Date Archives April 2010

Chronic Pain

On Thursday the 22nd, Cole and I went to Club Motor to see SST: Chronic Pain, to cheer on the handsome Cruz Bustamante, start up chants comprised nigh-entirely of expletives, fling PBR cans, and high-five an amount which some may deem excessive. Fortunately for us, we arrived before the doors even opened, and thus started our evening down the street at Hooverville, drinking Odin’s Beard or Thor’s Warhammer or something along those lines. We then bonded over our compulsion to crunch pretty much anything on the ground that looks like it might crunch satisfyingly, like a small pile of leaves, a peanut, or a hollowed-out crab on the beach–whatever looks crunchable.

On our way to Club Motor, we found this wonderful spectacle:

It’s your call: Are these ironic rims or deadly serious minivan business?

Inside, we started on PBR cans in the hopes to store up some to huck; little did we know that instead of flinging cans this evening, we were to be throwing balls, so we drank a lot of really shitty beer for very little reason. I played some Terminator on their arcade machine. Cole and I hung out in some random cage that was sitting out and talked, and every few minutes, one of us would fresh realize that we were having a serious conversation in a cage.

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By the time the show was starting, we were both on our way to Happy Drunk Land. When they threw out all of the audience participation balls, I grabbed as many as I could and stuffed them down my shirt for safekeeping. Yes.

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On our way to the restroom between acts, we realized that you could look right into the men’s room, and felt this was a photo opportunity that couldn’t be missed:

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Not that our antics went unnoticed. Guys came out and said we’d need a much bigger zoom lens to see anything. A couple came out and started hitting on us. We brushed off this attention by having a dance-off with the door staff.

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Then we watched some dude whose name I don’t remember wrestle the Holy Ghost.

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Ronald McFondle never disappoints:

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I started up a chant of ‘Sweaty Asscrack’ about Mr. Fitness, an accomplishment of which I am inordinately proud.

And then the inimitable Cruz Bustamante won the coveted Glass Bitch, a triumph after five years of fighting his way to the top, which I then promptly molested, and then followed him to the bathroom and took a picture of him peeing. I am nothing if not a moment-spoiler.

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It was somewhere around this time that the people sitting at the table with us told us that we were ‘hilarious’ and ‘should have a podcast’, an idea which tickles both of our fancies. Why should I continue to deny the world anecdotes read in my ‘tampax commercial’ voice? Who wouldn’t want to hear stories about attempted emu-riding and a foot stench so powerful it once caused one of her parents to vomit in a car?

We went to discuss the idea further and also to get some food in our bellies at some diner that looked like a Denny’s but was not a Denny’s. Sadly, The Simpsons & Family Guy-themed BBQ place was not open.

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Happily, the Dennys-But-Not-Dennys had a sign posted saying that if you ate there within two days of your birthday, your meal would be free, and it was within two days of my birthday, so chalk up one more meal on my free-birthday-goods-and-services-awesome-business punchcard. They were also awesome for giving us pictures to color when I slurred that I wanted one.

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…it’s almost mesmerizing in a way, isn’t it?

Mad Scientists…of the Future!

Bright and early on the 17th (everything feels early on three hours’ sleep), Tristan showed up–I strapped him into his surgical gown, slapped on my goggles, and we were off to the Lunchbox Lab.

In front of us in line for the lab were a couple of people I recognized from previous Flying Lab Software events, so it is clearly fate that we continue to run into one another for lab-related activities. The wife mentioned that when I appeared across the street, a great chorus arose with “She’s here!” and that she felt a little sad and left out that she didn’t know who I was…but then she did.

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Seattle is a small, small town. Very small.

If you’ve never been to the Lab, they offer a selection of burger ‘experiments’, or you can create your own from an extensive list of ingredients. They also do house blends of meats: ‘Churken’–chicken and turkey, ‘dork’–duck and pork, and ‘Super Beef’ (I have no idea, maybe a blend of Superman and Bossie). Some short-sighted Yelp reviews have faulted the Lab for putting too much bacon on their burgers. The next day, they supposedly had construction workers lined up outside the door before they opened, who asked “Is this the place that has too much bacon?”

Pfft. Too much bacon.

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I got the ‘Dork Freshman’–a dork burger with basil, grilled onions, and goat cheese, with a side of the garlic caesar potato salad, and a vanilla honey chai milkshake. And lo, it was delicious.

 

None of the employees even remarked on our science gear. Clearly this dress-up thing has been done there before.

After lunch, it was time for people to trek down to Renton for booze experiments set to a science themed playlist. Or, according to Napoleon, to pay attention to him and him exclusively. A shark could bite off his back half and he would be furious that no one was giving him a laser pointer to feebly drag himself after, trailing blood and gore.

