Friday, May 26, 2006

Tomorrow Rob and I are off to see NIN (with Bauhaus supporting - woo!) again. Unfortunately I had to pass on their appearance at the Sasquatch Festival at the Gorge today, since there was just no way my boss was giving me another day off, so we're going to see them in Ridgefield (down near Portland) tomorrow instead. And since I got my Buzzcocks tickets in the post yesterday, I've still got something to look forward to after what will undoubtedly be the last NIN show I'll be attending for the next five years, if Trent's usual touring schedule is anything to go by.

And just for the hell of it, I've decided we need another caption contest, so please leave your captions for the below photo in the comments. The best caption will win something not entirely unlike useless junk.

Click to view full size


.:3 comments | baked by pie at 12.18 PM | permalink:.



Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Not for all the yak's milk in Outer Mongolia

You know how people say they wouldn't do something for "all the tea in China"? How is tea (even the massive quantities we're talking here) supposed to be a good incentive? I just don't understand why anyone would want all the tea in china - one person couldn't possibly drink all the tea in china during one lifetime, no matter how much he loved tea. Then, of course, there's the question of whether all this tea encompasses future tea as well as present tea. I'm assuming we're not talking about past tea, because once it's been recycled, the only people who'd want to drink it are those freaks fetishists who enjoy golden showers and 'water sports'.

And just in case anyone's keeping track, I'd much prefer all the cheese in Wisconsin. Cheese is always a good incentive.

One last thing. Don't forget - May 25th is Towel Day, so honour the memory of the incomparable Douglas Adams by toting your towel around with you all day, you hoopy froods.

.:2 comments | baked by pie at 7.47 PM | permalink:.



Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Family Friendly or Freakin' Futile

After visiting my pain management doc this morning, I popped in to Fred Meyer to get my prescriptions filled. While I was sitting there in the pharmacy waiting, I noticed that one of the check-out aisles had a sign over it stating "Family Friendly". All this means is that this particular aisle doesn't have risqué magazines like Cosmo [ooh shocking, get me my nitroglycerin], since I'm fairly sure that Fred Meyer doesn't sell the 'Faces of Death' as an impulse item by the register.

It just seems a little overdone to me. The whole political correctness/protect our children from every-freakin'-thing trend, I mean. First they had black cards laid across the front of these women's magazines so that all you could see of the cover was the magazine's name. Now, apparently, children are so in need of sheltering that they can't even be in the same aisle as these periodicals. Reading a couple of headlines like "How to Have Hot Monkey Sex" and "Humping for Health" might be good for these kids. We coddle kids today in so many different ways (bark instead of blacktop in playgrounds, plastic playground equipment instead of metal which gets white-hot in the sun1, and a distinct lack of lawn darts and BB guns), but all they have to do is watch the news and they'll be inundated with disturbing images of violence and sexual depravity. Why is a magazine which treats sex as something healthy and enjoyable so frightening? Kids can play violent video games, and listen to music with lyrics exhorting sex and violence, but Cosmo is apparently the work of the devil.

So my contribution to ending the coddling of today's children is that I'm going to start wearing a giant badge that reads:
I have sex
Ask me how!

I'll be a one-woman sex education machine. And don't forget to take a pamphlet about the hot monkey lovin'.

1: It's just not summer until you've removed a yard of skin by going down a metal slide that's been sitting all day in the sun when it's 100°F.

.:17 comments | baked by pie at 1.53 PM | permalink:.



Monday, May 22, 2006

Local [Northwest] bird calls

Ring! Ring! Ring!
Crow: Hello?
Loon: Hey. Did you just call me?
Crow: What, just now?
Loon: Yeah.
Crow: No.


Ring! Ring! Ring!
Robin: Yello?
Loon: Dude, did you call me a minute ago?
Robin: No, but I was just about to call you for help with my computer. I can't get to my email.
Loon: [sigh] What's the problem now?
Robin: Well you don't have to get all huffy about it. Oh, never mind. I'll call Canadian Goose.


Ring! Ring!
Canadian Goose: Talk to me, eh.
Robin: Hey, it's Robin. Can you help me with my email?
Canadian Goose: I'm a bit busy now, eh. Can you call me back aboot this later? Eh?
Robin: I guess. Maybe I'll just go surf some internet porn.
Canadian Goose: Good deal, eh.

.:3 comments | baked by pie at 1.16 PM | permalink:.



Friday, May 19, 2006

London calling

While we were in London, I forced Rob to join me on a tour of the hangouts and doorways I used when I was homeless, so I could take some photos, most of which didn't turn out anyway. As I was taking a photo of my rain-sheltered doorway, I asked Rob if he thought it was weird that I was taking photos of these places, and his answer was, "yes". Of course. I personally don't think it's strange to revisit places that stir up less-than-pleasant memories. The photos are visual reminders of how I bottomed out, and how lucky I am to be here now.

