Road Trip Soundtrack, Part 2

We polkaed! We got the Led out! We smoothed our hair like Tony Manero! Now we’re going all Ryan Seacrest for Track 5, Imagine Dragons’ “It’s Time”:

I like it all right, you know? It’s not a perfect song, but I like the chunka-chunka/bling-blingy-bling-bling thing they got going, and it’s fun to sing along to. (The line is: “It’s time to begin, isn’t it?” not, “Is it in?” I had thought it was rather evolved of him to share such an embarrassing question.)

Track 6 was “Don’t You Worry” by Swedish House Mafia:

I seldom in my life feel victorious. Do you guys? Do other people? I think no. We just don’t get  a whole lot of opportunities to feel victorious in life. That’s probably why they invented house music. It’s impossible to listen to a rave tune and not be like, “I have vanquished all mine enemies, and now I shall dahnce! DAHNCE!”

Track 7 has really stupid lyrics (Even in a hurricane of frowns/I know that we’ll be safe and sound):

But the Capital Cities duo is adorkable, and it’s not horrible to listen to.

Here’s a truly terrible song for Track 8 though:

Everyone involved in this mess should be drawn and quartered.

Incidentally, until I Shazam-ed this song on Saturday, I believed this artist went by the name Jason the Ruler. Which I thought was really dumb, until I saw that his name was Jason Derulo, and then I thought, “What kind of idiot is named Jason Derulo and doesn’t capitalize on it by adopting Jason the Ruler as his stage name?”

Also, where you think he’s saying, “I find your hairs all over me,” and you’re like GROSS because nothing’s ickier than another person’s stray hairs, he’s actually saying, “Bind your hands all over me.”

What does that mean? I don’t know.

Next up: COUNTRY and PRAYER and AMERICA.

Road Trip Soundtrack, Part 1

I will sell it. on the corner. in order to avoid driving I-95 anywhere between DC and Boston, so on my trip south—sans Dad :( —I took a wide sweeping swing west down I-81 and Route 29.

I pretty quickly grew sick of my podcasts and turned to scanning through local radio stations, which is always a joy. Nothing’s better than when WARM 103.3 Today’s Hits & Yesterday’s Favorites busts out “Take On Me” by A-ha.

By the way, I just learned he’s saying “I’ll be gone in a day or two“, which makes more sense than “I’ll be gone doo doot doo doooooooo“. Also, “steadily learning the piper’s OK” (whew, I was concerned about him) is actually “slowly learning that life is OK”. Also too, “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”. I always understood that’s what the line was, but I never got until Saturday that it’s the fucking loveliest song lyric ever.

You’re all the things I’ve got to remember.

Wow.

Onward! Why are my local radio stations so lame and everywhere else’s so hilarious and/or awesome?

Since I was trundling through Pennsylvania, you might guess Track 1 of our Road Trip Soundtrack: Stanley Pulaski and His Orchestra’s “May June July Polka”, a very jaunty little number. I can’t find a video for it, but it’s available on Polka Party Volume 2 on eBay. (Don’t make a mistake and order Polka Party Volume 1 or you’ll be disappointed!)

Polka Party

Track 2:

Aw, YEAH. Ramble ON, man.

Reminded me of my days riding shotgun in the old Sube, my brother at the helm. All his Led Zeppelin cassettes case-less and kicking about in my footwell, the writing worn off—we had no way of knowing what album it was until we threw it in the tape deck. And then we’d just ROCK OUT. And then we’d go to school.

Track 3:

“Just What I Needed” is in the top ten greatest pop songs ever. Debate me.

Track 4:

Fun fact: My sister is a Bee Gees fan. Like, not ironically or anything. Loathes the Beach Boys, but genuinely enjoys the Bee Gees.

Next installment I hit the Top 40 stations!

I Did a Good, Good Thing, But I Fucked It Up, As Per Uzh

I made soup!

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On the first bite, I was like, “I would ask this soup to prom.” The second bite was also good, but with each subsequent bite, it tasted less like soup and more like dessert.

That didn’t stop me from eating two bowls, but I wondered how I might cut the sweetness next time. I tappity-typed out a comment on the webpage, and just before I hit Post Comment, I thought to myself, “Self, you’re doing great. I don’t want to take anything away from the amazing progress you’ve made in the kitchen. But. When something doesn’t turn out quite right—I’m not saying always, I’m not saying always—just a lot of the time, or all the times I can remember right now, it’s because you’ve made a misstep.”

I considered where I might have gone wrong, and the only sweet thing in there was coconut milk, so I looked at the can.

