memo

to anyone who reads this: thank you.

to anyone who enjoys it: you're welcome.

through the looking glass

Today changed my life forever.

Not really. But I guess you could say I had a check off my "bucket list" (can anyone even hear those words without thinking of that movie with Morgan Freeman? I haven't even seen that movie and I think of it every time) except I didn't know it was on my bucket list (Morgan Freeman) until it happened.

I was stuck in standstill traffic, which usually makes me want to claw people to death starting with their eyes and ending with the soles of their feet, when something happened that made me grateful for the few seconds of stagnation that gave me the time to absorb as much as I could.

I pulled up right next to a girl driving my exact same car.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my car because of the stereotype that comes with it; I do not relate to the typical "bug driver" and I almost resent being put in that category. Luckily, the windows on the other girl's car were just as clear as both my own windows, and the reassuring proof that I definitely DO NOT fall into that category. Even in the little blue monster.

Her bug is in mint condish; paint perfect, all 4 original rims, clean as a whistle, shiny silver license plate frame, flowers in her little dashboard vase. Immaculate. Adorable.

She's in there in her cute little outfit juggling her phone and her mascara, her nails all did, writing in her rhinestone planner with the glitter pen she took out of her giant pink purse. Feminine and put-together. She was probably listening to something by Taylor Swift. Or kesha. Or some other popular pathetic girl singer.

And then there's me. Staring at her. Wearing more of my roommates clothes than my own. My bug looks like it just got back from Nam. The paint has sun damage from never being in a garage. Caked with dirt. Busted headlight. Rims from walmart that are spray-painted black, the vase is empty except for a leaf and some trash. I'm trying to listen to tech9 but my water bottle just spilled all over the passenger seat, totally drenching my ipod making everything sound like distant static. And now traffic's moving. And I'm trying to fix the sound. And soak up the water. And shift gears. And watch bizzarro Madeline, who seems to be unphased by all the commotion transpiring on my side of the black hole.

And then she drove down Paradise and out of my life.

the colossal superbowl catastrophe of 2011

The truth is that the halftime show is included in the Superbowl only to give wives, girlfriends, and other viewers that, for whatever reason, feel forced to watch football a brief intermission from pretending to be interested in the game. It also gives fans a chance to list all the mistakes the teams are making (why do they hire coaches when the fans are so much more knowledgeable?)

That does not mean that the halftime show shouldn't be awesome, though, because the Superbowl is a fairly big deal to many Americans and the exposure is huge; the talent of the performers should be at least equivalent to that of the players.

ie: NOT the Black Eyed Peas.

Synthesizing microphones, flashing electronic light-up costumes, bedazzled microphones, and hundreds of glowing back up dancers were still not enough to distract from the total lack of virtuosity among the headliners.

The four group members just congregated in the middle of the stage moving in sporadic, unsynchronized flailing gyrations and wailing like tortured animals, relying on their autotuners to correct their many vocal mistakes and their shiny LED ensembles to trick audiences into misinterpreting their chaotic motions as choreographed dance.

Slash's solo was cool for about three seconds until Fergie invaded his personal space screeching out Sweet Child Of Mine in a nasal whine that would send Fran Drescher running, and giving a disturbing visual demonstration of what an overpaid 40 year old Jezebel with the stage presence of Terry Schiavo looks like.

If Fergie ever had a "prime," she is way past it.

Usher's appearance was a relative highlight (albeit a short one; less than 2 minutes out of the 13 minute ordeal), though his support of that one preteen girl with Gender Identity Disorder does cost him points in the 'respect' category.

Conversely, consider Michael Jackson's 1993 haltime show. One man, a few fireworks, and a handful of backup dancers no one was watching anyway. Dancing like his body was made of music itself, while singing so melodically his own recording was put to shame. The man conjured more excitement standing in silence letting his moment build than the Black Eyed Sleaze managed to elicit in an entire overly-elaborate show.

Other than that, Greenbay won.

who preys on the predator?

I have always missed out on the funnest shit because I've been sick.

Parties, field trips, concerts, swim meets, sleepovers, hanukkah, christmas, the 8th grade disneyland trip, physics day, field day, MY OWN BIRTHDAY.

I even got to stay home sick when I was homeschooled.

and I have seen every episode of the Price is Right.

Just take a minute to think about how often you use your cell phone. So much more often than you think. What else do you have that you take with you every where you go? Its always on-hand.

After going through 7 or 8 phones in a single year I've gained an insight into this profound dependency we have on our phones. Explore a couple of the conundrums in which I found myself during the dark periods...

