Monday, July 26, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Next book review and more about dicks!
If there were a book for Shelly D to review, it's this one! Also, this local news clip is funny and awkward:
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Betwetter, and other things
Dear Internet,
I am about to go where I've not gone before: reviewing a book. It's been a few months since I've actually sat down to read anything besides The New Yorker (which apparently we don't get anymore or someone in our building is stealing) and books about finance. (I like to say Fih-nance, because it makes me feel elitist.) In any event, on a regular rendezvous to Border's on Sunday, I actually bought a book. Two in fact. One is a serious book by Cormac McCarthy, and the other is The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman.
Even though I'm a really big fan of stand up comedy, I never really got into Sarah Silverman. I actually had no real opinion of her, except of course thinking that I'm Fucking Matt Damon was the best thing, well maybe not as good as Dick in a Box. The best thing is actually this, after the fact:
Getting back to my original point. I was wandering around Border's in search of something that would give me brain nutrients, when The Bedwetter made me stop in my tracks. The book has gotten reasonably good reviews all around, so I figured I might as well get a copy. And I did, at 30% off. Hardcover no less. And I never buy hardcover.
Anyhow. It's actually quite good. And funny. Funnier maybe than her stand up. Especially all the stuff about dicks. There are even pictures and drawings of dicks. And an Afterword by God.
In general I have nothing relevant to say other than that I like it and it made me laugh when I was sort of bored and sad.
On a completely different note, I keep getting mustard in my nails. It's actually pretty gross, and scary since now it's moved out of happening in my drunk life and is happening in my sober life.
Shelly.
This is a crappy post.
I am about to go where I've not gone before: reviewing a book. It's been a few months since I've actually sat down to read anything besides The New Yorker (which apparently we don't get anymore or someone in our building is stealing) and books about finance. (I like to say Fih-nance, because it makes me feel elitist.) In any event, on a regular rendezvous to Border's on Sunday, I actually bought a book. Two in fact. One is a serious book by Cormac McCarthy, and the other is The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman.
Even though I'm a really big fan of stand up comedy, I never really got into Sarah Silverman. I actually had no real opinion of her, except of course thinking that I'm Fucking Matt Damon was the best thing, well maybe not as good as Dick in a Box. The best thing is actually this, after the fact:
Getting back to my original point. I was wandering around Border's in search of something that would give me brain nutrients, when The Bedwetter made me stop in my tracks. The book has gotten reasonably good reviews all around, so I figured I might as well get a copy. And I did, at 30% off. Hardcover no less. And I never buy hardcover.
Anyhow. It's actually quite good. And funny. Funnier maybe than her stand up. Especially all the stuff about dicks. There are even pictures and drawings of dicks. And an Afterword by God.
In general I have nothing relevant to say other than that I like it and it made me laugh when I was sort of bored and sad.
On a completely different note, I keep getting mustard in my nails. It's actually pretty gross, and scary since now it's moved out of happening in my drunk life and is happening in my sober life.
Shelly.
This is a crappy post.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Goobs to the Rescue. Or Not.
Dear Internet,
I'm going to come right out and say it. One of my boobs is bigger than the other. Everyone has this defect. At least that's what the internet and my doctor told me. But at this point in life, it's starting to annoy me.
For one, what the hell is wrong with humanity that one boob needs to be bigger than the other. I understand hands. I even understand feet. Incredibly, I even understand one leg being longer than the other. But boobs? Why?
Why am I so irritated by this? Well, you know I'll tell you. I went to a Divinity School Happy Hour / Cocktail Party with Mike. And because I was nervous, I, as usual, grappled with my breasts to find the right thing to say.
For those of you who don't understand this, boobs are a huge source of comfort. Big or small, dilapidated or burgeoning, they represent something altogether calming, even to the point of forgetting where one is. I think most of you can understand, actually.
In any event, as I sat dining on yet another mediocre hot dog, I sat, holding one breast only to find that is was bigger than the other. Now, granted, I knew this already. But every time I find it more annoying when I "re-discover" this fact.
Can't think of anything to do? Well, grab a goob (I didn't misspell that) and your love will continue to be fleeting. Especially when you realize, again, that one boob is bigger than the other.
It's an incredibly annoying thing for me. Especially because I have equilibrium / symmetry hang ups.
Even this pair of muppet boobs is uneven:
Please notice how the muppet's left boob (our right, for those tarts) is bigger, and the beads in her string top gravitationally swing to stage right? It's true for even non-humans.
And now, my day is totally ruined because King Solomon, lord of the giant swirly cats, just took a huge poop that ruined my thought process.
Shelly.
I'm going to come right out and say it. One of my boobs is bigger than the other. Everyone has this defect. At least that's what the internet and my doctor told me. But at this point in life, it's starting to annoy me.
For one, what the hell is wrong with humanity that one boob needs to be bigger than the other. I understand hands. I even understand feet. Incredibly, I even understand one leg being longer than the other. But boobs? Why?
Why am I so irritated by this? Well, you know I'll tell you. I went to a Divinity School Happy Hour / Cocktail Party with Mike. And because I was nervous, I, as usual, grappled with my breasts to find the right thing to say.
For those of you who don't understand this, boobs are a huge source of comfort. Big or small, dilapidated or burgeoning, they represent something altogether calming, even to the point of forgetting where one is. I think most of you can understand, actually.
In any event, as I sat dining on yet another mediocre hot dog, I sat, holding one breast only to find that is was bigger than the other. Now, granted, I knew this already. But every time I find it more annoying when I "re-discover" this fact.
Can't think of anything to do? Well, grab a goob (I didn't misspell that) and your love will continue to be fleeting. Especially when you realize, again, that one boob is bigger than the other.
It's an incredibly annoying thing for me. Especially because I have equilibrium / symmetry hang ups.
Even this pair of muppet boobs is uneven:
Please notice how the muppet's left boob (our right, for those tarts) is bigger, and the beads in her string top gravitationally swing to stage right? It's true for even non-humans.
And now, my day is totally ruined because King Solomon, lord of the giant swirly cats, just took a huge poop that ruined my thought process.
Shelly.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
We Have Great Soup: Lies About Pickles & Rice
Dear Internet,
After two weekends of fairly total debauchery, Mike and I figured it was high time to start hating on Chicago again. The latter part of April brought forth a unending flow of alcohol that led me to delirium tremens as well as many hours attempting to recall the stupid, ridiculous, and simply crazy things I had said and done to people I had just met and, God willing, probably won't meet again.
Yesterday, mostly without intention, ended up being a trifecta of crap ass. And crap ass food, which is the theme of this post.
1. Smallest Hot Dog Ever Makes Shelly an Angry Gal. The day started out well enough: we had enough toilet paper. The coffee wasn't burned by the time I mustered the willpower to get out of bed. My shower wasn't totally frigid. It had all the elements of being a decent day. But after taking the longest bus ride on the face of the planet from Hyde Park to the Loop, and we were starving, it was time to really shit things up.
