Questions and Answers

In a flagrantly transparent attempt to cop out of having to come up with a topic to blahg, (at least once every few installments) I’m instituting a Q & A. And since I have no questions in the hopper, I’ll start by answering some of my own questions. That way, you’ll have an idea of the scope and breadth of the questions I’m open to answering. Shall we begin? (That’s rhetorical – I can’t actually hear your answer.) Alrighty then.

Q: If the Sex Pistols had been an American, all-girl band, would their most well-known album have been titled “Don’t Bother With the Labia?”

A: No. No, it wouldn’t and that would never have happened. Don’t be retarded.

Q: What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

A: That depends. Do you have a Klondike Bar? Because if you make me think you have one that you might give me, but it turns out you don’t? I might kill you.

Q: Okay, be serious for a minute. What happened with that whole Breitbart/Shirley Sherrod thing?

A: Oh, that. Easy-peasy. It was a full-on setup, just like the Acorn debacle. It’s entrapment at it’s less-than-finest. Here’s the dillio: Breitbart deliberately omitted parts of Sherrod’s speech so as to make it appear like “reverse racism,” knowing full-well that although that was NOT truly the case, just the mere whiff of it would reflect poorly upon the Obama administration. It was meant to fan the flames of the true racists who stupidly believe what Glenn Beck says about Obama hating all white people and “white culture.” (WTF is “white culture,” anyway? Mayonnaise on Wonder Bread? Come ON!) Here’s where I must admit to extremely poor judgment on behalf of Obama’s administration – their reaction to this doctored-up video of Sherrod’s speech at the NAACP was a knee-jerk one. She got canned. Shots were fired first and relevant questions were only asked MUCH later. I think Breitbart knew that’s exactly what would happen, because the racial climate in DC is currently such that any hint of this fabled “reverse racism” under Obama’s presidency would need to be squashed, post haste. And haste makes foolish, foolish decisions. Case and point – Breitbart’s bullshit solidly hit upon a trigger issue and the Obama administration acted a fool. Just as Breitbart had planned. That’s a long way to go just to make someone look like an ass, to be certain. But I put nothing past those who are Hell-bent on proving that Obama is a bad president, despite all of the evidence to the contrary. As soon as Obama makes any headway, some nimrod like Breitbart comes along to create a diversion. This isn’t at all funny – it’s vile. I’m glad that Breitbart’s ass is getting fried for what he deliberately tried to do. It’s not that much different from what Charles Manson tried to do, which was start a race war. And the worst part? Breitbart doesn’t think he has anything to apologize for. Dick.

Got a question you’d like to ask the all-knowing Heidiblahg oracle? Submit it, either via comments or message me on the Facebooks. (I’m not deluding myself into believing that I have any readers who don’t know me… yet. That delusion is forthcoming.)

And since I share a birthday with the King of Morose, Morrissey, I’ll also phrase it thusly: “Ask me, ask me, ask me…”

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I gots da Infotainment Fever, son!

Early signs were evident. Most kids didn’t totally look forward to Sunday nights because 60 Minutes was going to be on, but I wasn’t “most kids.” There could be no kindredship found with my peers in the excitement I felt every Sunday night at 7pm. And back in those days, ‘Five Minutes with Andy Rooney’ didn’t feel like a freaking excruciating eternity with a ranting lunatic who has crazy old-man eyebrows. Oh, he was still annoying as shit, but at least he made some semblance of sense, unlike now.

From there, my boundless fascination for television news-magazine shows only grew. I’ll tell you what didn’t help matters – Dateline, 20/20, 48 Hours, and Primetime. I could (and let’s face it, do) geek out on this sort of programming for days. I swear, this stuff is to me like crack is to an addict – I just can’t NOT watch it. If I haven’t seen a good true-crime-and-justice story in a few days, I go on a total jones for one. How else am I going to learn about lesser-known Manson family victims, or who the authorities now believe The Zodiac killer to have been? This is need-to-know stuff, here.

Another thing I can’t get enough of is documentary films. No subject matter barred – politics, religion, psychic mediums, clean energy resources creating poisoned drinking water, rare/bizarre brain disorders, insane visual artists, wacky sexual fetishes involving men who’d rather stick their junk into exorbitantly-priced but creepily lifelike latex dummies than actual women, and whatever else someone decides to make a documentary film about, I’m in. I am ALL in.

I even dig mockumentaries, a`la Zelig or This Is Spinal Tap. Apropos of nothing, my favorite line from Zelig is: “He ran over my wife’s wrists. My wife is elderly and uses her wrists a lot.” I have no idea what that even means, but it just tickles me.

