Date Archives June 2008

My feet hurt! This fresh air is making my hair move! I don’t know how much longer I can complain!

Yesterday, I walked on water. I suppose that statement is a little glib, so allow me to clarify: Yesterday, during the VM Seafair Half Marathon, I walked across the 520 Evergreen Point floating bridge that spans Lake Washington. The view was amazing–Bellevue in front of us, Seattle behind, and snow-capped Mount Rainier off in the distance, and it was easily my favorite section of the entire trip. The route I took is marked out in purple below.

At that point, I was still walking easily, with plenty of energy. It was hot, but not unbearable. There were police officers stationed at every intersection. Hot police officers. Ridiculously hot police officers. It almost makes me want to join the academy.

Around mile 7, I realized I’d worn the wrong socks–they were intended to wick away sweat, with more padding on the bottom and heat vents along the top, but they hit too low on the ankle, and my foot had been rubbing on the back of my shoe, forming a major blister. By mile 8, I was bleeding. If this were The Long Walk, I would’ve received my ticket by now for ignoring Hint 3.

Miles eleven and twelve were the worst. By that point, it was brutally hot outside, I could feel at least six blisters having their way with my feet, and my legs were on fire. The route set us up to go past where we’d parked, which was unspeakably cruel. Mile thirteen was easier, what with the knowledge that the walk was almost over AND the hot shirtless marathoners running by, though it didn’t slow down my complaining nor my instructions to put my finisher’s medal on my coffin.

At the last section, with the finish line in sight, I found the strength to run. I goaded Carrie into running with me, and while I thought we were just going to do an easy jog, it turned into a full-out sprint, with her blasting past me right at the finish line. One of the other members of our group who’d finished earlier and was waiting for us laughed and remarked that she was surprised that we didn’t give ourselves black eyes. My final time was four hours and change, which isn’t spectacular, but was about as reasonably well as I could’ve expected, with the blistering and the heat factor (I’d been doing most of my training at night and hadn’t realized how much the heat would affect me).

There aren’t any pictures of me stripped down to the sports bra, wearing the medal, screaming in triumph because 1) the shirt stayed on and 2) they were out of medals because they ‘underanticipated demand’ and will be mailing ours to us. I’d find that easier to believe if 1)we didn’t all have to preregister, giving them a damn good idea of demand and 2)the little cards they handed us to say ‘sorry, we’re out’ weren’t laminated. Lamination indicates forethought, not a last-minute whoopsie!

After a celebratory lunch, I went home and took a cold shower, which washed all of the salt off of my body and face (which felt like a salt lick) down into the open wound on my heel, which was…special. After that, I tried to take a nap while the upstairs neighbors’ velociraptors played what sounded like an impromptu game of basketball. I furiously stomped upstairs and pounded on the door, but just like when their toilet overflowed and started leaking into my bathroom and wouldn’t open the door for maintenance, they wouldn’t open the door for me. I shouted through the door in english AND in spanish that they need to stop whatever they’re doing NOW and huffed back downstairs. The basketball-style rumblings have ended…but for how long?

Regardless, now I’ve done a half marathon. Please wait until my body has healed before asking me if I’d do another one; right now the answer is NO. But still, I’m excited about having accomplished this, and knowing what I can do if I push myself. The human body is pretty awesome.

One of these days, Alice.

Everyone who stayed home on Friday to watch the mid-season finale of Battlestar Galactica, I envypity you. Because WE watched ‘Nude on the Moon’, a movie where the title succinctly describes the plot. That is, if ‘Nude on the Moon’ HAD a plot. When I see movies this bad, I expect to see two robots and a cheeky lad silhouetted in the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

It’s about 10 minutes of two men doing ‘science’ to get themselves to the moon, which mostly involves random acts of chemistry, 2 minutes of the secretary pining for one of the uninterested scientists, 8 minutes of the most hilarious spacesuits ever, and 50 minutes of topless ladies cavorting in a manner that indicates that ‘Developmentally Disabled Nudes on the Moon’ might have been a more apt title.

Who knew that all it took to go to the moon was mixing a couple of chemicals together while staring pensively and muttering that you’re not interested in a family? If that’s true, I should’ve rocketed off to the moon at some point during 10th grade chemistry. Screw stealing dad’s Playboys, now adventurous pre-teens can use their ‘Lil Rascal Chemistry Kit’ to go to the moon!

So, the moon is full of topless babes wearing bikini bottoms that display ample amounts of coinslot (who also don’t talk, and therefore can’t talk back), and speedo-wearing dudes who are so hairy it looks like they might be wearing cashmere sweaters, plus two douchebags in the aforementioned hilarious spacesuits.  Also, the moon has a blue sky with plenty of atmosphere. Also, plants, trees, and plenty of water. Shockingly, the moon’s surface looks just like Florida!