As hot dogs are a very hot commodity in the Second City, Mike decided it was a good idea to check Yelp! for some suggestions. I have maintained for several months now that the jerk offs that review restaurants and bars on Yelp! are full of crap, and wouldn't know good food from an anteater, but nonetheless I went along with it because we were in some far off land of frat boys so I figured these douche bags would be able to pick out a good hottie from a bad one. Well I was wrong. Dead Wrong.
First of all, it was the smallest hot dog ever. Certainly not a Vienna Beef. Also, if you will think back to all of the hot dog pictures I've ever posted on this blog you would be destroyed when you saw this. This hot dog, although charred, was reminiscent of one of the crappy hot dogs you can get in Liberty Plaza: the ones that don't fill you up and frankly (wink wink) taste like wet cardboard. On top of its smallness, it was not coupled with a pickle spear or neon relish. Do you believe this? They used pickle chips. Where am I? I must have been in the nexus of the Chicago universe, or maybe even Des Plaines, because this was simply not right.
Beyond the pickle chip and non-neon relish, it was also proffered up with a stale bun that upon first bit splintered into a million pieces and I surrendered. What kind of surrender do you ask? Well, I didn't eat the hot dog.
The Horror. The Horror. (Make sure you read this whispering in a Marlon Brando-esque Kurtz voice. Commence eating mangoes and letting the juice drip down your arm while you earn $3 Million for showing up late.)
I didn't even take a picture I was so upset. I actually am still upset. Hence the blatant Apocalypse Now reference.
2. Bread and Sugar in Square Format is Expensive. After the hot dog debacle (I just learned how to spell this -- I was always adding a Long Island accent to the phonetics making it "de-baucle") I decided I was going to find De Stijl on vinyl.
Getting back to the point. The record store was a bust since there was no copy of De Stijl and I was too irritated to ask the owner to order it for me, what with the internet and all. I did get OK COMPUTER on vinyl, which, in the interim, will satisfy some vague need for something. Although I don't know what that something is. I fought an internal battle not to buy Icky Thump and The Chronic, only remembering later that I should have looked for Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds.
What an ass. So anyway. We went onward into the valley of frat boys and boutiques in quest of a bar. Instead of a bar I bought some awesome magnets. And then we went to some waffle house where you can order a waffle on the street through a window. Max would love it, by the way.
By now you should realize the problem: it was now close to 5:30 PM and I had not had a beer yet.
Mike, a graduate student at the acclaimed University of Chicago, doesn't know how to read a menu. He thought that the waffle itself cost $0.91. So digging around in his pockets he found $0.91 and ordered a waffle with powdered sugar. I hung out in the gutter smoking cigarettes and wondering if you can drink in public in Lincoln Park. Mike was dismayed to learn that the waffle not only did not cost $0.91, but that the sugar cost $0.91, and the waffle was actually $6.00. Total for square bread with sugar: $6.91. Not worth it.
3. It Doesn't Datter How Much You Like Pickles. Pickle and Rice Roup is Disgusting.
I learned this the hard way. Or rather, with a Polish man forcing me to get this bizarre concoction. First off, it looked like vomit. Second, it tasted exactly like what it said it would taste like: pickles and rice. Except worse because I didn't think it would be so disgusting. The reason I caved in was because there was no red borscht, which is what I was craving, so I would have probably agreed to anything at that point.
This was the culminating point of my day. From there on out it was ruined. And I still hadn't had a beer.
I should have airbrushed myself in that photo. Or at least been more Kim Kardashian-ish. Whatever that is -- I don't have much of an ass so that would be difficult.
I don't even have anything to say now because reliving that pickle soup moment has placed in me such a state of despair that all I can do is look at sketch pictures with the crayons from the Mason jar. That, or smoke crack rocks.
Shelly D.
After two weekends of fairly total debauchery, Mike and I figured it was high time to start hating on Chicago again. The latter part of April brought forth a unending flow of alcohol that led me to delirium tremens as well as many hours attempting to recall the stupid, ridiculous, and simply crazy things I had said and done to people I had just met and, God willing, probably won't meet again.
Yesterday, mostly without intention, ended up being a trifecta of crap ass. And crap ass food, which is the theme of this post.
1. Smallest Hot Dog Ever Makes Shelly an Angry Gal. The day started out well enough: we had enough toilet paper. The coffee wasn't burned by the time I mustered the willpower to get out of bed. My shower wasn't totally frigid. It had all the elements of being a decent day. But after taking the longest bus ride on the face of the planet from Hyde Park to the Loop, and we were starving, it was time to really shit things up.
As hot dogs are a very hot commodity in the Second City, Mike decided it was a good idea to check Yelp! for some suggestions. I have maintained for several months now that the jerk offs that review restaurants and bars on Yelp! are full of crap, and wouldn't know good food from an anteater, but nonetheless I went along with it because we were in some far off land of frat boys so I figured these douche bags would be able to pick out a good hottie from a bad one. Well I was wrong. Dead Wrong.
First of all, it was the smallest hot dog ever. Certainly not a Vienna Beef. Also, if you will think back to all of the hot dog pictures I've ever posted on this blog you would be destroyed when you saw this. This hot dog, although charred, was reminiscent of one of the crappy hot dogs you can get in Liberty Plaza: the ones that don't fill you up and frankly (wink wink) taste like wet cardboard. On top of its smallness, it was not coupled with a pickle spear or neon relish. Do you believe this? They used pickle chips. Where am I? I must have been in the nexus of the Chicago universe, or maybe even Des Plaines, because this was simply not right.
Beyond the pickle chip and non-neon relish, it was also proffered up with a stale bun that upon first bit splintered into a million pieces and I surrendered. What kind of surrender do you ask? Well, I didn't eat the hot dog.
The Horror. The Horror. (Make sure you read this whispering in a Marlon Brando-esque Kurtz voice. Commence eating mangoes and letting the juice drip down your arm while you earn $3 Million for showing up late.)
I didn't even take a picture I was so upset. I actually am still upset. Hence the blatant Apocalypse Now reference.
2. Bread and Sugar in Square Format is Expensive. After the hot dog debacle (I just learned how to spell this -- I was always adding a Long Island accent to the phonetics making it "de-baucle") I decided I was going to find De Stijl on vinyl.
Getting back to the point. The record store was a bust since there was no copy of De Stijl and I was too irritated to ask the owner to order it for me, what with the internet and all. I did get OK COMPUTER on vinyl, which, in the interim, will satisfy some vague need for something. Although I don't know what that something is. I fought an internal battle not to buy Icky Thump and The Chronic, only remembering later that I should have looked for Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds.
What an ass. So anyway. We went onward into the valley of frat boys and boutiques in quest of a bar. Instead of a bar I bought some awesome magnets. And then we went to some waffle house where you can order a waffle on the street through a window. Max would love it, by the way.
By now you should realize the problem: it was now close to 5:30 PM and I had not had a beer yet.
