knifefight in BK

uh... art... time?

apparently grad school is going to "keep me REEEEEEEALLY busy," so... in honor of the fact that my brain is already fried (and caked in plaster dust) only 4 weeks in, here's a charming collection of pictures i drew while both of my eyes were completely dilated for super awesome medical reasons. while i couldn't see what i was drawing, while i was drawing it, i think the sentiments come across very clearly. those sentiments are about spores, fire, owls, snot, and fish-arms. i hope you can see there is obviously a lot of meaning and artistic purpose in these drawings i did during a fantasy football draft a few weeks ago, because then you are a douche, and i can mock you at some point in the future, possibly behind your back, and likely in internet-based fashion. ENJOY.

 

i return on 999, like the upside-down demon i am.

Oh, hai! I've been all sorts of busy so I kind of, you know, forgot how to write or use a computer or, you know, wash and feed myself. Sorry about that! It's a long and involved story about how we moved, and we had no interwebz for like ever, and then my grad school program started, and... now I have tape all over my face. But I digress. Let's talk about what's REALLY important, namely the fact that apparently it's cool to completely lose your mind, toss on some jaunty green lace gloves, and hop aboard the W train. See, some people would be all, "How is she crazy? Gloves aren't that weird." Yes, they are, and I'll tell you why. A. I took this picture in the sweatiest, grossest part of July, which means that (lace?) gloves are unnecessary clothing in the least clothing-friendly time of year, in addition to being completely bizarre on anyone who isn't doing a clever early Madonna impression or isn't a cute 14 year old Japanese girl. 7. Notice that our friend is wearing a blazer, recall that I took this in July, and notice that she's also carrying an additional jacket, slung over her briefcases, that appears to have been fashioned from an impossibly peppy quilt. H. I don't have to give more reasons. She's bonkers. 2 briefcases? Bonkers. And yes, they ARE briefcases. At one point she opened them both and they were all paper-filled. Maybe she's got a Kuato, and her leader of the Martian resistance wants its own briefcase and festive blazer, whatever, I don't know, but I DO know that it's weird and... I'm... back? So... yeah. I missed you all, and as long as my interwebz access continues unfettered and my glorious (glorious is code for moldy and kind of smelling of urine) on-campus studio doesn't swallow me whole, I will never abandon you again.

from the department of random things in vacant lots in brooklyn

Huh. I can pretty much confidently state that this rockin' NO FEEEEEEAAAARRRRRR jet ski is the weirdest thing I have EVER seen in a vacant lot in Brooklyn. I mean, mannequin parts? Done. Disassembled port-a-potty covered in what appear to be restaurant steam trays? Played out. A whole lot of old rice and chicken bones strewn about like an entire high school football team was trying to eat dinner while having a mass seizure? Soooo 2003. But this jet ski is something new entirely. A new era in vacant lot debris technology. It's like one of those weird giant boulders that glaciers ditch and thousands of years later people are all "Where the crap did this 8 story rock come from, and why is it in the middle of a field in Iowa?" Except it's a jet ski. Is this some weird urban version of having a busted car on cinderblocks in your yard? I don't know because I am not an anthropologist.

thanks, hoveround!

This week brings our celebration of all things Hoveround to an end with what is easily my favorite collage, THANKS, UNICORN! "your hoveround enables you to lure, capture, and ride unicorns!" The best part is that this is completely true. They can't say that in the Hoveround ad, because it would cause pandemonium. But it's completely true. Just look at the smile on Barbara's face - that should be ALL the proof you need.