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In this picture are only half of the infamous all-nighter cupcakes. I was thrilled to pieces so many people recognized the frosting design on top was a brain, I’ve never piped on a design before and frankly it was more difficult than anticipated. Jason also told me that I could come make pastries for him anytime I want because they were delicious and these are exactly the sort of compliments that keep me motivated when I ultimately get overwhelmed by my grandiose plans for the next party–it’s my established pattern.

 

There was an actual scientist among us but she showed great restraint in not mocking us for our lack of science knowledge.

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I would also like to take a moment to let you know that dreams come true.

They really, really do.

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When I finish drinking this vodka straight from the skull (like any true badass would do), I will fill it with skittles. And eat those straight from the skull. Like any badass would do.

Tonya also brought me a jackalope head for my wall, wearing a string of pearls. Truly, I have the greatest friends in the universe. Once I have stopped trying to gore the dog with the horns to teach him his place in the food chain and have hung it on its proper place on the wall, I will post a photo–you can’t really capture its majesty, but I’ll try.

We then settled in to watch the MST3K version of “Mad Monsters” which was so awful, not even sarcastic robots could save it, and “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra” which I have seen going onto a thousand times and laugh every.single.time.

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Of course, no evening would be complete without a breathalyzer test before the guests were on their way out.

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Too much science? Hardly. Do you know what this could mean for science, Betty? It could mean real advances in the field of science, some of them good!

Buffetitties / Boobieffet

Every once in a great while, there will be an event or locale that combines two flavors or activities that you previously enjoyed separately. Voodoo Doughnuts, for example, has combined the maple bar and bacon. The Cardboard Tube Dueling League has combined costumes and hurting people. Today, a group of bold adventurers visited Club SinRock, which has combined strippers and a buffet.

Now, for as much as the owner insisted to the press that his club would be ‘classy, like Vegas’, this isn’t a Vegas-style buffet with chefs in tall hats whipping up custom Mongolian Grill noodle bowls or six different kinds of crab legs flown in daily, it’s a buffet in that you choose whether or not to eat the main dish and two sides, and that should you wish to eat a truly mountainous pile of delicious ham, you are free to do so.

…As I worked through my mountain of ham, the stripper onstage caught my gaze and held it. I’ve never had such a sustained period of eye contact with a nude person while stuffing my face, and it was made all the more surreal given how adept she was at making ‘come hither’ faces. It was as though she had effectively turned the tables on me–no longer was it lunch at the strip club, but naked day at the zoo and it was time to watch the tigers eat ham.

When I wasn’t being watched from the stage, it felt oddly decadent to be in a strip club during daylight hours, like I’d slipped into the shoes of Motley Crue, save the heroin and booze. So really nothing like Motley Crue at all. But the club is appointed astonishingly well; plush and almost tasteful, and is assuredly the nicest strip club I’ve ever been to, and I’ve actually been to quite a few.

Aside from our group of nine, there were a couple of single guys in the club, and they seemed to dominate the strippers’ attention when they were prowling the floor looking for private dances. This changed when Sean bought each of the ladies a drink, and they each at least came over to thank him for it. One of them turned to me and said “It’s your birthday? So what do you want?” I was flummoxed. She bounced up and down and asked if I’d like her to rub herself all over me.

It may be only the third time in history that I was truly at a loss for words. She led me off to the back and did turrible, turrrrrrible things to me. Side note: typically when I ‘set’ my eyeshadow, it’s not going to budge for the day. Apparently this method is not boobie-proof.

Later in the afternoon (we were there for two hours!), she came back out and led me away for another birthday lapdance. This time she told me that she’d given a dance to a guy who told her that she smelled different than she did during the first dance she’d given him, and she told him that some of my perfume had rubbed off onto her, so it was like I had given a lap dance by proxy. His exact quote was, apparently “Two girls? Holy shit, that’s hot.”

Now I am back in the office, I smell like strippers, and I am simultaneously trying to look inconspicuous while wearing a shiteating grin. Best lunch break ever.

#HOTCOCO

Last night, I went to see Conan O’Brien’s “Legally Prohibited From Being Funny On Television” tour at McCaw Hall with Tristan. I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of show I was in for, given the opening act Reggie Watts and his utter lack of anything even slightly resembling humor. From Wikipedia: His shows are mostly improvised and consist of stream of consciousness standup in various shifting personas, mixed with loop pedal-based a cappella compositions. Aka: Wesley Willis Lite, except it’s affectated mental illness, ala Amanda Palmer and her latest ploy for attention, Evelyn Evelyn, and what have we learned about playing false disability for effect? It’s tacky, offensive, and it sucks.

