Date Archives June 2009

Someone Take My Scissors Away

On Sunday, a group of fine ladies congregated at poetrix618’s home to make collage paper dolls. However, first we all had to hear about how two of them went to see the Chippendales the night before and for some reason I wasn’t invited. I am both shocked and appalled. SHOCKED AND APPALLED.

After about an hour of crafting, this is what we ended up with.

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A fine lady, let us call her ‘Boolia’ for the sake of this journal, constructed this masterpiece. As you can see, her man has quite a womanish figure, and Ron Jeremy positioned on one taut thigh.

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amazoni ended up with some sort of masked dandy with his wang hanging out.

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Anne focused on freaking everyone within a three-block radius out.

And I? Missed the point of the whole exercise.

I wasn’t feeling too crafty, so I flipped through some teenybopper magazine Boolia had liberated from her dentist, read off some of the included quizzes, was told I had a ‘tampax-y commercial voice’, and decided to make some sort of summer montage that only, well…no one could love.

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So, that is some centerfold poster of some teen idol I don’t know named Taylor. Why, yes. That is not just THREE wolves howling at the moon on his chest, but FIVE.

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Why, yes. That IS a glittersparkle RPattz wearing a catprint dress catching a butterfly.

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You’re welcome.

MEGA SHARK vs GIANT OCTOPUS

Every week, Amy peruses the list of new DVD releases for things to add to her Netflix list. Last week, she called out to me as I was getting ready for work. “Melissa? I think I found a movie for you–Mega Shark Vs Giant Octopus.”

My response? “HOLY SHIT WRITE THAT DOWN I WILL BE THERE IN A SECOND”

This is the sort of movie that I tend to have high expectations for and ultimately walk away disappointed. It didn’t help that it starred both Debbie Gibson and Lorenzo Lamas, which assisted in cementing my ‘this will be a glorious trainwreck’ mindset.

 

Now, I have to admit that actually WATCHING the movie, a lot of the time I was bored. In these sorts of creature features, there is never enough creature, and alltogether too much time is devoted to watching characters you don’t give a flip about overact as if their very lives depended on it. It was mildly amusing to watch them do SCIENCE! by pouring colored water into various test tubes and beakers and make either happy faces or overly sad “I am the worst scientist who has ever done science” faces. Did you know that pheremones glow bright green? That’s how Super Scientist Debbie Gibson knew she had done her job properly, and everyone gave her smooches on the cheek to let her know what a good scientist she was.

At one point, they cut away to a scene of a plane struggling in a storm. I rolled my eyes and thought how special it was that they were including plane footage in a movie where the antagonists are all in the motherfucking ocean. Then this, the most amazing scene in the history of cinema, happened.

This is better than when the shark rears up and bites the Golden Gate Bridge in half. This is better than the octopus smacking a low-flying fighter jet out of the sky with one tentacled blow. This is better than Lorenzo Lamas pretending he’s a good actor. THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING SHARK EATING A MOTHERFUCKING PLANE AT 30,000 FEET.

I laughed so hard, I fell off of my chair. I laughed so hard, Napoleon had a fit. I laughed so hard, Amy came to investigate. I sent gleeful text messages about the quality of the film. I took a shaky cell-phone video of the scene in case it wasn’t already on youtube. I watched it about SIX MORE TIMES.

You’ve already seen the best part of the movie, so I can’t in good conscience recommend it. Scenes where we should have seen the Japanese battling the octopus were cut and substituted with one Japanese dude on a video screen saying “I hope you fared better with the shark than we did with the octopus. It was horrible. Horrible.” What could have been awesome destruction/fight footage was always cut with “We don’t need to see the end of this. Let’s get out of here.” The end battle is lackluster as hell–you could probably imagine a battle between a shark and an octopus that’s more entertaining. Perhaps between rubber bathtub toys, because that’s what these looked like. Scale goes wonky–at one point, the shark is large enough to bite the golden gate bridge in half, but can’t seem to manage to chew through a submarine. These are HUGE animals when they’re crunching through other things, but when they’re together, there’s never anything in the scene for size reference, so they look like 3d stock footage. It’s pretty clear that the directors didn’t know how to handle size, so they changed things as it suited their purpose.

Oh yeah: Also, this is a movie with a message. Global warming releases giant sea monsters as comeuppance for our environmental irresponsibility. You’d bettah believe it!

Beach House Day Three: Allergic To Fun

This weekend, Anne discovered that if she were a fish, she’d be a puffer. Except instead of swelling up when faced with danger, she swells up when confronted by fun.