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

what won't be in the 2010 whitney biennial, exhibit A

So I'm minding my own business at the Whitney on Sunday, looking at arts, buying a pewter pretzel from the Art-O-Mat, basking in the soft, unsettling glow of Jenny Holzer's LEDs, doing other important things, when I had to pee. Maybe 4 years of going to a school that's attached to some of the least offensive museum bathrooms ever warped me, or softened me, or something, but WOW was I unprepared for the dystopian wasteland that is the Whitney Museum of American Art's ladies' room. It's like, one minute I'm staring at a stack of vacuums that Jeff Koons transformed into over 11 million dollars, the next minute I'm standing in a centimeter of toilet water in a decrepit highway rest stop. It's like some kind of really messed up portal that transports you from highbrow to sewer rat in under a second. Poof! Restroom of the post-apocalypse! But the shock of entering this damp hell isn't the important part of my rambling story. You see, I'm not one of those people who starts at the first stall right by the door. I like to pee in seclusion. So I was in the stall NEXT to the first stall, and I heard a steady-ish stream of ladies (I assume they were ladies) enter the first stall, make some sort of declaration or sound indicating disgust/repulsion, and then quickly find another stall. I was washing my hands (this brings me to the question as to why some women feel totally justified in spraying their urine all over a toilet seat and then have the balls to not even pretend to wash their hands, but that's another story for another day) when I saw an older woman open the stall and literally jump back. At this point, the restroom attendant, who had previously been chattering away on a headset while wiping up the sink area, entered the stall and stopped cold. "Hold on," she said, presumably to whomever was on the other end of her headset, "Oh, hell no. OH, HEEEEELLLLL NO." Then she burst into laughter, and exited the restroom. I had to look! I had to. This restroom was a wet, urine-soaked nightmare, what could possibly shock a woman who casually hangs out in a centimeter of piss-water all day? Let me tell you, friends, and I am not exaggerating: that log was the size of my forearm. It floated blissfully at the top of the bowl, the water just at that "oh no, please don't overflow, please please surface tension" level. The weirdest part? The water was clear. Like, no pee, no toilet paper. How did I have time to soak in all this detail, you ask? This image is seared into my brain. I could probably start a support group for the other ladies who walked in on Terror Log that day, I'm sure some of them are experiencing flashbacks, too. But I digress. So... it was just this single, gigantor-log, floating in a pristine, full to capacity bowl of toilet water. So here's my question: was this some weird neo-Dada thing? Some kind of weird reference to Chris Ofili's work - because that thing could have DEFINITELY come out of an elephant... All I know is this: ladies' rooms are nasty enough without people leaving gigantic mystery logs on display for all to witness (I'm talking to you, non-hand-washing seat-pissers). The Whitney bathrooms do NOT need help in the nastification department. They were doing quite well without your help, log lady (no no no, not that log lady). The best part of the story, in my opinion, is the follow up: my sister-in-law went to the restroom of horror a while later, not knowing my harrowing tale of repulsion and arm-sized excrement, and reported that "the first stall had caution tape across the door in an X." That's right, the log won. It claimed the stall for the country of crap. Poop FTW.

thanks, hoveround!

This week we're celebrating THANKS, NORSE GODS! "the hoveround is the official mobility choice of the norse gods! check out tyr, god of war, visiting epcot center!" Ok, look at Tyr. If he can rock Epcot so triumphantly in his Hoveround, so can you. Norse Gods for the win.

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

thanks, hoveround!

This week we're celebrating one of my ultimate masterpieces, THANKS, SEAFOOD! "the hoveround will not just instantly transport you to your local red lobster, IT WILL INSTANTLY TRANSPORT YOU TO YOUR LOCAL RED LOBSTER WITH A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WHO ARE WAY INTO THAT SUCKY MUSICAL 'CATS'." Can we talk about the level of ridiculousness in this picture? There are people in this world actively dressed up like characters from an embarrassing musical; is it that weird to assume they all now live at a Red Lobster? No, it's actually not. I don't get it, was the Renaissance Faiyhrererere too elitist or something, so you're like, "Oh yeah? Screw you, Lorde FancyeBottomes, I'm buying a unitard and taking MY nerds elsewhere." All I know is that this dimension probably opens up when your Hoveround wants to punish you, but feels bad, and offers you overpriced crap seafood during the punishment.

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

thanks, hoveround!

This week, we're celebrating THANKS, NASA! "your hoveround is equipped to fly to the moon, where you will witness the majesty of the giant astronauts!" MAN, do I crack myself up. What can you say about this picture? It's right on so many levels. I'm proud of my circa-2005 self.

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

thanks, hoveround!

This week, we're celebrating THANKS, CLIVE OWEN! "your hoveround will take you and your dog to a cheesy, mid-90s alternate universe, where you will be given an exciting and informative tour by the floating head of clive owen!" The best part about this picture? IT'S ABSOLUTELY TRUE. If you have a Hoveround, and the Clive Owen dimension hasn't appeared before you and your dog in all its Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper glory, you need to contact customer service immediately. Screw the Grand Canyon, Grandma, it's CLIVE OWEN.

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

pete wentz for dummies

Takin' it back to 2005, y'all: It's the return of celebrity math. I've always felt like there was something familiar about Pete "Unfortunate Baby Names" Wentz, and I know now that this is because he is "Facts of Life"-era Nancy "Jo" McKeon, plus angst to the power of eyeliner. DUH. The funny thing is, angst to the power of eyeliner is actually the equation for emo itself. So basically, Pete "Girl pants" Wentz is actually just a whiny Jo Polniaczek in more carefully-applied makeup and more feminine pants. Who knew?

thanks, hoveround!

Easily the most popular part of this blog, for whatever reason, is the "Thanks, Hoveround!" photo album. Why? Um... because it's great. How about that? So, in celebration of Knifefight in Brooklyn turning 4 this year, I'll be revisiting one of my magical collages every week. Until I run out. Which will be pretty soon. So enjoy it while it lasts, champs.