IMG_6189

Guess what was made of coconut “juice”, sugar, polysorbate 60, a variety of diglycerides, propylene glycol alginate (that sounds healthy), sorbitan monostearate (good for preventing tennis elbow, I’ve heard), guar gum, and locust bean gum. Two kinds of gum. Both guar and locust bean.

Goya, you cabrón. Fucking trickster.

 

Oops, I Missed Retrobruxist Friday, Also the Information Age Is Creepy

For future reference, you can have Retrobruxist ANYDAY, you know. Scroll down a little. See that heading on the right that says Archives? Click the drop-down menu, make a selection, and—bippity boppity boo—a month’s worth of old classic posts. That’s what I do every week! Now you know the magic behind Retrobruxist Fridays!

[Disclaimer: I wasn’t that good at blogging when I started, so maybe skip the first year. Or two, or three. Basically, don’t bother.]

This last Friday, I was busy driving from New England to Queens to see a play that my friends wrote, directed, and produced (I’m biased, but it was objectively EXCELLENT), and I had to get the dogs to their uncle-in-law’s place in Brooklyn for babysitting, and traffic, and what-have-you. It was all very complicated. Forgive me.

In case you were lazy and didn’t DIY:

Three years ago, I was wondering why my friends C and K weren’t married.

Two years ago, I was given an assignment to come up with ten things I liked about my body. I came up with five.

I didn’t write anything a year ago because I was on vacation.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I cobbled together a WOD with the resources available to me, namely a picnic bench, a rock, and a Walker-Bay. By the way, I started Fat CrossFitter six weeks ago, and it already has more Facebook Likers than Avid Bruxist, which I began in August 2009. Granted, some are the same people, but still. Maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time—people don’t want to hear about dogs or dates or lawn mowers, they want EXERCISE.

Which reminds me, my birthday’s coming up (in 3 months), and I want this shirt.

We Are the Best

Anywhoodle, I got home from vacation last night. My fridge held an onion, some tahini, and a container of moldy lunchmeat, so I went Krogering this morning, and the cash register spit out these coupons with my receipt—you know, the ones for products similar to what you’ve purchased in the past?

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Pampers.

Pampers and wipes.

You know where I’ve never bought a product for a baby? Ever? Like ever-ever?

Kroger.

The whimsical-faerie-who-believes-in-a-speaking-Universe part of me wanted to believe it was a sign—a sign. About the time being right. About my capability to parent a child. I must procreate! The coupons decree it!

Alas, all I can think is that when I registered for an account with California Cryobank a couple weeks ago, they immediately sold me out to the grocery man.

Happy Conspiracy-Theory Sunday, y’all!

I’m Too Tired to Think of a Title/My Dad’s Funny

I drove up the mountain to pick up my Dad for our annual pilgrimage. The first night as we ate dinner, he said, “Earthfare’s pork chops can definitely use some seasoning. (muttering) Tofu-fed hogs.”

There was a pause, and then his eyes lit up. “There’s one for your blog!” he exclaimed.

I was concerned that this self-awareness might ruin things, that he might start trying to say things for your benefit. I needn’t have worried. He quickly fell back into his usual stream-of-whatever.

…

“I used to think I wanted to retire to Florida. Now I think I want to retire to Bosnia. I think I terrified my beautician yesterday when I told her I just want to go where the bullets fly.”

My favorite part of this is that Dad calls the lady at Supercuts his beautician.

…

(to Redford, who was nosing the garbage can) “Get outta there! (contrite) I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

…

(as he was packing) “Look at this organized guy!” (This one’s funny if you recall how he packs.)

…

It sprinkled for the first hour of our trip, but when the rains started in earnest, he said, “Who would’ve predicted?!… Well, a meteorologist.”

…

Me, around lunchtime: “I’m hungry. All I had this morning was a banana and some grapes.”
Dad: “I’m hungry too! I didn’t have anything for breakfast, except a banana… and lots of ice cream.”

…

“You always pick the most interesting places. I would never think to stop here.”

I had pulled into Burger King.

“Last year, you stopped at Taco Bell, and we had a fine meal.”

…

I turned on So You Think You Can Dance in the motel room. Mary Murphy was fist-pumping and wooing. “I wonder why Americans have the reputation of being dumb.”

After the second time Nigel made a dubious joke: “Is that guy funny, or is there a sign up above his head that says ‘Laugh’?”

We watched five routines, then: “What is this inane show about, and why does the audience keep clapping?”

…

Dad: “I don’t want to dull these scissors by cutting plastic. I might need them sharp later.”
Me: “What will you need them sharp for?”
Dad: “I don’t know. Cutting hair out of nostrils or something.”

…

Dad wanted to stop at Walmart or Kmart to buy “some $2.98 Chinese canvas shoes”. “A couple of years ago, I bought some Keen’s. They cost about $65. I got them wet once, and they smelled like a bucket of dead worms.”