Conan was a welcome funny counterpoint, being introduced onstage by a video showcasing his life after The Tonight Show–overweight with a beard ala ZZ Top, hovering over the phone waiting for a potential job to call, stuffing his face, laying in abject grief on a trampoline, and smearing peanut butter on his toes to encourage the dog to come over. After the video was over, Conan took the stage, and explained the eight stages of grief he went through after losing the show, only ever referred to as ‘the incident you may have heard about’, most notably anger–anger that people like Kim Kardashian, The Ace of Cakes, Snookie, and Criss Angel still have TV shows and he does not. Also notable: the ‘blame everyone else around me’ stage, and ‘buy everything that Amazon thinks I would also like’ stage, though in my opinion, it could have used a ninth stage, the ‘hunt network executives for sport’ stage.

He also spoke warmly of Seattle, referring to it as his home away from home since he swept in like a Viking and stole one of our women, marrying her clad in gore-tex and fleece at St. James Cathedral.

Some old favorites were brought out, changed slightly given that they may now be the intellectual property of NBC–Masturbating Bear turned into Self-Pleasuring Panda (“Endangered–and now we know why!”), Triumph the Insult Comic Dog went unintroduced, and the Walker Texas Ranger Lever was the Chuck Norris Rural Policeman Handle.

Some of Conan’s musical numbers really fell flat, but were saved by Meatloaf’s giant inflatable bat from the ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ tour, Andy Richter’s clever radio-style commercials for local establishments Dicks and the Fremont Troll, and brilliant Tonight Show writer Deon Cole. Oh, and one special guest, you might have heard of him, maybe, even though he’s a local guy–Eddie Vedder. Eddie freaking Vedder. He came onstage with a mandolin and sang a sweet version of “Rise Up”, then switched the mandolin out for a ukelele, cracking that tiny instruments make him appear larger, though Conan the giant shatters that illusion. He then sang what he referred to as his birthday card for Conan, and asked everyone to sing along as it would be “like signing the card”. The song? “Oh Yoko”, with ‘Coco’ substituted for ‘Yoko’. Then Mike McCready came out and he, Eddie, and the Legally Prohibited Band played a thunderous, powerful version of “Baba O’Riley”, Eddie flinging tambourines into the audience, getting them replenished from backstage, and flinging more out. It was AMAZING.

To close, Conan played his version of “I will survive” and “40 days”, ran out into the audience with his guitar, and kept playing standing up on a seat about three rows in front of us. I could have reached out and touched him if the act wouldn’t have been creepy even for me.

All in all, a good show and worth paying to see the man that NBC paid to go away.

Let’s everyone give a warm welcome to Samantha Stinky!

This morning, bleary-eyed and filthy, I climbed into the shower, and attempted to pull out the knob to start the flow of water. It wouldn’t pull. I applied more pressure. It wouldn’t pull. I then dug in both heels and pulled backward as hard as I could with both hands, and it finally yanked on–but it now spins ineffectually from hot to cold, with only freezing cold water issuing forth from the spout.

Yes. I managed to break my bathtub.

I didn’t have it in me to take a freezing shower today, so I washed my hair as best as I could in my sink, washcloth-washed the rest, and as a result, am only marginally less filthy.

I then called the office and begged, begged them to come and fix it today, for the good of mankind, or at least for the good of the noses of mankind directly surrounding me. However, this also meant that a stranger would be entering my apartment today, which I had not planned on, and would need to do some tasks to keep them from getting the wrong impression of me and calling the police, namely removing the ‘blood’ soaked sheet from the bathroom and hiding it and also burying the ‘learn your fuckin science with the insane clown posse’ booklet under a stack of papers.

The day can only improve from here, right?

An Evening of Cleaning

I feel like I’ve spent the whole night cleaning up one mess or another.

The sugar bag tore when I was pouring out a cupful, scattering at least three cups worth of sugar over my counter and floor.

I’ve now spent a considerable amount of time rinsing about a gallon of fake blood out of the tub. The good news is that it didn’t stain the tub, linoleum, or grout. The bad news is that my hand looks like I’ve spent my evening fistfucking Satan.

FINISH HIM

I have determined that my upstairs neighbor must be hosting Fight Club: Renton, as that is the only thing I can think of to explain the CONSTANT dragging and slamming sounds, some of which are so thunderous, they rattle things in my apartment. One of which was so thunderous that it actually knocked the light fixture down from over my fireplace, which exploded when it hit the carpet with glass flying everywhere–some pieces flying so far as to smack me in the face all the way over in the kitchen. This is shockingly not the first time this has happened.