This week, we're celebrating THANKS, NUCLEAR WINTER! "your hoveround will meld with your body in the event of any sort of nuclear incident, enabling you to become a fallout resistant automaton! KILL ALL HUMANS!" My favorite part of making this collage was accidentally finding that picture of Grandma sporting whatever the crap kind of terror mask that it is. The interwebz, you guys... it's a magical place. And I say that as someone who took it upon herself to create a series of bizarro collages depicting how magical the hoveround can be. HOLLA!

As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.

revisiting the magic: DREAMCATCHER (aka "magic retard vs. the butt alien")

My abridged version of the cinematic accident called Dreamcatcher, or Magic Retard vs. The Butt Alien, was one of my earliest posts, and remains one of my favorite things ever. Let's relive the magic together, shall we?

when i grow up, i'm going to be an adult bib model.

Nothing says "My day job usually involves a g-string and a pole," better than this pose here. I like to imagine the ad execs for "cheapo scrubs R us" at this shoot, crowded around the photographer, giving "notes," like: "Can you have Janet here assume a more pin-up type pose? Our scrubs and the free scrunchies w/ purchase program is really sexy," and "This position is useful to women in the medical profession and not completely ridiculous at all." I hope Janet (whose name I've completely made up) set their free scrunchies on fire after the shoot. But back to the rest of the things I've become obsessed with while casually browsing medical apparel websites...

shamwow, slapchop, graty, coming soon: punch-a-ho

Oh, man! There's just a wealth of awful SlapChop jokes to be made right now. Let's just quietly make all those jokes in our heads before we discuss how the mighty have fallen. Vince "ShamWow" Offer/Shlomi, what happened? One day you're just some creepy guy hawking a magic rag, the next day you're a star who just wants to stop the world from having a boring tuna/life, and... then all that success and slapping goes to your head, and you punch your expensive hooker because she's intentionally biting you.*** I can understand occasionally confusing a hooker with "The Graty," but does cheese come out when you bang it? No no, but for real, if you look at the mugshots over at The Smoking Gun, poor Vinnie looks far more busted than the hooker. She's smiling! And he looks like he got a Graty to the face! Graty graty graty graty! Poor guy. He just wanted us to love his nuts.

***Yes, my conspiracy theory involves this hooker working for Billy Mays. Like the Highlander, there can be only ONE (obnoxious, omnipresent infomercial pitchman). I was pulling for you, Vince, you crazy bastard. Billy Mays and his Dyed Beard of Fury/Team of Rabid Prostitutes were just too strong...

shopsin's plus drama equals magic?

If you're a fan of food/this documentary/bizarro NYC restaurants then you will/should know about Shopsin's. This restaurant is magic. In all caps. MAGIC. Magic with weird hours, limited seating, rules, and the most loveably surly staff ever. So, Tuesday, my ex-coworker pals met me at Shopsin's for general gluttony, and the following remarkable things happened: I managed to scour the like 300-item-plus menu and look beyond my beloved mac and cheese pancakes, and some escalator inside the adjacent Delancey St. F stop caught fire and filled our happy chunk of the indoor market with acrid black smoke. Wooo.. hoo? Look, I'm no foodie (in fact, I was just drinking pickle juice right out of the jar a moment before I sat down to write this), but I think it MEANS something when a cloud of electrical fire-smoke doesn't make your food taste bad. Ok? I'm not saying Kenny Shopsin is some kind of magical wizard of... magic... and wonder, but I'm not saying he's NOT some kind of magical magic wizard of magic and wonder and... magic. Let's also talk about the fact that it doesn't make sense that everything on that menu is ridiculously awesome. How do you do that? I've been places that couldn't get a pancake (one pancake) right, how do you make 300 things right? I would drink their hot sauce. I would literally rub it into my eyes, just to have it near me. Do you understand? Do you? I would eat the napkins there. And it's not just that Senior Shopsin is the Lord of The Spatula, ALL OF HIS KIDS CAN DO IT, TOO. They have, like, butter and magic in their genes. HOW DO YOU MAKE CHOCOLATE COCONUT PANCAKES SO GOOD THAT THICK BLACK SMOKE AND A BLARING FIRE ALARM DOESN'T DIMINISH THEIR AWESOMENESS?! How often do you go to a restaurant and say, "I bet this would taste just as good in a cloud of toxic smoke," or, "Wow, I hope the proprietor of this business starts a cult, because, man, I am ready to sacrifice myself to whatever Norse god he's into if it'll get me closer to these pancakes." Kenny Shopsin, for the win. 