Once our intrepid chemists arrive on the moon, they set out to explore, finding that the moon is full of gold (which they can’t take back, owing to the weight). The gold revelation, however, is completely forgotten once they see boobies, and apparently, so is the dialogue. For the period of nearly 40 minutes that they’re wandering around on the moon, there are maybe six lines of dialogue, consisting of “Hey look at that one” and then ten minutes of dialogue-free booby shots…then another three second shot of one of them saying “Get a picture of that one!” and then another ten silent minutes.

During his time on the moon, Our Hero falls in love with the leader of the Boob Squad, who looks exactly like his pining secretary, minus the giant black mole, complete with the world’s scariest eyebrows, but has to leave her when the fire extinguisher strapped to his back runs out of ‘oxygen’. When he gets back to Earth, he pictures his secretary naked and realizes that he could love her, after all.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Here’s what the Mystery Science Theater guys might have had to say about it:

Bathtime for Hitler in Germany

I gave Napoleon a bath tonight, partially because he loves them and partially to fend off the Summer Shedstorm that occurs around this time, coating everything in my apartment with a light dusting of Jack Russell. That’s gross, and I won’t have it!

He seriously loves baths, though. He gets more excited when I say the word ‘bath’ than he does when I say the word ‘walk’ or even ‘treat’. Whilst in the tub, he drinks from the faucet and slaps the bathwater up with his paws so he can snap droplets out of the air, typically drinking so much water that I need to take him outside approximately every ten minutes after bathtime is done.

It’s SO DAMN CUTE though.

Now that he’s out of the bathtub waterpark, it’s apparently time for the Napoleonapolis 500, as he’s tearing around my apartment at top speed. I bet the downstairs neighbors just love ME.

…Time to go outside again.

FlickrTwitterThinkermabobber

Every once in a while, I post to let you know how awesome my friend Felix is. Here comes another one!

You may remember Felix’s last Flickr experiment, Astronaut. Every year around March, his pi10K experiment makes the internet rounds. He’s done a whole series of experiments that are unique and thought-provoking.

Introducing FlickrTwitterThinker.

Anyone can upload their photo to the database using their Flickr account by tagging it according to the directions on Felix’s site; the picture is then combined with tweets pulled from Twitter based on whatever keyword you’d like to search, oftentimes with hilarious results.

I, for one, couldn’t resist.

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Check it out and upload a photo of your own!

Kill everyone now! Advocate cannibalism! Eat shit! Filth is my politics! Filth is my life!