The greatest documentary I’ve seen to date has got to be Bill Maher’s Religulous. See it – you’ll thank me for my stellar recommendation. Then you’ll come back and beg me to recommend other things! THAT’S how good it is. If you’re looking for the joke there, you won’t find it. Because I’m serious about wanting you to see that film. If I could, I’d tie you to a chair, glue your eyelids open and force you to watch it.

I bet if I did do that, 60 Minutes would do a segment about me. It wouldn’t be the most flattering portrait of my sanity, but it’d still be the realization of a long-held dream of mine. (Not to tie people up and force them to do things against their will, but… well, you know what I mean.)

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick…

Oh no – I’ve spilled my crazy again! Did I get any on you?

I’m just going to go ahead and preface this with the following disclaimer: What you are about to read should not make a whole Hell of a lot of sense. It isn’t intended to, really. If it does make sense to you, seek professional help toute de suite.

This is going to be just a bunch of tangential thoughts, so if you were looking for a cohesive read, look elsewhere.

  • I’ve noticed that when my hair looks good, it’s all Botticelli-esque. But when it looks less-than good, it’s startlingly Oompa-Loompa-y. “I don’t like the look of it…” Doompah-tee-doo.
  • I think I may have mentioned in a previous entry that I’ve been feeding baby food to my almost 20-year-old kitty, ever since she lost some of her teeth. However, I failed to point out two salient pieces of information with regard to that. First, I find it ironic that every jar of beef, chicken, ham or turkey Gerber’s I’ve ever opened smells like death. SO nasty. Secondly, the ham and the beef baby food cause my cat to fart technicolor farts.  I honestly couldn’t say which smells worse – the baby food before it goes into my cat, or the baby food after she’s nommed it down and is pootin’ out the noxious Gerber-gas. Either way, I’m beginning to suspect that this Gerber fella was a Nazi. Think about it.
  • It’s highly probable that no-one but me will find this at all funny, but here it is anyway: The judge in the Casey Anthony murder trial is a dead ringer for Cleveland Brown. I wonder how many times the antics of Peter Griffin have caused Judge Perry to fall out of his 2nd story bathroom and onto his front lawn while in the tub.
  • There was a small earthquake today that I thankfully didn’t feel. But it got me thinking about when I was laid up with mononucleosis for the entire summer before my freshman year of high school. I was so bored that I started coming up with nonsensical little rhymey things (I’m not pretentious enough to call it poetry) to pass the time. One of them was: Earthquake-proof, they say, is built a special way. When the earth quakes and your house shakes, the walls fall outward, so they don’t kill. But if the walls don’t get’cha, the ceiling will.
  • Another random memory from my childhood: Tina-Louise, (Ginger on Gilligan’s Island, for you young’uns) used to do television commercials for Arrid Extra Dry deodorant. I was maybe 6 years old when those commercials ran regularly on network TV – a fact that plays an important role in this story in that it explains some of the aspects of it that are quite frankly, mortifying to me now. I specifically remember that in the Tina-Louise deodorant ads, she would apply the roll-on to her armpit while saying, “And it’s non-aerosol, so it won’t harm the ozone layer.” (It was the 70’s, so nobody was using the term “the environment,” yet.) Well, in my 6-year-old mind, if Tina-Louise pointed at her armpit while speaking of something I’d never heard of, called “ozone layer,” why then it served to reason that this ozone layer that she spoke of must be located in one’s armpits. I learned the faultiness of my logic when I later told my mother that my ozone layer itched. Sometimes, learning can be brutal.

TV Seasons Are the New Four Seasons

Having lived in San Francisco for the better part of the past 20 years, I’ve grown accustomed to the lack of all four seasons; Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. It’s pretty much either Spring or Fall up in these parts. And that’s the way we city-curmudgeons like it, thankyouverymuch.

Maybe that’s why it suits my sensibilities so swimmingly that television also only has two seasons. At least, only two that I care about. Those being, the HBO, Showtime and until the recent cancellation of “Party Down,” Starz, original cable series’ seasons. For me, it all started with The Sopranos. SUCH a great show! Such a plethora of awesome was The Sopranos, that I know someone who postponed a suicide attempt so as to not miss the series finale. Okay, that might’ve been me. (Oh, put away the boo-boo faces! The attempt was obviously unsuccessful – because I can’t do anything right.)