THE END.

elegy

Obviously a fitting memorial for your used blow-up doll would be "by the sidewalk next to a supermarket." Duh. No brainer. Let's pretend for a second that I understand the logic there, and move on to other things. Other things like, for example, what in the crap you'd be doing at the supermarket with your blow-up doll. I will accept the following answers: 1. You keep your shopping list in her big old mouth, 2. You were using your blow-up doll as a cape of some sort, 3. You wanted to take the carpool lane on your way to buy some eggs, but no one alive or un-inflatable was available, and/or 4. You get lonely at the supermarket, like REALLY lonely. Let me describe for you the sequence of events that occurred on the lovely Sunday afternoon when I found our friend here: 1. We leave the supermarket with our supermarketly purchases. 2. We exit the parking lot. 3. While turning out of the lot, I remark to Justin, "Is that a blow-up doll?" 4. Silence. 5. Justin pulls over and I jog 50 yards back to verify that it IS, in fact, a blow-up doll. 6. I take pictures, because this is the kind of thing you must document, because it is ridiculous. 7. I jog 50 yards back to the car, faster this time because EWWW THAT WAS A BLOW-UP DOLL. And here we are now, discussing said blow-up doll. People, I don't judge. Maybe there's a really good reason to take your blow-up doll to the market! Maybe you felt like she deserved a greater role in your domestic life. That's nice. I'm not even going to ask. But... What is it that made you leave your... good friend... on your way out of the parking lot? Did you get into a fight? Did you feel like that was a fun place for her to hang out? Were you just getting her some... air... or something? Or, maybe you thought she was right back there in your backseat, chillin' with the lettuce you'd just bought, when she flapped secretly out the window. Well, I hope you didn't get home and freak out, like, "So, Gladys, should we make ziti tonight- NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Either way, if you... need... your friend back, she's still at the supermarket. Better hurry before some kids start poking her with sticks. Perv.

cat-taunting for under a dollar

I'm not a cat, or a cat psychiatrist, but I'm not sure if placing an angry plastic mouse that a.) smells "great," and b.) wields a sign saying "HEY CAT! ARE YA STUCK IN THERE" in your cat's litter box is a great idea. First of all, how did the good people at "HEY CAT! Litter Box Freshener Manufacturing Concern" establish WHAT fragrance YOUR cat will love in his or her toilet? How do they know that? I'm going to assume that people who make vaguely threatening litter box inserts that sell at 99 cent stores are pretty much guessing what fragrance your cat will like. I'm also assuming they're pretty much guessing as to whether or not their surly plastic mouse is toxic/radioactive/made completely out of actual pressed mice. But let's ignore that, and move on to the thought behind this product. First of all, is an angry mouse with a protest sign the right choice? What if your cat can read, and feels like you're mocking him? Then he's going to poop in your bed. And you know what? YOU DESERVE IT because you're the asshole who plunked some stinky heckler into his toilet. Can you imagine if people bathroom air fresheners were like this? Anthropomorphic and kind of insulting? Maybe, say, shaped like a policeman, waving a sign that says "HEY JERK! OVERACTIVE BLADDER?" or "HEY LADY! YOUR HEMORRHOIDS ACTING UP AGAIN?" or "HEY DOUCHEBAG! YOU'RE A COMPLETE BASTARD!" You know what? That would be sort of dumb. The instructions on HEY CAT! clearly state you're supposed to dangle this 2-D tormentor over the lip of the cat box, so it's pretty much at cat-face level (so your cat can read the angry mouse's sign, and then probably try to poop on it), and let it fragrance up the room. Because nothing smells nicer than ammonia and poop PLUS "soon-to-be-feces-caked floral mouse" or whatever. I'm going to guess that my theories make up only a small part of why this product is gathering dust in a 99 cent store. Just sayin', insult air freshener, probably not a rational product to market to cats.

bread's dead, baby.

I don't know about you, but nothing makes me hungrier for baguettes than shopping for a deceased loved one's headstone. It's like, one minute you're thinking, "Would Grandma want the 'Angel in Repose' motif, or the 'Jesus with Lambs' relief," the next minute you're wondering if there's a bakery nearby, because, man, some baguettes would be really great right now. Fortunately for you and other weird people like you, the headstone shop by my house has all your bereavement AND baked goods needs covered in one place. Don't get me wrong, I know the economy's in the toilet right now, I'm not hating on the concept of expanding the scope of your retail possibilities, but BREAD in a BURIAL MONUMENT store is weird in any context. I mean, there have been plenty of times when I've walked past and thought, "Huh, I like bread," but the thought stops when I consider that I'd have to go into a headstone shop to retrieve said bread. That is weird. Ok, less weird than an actual mortuary selling baked goods, because then you'd be like, "Where are they baking this?" And the thought that your piping hot, fresh baguettes might've been chilling with dear departed Great Uncle Hank in the crematorium is frankly both a hilarious NY Post headline in the making, and kind of unsettling (unless dear old Great Uncle Hank's final wish was to be "one" with dinner rolls)(and really, that wouldn't be the weirdest thing people have done to the deceased). So anyway, if you're in the market for some rolls and a headstone, come to my 'hood for some one-stop shopping. All your bakery/burial monument needs in one place! I hope they start making commercials...

obama family inspires engrish-makers, nation, world, etc.