Mike, a graduate student at the acclaimed University of Chicago, doesn't know how to read a menu. He thought that the waffle itself cost $0.91. So digging around in his pockets he found $0.91 and ordered a waffle with powdered sugar. I hung out in the gutter smoking cigarettes and wondering if you can drink in public in Lincoln Park. Mike was dismayed to learn that the waffle not only did not cost $0.91, but that the sugar cost $0.91, and the waffle was actually $6.00. Total for square bread with sugar: $6.91. Not worth it.
3. It Doesn't Datter How Much You Like Pickles. Pickle and Rice Roup is Disgusting.
I learned this the hard way. Or rather, with a Polish man forcing me to get this bizarre concoction. First off, it looked like vomit. Second, it tasted exactly like what it said it would taste like: pickles and rice. Except worse because I didn't think it would be so disgusting. The reason I caved in was because there was no red borscht, which is what I was craving, so I would have probably agreed to anything at that point.
This was the culminating point of my day. From there on out it was ruined. And I still hadn't had a beer.
I should have airbrushed myself in that photo. Or at least been more Kim Kardashian-ish. Whatever that is -- I don't have much of an ass so that would be difficult.
I don't even have anything to say now because reliving that pickle soup moment has placed in me such a state of despair that all I can do is look at sketch pictures with the crayons from the Mason jar. That, or smoke crack rocks.
Shelly D.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Come on Bret.
Dear Internet,
For the past few days Max and I have been crazy for more news about Bret Michaels. Since Rock of Love, and now Celebrity Apprentice, I've been fairly enamored of Mr. Diabeetus, and now that he's had a subarachnoid aneurysm/hemorrhage, I am just sitting around wondering how my favorite B-list Celebrity Apprentice contender is going to make it through.
I'm a bit nervous. Perhaps he should lay off the bandanas for a while.
All joking aside, well at least sort of, this is a super scary thing. I wonder, and really Maxie Jean raised this, if The Donald is going to make an announcement prior to the start of this week's episode of The Apprentice? What can he say? Does he feel guilt because he went on a tirade about bandanas, how much he likes them, and if he were a rock'n'rolla he would wear one too? Imagine Donald's miraculous coif covered up by a red, pink or green bandana? It would be pretty amazing. And puffy.
Forget Cyndi Lauper and her roundabout storytelling, Curtis' uselessness, or the fact that Goldberg finally got fired after weeks of doing nothing. Please also forget the fact that I had an internal battle over who covered, Smokin' in the Boys Room (Motley Crue vs. Poison -- it was Motley Crue) on the Red Line, that I woke up with neon green relish in my hair and mustard in my fingernails (rough night, closed with Hot Dogs), and that I really can't wait for 8:00 PM CDT to come.
Donald's celebrity star player (post shoot, of course) is sitting in ICU waiting for some doctors to give him a prognosis better than Livin' for the Minute.
Keep your hands clasped in prayer and your insulin needles within reach. We're holding a Bret Michaels vigil.
Shelly D.
For the past few days Max and I have been crazy for more news about Bret Michaels. Since Rock of Love, and now Celebrity Apprentice, I've been fairly enamored of Mr. Diabeetus, and now that he's had a subarachnoid aneurysm/hemorrhage, I am just sitting around wondering how my favorite B-list Celebrity Apprentice contender is going to make it through.
I'm a bit nervous. Perhaps he should lay off the bandanas for a while.
All joking aside, well at least sort of, this is a super scary thing. I wonder, and really Maxie Jean raised this, if The Donald is going to make an announcement prior to the start of this week's episode of The Apprentice? What can he say? Does he feel guilt because he went on a tirade about bandanas, how much he likes them, and if he were a rock'n'rolla he would wear one too? Imagine Donald's miraculous coif covered up by a red, pink or green bandana? It would be pretty amazing. And puffy.
Forget Cyndi Lauper and her roundabout storytelling, Curtis' uselessness, or the fact that Goldberg finally got fired after weeks of doing nothing. Please also forget the fact that I had an internal battle over who covered, Smokin' in the Boys Room (Motley Crue vs. Poison -- it was Motley Crue) on the Red Line, that I woke up with neon green relish in my hair and mustard in my fingernails (rough night, closed with Hot Dogs), and that I really can't wait for 8:00 PM CDT to come.
Donald's celebrity star player (post shoot, of course) is sitting in ICU waiting for some doctors to give him a prognosis better than Livin' for the Minute.
Keep your hands clasped in prayer and your insulin needles within reach. We're holding a Bret Michaels vigil.
Shelly D.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Want Your Salad Chopped in Brooklyn? Too Bad.
Why is it that I can go to hundreds of different places in Manhattan and get a salad exactly how I want it, chopped, but if I venture over the East River suddenly that option is off the table? Not only are the salad options severely limited outside of the most famous borough, but if you ask them to chop the salad after mixing it, you'll get a look from the saladmaker like you asked for his right arm. The other day I tried a real upscale deli place near Borough Hall in Downtown Brooklyn, and they had no idea how to chop the salad, and the guy didn't even know the difference between walnuts and almonds! I don't know why things are so skewed in the world of make-your-own-salad, but I can speculate that it's because the secret salad-chopping skills first developed thousands of years ago were closely guarded by the Illuminati and they only let saladmakers in Manhattan read the sacred text, and only after swearing a blood oath never to export the secrets outside the island.
That's all for now,
max
PS - I also just figured out how to type a cross easily on my Mac †. Totally will help when I post about Jesus.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Bret Michaels: The Best Project Manager Ever? Part Deux
Dear Internet,
Rather than respond to Max's comments within the page, I decided to do it here:
First off, my delayed response is due to the fact that I work in a heavily regulated industry and we have websites blocked. My blog, apparently, being one of them.
Second, did you see how old some of the Harry Potter weirdos were? Like 30. Too old for Houses.
On to the discourse:
1. I am not jealous of Selita eBanks. She certainly has got looks, as I so stated. But the tasks on Apprentice are no brainers and these morons treat it like it's the most difficult buttload ever. So you've got two of three: looks, motivation, but she's hardly the smartest. In fact, they're all fairly dumb.
2. There's no such thing as a role player. They're called failures. What has she knocked out of the park? Both of the teams, in my opinion, were lacking. And of course the women didn't market what was most important in the task: THE FUCKING RIDE. No point in a 3-D interactive display without that, and if memory so serves me, the men did. I will give the women credit, they did have a nice display. And, getting back to the point of kicking ass, Bret fills in all the gaps, asks for things to do, even if he is a sissy and about to go into diabetic shock during it.
3. Cutting potatoes isn't getting down and dirty. Have you worked in a restaurant? That's premium kitchen duty when compared to dish washing.
4. You should always step it up, it's not a question of need. Success in business is about filling in the gaps always, not just when you think it's necessary.
5. Restaurant Challenge: The men didn't win only because there was a chef on the team. They won because they were savvy enough (and had the foresight) to over-charge (by $290) for hamburgers, whereas the women were going for volume. Wrong game, wrong day, wrong analysis.