On Sunday, I woke up extra early and herded out Anne and Tonya to go horseback riding. Initially, Kirsten was supposed to come with us and we were going to ride as the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse. Kirsten was Famine, Tonya was War, Anne was Death, and I, of course, was Pestilence. But, as usual, whenever we plot to bring about the ends of the earth, something comes up and we end up terrorizing just a minor percentage of humanity and injuring ourselves along the way.

It was no small miracle that I was actually up and about early that morning, and it was out of character and unsettling to be the one who was prompting others to hurry or we’d be late. As it turned out, no one else bothered to drag their ass out of bed that morning, so the three of us ended up being the only people on the ride. Anne offhandedly mentioned how her mother was allergic to horses. (Insert foreshadowing here.)

I was seated on an obstinate horse named Mack, Anne was seated on an obstinate horse named Cisco, and Tonya was seated on an obstinate horse named Becky who came with an accessory– a foal named Dottie who enjoyed nibbling on Tonya’s shoelaces. Did I mention that my obstinate horse named Mack was actually a tiny pony?

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Because if I did, I lied. I’m sorry.

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The foal was with us for the whole ride, capering, gambooling, cavorting, and any other ‘ing’ word that demonstrates that her spirit wasn’t broken unlike the resigned, joyless creatures we’d piled our sack o’ potatoes weight upon.

These horses were clearly used to the shorter, hour-long ride, so when we hit the typical turn-around point, all of them had to be goaded into continuing to move further away from home base. Tonya’s horse actually had to be forcibly led by the guide’s horse, and more than once, Anne was left floundering in the back while her creepy, blue-eyed aryan nazi favorite horse sneezed a great big “FUCK YOU” and tried to go home.

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What was an even bigger laugh was at this point, the guide said that if we wanted to trot/canter the horses, this was the spot to do it as they’d have to walk the whole way back in order to not get them into the habit of running home. The only way to get one of these animals to move faster than a walk would be to bring it to a dead stop and make it wait while everyone else moved ahead. Then, and ONLY then, would it be motivated to move faster, urgently whickering “HAY YOU GUYS DON’T LEAVE ME”, but as soon as it was within striking distance of the group again, it would immediately turn into a energy conservationist zombie and shamble forward at the slowest of walks.

But when we turned around…that was a different story. All of a sudden, when we had to force them to walk, mine was incredibly motivated to run. Every two steps, it would bust into a trot and I’d have to restrain it. The foal would gallop by and mine would go “yeaaaaaaaaaaah, that sounds like a great idea!” and again, I’d have to restrain it. I think Anne and Tonya were just grateful to have their animals willingly moving forward at this point.

A few weeks ago, I’d received a summer recreation guide from the city of Kent, and I excitedly noted the six hour horseback ride. I hadn’t actually sat a horse in years, but I used to ride a lot and a six hour ride sounded awesome. Let me tell you: Two hours was borderline too much. At the end of the first hour, I was already squirming in the saddle. By the end of the second, I knew that the tender flesh of my inner thighs had taken quite a beating. When I dismounted, I could hardly walk. Today, three days later, I still hurt. Anne almost had to be lifted off her horse. At some point, likely during the dismount process, she brushed her hand across its coat…and then touched her eye. (Here is some more vital information.)

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After the ride, I forced everyone to walk bowlegged into Marsh’s Free Museum, where I finagled more change out of them for more pressed pennies and assorted crapola. I had my fortune told by a pirate. I saw an alligator man who reminded me what a creepy fuck I’d be if I had access to taxidermy equipment. I saw a player piano with a poem about how it still works, with an out of order sign next to it. I tried to justify buying an alligator head. I saw what appeared to be Simpsons characters made out of coconuts and for a moment was afraid I’d teleported into Tijuana by accident.

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I saw a pirate head whose sole purpose seems to be getting skullfucked and I couldn’t justify its purchase but I wanted to so very, very badly.

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At some point along the way, Anne realized her face was swelling near her eye. A lot. We went to lunch and realized we should have bought her an eyepatch as all of a sudden she had turned into a crazy-eye pirate.

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She then went into the bathroom and moaned that she’d need lady supplies soon, because she needed yet another thing to go wrong. Oh god, the laughter we had at her expense that lunch was nothing short of obnoxious and incredible. We joked that we’d stop in a tourist shop and see if they had some tampons with ‘Long Beach’ written on them…or perhaps ‘Extra Long Beach’, with a sand dollar tied to the end of the string. We told her to go back and kiss the horse goodbye to get super-puffy Angelina Jolie lips without the hassle of surgery, but warned her not to slip it any tongue. We laughed at the idea that Jim would probably have to put a bag over her head if they planned on getting it on before HE leaves for the next three weeks. We asked the server if they had any horse fillets. We made Anne laugh so hard that she almost turned into a play-dough fun factory, with peanut-butter pie coming out of her nose. We laughed so much that the servers wanted to know what was so damn funny and didn’t get it, even when we explained what was going on. We had strangers tell Anne that they hope her swelling goes down soon.