…

“I was thinking, as a hobby, I should learn a couple hundred jokes and tell them to people. ‘Man and a monkey walked into a bar’—that kind of thing.”

Dad, I don’t think you need to.

And You Act Like One Too

Last summer, I posted on Facebook something like, “When I’m mowing the lawn, why do the guys in my neighborhood think that I’m putting on some sort of show for them?”

A guy-friend later told me it “sounded like a bit of a humble-brag” to him, and as soon as he said that—of course it did. But that’s not at all what I meant.

I don’t mow the lawn in a bikini. I’m usually in my workout clothes, post-WOD, because what the hell, I’m already stinky—let’s do this thing. So I’m out there, dripping sweat, hair disheveled, wrestling with my gas-powered cheapo. It’s not sexy. It’s not attractive. It’s not graceful, or even out of the ordinary (this is 2013, right?—women do all kinds of crazy things, like work outside the home and stuff, right?). What I’m saying is I can’t imagine it’s nice or interesting in any way to watch.

And yet.

They hang their heads out their windows. They slow down. They stare. I’m some kind of zoo animal.

Yesterday a dude stopped his car and gawked at me.

I gave him my best stankface, and he shlooped his head back into his car and drove away. But part of me wanted to turn off the mower and pretend to fling poo at him.

Retrobruxist Friday 6/whatdayisit?/2013

I was driving along this afternoon with all the windows down—yesterday’s squall having blown the heat and humidity elsewhere, thank god—listening to Top 40 radio, and I realized

Life is so, so good

Of course, all it took was trying on two sports bras to crush my soul.

You take the good, you take the bad, I guess.

Three years ago, I learned when puberty begins.

Two years ago, I altered my to-do list, and good things happened. Well, one good thing happened.

Last year this time, I learned whether my dogs were good guard dogs.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I did the Filthy Fifty for the third time, and I’m genuinely scared/have a very first-world problem.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Has Anyone Ever Told You You Look Just Like Crispin Glover?

Some sperm banks have a Donor Look-Alike menu. Like, in addition to sorting donors by eye color, height, ethnicity, and astrological sign—are you fucking kidding me?—you can also search for jizz-givers that resemble your favorite actor, rockstar, or professional tennis player.

Some of them I’d never heard of, like Alexander Skarsgard who I had to Google—meow!—and Lance Guest who they clarified with a parenthetical “Last Starfighter”. I’m assuming that’s a recent starring vehicle of his, but I didn’t bother to search the internet for him because Lance Guest is a dumb name and “Last Starfighter” sounds like a rip-off of Star Trek on the CW network. You know, where it’s all sculpted 20-somethings playing angsty teens and doing a lot of chin-acting. While fighting stars. And I couldn’t tolerate having a kid who looks like anyone whose parents named him Lance and who has made such poor hypothetical career choices.

Several had “(young)” next to their names:

Alec Baldwin (young)
Al Pacino (young)

Just, I guess, so you wouldn’t think you were getting the bloated/wizened versions that show up on your TV or movie screen these days.

A couple had the name, and then the name again with “(young)” next to it:

Chuck Norris
Chuck Norris (young)

I mean, the cut-off age for donors is 39, so are they saying that have a donor who looks like a Chuck Norris in his prime and another less-than-40-year-old who looks 73?

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s Chuck Norris.

Unless he shaves his beard.

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Then it matters.

If I were to choose the Chuck Norris look-alike, that baby’d better emerge from my womb fully bearded or I’d demand a refund.

They specified that it was the thin Seth Rogen and the Anthony Edwards from Top Gun. Whew.

They had a few I was drawn to—Andy Samberg, Jason Segel, Ricky Gervais—until I remembered these were look-alikes, not funny-alikes. I don’t want somebody who looks like Andy Samberg unless he can also generate some “Threw It on the Ground” action.

Same with John Krasinski. What if my baby’s a dead ringer for Jim Halpert but can’t do a perfect deadpan-followed-by-minute-eyebrow-raise? I’d be so disappointed.

Before I saw No Country for Old Men, I would’ve picked a Javier Bardem doppelgänger in a hot second, but his portrayal of Anton Chigurh insured that that’ll never happen. Also that I’ll never sleep a perfect night’s sleep again.

And then there was Bronson Pinchot. I… I don’t think looking like Bronson Pinchot is a selling point. I think, just as a business decision, the sperm bank might want to keep that to themselves.

They Should Be Called Bloatdragons

There is no food whose name so belies its evil constitution as hushpuppies.

You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!

Me & chug puppySpeaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.

IMG_5657_2Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.

OK, I got derailed.

Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurts my very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.

Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.

And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ’em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.

They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.

But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?