I have since found other worth-living-for programming high atop the cable dial. Showtime has really stepped-up their game with shows like “Weeds,” “United States of Tara,” “Dexter” and “Nurse Jackie.” And they’ve been considerate enough to stagger the seasons, so when “US of Tara” and “Nurse Jackie” have an ‘on-season,’ “Dexter” and “Weeds” are on an ‘off-season.’ There’s always something to look forward to! Thanks, Showtime. I’d like you so much more if you weren’t costing me blood, plasma and marrow.

HBO is worth having for almost no other reason than Real Time with Bill Maher. HBO also shows some pretty cool documentaries, which I’m a total sucker for. I can’t really discuss the unceremonious cancellation of “Party Down” on Starz. It’s still too upsetting.

All in all, I am clearly NOT the one who will ever pretentiously claim that TV rots your brain, or worse yet, become one of those insufferable, “I don’t even OWN a TV” people. Ew. Gross.  And for those who are sans-cable? Come on out of your caves, discover fire and the wheel and better television that costs way more dough-re-mi.  Join us, the fat/flat assed masses, sitting mesmerized in our living rooms or bedrooms or (dare I imagine it…? ) our rumpus rooms, in front of our beloved tube-age of boobage. Come join the great brotherhood and sisterhood of those who watch “Brothers and Sisters!” Experience the serial-killy joys of “Dexter!” Or the weedy goodness of “Weeds!” (More to the point for me, and for some other people I know who shall remain nameless to protect their innocence, or some other such nonsense, *cough*Kat.*cough* watch “Weeds” for it’s Justin Kirk-y goodness.)

Of course, I have other, NON-premium-cable must-see programs. AMC’s “Madmen,” for one. Chock full of early 1960’s ennui and Jon Hamm-y, shiny-haired deliciousness. I guess January Jones and Christina Hendricks aren’t too hard on the eyes, either. And the costumes are cute, so I watch and I fantasy-shop for clothes. Y’know, for my fantasy body.  I also can’t miss “I Survived.” For me, it’s akin to watching Jerry Springer – it’s compelling and although I don’t really want to watch, I sort-of have to. Mostly because it reminds me that my life could be so much worse – AND be televised.

So, you may not have been all that entertained by this blahg entry – and I’m fine with that. This ain’t premium cable – it’s free. And since it don’t cost no money, it ain’t that goddamned funny.  Want something better? Then you’d better pony-up. You get what you pay for, people.

My Upstairs Neighbors Have Always Been Freaks

I have long been grousing about my current upstairs neighbor, the infernal nocturnal vacuumer. I wouldn’t mind so much if the guy started his vacuuming ritual – because what else could it be, if not some sort of OCD ritual that he’s compelled to do so that his whole family doesn’t die – as late as 11pm, (his usual start-time) if only he’d simply vacuum and then BE DONE. But that wouldn’t fit into the larger design of my life with upstairs neighbors, which apparently has been predestined to be a tug-of-war, no matter where I live or who lives above me. No, the vacuumer above feels that he must suck up debris from his floor, which is mere inches from my ceiling, first at 11pm, then stop. Then again at 11:30pm. Then again at 12:15am. And again at 1:00am. I can’t tell you how many times my last conscious thought of the day has been, “The Hell is he DOING up there that requires this much Hoovering?” If you’ve never had the distinct displeasure of hearing what vacuuming sounds like from underneath the surface being vacuumed, it sounds not like a floor being vacuumed, but like a floor being assaulted by a lawn mower. Whirring vacuum noises have become the soundtrack to all of my dreams. I’d go upstairs and complain, but damned if the carpets in every single one of my dreams aren’t freaking immaculate. Seriously, you could eat off of them.

An over-vacuumy upstairs neighbor, believe it or not, isn’t the worst-case scenario in the realm of apartment living. The guy who lived above me before Mr. Suck-o-Matic was so much worse. In terms of noise, the dude made nary a peep – except when he was having ‘sexy time’ – either alone or with a partner. He may have always been alone up there, for all I know – I never heard any voice other than his. And it wasn’t the standard/customary sex-noises, either. There would be complete silence until the “big finish.” Then, and I swear on all that I hold sacred that this is true, the sound he made could easily be mistaken for an elderly man having a labored bowel movement. Creepy, no? Who wants to hear that sound at the apex of passion? It became comical, as so many things do with me. When it finally began to dawn on me that what I was hearing was not, in fact, the sound of a 90-year-old man with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but the sound of a 45 year old man’s orgasm, I bestowed upon him the nickname of “Old Man Gasm.” I liked to sing it to the tune of “Old Man River.” As was previously alluded, the walls of my flat are paper-thin and sound travels in a way that provides very little, if any privacy. That works two ways – and the way it worked in this case was that O.M.G. overheard me calling him O.M.G. and he began giving me the stink-eye whenever he’d see me in the stairwell, or out in the backyard, or passing by on the street. He later phoned in 2 false claims against me to the Department of Public Works and tried to get me fined $150 for each false claim. I had to go to Garbage Court to dispute the ridiculous claims that he’d made against me. Thankfully, I prevailed and he moved away in shame. True story.