We loaded her up on benadryl and Coke (to counteract the drowsiness since I couldn’t drive her car back as I don’t know how to drive a stick. My dad always wanted me to learn, saying that a situation could arise where it might be helpful. What situation would that be, Dad? When would it ever be a useful skill? GAWD.) and began the eventful 3.5 hour drive home.

Beach House Day Two Quote Of The Day: “Sprinkle Some Cinnamon Sugar On A Turd And I’d Eat It”

On overcast day the second, we packed into a few vehicles and convoyed our way to Cannon Beach, OR to watch the sandcastle competition. I was hoping at some point to hit up a tourist trap shop and pick up a tacky sweatshirt with a big puff paint seahorse across the front, or perhaps ‘Cannon Beach’ bedazzled on the arms, as in my late-packing wisdom and ‘warm beach weekend’ mindset, I’d forgotten to bring anything with long sleeves and was deservedly freezing my ass off.

The sand sculptures started off with this lovely entry.

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This piece was called ‘Kraken Attackin’. I felt there was only one proper way for it to be photographed, and luckily, one of the girls agreed with me.

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Now, it might just be me, but I was under the impression that Spongebob Squarepants: (1)Was marketed toward children and (2)Wore pants and (3)Did not have an obscene tie. Am I wrong?

 

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This adorable little poofball was eating sand.

 

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I couldn’t believe the nerve of some people. Sure, sand sculptures are an impermanent medium, but they still should be respected for the time and effort it took took to make them. This respect includes not walking your dog directly through one, oh and….

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not being a stupid bitchface socks-with-sandals-wearing cunt whore who thinks it would be awesome to walk on someone’s sand sculpture to serve her needs to be in the photo with it. I openly swore at her. Of course, someone as self-absorbed as she was didn’t even recognize that the “YOU FUCKING CUNT, SOMEONE WORKED HARD ON THAT AND YOU SHOULDN’T BE WALKING ON IT, YOU ASSHOLE” that shot out of my mouth without even a whit of forethought was directed at her. The woman with the dog gave me a glance but no reaction. COME ON OREGONIANS.

 

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This is Haystack Rock, which is remarkable enough to deserve its own pressed penny, and of course I acquired one after insisting that my overindulgent friends supply me with change. I am certain that being my friend is incredibly rewarding. LOAN ME YOUR SWEATSHIRT. GIVE ME CHANGE. I WANT CANDY. NOW I WILL INSULT YOUR MATE, DINING PREFERENCES, RELIGIOUS BELIEFS, AND SEXUAL PROCLIVITIES. I NEED MORE CHANGE.

Haystack Rock is swarming with birds, and thus I feel quite confident in telling you that this nearby rock is almost certainly The Shittiest Rock Of All Time.

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Immediately after I took this photo, this guy wiped out spectacularly. As sorry as you are not to see it, I’m ten times as sorry that I didn’t get a picture of it. It was THAT spectacular.

On the way home, I made amazoni stop at Pirate’s Cove. It was beautiful. It was like my Graceland.

 

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Of course, every truly religious experience should involve molesting a statue of some kind, and if your religious experiences DON’T, I don’t want to hear about them.

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Fatty finally got her ice cream!

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Whatever it is you think you’re seeing here…you’re seeing it.

 

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This is not the first time I’ve seen Jesus Christ crucified on a shell but I seriously still don’t get it. Why?

 

 

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On the way back, we decided we ought to stop and get dinner before we turned in to the beach house, since the odds were high on heavy drinking.

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The ‘Loose Kaboose’ was immediately discarded as an option. Not one of us wanted to eat at a place synonymous with ‘Floppy Ass’, and furthermore, Anne and I remembered all too well our last dining experience aboard a train.

So instead we settled upon the Crab Pot, and immediately went into overtired, giggly, ‘servers love the crap out of us’ mode.             The first thing I noticed on the menu were the inappropriate quotation marks around everything. Would you like your “crab” served “steamed” or “chilled”? How about some “Wild” oysters or “baked” Halibut? I was just mocking this to Tonya and Anne when the server came over and said, “Don’t ask me why they chose to put half the menu in quotation marks, I couldn’t possibly say. Also, you should note that the ‘u’ in ‘restaurant’ on the cover was crammed in later after they realized it was mis-spelled, and they’ve got the word ‘Sautéed’ spelled incorrectly in the menu no less than five times.”