Bret Michaels == Joan Rivers. My next best, when she finally comes out of her Dayquil/NyQuil super enlarged pupil haze, is Sharon Osbourne. She manages Ozzy, for crying out loud.
Enough said,
Shelly
Rather than respond to Max's comments within the page, I decided to do it here:
First off, my delayed response is due to the fact that I work in a heavily regulated industry and we have websites blocked. My blog, apparently, being one of them.
Second, did you see how old some of the Harry Potter weirdos were? Like 30. Too old for Houses.
On to the discourse:
1. I am not jealous of Selita eBanks. She certainly has got looks, as I so stated. But the tasks on Apprentice are no brainers and these morons treat it like it's the most difficult buttload ever. So you've got two of three: looks, motivation, but she's hardly the smartest. In fact, they're all fairly dumb.
2. There's no such thing as a role player. They're called failures. What has she knocked out of the park? Both of the teams, in my opinion, were lacking. And of course the women didn't market what was most important in the task: THE FUCKING RIDE. No point in a 3-D interactive display without that, and if memory so serves me, the men did. I will give the women credit, they did have a nice display. And, getting back to the point of kicking ass, Bret fills in all the gaps, asks for things to do, even if he is a sissy and about to go into diabetic shock during it.
3. Cutting potatoes isn't getting down and dirty. Have you worked in a restaurant? That's premium kitchen duty when compared to dish washing.
4. You should always step it up, it's not a question of need. Success in business is about filling in the gaps always, not just when you think it's necessary.
5. Restaurant Challenge: The men didn't win only because there was a chef on the team. They won because they were savvy enough (and had the foresight) to over-charge (by $290) for hamburgers, whereas the women were going for volume. Wrong game, wrong day, wrong analysis.
Bret Michaels == Joan Rivers. My next best, when she finally comes out of her Dayquil/NyQuil super enlarged pupil haze, is Sharon Osbourne. She manages Ozzy, for crying out loud.
Enough said,
Shelly
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Bret Michaels: The Best Project Manager Ever?
Dear Internet,
If you're not watching The Apprentice on Sunday nights at 9:00 PM EDT / 8:00 PM CDT, then you better crawl out of your hole. The Apprentice has, for the past few seasons, embarked on a tour de force of celebrity idiocy. Only next season will regular business people take the stage.
In any event, the past two seasons have been marked by stupidity, bitches, and, well, just regular lack of common sense. Not until now, however, has the every day rock n roller prevailed.
What rocker, you ask? Well none other than Bret Michaels, famed Rock of Love host, star, Poison front man, and weird girl catch. I personally love Rock of Love. It happens to be one of my all time favorite shows. Especially season one. I missed Rock of Love Bus. Getting back to my point. Bret, lovingly called the Rock of Love heretofore, is the best reality TV person for The Apprentice gig. Why? I'll tell you why, in ten simple statements:
1. Rock of Love puts on eyeliner better than Selita Ebanks. (Please note that I just learned that her last name was Ebanks. I thought that was a typo. EBanks makes me think of online banking applications, as in Chase and Citibank.)
2. "If you're gonna freak out, have a rock star freak out." 'Nough said. Bring on the PBR, Patron, strippers, hookers, Heroin, and, preferably, crack rocks.
3. Rock of Love says, "Dia-beet-us" rather than Diabetes. How's that for down home charm?
4. Bandanas. Every girl's greasy best friend.
5. "Michaels'[Rock of Love's] "Rock of Love" television series is one of the most successful in VH1's history. With three record-breaking seasons under his belt, Michaels is currently embarking on several other television projects, including the upcoming "Bret Michaels Show." That's a quote from The Apprentice website. Bitches.
6. See photo left.
This was presumably sexy at some point in history.
7. He has more hair, and potentially more Estrogen, than Selita e-Banks (I'm changing this so she sounds like software), Cyndi Lauper, Sharon Osbourne, and Summer Sanders. (Did I miss Holly Robinson Peete? Who cares, she's worse than "watching ice melt".)
8. Goldberg: "You're only as good as your weakest link." And that be him. Damn good tree, but terrible otherwise.
9.See photo inset right.
Another version of sexy for you sleazoids.
10. Every rose does have its thorn.
11. He's the only numbskull who will actually admit he doesn't understand something. Few and far between in real business and much appreciated. You go, Bret!
Rock on Rock of Love. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you.
Shelly
If you're not watching The Apprentice on Sunday nights at 9:00 PM EDT / 8:00 PM CDT, then you better crawl out of your hole. The Apprentice has, for the past few seasons, embarked on a tour de force of celebrity idiocy. Only next season will regular business people take the stage.
In any event, the past two seasons have been marked by stupidity, bitches, and, well, just regular lack of common sense. Not until now, however, has the every day rock n roller prevailed.
What rocker, you ask? Well none other than Bret Michaels, famed Rock of Love host, star, Poison front man, and weird girl catch. I personally love Rock of Love. It happens to be one of my all time favorite shows. Especially season one. I missed Rock of Love Bus. Getting back to my point. Bret, lovingly called the Rock of Love heretofore, is the best reality TV person for The Apprentice gig. Why? I'll tell you why, in ten simple statements:
1. Rock of Love puts on eyeliner better than Selita Ebanks. (Please note that I just learned that her last name was Ebanks. I thought that was a typo. EBanks makes me think of online banking applications, as in Chase and Citibank.)
2. "If you're gonna freak out, have a rock star freak out." 'Nough said. Bring on the PBR, Patron, strippers, hookers, Heroin, and, preferably, crack rocks.
3. Rock of Love says, "Dia-beet-us" rather than Diabetes. How's that for down home charm?
4. Bandanas. Every girl's greasy best friend.
5. "Michaels'[Rock of Love's] "Rock of Love" television series is one of the most successful in VH1's history. With three record-breaking seasons under his belt, Michaels is currently embarking on several other television projects, including the upcoming "Bret Michaels Show." That's a quote from The Apprentice website. Bitches.
6. See photo left.
This was presumably sexy at some point in history.7. He has more hair, and potentially more Estrogen, than Selita e-Banks (I'm changing this so she sounds like software), Cyndi Lauper, Sharon Osbourne, and Summer Sanders. (Did I miss Holly Robinson Peete? Who cares, she's worse than "watching ice melt".)
8. Goldberg: "You're only as good as your weakest link." And that be him. Damn good tree, but terrible otherwise.
9.See photo inset right.
Another version of sexy for you sleazoids.10. Every rose does have its thorn.
11. He's the only numbskull who will actually admit he doesn't understand something. Few and far between in real business and much appreciated. You go, Bret!
Rock on Rock of Love. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you.
Shelly
Monday, April 5, 2010
Cooters and Vogue. How I Knew the World Was Ending
Dear Internet,
I'm not quite sure when the camel toe, or as I like to call it, The Wendy, came back in style. I'm not quite sure if it ever was in style. And no matter how radiant and beautiful Giselle Bundchen is, a camel toe belongs on no woman.