Prior to living where I live now, I lived in a place that was on the bottom floor of a 2-story building. Directly above me lived what I can only describe as a gargantuan tranny who was the proud owner of a Stairmaster machine, which he/she had placed dead center of his/her room, directly above the built-in chandelier in my room. I know this because whenever it was time for him/her to work out, I’d hear the “ka-CHUNG, ka-CHUNG” sound of the machine, which would be accompanied by the swinging and bouncing of the chandelier downstairs in my room. I consoled myself with the fact that the exercising tranny had like, zero stamina, so the “ka-CHUNGing” never lasted longer than 5 minutes. That apartment building also had a communal washer/dryer (a major coup for city-livin’) which had been thoughtfully placed on the upstairs rear landing. I always knew when it was time to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer because that was when my whole room ceased shaking from the force of the spin cycle. One time after doing laundry, I noticed a number of my favorite skirts were missing. I knew exactly who to suspect, but didn’t want to go off on the tranny because I couldn’t be 100% sure it was him/her. I kept telling myself that it couldn’t be him/her, as he/she was at least 6 feet tall and my clothing would never fit him/her. That was until the day I happened to see him/her walking a few paces ahead of me back to the apartment building. He/she was totally wearing my stretchy burgundy tweed mini skirt! I loved that skirt! And he/she looked better in it than I ever did or ever could. I was so pissed-off, but also so supremely bummed-out that I just couldn’t bring myself to confront him/her. I never saw that skirt again, but I think about it all the time. I really miss it – even though it is no longer an age-appropriate garment for me. It’d be nice to still have the option to dress age-inappropriately. I bet the tranny still wears it, though.

If I ever move to a different place, (don’t get your hopes up, landlord who hates me – you’ll have to pull my bleached bones out of this place, ’cause I ain’t going anywhere) I hope it’s on the top floor. But let’s face it – it won’t be. That just isn’t the gods’ plan.

Arrrr you kidding me?

For the past couple of months, I’ve had to re-learn how to type on my laptop without a functional “r” key. I’d rather not go into how my “r” key got all dysfunctional – it’s a long story and I come off badly in it. In any case, it has been a very eye-opening experience for me. I never realized how much I used words that contain the letter “r,” until this unspecified stupid thing happened to my laptop. I’ve gotten pretty creative with ways of circumventing the problem – I’ve learned a myriad of new words that mean basically the same thing as the word I wanted to use, but that had the offending letter in it. For example, I’m no longer “over” something – I’m now DONE. It’s not “morning” anymore, it’s “a.m.” I know, right? Pretty clever.

That however, isn’t the half of it. You’ve probably noticed that this whole thing has already been lousy with “r’s.” And you’re there thinking, “She clearly has access to an “r,” so what’s she bitchin’ about?” Well first off, I’m not bitching. What I’m doing is presuming others can empathize and fishing for co-miserators. (I’m fairly sure I just made that word up.) And second, well duh… obviously. I do not live on Sesame Street where one must wait for a shady-looking Muppet in a trench coat to approach with the offer of, “Psst… hey! You wanna buy a letter “r?”” Indeed, the internet is rife with letter “r’s” and all I need to do is find one, copy it and wait for the need to paste it via Ctrl+V. Of course, the need for a CAPITAL “r” presents a whole other issue. Then I’m forced to stop what I’m doing and embark upon a search for one. It is, as my friend Sue says, the suck.

I also had my first ever ‘automated telephone interview’ for a job today. It was super weird – the automated voice asking the questions sounded just like the voice that had been dubbed in over Pee Wee Herman’s voice when he played a bellboy in the movie of his own Big Adventure. “Paging Pee Wee Herman… Mr. Pee Wee Herman…” That voice. I had a hard time taking it seriously – especially because the freaky simulated voice had sternly warned me at the beginning of the call, to take it seriously. I don’t know why, but those three words always almost guarantee my utter inability to do just that. Like those Chamber Chorale gigs we used to have to do every year at the Elk’s Lodge’s annual memorial for the “fallen elk,” a.k.a. Lodge Members Who’d Died That Year. We were told in no uncertain terms that this was a somber occasion and would require our utmost sensitivity and decorum. So when the old guy in the giant fez cap started banging on a gong and calling out the names of each dead elk, and they’re names like Brother Beuford Dorkenschnort – I’d just lose it. And by “lose it,” I mean end up on a giggling jag of tear-inducing magnitude.