I knew right away I was going to like her. We ordered everything using airquotes. Tonya ordered a drink called “Sand in a Bucket” and I chimed in with “And by (airquotes)’bucket’ she means her (airquotes)’vagina’.” The waitress nearly fell on the floor with laughter, and once again Tonya learned how rewarding it is to be my friend. Demands for change, backseat driving, and jokes about her nether regions–all part of a day’s work.

Beach House Day One: Colon Packed Full of Fudge and Meat

On Friday, Anne came to pick me up to begin the long, laborious drive to Long Beach, Washington, which was made longer and more laborious due to the fact that we were not inclined to speed at all past Olympia, given that nearly every single person attending this beach weekend has been ticketed either going to or coming from it at last once over the years. We worked as a team–every time Anne started speeding, I would make siren noises and she’d slow down and curse the day I was born.

Along the way, we noticed:

*Just outside Olympia, there are signs welcoming you to this ‘All America City’. Really, guys? All America? Are you sure you weren’t going for the more popular ‘All-American’?

*There is a crappy little town called Willapa that bills itself as the best place to raise a family, but it doesn’t appear that anyone actually lives there. Instead, it is populated by a bunch of creepy metal people and animals.

*Lists should have three things.

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When we arrived, after driving past the address three or four times per tradition and scraping Anne’s undercarriage on some sharp rocks, we claimed the queen bed downstairs and introductions were made all around. Almost immediately, we started swapping stories and laughing our fool heads off. Someone started with getting into a car accident due to some racy shenanigans completely bra and pantiless (due to aforementioned shenanigans). This was immediately countered with a story of someone’s sister getting it in her head to surprise her boyfriend completely naked under a trenchcoat–and getting t-boned on the way there and nearly dying of embarrassment when the paramedics insisted on examining her. We heard stories about bad weddings, hilariously awful wedding videos, and grown burly men taking their cats for daily strolls in a teeny-tiny kitty carriage. And we hadn’t even begun drinking yet!

While Emily slaved over a hot stove, I decided it was time to take the terrifying doll I’d discovered in my room and give it a new home–on Emily’s bed.

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Mischief managed, I snuck back downstairs and proceeded to enjoy some wine with dinner. A lot of wine. A LOT of wine. Emily discovered the doll and immediately blamed someone else. I struggled to keep a straight face; I didn’t want to sleep on the lawn. She then flung a box at us and said, “I need to go pick up Rachel. One of you assholes open this.”

Her husband sent her flowers and cookies. With a note so sweet we all started to gag a little, disguising the fact that we’re all jealous harpies.

This jealous harpy found another place for the doll.

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Afterward, we decided to go out and explore the beach for a while. Rindy found a swell jacket in one of the closets at the house, and we all agree that it’s excellent camouflage for the wearer–you could wear this in a crowd or in the wilderness, and it’s like you just disappear.

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Where did she go?

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This beach was like a crab crime scene. There were scattered shells and legs everywhere. They crunch in an immensely satisfying way–even moreso if you make Jackie Chan kungfu screams before stomping on them!

We discovered an awesome circle on the sand from someone’s truck, and Anne and I took it upon ourselves to have a sumo wrestling match.

 

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This is what victory looks like.

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And immediately after victory comes taunting.

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After wandering the beach some more, crunching crab shells, writing messages of love in the sand and beating/poking things with sticks, we went back inside to socialize in earnest, drinking, watching horrendous TV, and Emily had her revenge on me by telling me she’d brought home delicious fudge–which turned out to be a giant rubber bug in a piece of tupperware she’d named ‘Fudge’. In a war that escalates this way, there are no winners.

Meanwhile, half a decade ago…

The upside to having your site violated by some script kiddy is that you find pictures you thought you’d lost forever with really great fucking stories behind them.

I WOULD have written about this before, except it happened in my first month of LJ and I hadn’t quite gotten the hang of entertaining blogging yet. I wish I HAD been more thorough, as I started this journal precisely as I started on my Adventure Toward Becoming an Adult or Shamble From Parental Home In Shambles or My Life As A Trainwreck or Who The Fuck Are You Kidding, You’re Not An Adult or whatever you’d like to call it; it’s when I first decided I couldn’t handle California any longer and struck out north with whatever I could fit in my car, and started writing half-assed, angry entries with really no mind toward archiving adventures in awesome.