In actuality, Giselle does not have a Wendy. But, dear Internet, the capacity for other women reading Vogue and deciding that it's high time they got a pair of short shorts is endless, and therefore so is widespread camel toe across this great land.
Actual Camel Toe(s):
Enough is enough. Take a bite out of crime, fight the war on cooters.
1. That is disgusting.
2. It obviously hurts.
3. Potentially life-ending if you consider infections.
4. Not everyone should wear shorts.
5. No one should accidentally show a cooter.
Shelly
I'm not quite sure when the camel toe, or as I like to call it, The Wendy, came back in style. I'm not quite sure if it ever was in style. And no matter how radiant and beautiful Giselle Bundchen is, a camel toe belongs on no woman.
In actuality, Giselle does not have a Wendy. But, dear Internet, the capacity for other women reading Vogue and deciding that it's high time they got a pair of short shorts is endless, and therefore so is widespread camel toe across this great land.
Almost Camel Toe:
Actual Camel Toe(s):
Enough is enough. Take a bite out of crime, fight the war on cooters.
1. That is disgusting.
2. It obviously hurts.
3. Potentially life-ending if you consider infections.
4. Not everyone should wear shorts.
5. No one should accidentally show a cooter.
Shelly
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Too Tired to Try. Or Not Drunk Enough.
Dear Internet,
It appears that I am afraid of the internet. There's really no other way of explaining why I'm too slow to write posts anymore. Oh, and I'm super lazy. This whole working in an office thing is sort of for the birds.
Well, not entirely. I feel like an actual person because I've been working in an office. Whatever or whoever an actual person is. But that's not the point. I wonder what happens when I cross that bridge in the morning that makes me too tired and too out of it to sit down and write for a few minutes.
Clearly the tone of this post is not my regular booze-induced rambling. I'm sort of concerned with my inability to be creative after 5:00 PM CDT. Perhaps it's because all day long I'm thinking of new fun things to call the creepy weirdos I work with. I work with one individual whose personality vaguely reminds me of Michael Douglas' William "D-Fens" Foster, and who will also presumably go totally crazy one day and bring a Tec-9 to the office and start shooting up the john.
The potential of this happening is probably about 63%, and if it does happen, it'll probably be awesome. Except for the fact that I'll probably be the first one shot Columbine-style. Why? I'm so sweet and mild mannered. Not true, particularly when you consider that I've coined my co-worker's swagger as a "mongoloid leprechaun gangsta strut". I'm almost certain to be caught in the crossfire. Especially since I told this individual, "you're not in this conversation."
Se la vie. I'm too tired to be nice and/or political sometimes, especially when the person sat on my keyboard, asked me ridiculous personal questions, and made me want to vomit because all he talks about is the auto industry.
That's all I've got. And the reason, I'm working right now in 60 degree sunny weather instead of wandering around drunkenly.
Sadly,
Shelly
It appears that I am afraid of the internet. There's really no other way of explaining why I'm too slow to write posts anymore. Oh, and I'm super lazy. This whole working in an office thing is sort of for the birds.
Well, not entirely. I feel like an actual person because I've been working in an office. Whatever or whoever an actual person is. But that's not the point. I wonder what happens when I cross that bridge in the morning that makes me too tired and too out of it to sit down and write for a few minutes.
Clearly the tone of this post is not my regular booze-induced rambling. I'm sort of concerned with my inability to be creative after 5:00 PM CDT. Perhaps it's because all day long I'm thinking of new fun things to call the creepy weirdos I work with. I work with one individual whose personality vaguely reminds me of Michael Douglas' William "D-Fens" Foster, and who will also presumably go totally crazy one day and bring a Tec-9 to the office and start shooting up the john.
The potential of this happening is probably about 63%, and if it does happen, it'll probably be awesome. Except for the fact that I'll probably be the first one shot Columbine-style. Why? I'm so sweet and mild mannered. Not true, particularly when you consider that I've coined my co-worker's swagger as a "mongoloid leprechaun gangsta strut". I'm almost certain to be caught in the crossfire. Especially since I told this individual, "you're not in this conversation."
Se la vie. I'm too tired to be nice and/or political sometimes, especially when the person sat on my keyboard, asked me ridiculous personal questions, and made me want to vomit because all he talks about is the auto industry.
That's all I've got. And the reason, I'm working right now in 60 degree sunny weather instead of wandering around drunkenly.
Sadly,
Shelly
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Being Dark Irish is Bigger Than Hip Hop
Dear Internet,
It has been quite some time since I've sat at this desk to do anything besides check my bank account. I haven't forgotten about my blog, I've simply been lazy, and also working out in the real world in The Loop. The Loop isn't necessarily the real world, nor is working, but that be the case. The Loop and my inherent laziness aren't the only reasons that I've been slow to get things going. I mean, I have PBR to drink. And St. Patrick's Day is coming.
Because of this looming holiday, I think it's about time to cast the snakes out of the South Side, especially because it rained so hard on Saturday. For the record, I am a member of the Dark Irish clan. I don't even know what that means, but I am half Irish, and I am dark, so therefore I am Dark Irish. Some months back I actually clarified this. Some of you will remember:
I've taken the liberty of editing my own errors, since I wrote it in the morning and I was probably hung over. My heritage has been up for dispute for some time now and I hope that settles it. Now back to what's important.
It is nearly a time to celebrate with Guinness (or green PBR or Old Style if that strikes your fancy), corned beef and cabbage, green apparel (American Apparel has some hot little green leggings), and of course, green rivers. We are in Chicago, which of course means "rivers tainted with beer and green food color".
So without further ado, here I am Chicago River-side on an ill-fated Saturday where I shared tater tots with a girl I don't know, devoured cheese fries and hot dogs at Portillo's, drank plenty a Guinness and Miller Lite, order $40 worth of vinyls from Third Man Records when we don't have a record player (Under the Great White Northern Lights, and we bought one Sunday), and had a photo shoot downtown.
Happy boozing,
St. Shelly the Green Dellalian
It has been quite some time since I've sat at this desk to do anything besides check my bank account. I haven't forgotten about my blog, I've simply been lazy, and also working out in the real world in The Loop. The Loop isn't necessarily the real world, nor is working, but that be the case. The Loop and my inherent laziness aren't the only reasons that I've been slow to get things going. I mean, I have PBR to drink. And St. Patrick's Day is coming.
Because of this looming holiday, I think it's about time to cast the snakes out of the South Side, especially because it rained so hard on Saturday. For the record, I am a member of the Dark Irish clan. I don't even know what that means, but I am half Irish, and I am dark, so therefore I am Dark Irish. Some months back I actually clarified this. Some of you will remember:
"Since I went to bed last night at 9:00 PM, I missed your text at 10:00. I just couldn't watch any more Law & Order, as hard that may be to believe. To clarify my heritage, which of course is rather confusing, I am 1/4 WOP, 1/2 Guinness Toting Mick, and 1/4 a mix of Scottish, Norwegian, French, and Native American, and probably some other nonsense. I like to think I'm Algonquin, but who the hell really knows. It probably equals out to about 1/222 Native American anyway, which doesn't amount to anything. I think my Indian name would be Runs for Beer and Cigarettes at Corner Bodega. As a good Long Island Catholic, I mainly state that I'm Irish and Guinea, heavy on the corned beef and cabbage. After all, everyone from that beautiful land is either Italian, Irish, Jewish or a combination. As for my complexion, obviously the Italian has superseded the Irish side. But since my Irish family is from County Cork, I bet someone had some hot sex in a peat bog with a Spanish Moor, making me Dark Irish, giving me love of drink and tobacco."