I have determined that it is feudin’ and a fussin’ and not the lovin’ upstairs this time that’s causing all the ruckus as I also occasionally hear shouting and screaming. It’s like living in a shitty haunted house.

I have tried to avoid being the downstairs troll; I understand that having people living above you means experiencing noise when they walk around and live their lives, it’s not up to me to monitor and regulate how the neighbors upstairs live their lives, and I elected to live on the bottom floor so I could stomp around and roughhouse with the dog and play rock band drums or maybe even play some dance dance revolution without annoying anyone, and the consequences of not trying to annoy anyone else means being occasionally annoyed myself, but this is nearly constant.

On Saturday night, the upstairs averaged one wall-rattling KABOOM every five minutes, from 10 pm straight through to 3am. I get that it’s the weekend and people are up later, but whatever the fuck they are doing, one would think they would realize they need to knock it off earlier than 3am. My patience and understanding ran out, my humanity took a step back and a furious downstairs troll emerged from the human shell, stood up on the back of her couch and began banging on the ceiling, shouting “KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF”.

…I don’t think my upstairs neighbor is going to say ‘hi’ when he sees me anymore.

On the plus side, the last few nights have been blissfully silent.

One Classy Lass

My dad and I packed in quite a bit during my last day in San Diego. The first step was packing our stomachs. I’d mentioned some nostalgia over the Walker Brothers pancake house in Chicago, and by whatever grace exists in the univese, they’ve opened ONE location outside of chicagoland, and that location is in San Diego.

When I am willing to get into this sort of a line for a pancake, know that it is no ordinary pancake, it is the best damn pancake on earth.

I’m serious.  After cramming myself dangerously full of apple pancake and perfect thick-cut bacon, it was determined that we would go ride bikes around Mission Bay.

Here’s the thing about that.

‘They’ say that once you learn to ride a bike, you’ll never forget, and that may be true. It took me much, much, MUCH longer than my peers to learn how to ride a bike. My parents hadn’t realized that scabs on knees could possibly become so thick prior to the ‘Melissa attempting to ride a bike year(s)’. So while you may never forget how to ride a bike, let me assure you that if it’s been, say, a good fifteen years since you’ve last straddled one, the first few miles are going to be white-knuckled and shaky.

Granted, it was a Monday, so pedestrian traffic around the bay was not as thick as it would be on the weekend, but it was more than thick enough for my tastes. A woman jogging with a double-wide baby stroller cut in front of me, and I worked at keeping a safe distance behind her…but then she slowed down. I couldn’t go around her, as a large group of people were walking in the opposite direction, with a large dog that kept bounding into my lane of ‘traffic’. At this point, I was traveling slow enough to wobble and didn’t know what to do.

So, of course, I panicked, yanked the handlebars taking the bike off-path into the sand and then promptly flipped over said handlebars.

You never forget how to ride a bike…in the manner to which you are accustomed.

We rode for about eight more miles after the, er, incident, and by the end I was doing quite well–riding a lot more confidently, doing a few things off-path without (or with less) fear, engaging street traffic without shitting myself, and only wobbling when reaching back to make sure my wallet hadn’t popped out of my pants pocket as it is wont to do.

After we returned the bikes, we took a good long walk to Pacific Beach, seeing as how we still had more time and it was a gorgeous day.

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There are wee cabins sitting out on the pier at Pacific Beach that you can rent. I think it would be lovely to spend a night or two sleeping out above the ocean.

 

After we walked back, we STILL had a little more time, so we wandered around Seaport Village a bit. One of the pedicab drivers noted my ‘Benjamin Franklinstein’ shirt and offered us a free ride to wherever we were going, but we declined since we didn’t really have a destination.

From Seaport Village, it’s only a short distance to the airport, so my dad dropped me off in plenty of time. It only took me five minutes to get through security, so I decided to get a cool beverage while I waited to board the plane. It was then that I realized how badly my arms were burned, when my skin crinkled in that taut, uncomfortable way as I reached for my wallet. This is another significant piece of evidence that I don’t learn from my mistakes. When I went to Hawaii with Alex, we went snorkling, and I didn’t think to put sunscreen on the backs of my legs, though they’d be hanging out of the water all day long, and consequently got one of the worst burns of my life. This time, I gave no thought to the idea that in the act of riding a bike, my arms would be stretched out in front of me and hence much more exposed than they are normally. That’s how I wound up with a totally elegant farmer-tan-line burn. At the moment, I’m flaking and leaving DNA evidence everywhere, so I must be careful not to commit any murders until AFTER I’m done healing.