For the love of god, what time is it. Someone tell me. Who wears a watch? How do people know what time it is without a phone? Especially in the winter, when the sun goes down at 4 p.m. and the senior citizens flocking to the buffet at Arizona Charlies feel like they're eating dinner at a normal hour, it's not easy to read the sky. I didn't even know people actually used watches to tell time until my phone broke. I just thought they were there to look flashy and establish some kind of hierarchy among CEOs and rappers.

And do people still buy alarm clocks? I was under the impression that those were a thing of the past. How do people wake up in the morning? My only decent idea was to set an online alarm, which failed miserably almost every time. You don't think about these things until they slap you in the face. Kind of like the Law.

WHICH brings me to the meat.

Chris Hansen (Dateline) is, quite probably, the ultimate sexual predator. He has to be. He is trusted by EVERYONE. He is the face of justice in that department; their Covergirl. Even I trust that guy.

But I don't trust that guy.

It makes too much sense that he created his whole show just to ensure his own security. That man is a sociopath.

But as much as I love that show, I can't help but focus on the deeper issue.

The fact that "we the people" have had to constitute and enforce laws prohibiting the solicitation of sex from a minor, AKA a 13 year old girl who's DTF, is nothing short of totally demoralizing. These "predators" who took n'syncs "digital digital get down" a little too seriously are not hardened criminals. They're not masterminds or thugs or aggressive or violent even in the slightest. They're fucking pussies.

I'm not saying that what they're doing isn't totally criminal or disgusting, because it is.

But this is a crime we have brought upon ourselves.

Somewhere out there, there are real 13 year old girls who are really having sex with 40 year old men they met online.

umm....WHAT.

What the hell kind of lives do these girls have? Perhaps instead of focusing on cleaning up the ashes we should first put out the fire.

In a perfect world that would be a beautiful metaphor, but unfortunately there are no laws about instilling sound morals in your children. But there should be.

aaaaaand we're back

did you miss me?

i'm back on this blogging kick, complete with this sweet new layout for all you aesthetic types, so go ahead and eat your heart out.

in honor of my return, i would like to play a little game i like to call what is both the best and the worst show on television?

and the answer is obviously Dog the Bounty Hunter.

things I've learned from working at a pool

Public swimming pools are a cesspool for interesting material. People's true colors come out, and lifeguarding is a great job in the sense that I am getting paid to people watch. Here is a somewhat comprehensive list of things I have learned and observed.

Parents hate their children. They bring their offspring to the swimming pool with the intent and hope that they will drown. I know this because no parent who actually even cared about their child would leave them unattended while they fall beneath the surface, hang on bars, run on deck, and venture off into the blue depths lacking any knowledge of how to even stay above water. It is sobering when I have more concern for a child than the ones who possess the loins from whence they came.

I have also learned that I will never, ever in my life get a tattoo. I don't care how good it looks on a taught young body, tattoos almost never age gracefully. Middle aged pool-goers who have let themselves go (probably a result of their demon kids) with limbs and torsos splashed with tawdry images of skulls and flowers and other meaningless "artworks" that have become morphed and deformed with the unavoidable effects of aging skin provide for an unsightly picture. Some people (a minute group) can pull off the inked look for generations to come; I, however, am not one of them, and have chosen to learn from the mistakes of others.

Which brings me to the bathing suit issue. If you weigh 250 at 5'5 and you feel comfortable in a bikini, power to you. The problem is the others around you are not comfortable with this life decision. And by others I mean myself, because on an elevated stand I see for more than I'm generally ok with. To quote a man with a firm grasp on many concepts, P.G. Wodehouse, "(they) look as if they had been poured into (their suits) and forgot to say when." Its appalling. Where is the shame? The decency?

There's more, but I would now rather write about things I hate about UNLV.

Post Script

It is depressing and frightening that the English language has deteriorated so much that when the correct form of a phrase or sentence is used people think it is wrong or sounds strange. The tag on my Victorias Secret pajama pants reads (the average person would expect to see the word 'says' there instead, which is wrong. Exhibit A.) "I only sleep in...PINK." When correctly interpreted that sentence means that when I wear PINK, the only thing I do is sleep. Are you seeing the problem here? A big fat multimillion dollar company can't even work out how to properly configure a sentence. I venture to guess that what Victoria meant to say here is that "I refuse to sleep in any other brand besides PINK." That is not what "I only sleep in PINK" means, at all. Maybe Victoria's secret is that she failed english class.