Along the way, I stopped at some fantabulous roadside attractions like the Oregon Vortex Mystery Spot, and spent a few days in Portland with a complete internet stranger because you can’t spell ‘adventure’ without some of the components of the word ‘danger’. Justin and I had a delightful time, we took over the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry in robot costume and invaded a submarine.

So, one evening, we went to a bar at the top of one of the higher buildings in the city, and got absolutely shitfaced. To the point where we probably should not have even been allowed to WALK anywhere, but walk we did. We walked all around downtown Portland, stopping in at every coffee shop (and you’d best believe there are a LOT), drunkenly asking each barista if someone had turned in our umbrella that we’d left there earlier, you know, the collapsible black one? Oh, the umbrellas we collected! After a time, our biggest challenge was not getting umbrellas, but finding suitable hiding places for the ones we’d already collected and trying to keep straight faces while asking for yet another. We had umbrellas up our sleeves. Umbrellas down our pants. Umbrellas stuffed in shirts.

Then…we ninja fought with them.

An Open…Apology. This does not happen often.

“Dear Melissa,

Jurassic Fight Club: Season 1: Disc 1 was not available from your local shipping center. Fortunately, it was available from a shipping center in another part of the country. It’s on its way and should arrive within 3 to 5 days.

You’ll notice we also recently sent the next available DVD from your Queue to enjoy while Jurassic Fight Club: Season 1: Disc 1 makes its way to you.

Your Queue now shows this extra DVD rental. Enjoy.”

Oh, Netflix. All the nasty things I said about you yesterday behind your back because I wasn’t receiving my DVD about dinosaurs fighting and was instead receiving a mopey drama that I wasn’t in the mood for…forgotten. I’m sorry, baby. Let’s never fight again. Unless it’s with dinosaurs.

Retro March Update: Late and Awesome and Awesomely Late

On our second day of adventuring, Melis’ and M’ris started out by getting crabs. And making them dance. I swear to you, if I could have found a way to straddle the barrel in which they were residing in order to provide you with the most disgusting and shameful portrait of all time, I would have.

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Afterward, we went to Seattle Center to wallow in clown vomit, also known as the Experience Music Project, conceived by Frank Gehry in what must have been either a hungover stupor or an act of revenge against the city for some perceived slight.

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Sooooo, I’ve been to the Sci-Fi museum something like seven times now and I STILL can’t seem to remember to bring a piece of paper/pen to write down the names of all the important sci-fi books I haven’t read. I’m nothing if not consistent.

However, with the aid of modern technology and astoundingly sneaky hipshot photography abilities, I can show you that it is inevitable that one day M’ris and I will wander around town wearing this headgear:

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There was a block-printing exhibit at EMP, some of which extolled the virtue of food on sticks. I hope you are aware that food always tastes better on sticks.

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Afterward, M’ris used her mighty strength to prop up the Space Needle.

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We could use her Herculian services year-round; for the heart of the city, Seattle Center is pretty much in shambles. The monorail that runs for something like three blocks is involved in a shocking amount of collisions. The Fun Forest is decrepit and slated to be torn down at the end of this year.

For the most part, I love thrill rides. We went on the Fun Forest’s ‘Windstorm’, where a nearby sign advised that in order to ride this ride, you ought to have:

*1 or 2 working arms *1 or 2 working legs *No back injuries *No fetii inside *No pre-existing heart conditions

That sign should be amended to include ‘no fear’. Holy crap on a cracker, I’ve never been so afraid for my life as I was on that ride. For a rollercoaster, it skims awfully low to the ground. I was quite certain that at one point, I was going to fall out and become Mellzah Pate.

The carny laughed at my fear. He sees this sort of thing often, I take it.

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Afterward, I added shock and sadness to my veritable cornucopia of emotion, when I realized they’d shrunk a majestic pirate ship down to fit the lollipop kids. ‘Tis a sad pirate I be.

No visit to Seattle Center is complete without a stop in one of the multitudes of tacky gift shops at the base of the Space Needle, and we both ended up with shot glasses that have Sasquatch climbing out of them, rendering any beverage drunk out of them into something that’s been marinating in large, hairy, bipedal homonid ass.

On the way to drive M’ris to the airport for one of the world’s saddest partings (I cried. She cried. Strangers cried. Three wolves cried to the moon somewhere where it was dark.), we stopped at Top Pot to procure doughnuts and coffee. As you do. Crying requires a proper level of blood sugar. I performed pretty much the world’s shittiest parallel parking job, and didn’t even give a flip. I didn’t feed the meter, I took up two spots, and was hanging out into the road. I felt like a surly New Yorker for one glorious moment.

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