Anyway, this bizarre robo-interview I had got me all fixated on the disconcerting notion that my clever-but-ass-backwards way of typing an “r” will bleed over into my professional life, should I ever have one again. At this point in my seemingly futile job search though, it’s feeling like my concerns should be focused on more realistic things, like whether or not I should commission Vera Wang to create a line of back-fat enhancing couture for the vertically impaired, pudgy fashionista. In other words, I’d really like to start working again. Like, yesterday. But not tomorrow because it’s the weekend and any job that expects me to work on a Saturday is simply too uncivilized for my liking.

Maybe I should refer potential employers to this blog entry when they ask me about my process of creative problem solving. And maybe I probably shouldn’t do that.

Killing Her Softly, With Raisins

HOLY SHIT! I just stumbled upon a critical-for-any-dog-or-cat-owner-to-know piece of information. Apparently, both grapes and raisins are toxic to dogs and cats, like chocolate. (Ooh… “Toxic Like Chocolate” sounds like a Beyonce song title! But I digress. Frequently.) This news comes as a double-blow to me, as I’d just discovered that my almost 20 year old cat, 9, (that’s her name, not a typo) finds the raisins from my morning bagel to be a culinary delight. Seriously, she’s practically toothless but she damn near took off my finger, trying to get every last bit of vestigial raisin goo off of it. She also has arthritic hips, which I was advised by a vet to treat with one baby aspirin every 3rd day. Now, if you’ve ever had to try to give a pill to a cat, you’re familiar with the level of resistance that one faces in such a situation. If you haven’t, you’ll just have to take my word that cats don’t take kindly to having things forced down their throats – much like health care hating Republicans. (in fact, 9 went on a whole campaign of misinformation about ‘feline death panels.’) So, when I discovered that 9 was a ravenous raisin fan, I was stoked because I knew I could get her to take the pill without engaging in a swatty, bitey screaming struggle with her. And it worked like a charm! Then the raisin-rug gets pulled right out from under me. Not only can I no longer slip 9 a mickey in a raisin-disguise, but I must now find some other way to get the medicine into the kitty.

The other issue created by this discovery has to do with, well, poop. 9 has been a tad constipated for the past few months. Nothing major, just poopin’ out little, rock-hard turds that I call “mibs.” (TM The Westerlands) Vexingly, she also had a habit of mibbing in front of her litter tray, instead of in it. Not cool, kitty. So the raisins, being a natural laxative, seemed like a brilliant two-fer solution – and one of which I was perhaps inordinately pleased with myself for thinking of. Especially upon discovering whole, healthy, moist-looking turds IN the tray, post “raisin therapy.”

And now this whole house of raisin-and-turd cards has collapsed and I’m back at square one. I wonder if Bobby Brown is still offering manual turd-from-sphincter removal services, as he did for Whitney. Probably not, right? It is, after all, his prerogative.

Blogworthy?

I’ve been putting off starting a blog for the longest time – mostly because procrastination is my forte – but also because I prefer to journal by hand and I don’t usually expect anybody to read that. If you have read my journal, shame on you.

So today, this happened:

Now, I give nary a crap about Lindsay Lohan. But this morning when I went to get my legal geek on & switched on InSession, this was the only legal story being covered. So I watched it – and bemoaned it’s lack of newsworthiness to myself.  LiLo’s attorney was there claiming the SCRAM bracelet she wore on her leg reported that Lindsay had a o.o4 BAC on the night of the MTV Movie Awards NOT because Lindsay drank that night, but – and get this – because someone spilled a drink on the bracelet. Oh, really? On her LEG? Uh-huh. Fortunately, the judge isn’t retarded and is sending the Lohan to jail for a while, then to inpatient treatment for addiction. But still stuck in my craw is that spilled drink theory.  Even lifetime actress Lindsay Lohan couldn’t sell that line. “No Judge, I didn’t drink that night. Someone spilled a drink on me. And some cocaine. And a shitty attitude. And an all-consuming sense of entitlement.” At least we already know she looks good in orange. I wonder how many cigarettes Big Shawanda will buy her for.

Note to my future self: The reader, if there are any, will misunderstand the above post & chalk it up to some shallow obsession that I must have with troubled celebrities or TMZ or Harvey Levin. In fact, the above post is demonstrative of my shallow obsession with Nancy Grace. She is my arch-nemesis and a square-headed anti-Christ.