This is my favorite thing... within a one block radius of my boxing gym. Since a hearty chunk of real estate between the Flatiron and Macy's is occupied by an ever-changing cast of massively sketchy wholesale shops, it's not unusual to see depressing window displays full of crappy clothing soon to be seen on the runways of, um, a street vendor's table. Since about, oh, let's say 5 seconds after it became clear that the presidential race was going to be Obama v. McCain, a healthy chunk of these store windows have been packed with odd, cut-rate Obamamania in every form imaginable. The following shirt popped up a while back on 26th Street and I've been actively laughing about it ever since. BARACK OBAMA, Happy dream family, Barack, Michelle, Malia, and Sasha. That's right, it says happy dream family. There's a part of me that's looking into buying a crate of these, and another part that says this is probably only the tip of the iceberg in terms of bizarro Engrish tributes to our President and his happy dream family, so I should probably wait for the "Obama Future Joy World Times of Change President Man" coin purse series or maybe the "Let's so Obama! It up!" dog sweaters...

things in my neighborhood other than an elderly, candy-chucking pervert

Obviously, this is such a well done, clear picture that I don't have to explain it to you, but that's clearly Flight of the Conchord's Jemaine "the Hiphopopotamus" Clement walking down the street in my neighborhood with his lovely (as the picture clearly shows) lady and their baby. As you can see by my respectful "totally just playing with my phone/not a stalker" distance, I'm the kind of paparazzi with ethics. And a crap cameraphone... But mostly ethics. I've seen Mr. Clement in my eastern chunk of glorious Williamsburg several times, which proves both my theory that our side of the BQE is better/more awesome, and also my theory that we totally have better celebrity sightings because celebrities probably like to be near grumpy, elderly Italian people. That's right, friends (I'm talking to you, my one reader), the party side of the BQE is star studded, and we also have a healthy assortment of creepy "massage" parlors. Don't be jealous.

i know what you did last weekend

...And it didn't involve rushing off to glamorous Staten Island to meet Steve "Bobby Bacala" Schirripa at the star-studded grand opening of THE CABINET FACTORY. How the mighty have fallen. Part of me thinks I'd have been into making that trip, had I not gotten my exclusive invitation to this gala affair about 4 days too late, stuck to the mirror in the locker room at my gym (not stuck to Mog, as pictur - that happened later). Let's just talk about this for a minute: what? The Cabinet Factory? REALLY? There's nothing less depressing for you to be appearing at, sir? Maybe a Jamba Juice, or a Model Trains 'R' Us, or a Sbarro (because Italian people AND fat people like pizza)? Can't you ask my old boss for a couple bucks? Regardless, I wish Mr. Schirripa the best in his new... ventures. And I can't wait to see him the next time they open a nail salon or re-open an Ace Hardware or something. Jesus... Come on, HBO, spin-off? Prequel? Six Million Dollar Man type-thing? Bobby's not really dead, he... faked it... to go into witness protection... and open a cabinet store in Staten Island! Practically writes itself, people! Get on it!

ruin your child's dental health with ugly beasts!

I'm sorry, but this is terrifying. "Now your child can experience the joys of plaque removal by practicing on a totally faded plush animal, complete with his own disturbing set of eerily human TEETH!" As if the idea of intentionally putting a foaming, pasty brush inside your mouth wasn't weird enough for small children, now you can add the horror of Jan Svankmajer-esque bizarro animals (and "wacky" spelling, holla) to the equation! Here come the Plak Posse Palz, stuffing surrealism right into your child's mouth! Never mind the fact that a vacant and stoned-looking wall-eyed plush is kind of creepy enough on its own, let's toss some dentures in there and pretend that small children will jump at the chance to play with/provide dental care for these weird bastards! "Mommy, can I scrub my wasted dragon's dentures, PLEEEEEEEEEEASE?" "Only if you do all of your chores first, Spray!" Right. Totally. Product: FAIL.

FACT: cnn is ridiculous

My favorite part of the Inauguration coverage (aside from when a sleep-deprived Diane Sawyer completely went off her nut on live TV) was CNN's urgent posting of crucial facts every 30 seconds. Like my favorite, pictured at left: "FACT The Obamas and Bidens are having coffee with the Bushes at the White House." ZOMG NO WAI. Don't believe the nasty rumors that they're having tea or playing Scrabble, America. The facts are in, and the facts are COFFEE WITH BUSHES IN WHITE HOUSE. Don't believe for a minute that the Bidens are secretly having scones with the Cheneys (haha Cheney in a wheelchair)! Don't believe that the Bushes are hosting the Obamas at Applebee's! FACT: CNN is ridiculous and I only watch it because Fox News is openly retarded. FACT: Wolf Blitzer delivers every line like it's AN URGENT FACT THAT'S SO URGENT AND FACT-LY THAT HE CAN'T STOP TALKING IN A LOUD MONOTONE. FACT: George Bush's retirement will be indistinguishable from his presidency, save for the "permission to create widespread malevolence and destruction" part. FACT: Wolf Blitzer is a cyborg. FACT: President Obama will be riding a unicorn to and from the White House every day. FACT: Beets taste bad. FACT: I have to go now because my stories are on. FACT: Have a lovely weekend, all 3 of you who read this.

