…lentils. Still, it’s a predominantly Catholic state, probably due to its Latin population, who somehow manage to combine Jesus and tequila and still function without the world ending or anything. Pay attention Utah!

That’s about it really. I thought I was pretty complimentary to old Cali. Usually I’m all up in the grill of everywhere but I guess its laid back California surf attitude rubbed off on me a little.
Sort of like that trucker in Bakersfield once tried to.

Next week, it WILL be Colorado, who was supposed to be before this one but I got all confused. Don’t pretend to be surprised.

Please Pay Attention to the Pre-Flight Safety Instructions

Tuesday, March 1st, 2011 – Meh

Holy pig balls, guys. I can only apologize for not bombarding your fine blogs with inane comments the past few days but I’ve had the most enormous, fuck-off sized eye headaches. This is due to a combination of my sinuses being hijacked by Osama Bin Laden (probably) and the fact I have light grey eyes which are about as light sensitive as a man with fourteen eyes who’s been released into the face of the Sun after ten years locked in a dark, rapey basement. Ouchy. I can barely stand to look at a computer screen for more than five minutes without swooning Vivian Leigh style and proclaiming, “BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!” in the voice of one of the Gremlins.

Tomorrow, come back here for some California Dreaming.

I’m off now to bathe my eyes in something soothing.