I've taken the liberty of editing my own errors, since I wrote it in the morning and I was probably hung over. My heritage has been up for dispute for some time now and I hope that settles it. Now back to what's important.
It is nearly a time to celebrate with Guinness (or green PBR or Old Style if that strikes your fancy), corned beef and cabbage, green apparel (American Apparel has some hot little green leggings), and of course, green rivers. We are in Chicago, which of course means "rivers tainted with beer and green food color".
So without further ado, here I am Chicago River-side on an ill-fated Saturday where I shared tater tots with a girl I don't know, devoured cheese fries and hot dogs at Portillo's, drank plenty a Guinness and Miller Lite, order $40 worth of vinyls from Third Man Records when we don't have a record player (Under the Great White Northern Lights, and we bought one Sunday), and had a photo shoot downtown.
Happy boozing,
St. Shelly the Green Dellalian
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
In My Time of Dying
Dear Internet,Ordinarily my sweat glands are totally out of control at work. And by out of control I mean that I base the outfit I'm going to wear on how much sweat will show through my clothes either through sweat stains or through baseball player-type salt stains. Recently, however, I haven't been sweating all that much. Initially I thought it might be because I've finally, after 28 years, become comfortable in my own skin. But that can't be it, because my odd decision making, especially in walking down the street, what I eat, and how I speak, is still so carefully considered, that it can't be less self-awareness. It must be some other biological change, for worse or better.
What I've ultimately decided is that I'm consuming less alcohol which has caused me to perspire less. For those of you who have witnessed my outfit selections, you will understand the great pains I have taken to sweat less, disguise sweat, and not look like a disaster over the past several years. Well, let's be honest, more than several. But now, to be confronted with less sweat? What the hell kind of curve ball is that?
All of these years I've had one constant: sweating unnecessarily to the point of embarrassment -- and now that's gone too. So not only am I dealing with regularly cold ass weather, but also no regularly insane perspiration. I'm dry as a corn field in Kansas in September. (That little simile is something I created on my own and I don't even know if it's accurate, but I do know that if I drive out of Chicago 2 hours south, 2 hours west, or 2 hours east I will see corn fields. I also figure that harvest is sometime in and around September. We might even be able to find a sign that says...)
Back to the sweating. Although this is something that, ultimately, is awesome, it is also something that causes a great deal of concern for me. Have I lost my edge? Am I some mild mannered person who can handle things all of sudden? Did I all of a sudden become even keel? I think not. There must be something larger at stake:
Via:
And...
And...
And...
Oh yea, and...
God. This is bad.
Shelly
Monday, March 1, 2010
28th Birthday == Best Gift Ever
Dear Internet,
Every year for the past 28 years I have gotten some pretty rad gifts. This year, however, has topped every single previous gift receiving year.
Not only did I receive the fantastic Frye boots I was so desperately longing for, but I also got a map of Long Island (I already discussed this as irrelevant, but it's still pretty awesome), a porcelain Schnauzer knick-knack, a bottle of Marc Jacobs Lola (it has a retarded, plastic art deco flower as a cap, but it smells ok), some cash, a buttload of food, but for all the awesome things that I got this year and in years past, the gift below takes the prize for the best ever (I've centered it because it deserves a serious place of respect on this blog and should be dutifully showcased):
I don't even know if anything can compare to this. I don't know if anything ever will. Frankly, it may have topped the two cats (King Solomon and Kitty) that I got as a birthday gift last year.
Gosh, I am excited. I actually am looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning at 6:30 just so that I can brew some coffee and pour a fresh, steaming cup into this mug. Because of course, the best part of waking up, is Bitches Talkin' Shit on the outside of your cup.
Thank you!
Shelly
Every year for the past 28 years I have gotten some pretty rad gifts. This year, however, has topped every single previous gift receiving year.
Not only did I receive the fantastic Frye boots I was so desperately longing for, but I also got a map of Long Island (I already discussed this as irrelevant, but it's still pretty awesome), a porcelain Schnauzer knick-knack, a bottle of Marc Jacobs Lola (it has a retarded, plastic art deco flower as a cap, but it smells ok), some cash, a buttload of food, but for all the awesome things that I got this year and in years past, the gift below takes the prize for the best ever (I've centered it because it deserves a serious place of respect on this blog and should be dutifully showcased):
I don't even know if anything can compare to this. I don't know if anything ever will. Frankly, it may have topped the two cats (King Solomon and Kitty) that I got as a birthday gift last year.
Gosh, I am excited. I actually am looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning at 6:30 just so that I can brew some coffee and pour a fresh, steaming cup into this mug. Because of course, the best part of waking up, is Bitches Talkin' Shit on the outside of your cup.
Thank you!
Shelly
Everyday I'm Hustlin'
Dear Internet,
Even if you're getting ready to go to your regular, normal job, whether your stacking books or kickin' ass and takin' names...
Keep that in mind. Because I am:
Even if you're getting ready to go to your regular, normal job, whether your stacking books or kickin' ass and takin' names...
Keep that in mind. Because I am:
Sunday, February 28, 2010
20 CCs of Neon Green Relish While the Gs Be Chillin' on the Nasty South Side
Dear Internet,
Just like ethnic and religious groups, cities have stereotypes too. Cities, and their outlying suburbs. Growing up on (I know I should say "in" but F that) Long Island, I was pretty aware of the stereotypes of Long Islanders (we love Billy Joel, wear boat shoes year round, have bad accents, love bagels and cawfee, tan regularly, and are afraid of Manhattan) as well as those of New York City (residents all work in finance, go out to The Hamptons on weekends, live on Fifth Avenue, are uppity) and Brooklyn (residents are gangstas, rappers, hipsters, and love pizza). But, I had some serious pre-conceived notions about Chicago, and the Midwest in general. (For the record, those of you have other pre-conceived notions, all Long Islanders are not rich and do not drive 7 Series BMWs, even if we wish we did.)
Some stereotypes, obviously, are true. Otherwise they wouldn't be stereotypes. By and large, Long Islanders are afraid of New York City. They also fake tan as much as possible, have terrible accents, not to mention voices, and love bagels. They will also drink coffee at any time of the day, regardless of weather. Bettah yet -- ice cawfee. (Please note, I did not forget the "d" in iced. No one on Long Island says "Iced Coffee".) Growing up, and well into my 20s, Chicago was a far off, windy and freezing land with deep-dish "pizza" (let's be honest and admit that it's a casserole), Da Bears, and Michael Jordan.