burlington soul-crushing factory (also, coats)

Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. This is a fact. This is like saying, "poop smells bad and I don't want to rub it on my face," in that if you don't think poop smells bad and DO want to rub it on your face, you are insane. Just like you're insane if you don't think Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. Here is some intel I gathered today:
-All of the scented candles at Burlington Coat Factory smell like the inside of a hot taxi, rat poison, or a hot, rat-poison-filled taxi. You will definitely die if you smell them.
-99% of the shoes at Burlington Coat Factory are only practical if you are a very tiny stripper, or a giant, really frumpy transvestite.
-Same with the underwear.
-Sad people will randomly start conversations with you. Sad, sad people.
-The Christmas music they're presently blasting is of the late 90s variety. Thanks for the slow, whispery, tinkling ladyvoices imploring Santa to "huuurrrraaaaayyyy down the chihihimnaaaaay," but I think this is a time in music I'd generally like to move past.
-It is not actually a factory.
-Old ladies talking to themselves in aisles 1-800.
I could go on, but then The Factory would win (in that the store's unstated goal is to devour your soul). Instead, let me share the following interactions I was a part of/witnessed in the Burlington Existential Angst Factory in the forgotten wing of lovely Atlantic Center Mall (aka the part with the DMV in it/the part that isn't Target). First: I'm standing in the housewares section, dying of scented candle-smell poisoning. I pull out a pack of gum (like it would magically suck the "allegedly mulberry" candle-death smell out of my sinuses - HA! No dice) and a woman appears next to me. "Can I bum one?" she asks. I'm confused because appearing out of nowhere and asking random strangers for gum in the middle of a store is weird, so I just kind of thrust the gum pack at her. "Oh no, " she says, "I thought that was a smoke." In her world, smokes look like gum, and you smoke them in a store. Lady, I don't want to live there. Exchange number 2: I'm looking at gloves. A little girl skips past me. She is singing "I hate my sister, I hate my sister, I hate my sister." Presumably this is why she is shopping for her at Burlington Depression Factory. My favorite exchange occurred while I was waiting to retrieve my bag from a normal store from the bag-check guy, and some large woman hoisted herself up onto the counter. Cashier: "Um, no. You better get down from the counter." Large woman: "Do you want me to pay? I've been waiting on a price check forever." Cashier: "You're going to need a price check for a counter repair if you don't get down, you are not a small woman." Actually, that last one might be a vote in favor of Burlington Emo Kid Factory. Don't try to convince me it's just the specific store I went to. All the Burlington Frown Factories are depressing. Does anyone else remember that jingle that went "Burlington Coat Factory, we're more than great coats (and what we are "more" of is sadness manifested in retail form, and don't tell anyone but the coats are mediocre at best and pretending these coats are "great" is proof of our vast intangible and tangible-in-coat-shapes sorrow)!" Me too. That's a lot of subtext for a jingle. But, all true. I hope your holiday shopping is less dramatic than mine, but if you live in New York, it's totally not, is it? You know what I'm talking about. You'd go into the Sad Factory, too, just because it's empty and "OMG if another Hasidic woman runs over my foot with her fucking stroller and then glares at me I'm going to rip her wig off and eat it, wait is that store completely empty, I'm going THERE, oh crap it's Burlington Coat Factory, whatever I'm just going to stand in the scented candle aisle and stare until the urge to scream passes." Happy Holidays.

the humane society is neither humane nor social, discuss.