n504738939_643073_3864 Yesterday I met John Waters. I’d become obsessed with his films at a young age, as they were most definitely forbidden. At one point, when I was around 10 years old, my sweet, loving, gullible parents asked if there was something I wanted from the video store while they went to a dinner party. I’d read about Pink Flamingos recently, so that’s what I asked for. I gather that they’d never heard of John Waters before because my mom dutifully went out to rent it for me, only to be informed of its nature by some bastard counter-jockey. Not only was I in trouble for asking to watch it, but John Waters films were banned from the house as well. That’s how I knew I’d latched onto something good. Years later, when Pink Flamingos was released in its 25th anniversary edition DVD with Female Trouble, I fell in love with Divine, the most beautiful woman in the world. Harris Glen Milstead’s confidence as a plus-size drag queen was awe-inspiring, and he was eminently likeable, even when he played supposedly despicable characters. He, sadly, died the night before he was slated to appear on Married…With Children, which could have been a huge crossover success for him. So many of Waters’ original casts are dead now. Divine, Edith Massey (who used to run a junk shop and would rummage through people’s trash in the slow months, wrap up garbage and sell it to children as ‘mystery gifts’–when they’d complain, she’d laugh and tell them that they couldn’t get lucky EVERY time; is it any wonder I love her?), Cookie Mueller, David Lochary, Paul Swift…I suppose when you get into films that were over 20 years old by the time you were allowed to see them, your opportunities to show your appreciation decrease exponentially. This was why I was particularly thrilled to have the opportunity to meet John Waters, the king of trash, the prince of puke, the emperor of filth, the originator of it all. As part of the Seattle International Film Festival, John arrived at the Egyptian Theater yesterday afternoon to give a short interview and present his film, Cecil B. Demented. n504738939_643074_4168 After the movie, I went to my car, grabbed my Pink Flamingos poster, and started walking to Benaroya Hall for his ‘Dark Waters’ presentation. My logic was that the weather was decent, it was a short enough walk, and there’s no sense wasting gas and paying for downtown parking if I didn’t have to. Unfortunately, partway there, the light drizzle turned into an out-and-out downpour. I huddled under my scammed umbrella*, and tried my best to protect the poster and stay as dry as possible; by the time I arrived at Benaroya, the poster was no worse for the wear, but I was a different story. My shoes were soaked. My socks were soaked. My pants were sopping up to my thighs. My sleeves were soaked. I was a shivering mess, and goddamnit, I had looked CUTE when I left the house. Not so much anymore. Once again, exercise is total bullshit. Screw nature. Look at those disgusting trees, stealing my oxygen. Oh, I can’t stand this scenery another minute. All natural forests should be turned into housing developments! I want cement covering every blade of grass in this nation. Don’t we taxpayers have a voice anymore? While waiting in line to pick up my will-call ticket, I overheard the people behind me whispering to one another, “Hey, isn’t that Nigel Mustafa’s friend?” I know they weren’t talking about me as I’ve been to ONE Mustafa show and ended it on my knees crying out to god “MAKE IT STOP” (Precisely as the music ended…I have nothing if not great comic timing), but I do know one Mustafa acolyte, and I immediately snapped my head around, looking for her. Sure enough, a few places ahead of me in line was amazoni! With my ticket, I received an invitation to the afterparty being held at the W Hotel, requesting the ‘fabulousness of [my] presence’. Um, hell yes. The girls behind me passed off one of their extra invitations to Amazoni, and we headed into the theater. n504738939_643075_4414 John Waters is a great speaker; he’s full of stories and very at-ease with his audience. The audience, in turn, clearly adores him, giving him a standing ovation even before he started speaking. One of the more interesting tidbits was his proclamation that you must have very good taste in order to have bad taste, which is something I tend to agree with. There are good bad movies, and bad bad movies, and it’s important to know the difference instead of just reveling in trash. His talk was over all too soon. I met back up with amazoni, and we made our way to the W Hotel’s ‘Great Room’, which was pretty swanky, and entirely the sort of party I’m unused to attending, with swag bags and waiters rushing around with posh appetizers and free drinks. I felt like a Hilton, except I’m not a whore. Eventually, John came in to great fanfare. People immediately started lining up to meet him, and Tonya and I were no exception. I grabbed my Pink Flamingos poster and Odorama card, and anxiously stood in line. What would I say to my trash auteur hero? How can I come across as neither stupid nor creepy? Tonya went first and thus gave me a few more moments to fret.   When I was face-to-face with him, the words just came. “John Waters. I love you. Even more than my haircolor, do I love you.” which got a genuine smile from him. When I asked him to sign my poster, however, he said he’d be happy to as long as it wasn’t one of the counterfeits that had been circling around…and as it turns out, it was. It didn’t even have his name printed on it correctly, saying that it was a film by ‘John Walters’. I was mortified, and almost felt the need to try and explain that I actually BOUGHT his films and I wasn’t purposefully trying to rip him off. I sincerely felt like the world’s biggest asshole. Here’s a picture of me and my double chin, moments before I wanted to die of embarrassment: n504738939_643076_4686 He still signed my Odorama scratch & sniff card, and took a picture with me, and was gracious as could be about the whole thing, but I still feel small and stupid for not having realized it was a fake.   This guy? Made me feel better, just for existing. He excitedly told me that he was going to have this signature tattooed on him, and I very much appreciate that sort of mojo. n504738939_643077_4964 My evening also drastically improved when I won one of the original vintage Don Featherstone pink lawn flamingos FROM Pink Flamingos, signed by John. THIS fucking thing is NOT a fake.   n504738939_643081_466 Tonya gave me a ride back to my car as it was STILL raining when we left, and shortly thereafter, I was pulled over for nearly creaming a guy who darted out in front of my car. It’s pitch black, pouring rain, and the guy was apparently wearing all dark colors, and I was driving extra slowly because it seems like a lot of the people on Capitol Hill have a deathwish, so those factors combined are probably what got me a warning and not a ticket. Which still, you know, doesn’t make up for the coppery penny taste of naked fear and the knowledge that I almost killed someone, so there you go. Yesterday was apparently all about extremes. Today, I’m hoping for ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to happen. *The great umbrella scam: When I initially drove to Seattle, I stopped for a couple of days in Portland, staying with a friend. We ended up going to downtown Portland, getting TRASHED, far too drunk to drive home, so we sobered up by hitting every coffee shop in the area and asking if they’d seen the umbrella we lost earlier in the day. You know, small, black? Collapsible? We ended up getting our hands on eleven of these umbrellas. Toward the end, the difficulty lay not in the blantant lies, but in finding more places to hide the umbrellas while we went in and inquired. We had umbrellas shoved up our sleeves, down the backs of our pants, in the sides of our shoes…it was ridiculous! The next day, we had an umbrella fight on his front lawn. As far as I know, I have the last surviving umbrella from that evening.