Never mind that I had forgotten that Michael Jordan didn't live there anymore and was not playing for Da Bulls. In any event, it's not like I made this up myself. I had heard and seen plenty about Chicago well before I had even visited. Oh where?, you ask? Obviously Drs. Green and Carter.
So let me begin a few months before now, to a place that made entirely more sense to me: New York. First and foremost, slices of pizza existed on every corner. I understood the transit system and could get everywhere. If I wanted falafel, there were at least 4 places to go in Manhattan (carts included) and one awesome one on N. 7th in BK. Me and Penn Station go way back. A move to Chicago would be a journey into uncharted territory, except for business trips when American Airlines lost my luggage (who brings an extra large suitcase to Chicago for three days anyway?). So anyway, as i got ready to move I thought about all the things I would need to find in Chicago: my favorite pizzeria, a local bar with hot dogs, a bodega around the corner selling 24 ounce Coors Lights or PBR...
Getting back to my point: my original impression of Chicago, before the 14 hour drive from Brooklyn, crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, was based a lmost entirely on ER, colored only slightly by Saturday Night Live. Since the beginning I was obsessed with ER, and not only because of the medical drama and my latent dreams of becoming an ER doctor. Obvs I was like, Holy Crap, I am just like Dr. Green! And I would totally have a tailored doctor coat like Dr. Carter. But, as soon as I saw Carter slide down Michigan or something and pick up a Polish dog with everything on it, I was like, I can do that. And, man, I wish I were a playa like Doug Ross.
So basically, above all things -- the news, the Sears Tower, hot dogs (believe it or not), Abbie Hoffman, Mayor(s) Daley, Barack Obama, Second City, John Belushi, and deep dish pizza (from now on known as pizza casserole) -- none so colored my theories and notions of the city in which I now live as Michael Crichton's brilliant series, ER. So can you imagine when I learned that Cook County General was a fictional hospital? This is what I was holding onto:
1. Getting a tailored white doctor coat (what are these called anyway?)
2. Going to Cook County General and busting open someone's chest and saving his life (see season 1).
3. Renting an awesome loft apartment with columns.
4. Becoming friends with Nurse Hathaway, and making her Shepard's Pie after she tries to kill herself.
None of these things happened or ever will, and logic tells me it's because there is no Cook County General. But can't one believe in something as awesome as this:
Shelly
Just like ethnic and religious groups, cities have stereotypes too. Cities, and their outlying suburbs. Growing up on (I know I should say "in" but F that) Long Island, I was pretty aware of the stereotypes of Long Islanders (we love Billy Joel, wear boat shoes year round, have bad accents, love bagels and cawfee, tan regularly, and are afraid of Manhattan) as well as those of New York City (residents all work in finance, go out to The Hamptons on weekends, live on Fifth Avenue, are uppity) and Brooklyn (residents are gangstas, rappers, hipsters, and love pizza). But, I had some serious pre-conceived notions about Chicago, and the Midwest in general. (For the record, those of you have other pre-conceived notions, all Long Islanders are not rich and do not drive 7 Series BMWs, even if we wish we did.)
Some stereotypes, obviously, are true. Otherwise they wouldn't be stereotypes. By and large, Long Islanders are afraid of New York City. They also fake tan as much as possible, have terrible accents, not to mention voices, and love bagels. They will also drink coffee at any time of the day, regardless of weather. Bettah yet -- ice cawfee. (Please note, I did not forget the "d" in iced. No one on Long Island says "Iced Coffee".) Growing up, and well into my 20s, Chicago was a far off, windy and freezing land with deep-dish "pizza" (let's be honest and admit that it's a casserole), Da Bears, and Michael Jordan.
Never mind that I had forgotten that Michael Jordan didn't live there anymore and was not playing for Da Bulls. In any event, it's not like I made this up myself. I had heard and seen plenty about Chicago well before I had even visited. Oh where?, you ask? Obviously Drs. Green and Carter.So let me begin a few months before now, to a place that made entirely more sense to me: New York. First and foremost, slices of pizza existed on every corner. I understood the transit system and could get everywhere. If I wanted falafel, there were at least 4 places to go in Manhattan (carts included) and one awesome one on N. 7th in BK. Me and Penn Station go way back. A move to Chicago would be a journey into uncharted territory, except for business trips when American Airlines lost my luggage (who brings an extra large suitcase to Chicago for three days anyway?). So anyway, as i got ready to move I thought about all the things I would need to find in Chicago: my favorite pizzeria, a local bar with hot dogs, a bodega around the corner selling 24 ounce Coors Lights or PBR...
Getting back to my point: my original impression of Chicago, before the 14 hour drive from Brooklyn, crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, was based a lmost entirely on ER, colored only slightly by Saturday Night Live. Since the beginning I was obsessed with ER, and not only because of the medical drama and my latent dreams of becoming an ER doctor. Obvs I was like, Holy Crap, I am just like Dr. Green! And I would totally have a tailored doctor coat like Dr. Carter. But, as soon as I saw Carter slide down Michigan or something and pick up a Polish dog with everything on it, I was like, I can do that. And, man, I wish I were a playa like Doug Ross.
So basically, above all things -- the news, the Sears Tower, hot dogs (believe it or not), Abbie Hoffman, Mayor(s) Daley, Barack Obama, Second City, John Belushi, and deep dish pizza (from now on known as pizza casserole) -- none so colored my theories and notions of the city in which I now live as Michael Crichton's brilliant series, ER. So can you imagine when I learned that Cook County General was a fictional hospital? This is what I was holding onto:
1. Getting a tailored white doctor coat (what are these called anyway?)
2. Going to Cook County General and busting open someone's chest and saving his life (see season 1).
3. Renting an awesome loft apartment with columns.
4. Becoming friends with Nurse Hathaway, and making her Shepard's Pie after she tries to kill herself.
None of these things happened or ever will, and logic tells me it's because there is no Cook County General. But can't one believe in something as awesome as this:
Shelly
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Shellyhood of the Skin Tight Pants
Dear Internet,
Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.
This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.
The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.
As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.
Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.
Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)
I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.
Shelly
Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.
This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.
The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.
As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.
Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.
Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)
I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.
Shelly
Friday, February 26, 2010
Check Out This F-ing Rock and Roll Connection
Dear Internet,
As you know by now, I have a profound admiration and respect (also known as irrational, weird obsession) with Jack White. For several years now I have been plagued with how to meet him and become a member of his entourage, and then become a permanent fixture in his life, if not one of his adopted children. (I'm completely aware that he already has two kids of his own and doesn't need one that is 27 years old, err, 28 in about 15 hours.)
The first actual opportunity to embark on this endless quest was in July. BBChug, effervescent and brilliant as he is, was prescient enough to know that I would want tickets to The Dead Weather show at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. I never buy concert tickets, but I was fully prepared to shell out whatever I had to to be in the same room as Mr. White. The real reason all of our friends were getting tickets wasn't actually Jack, although that was my real incentive to go. The current and transplanted Jersey Kids' friends, The Screaming Females, were opening for The Dead Weather. And you know what I thought? Ka-Ching -- go to the show, cheer on The Females, go backstage, woo Jack with your awesomeness, and get on the bus to Boston.