I took my ladies to the vet yesterday, because airlines have some crazy restrictions about NOT bringing rabid, crazed animals on board their planes. Who knew? Traveling anywhere with my cats, like, say from one room to another, always carries the potential for hilarious mishaps, so I'm generally pretty braced for the worst/most hilarious when we have to go anywhere outside the apartment. Once I frantically shoved them into their bags and made my way out of the apartment, I spent a good 5 minutes reflecting on the fact that there are few things funnier than walking around with 2 yowling, thrashing duffel bags strapped to my body. I imagine this sight would freak the crap out of, say, intelligent alien life. Or people who don't own cats. We got to the Humane Society pretty uneventfully, and the ladies were pretty chill in spite of the fact that we were sitting in a complete freakshow of a waiting room for about 45 minutes past way too long. My favorite thing about my fellow pet owners is that a solid 75% of them are seemingly completely insane. I was sitting across from a woman who held a rambling 15 minute conversation with her daschunds. I know, I know. I talk to my cats. I'm not saying I don't talk to my cats. I don't, however, talk to them for 15 straight minutes about our plans for the day, what they think about me, or how I think they're enjoying their time in the waiting room. I just talk to my cats about important stuff, like, "Do you guys see that crazy woman over there, talking to her dogs? Seriously." The best part about this is that I don't think anyone really noticed, because they were all too busy being completely bonkers themselves. One woman was talking to her cocker spaniel about how he looked silly when he acted all tough, and if he kept growling at everyone who walked in, they might have to talk about that whole "getting fixed" thing seriously. The man next to me had a giant, filthy dog that was totally farting it up. That's the bonus to this place, it smelled like donuts and dog farts. Why? The dog farts I can explain, but who could eat donuts in a cloud of dog farts? The man with the farting dog, that's who. So we sat there for just long enough for me to wonder if he could even TASTE the donuts through the dog farts, when they called me into the back, and we had the usual exchange where the vet tries to convince me that my cats probably have terrible, life-threatening conditions, and I am a horrible person, and I should probably sell one or both kidneys to be able to afford a bunch of tests to TRULY understand why Mog likes to poop on the couch because there's no way it's a simple, free explanation like, "She gets pissed when you guys leave the house for longer than an hour, so she's like, F@#K YO' COUCH!" But the moral of the story is that the Humane Society is only a humane place for people who like sitting in a cold room full of dog flatulence and crazy people. The cherry in top is that when I finally left, I had to hail a cab, and since it was about negative 50 degrees out and the vet is located in the heart of rich old lady (hence, cab-stealing) land, I stood on a freezing streetcorner with 2 shivering, angry bags of cat for a good 10 minutes before any unoccupied cabs even appeared. And some lady tried to cockblock my cab-hailing by standing a foot in front of me and pretending that was an ok thing to do, to test a freezing, determined woman with 2 unhappy cats strapped to her shoulders. Try me, lady. I will spay you. I made sure to give her a thumbs up when I ran across the street and grabbed the first taxi that appeared. I think the cats are still pissed at me, and I'm not sure if it's because I let some strange people probe and poke them, or if I brought them to crazy dogfart town. I don't blame them either way.

YES, WE F**KING CAN

Hi, I spent most of my election day in Philadelphia with a busload of Brooklyn Obama people, and my brain is kind of fried, so excuse me if this makes less sense than it should - uh, not that I really ever make sense. Let's go in chronological order because that's fun: Justin and I got up at like 7 something and voted at 8 (see Justin with his post-voting face in picture #1). We were lucky and we only waited for like 15 minutes, because those old skool Italian ladies mean BUSINESS. He went to work and I went to Fort Greene to catch a bus that a bunch of BK Obama people had chartered to hit the crucial Philadelphia area. My bus ride largely involved unwittingly listening (guess my ipod isn't loud enough) to the people behind me loudly discuss which bike shops they thought were "snobby," so basically I wanted to kill myself for 2 hours, and then we drove into Philly and I saw like a bajillion McCain signs and thought the killing myself idea was maybe not so crazy. The campaign center we went to was at the Women's Medical College of PA, and for the first few hours my awesome new pal Barbara (check out the back of her head in picture #2, not pictured: her sweet Obama overalls, part of an abandoned "Joe the Plumber" Halloween costume concept) canvassed the area around there... Which was largely empty because it was the middle of the afternoon. But big ups to the like 3 people we saw who told us they had voted or were about to - except for the lady who was totally surly, I think she was a McCain person, which is like, "then get your damn name off our list of supporters, crankytown!" Some grade school kids asked us for campaign materials for whatever reason, and then told us they'd be moving to Iceland if McCain won. I asked the kid who said that why Iceland, and he said "Because McCain isn't there." Kids today! Adorable. Then we came back, ate some stale-ish soft pretzels, and sat there for a minute before round 2 began. Barbara had to cut out so I found a new pal, Betsy (check her out in picture #3), and we were promptly dispatched to this area of North Philly. A very nice woman named Berdine gave us a ride and we started canvassing on 20th and Cambria. I have literally never met nicer people in my life than the people in this neighborhood. People were inviting us into their houses, people hugged us, people convinced their housemates to stop by the polls when we stopped by (and, um, brought the guilt), and there were cats! Cats! And I saw 2 cool looking slugs, but that made Betsy unhappy. And there was a roving flock of like 3-7 young kids who followed us around and kept asking us for pins and stickers and they told us about the mock elections at their school and how Obama won like 351 to 16 or something - AND THEY WERE RIGHT. Everyone was so excited and so happy! And not SINGLE person in North Philly expressed a moment of doubt that Obama was going to win. And they were right. But I didn't know that when my pal Betsy took that picture of me, all I knew was that I wanted to hug some random strangers in North Philly for being so nice to a couple of weird, exhausted white women who were banging on their doors at dinner time. So we left about 10 minutes before the polls closed, and got back to the headquarters to choke down some food, tally our canvassing results, and generally freak out. And then we got on our bus back to Brooklyn, during which every periodic update by phone and internet was met with clapping and the like, but it never occurred to me that it was really, really happening. And I got off the bus and headed to the G, which turned out to be a really obscenely long journey since the G was like, "no, I don't care about taking you places, I'm the G," but I STILL didn't know, even with the screams of OBAMA I could hear from under the street - that should've been the tip off, if people are screaming anything loud enough on the street that you can hear it inside the subway, it's probably something important. Or dangerous, like "MOTHRA!!!" But in this context, important. So I got off the G a thousand hours and a weird marriage proposal (that's another story entirely) later and still didn't know anything, I figured we still had counts and shenanigans to go for hours. And then I got to the top of the subway stairs in my 'hood and some cop totally high-fived me out of nowhere, so I called my mom (who had been my CNN when I was out in Philly without interwebz with my new pals) and... I still can't believe it! The good guy actually wins. Trucks were honking and people were screaming at each other my whole walk home. My neighbors are jumping up and down and pounding the floor and shrieking like crazed drunks (oh wait, they ARE), long after the speech ended, someone out on my street is setting off fireworks, and I still kind of can't stop crying and smiling like I won a pageant. So it turns out that we can, and we did. Now my boxing trainer and I won't have to riot tomorrow! Yay! I was totally worried that I wouldn't know how to use a crowbar. And now I won't have to. I'm so exhausted and exhilarated, I wish I could see the voters I met in North Philly right now, and I have to hug my cats. Good night! For real.

stench. magnet.

The phenomenon of incredibly smelly, batshit crazy, or otherwise disturbed people being inexplicably drawn to stand by me, talk to me, or follow me around the gym is well documented at this point. So I wish I could be more incredulous about the following assault on my olfactory rights, but it's just kind of like, "Oh, wow, another person who smells like they died at least 2 weeks ago, and look, they're headed right toward ME again." But this is worth mentioning because stinking up a macho dude-filled boxing gym is kind of like being the hunk of maggot filled-cheese that makes the OTHER hunks of maggot-filled cheese gag and dry heave. So I'm at the gym, having a lovely time with my trainer, doing some pushups next to the ring, when a stench wafts by and slaps me in the face so hard I almost fell down. There are smells in this world so specific in their fetidness that they become burned permanently into some lost corner of your brain, and the very nanosecond you smell them again, you know EXACTLY what they are, even before you turn to run or vomit or whatever. DIRTY BOXING HANDWRAPS AND GLOVES ARE ONE OF THOSE SMELLS. I'm sure I've discussed this before (and I'm just too lazy to look through my posts and find out when), because you know what?

i hate the fox football robot.

When I think of 36 year old libras named "Cleatus" (info courtesy of the tardbot's myspace profile, naturally) who are on my personal shit list, one specific obnoxious robot leaps immediately to the top of the page: that goddamn Fox football robot (P.S. "Cleatus?" Really?). If he's not wearing a "hilarious" seasonally appropriate costume ("it's Thanksgiving and Cleatus is a Pilgrim! And he's throwing a turkey instead of a football! What a magical age we live in!"), he's doing some kind of embarrassing touchdown dance, or just hopping around for no obvious reason, his firm robot quads quivering ever so slightly. THIS, FRIENDS, IS THE JARJAR BINKS OF FOOTBALL. Some people think John Madden (with his rambling non sequiturs) is the JarJar Binks of football, but they are wrong, because John Madden used to have a purpose, I assume, at some point in history. Dead wrong. Did I mention that the robot runs in place? Like he's warming up? For annoying sports viewers across the country? Why is it there? It's not doing anything of value, unless being an unfunny annoyance and an eyesore is valuable, in which case the Republicans should've really backed Carrot Top/Palin '08 after all. I hope that dancing WB frog comes back from the grave as some kind of super-zombie and eats this robot's face and entrails. No, but he wouldn't, because at least THAT anthropomorphic network mascot was the mascot of a WHOLE network, not just one specific seasonal sports event. I don't think that frog would bother resurrecting itself as some kind of super-zombie for something as lame as an anthropomorphic SHOW mascot. And you know what? Fox sports is wasting this technology on making some retarded dancin' robot, when they could be investing in something awesome like making their sideline reporter a giant CG hamster named "Dilly." What would be more precious than Peyton Manning looking skyward to the serene face of a giant CG hamster, gazing deeply into his deep rodent eyeballs and saying something pointless about how he "got the ball, and gave the ball to people, and they ran the ball, and they did a good job." WHAT IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN THAT? Other options include "Foxy, the Foxin' Fox Fox." Or whatever Clinton Portis feels like doing, because that guy is a goddamn genius.