In the end, obviously, it didn't happen that way. Although I did get to go backstage and stand in the VIP area. Jay-Z and Kanye West, both wearing Ray Bans (obvs), did happen by and I went all nutty thinking of the insane compilation that would happen if my favorite rock star and rapper got together with the production skills of Kanye. In any event, nothing really exciting besides that did happen. Although... We did exit Terminal 5 through the back door and got to see the tour bus.
So The Females did fail there, but since I've moved to the Midwest I've found a Jack White loop hole. I don't exactly know why it's a loop hole. I really basically just felt like using that phrase. I guess it's more of a "You Can't Meet Jack White" loop hole. But in any event, if it were a loop hole, it would be a good one. Ok, so enough of the semantics and back to the point. So as I was so unintelligibly saying, since I've moved to the Midwest I've met a good handful of people from Detroit. I've been really good about trying to keep my inner sociopath under wraps for a few months now, especially since starting work, so I haven't let the Jack White cat out of the bag just yet. Until today.
My co-worker, whom I work with directly, was born and raised in Detroit. We were discussing the new light rail being proposed by private investors in Detroit's downtown, when I asked: Is Cass Corridor part of downtown, or is a separate thing? My co-worker looked at me quizzically and said, How do you know about Cass Corridor? And on impulse I said, The White Stripes. This response caused a fair amount of laughter, some shock, and a little confusion amongst my comrades in cubes. But listen to what I learned:
This co-worker has a nephew who was big into the Detroit rock scene, has been to The Gold Dollar, and, a-hem, dated someone from The Von Bondies. Which means, at least by association, I know Jack White on two fronts: two degrees of separation via The Screaming Females and four via my co-worker. This basically equates to me being able to make my dreams to come true if I enable the American Dream of working really hard to accomplish something, that in the end, actually means nothing. Well nothing to anyone but me.
Gosh am I excited. Just think of all the possibilities: (1) Jack realizes my inherent talents in hearing great music and hires me to find awesome bands (not likely, since I only listen to a few bands, Stripes/Raconteurs/Dead Weather not included); (2) I love boots and have a great eye for them, so he hires me to find boots for him and Alison Mosshart; (3) I have an unyielding love for The White Stripes, and never get tired of listening to them, so I can put together special compilation vinyls without losing my mind; (4) I don't really know what else I can do with this here aside from just being a member of the entourage and telling the opening acts to get the fuck out of the party.
So with all these possible options, I'm pretty positive that I won't be able to woo Jack even when presented with the opportunity. I work in less than exciting corporate America, buy clothes from The Gap, and love to eat Velveeta. He knew me at "Can I have a pack of Camel Lights?" and was certain that I wouldn't fit the bill. Unless of course, I get rid of these gray hairs and throw on those Frye Engineer 12R boots Mike is supposed to get for me (see left inset), I can't expect much, at least until The Dead Weather play a show in Chicago.
Desperately,
Shelly
As you know by now, I have a profound admiration and respect (also known as irrational, weird obsession) with Jack White. For several years now I have been plagued with how to meet him and become a member of his entourage, and then become a permanent fixture in his life, if not one of his adopted children. (I'm completely aware that he already has two kids of his own and doesn't need one that is 27 years old, err, 28 in about 15 hours.)
The first actual opportunity to embark on this endless quest was in July. BBChug, effervescent and brilliant as he is, was prescient enough to know that I would want tickets to The Dead Weather show at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. I never buy concert tickets, but I was fully prepared to shell out whatever I had to to be in the same room as Mr. White. The real reason all of our friends were getting tickets wasn't actually Jack, although that was my real incentive to go. The current and transplanted Jersey Kids' friends, The Screaming Females, were opening for The Dead Weather. And you know what I thought? Ka-Ching -- go to the show, cheer on The Females, go backstage, woo Jack with your awesomeness, and get on the bus to Boston.
In the end, obviously, it didn't happen that way. Although I did get to go backstage and stand in the VIP area. Jay-Z and Kanye West, both wearing Ray Bans (obvs), did happen by and I went all nutty thinking of the insane compilation that would happen if my favorite rock star and rapper got together with the production skills of Kanye. In any event, nothing really exciting besides that did happen. Although... We did exit Terminal 5 through the back door and got to see the tour bus.So The Females did fail there, but since I've moved to the Midwest I've found a Jack White loop hole. I don't exactly know why it's a loop hole. I really basically just felt like using that phrase. I guess it's more of a "You Can't Meet Jack White" loop hole. But in any event, if it were a loop hole, it would be a good one. Ok, so enough of the semantics and back to the point. So as I was so unintelligibly saying, since I've moved to the Midwest I've met a good handful of people from Detroit. I've been really good about trying to keep my inner sociopath under wraps for a few months now, especially since starting work, so I haven't let the Jack White cat out of the bag just yet. Until today.
My co-worker, whom I work with directly, was born and raised in Detroit. We were discussing the new light rail being proposed by private investors in Detroit's downtown, when I asked: Is Cass Corridor part of downtown, or is a separate thing? My co-worker looked at me quizzically and said, How do you know about Cass Corridor? And on impulse I said, The White Stripes. This response caused a fair amount of laughter, some shock, and a little confusion amongst my comrades in cubes. But listen to what I learned:
This co-worker has a nephew who was big into the Detroit rock scene, has been to The Gold Dollar, and, a-hem, dated someone from The Von Bondies. Which means, at least by association, I know Jack White on two fronts: two degrees of separation via The Screaming Females and four via my co-worker. This basically equates to me being able to make my dreams to come true if I enable the American Dream of working really hard to accomplish something, that in the end, actually means nothing. Well nothing to anyone but me.
Gosh am I excited. Just think of all the possibilities: (1) Jack realizes my inherent talents in hearing great music and hires me to find awesome bands (not likely, since I only listen to a few bands, Stripes/Raconteurs/Dead Weather not included); (2) I love boots and have a great eye for them, so he hires me to find boots for him and Alison Mosshart; (3) I have an unyielding love for The White Stripes, and never get tired of listening to them, so I can put together special compilation vinyls without losing my mind; (4) I don't really know what else I can do with this here aside from just being a member of the entourage and telling the opening acts to get the fuck out of the party.
So with all these possible options, I'm pretty positive that I won't be able to woo Jack even when presented with the opportunity. I work in less than exciting corporate America, buy clothes from The Gap, and love to eat Velveeta. He knew me at "Can I have a pack of Camel Lights?" and was certain that I wouldn't fit the bill. Unless of course, I get rid of these gray hairs and throw on those Frye Engineer 12R boots Mike is supposed to get for me (see left inset), I can't expect much, at least until The Dead Weather play a show in Chicago.Desperately,
Shelly
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