No, don't worry, I'm not about to get all maudlin and tearful or anything. If nothing else, it was nice to see that the brothels in the area are still claiming that they're just housing 'models' instead of hookers. No matter how out-of-place Rob and I felt back in London this time (I can't believe how much has changed just in the last 7 years - Carnaby Street has turned into a yuppie hell-hole, for one thing), you can always count on some things to stay the same. Such as hookers calling themselves models.

.:5 comments | baked by pie at 12.35 PM | permalink:.



Sunday, May 14, 2006

An Open Letter to Patrons of the London Underground

Dear Tube Patrons,

Please discover deodorant. When the weather gets up around 20C it's time to learn of its use. I do not appreciate having your sweaty, hairy underarms in my face while trying to innocently travel from Holland Park to Tottenham Court Road. I realise that it's hot, and that we're crammed into little metal containers like sardines, but it's just common courtesy to attempt some personal hygiene so that you don't cause nausea in your fellow passengers.

And speaking of nausea, when leaving the pub late at night after having had a few too many, please empty your stomach contents into the nearest trash receptacle before entering the Tube. I don't think I've ever seen so many people move from one side of the car to the other so quickly before - not even when I saw a well-dressed businessman yark in his own lap years ago.

In closing, I would like to say that London is my favourite city, and I would move back there in a heartbeat if I could afford it, but traveling on the Tube, while cheap and handy, is not as pleasant as it could be. Please work on this.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Pie

Please note that this open letter is not directed towards all Tube patrons, just the stinky, barfing ones.

Yes, we're back. I'll have some details tomorrow (hopefully). In the meantime, you can view a few of our holiday photos here: London photoset at Flickr. More to come.

.:7 comments | baked by pie at 8.55 PM | permalink:.



Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Cheerio, Toodle-Pip, and so forth

Rob and I are off to the land of tea and crumpets for a couple of weeks. Try not to pine, I'll be back.



.:6 comments | baked by pie at 12.07 AM | permalink:.



Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Snow Pie and the 7 Dorks

Once upon a time there was a second-rate princess named Snow Pie. Her skin was as pale as milk (or snow, if you'd prefer), and her hair as bright as a thousand suns one dying sun. Even though she was a princess, and lived in an immense, majestic castle with turrets and towers, all was not well, for Snow Pie had an evil step-boss who was determined to work her to death.

One bright day, Snow Pie managed to escape the confines of the castle under the guise of traveling to town to pick up a little lunch. Snow Pie ran and ran, over hill and valley, beside endless roadwork and through infestations of traffic cones. Finally, Snow Pie reached the edge of a dark and ominous forest. She rested against a tree, breathing heavily and weighing her options, until she saw in the distance the indistinct outline of her evil step-boss's "coach and four", when she was forced to make a quick decision. Into the dark and ominous forest she darted, stumbling over fallen logs and splashing full-speed through sludgy streams that crossed her path. After catching her foot in a tiny rodent hole, with which the forest floor was littered, she fell face-first into the soil and lay there panting, too tired to even raise her head to discover what was making those odd giggling noises around her.

She felt tiny hands patting her all over, gripping her limbs and attempting to roll her over. Snow Pie squeezed her eyes shut in fear, but allowed herself to be turned. When she finally opened her eyes, she was surrounded by pint-sized, bespectacled, high-water-pants-wearing, pocket-protector-adorned men, all grinning happily at her.

"Wh-who are you?" Snow Pie stuttered.

"I'm Crabby!" A small, hirsute man wearing red overalls and a frilly pirate shirt claimed, pointing at his chest proudly.

"Cranky." The diminutive man beside Crabby announced, also pointing at his chest.

And so it went down the line: "Testy", "Obedient", "Crusty", "Itchy", "Bob".

Crabby, who appeared to be in charge, pulled Snow Pie up by her trembling hands and led her deeper into the forest, babbling cheerfully about a hot meal and a good night's sleep. Snow Pie wasn't convinced that these men were particularly trustworthy, but decided that they couldn't be any worse than the fate that lay behind her, and allowed herself to be led to their wee domicile in a bright and sunny forest clearing.

She had to duck her head to enter the home, but once inside, the Dorks' residence was surprisingly roomy. She sat down at a stool by the big table and waited for the Dorks to feed her. Once sated, Snow Pie found herself very drowsy. There was a nagging tickle at the back of her mind telling her that she'd been drugged, but she was just too tired to care. She crawled over to the nearest bed and sunk down into its pillow-covered surface and dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When Snow Pie awoke the next day, she was shocked by the scene which greeted her sleep-encrusted eyes. Strung up against the opposite wall her evil step-boss was shackled, feet placed in metal buckets, head covered in a black hood (no, it's not Abu Ghraib). The 7 Dorks beamed at her, offered her a feather, a white-hot branding iron and a box of leeches, and told her to do what she would.

Her face slowly broke out into a sunny smile, and Snow Pie and the 7 Dorks lived happily ever after.

.:2 comments | baked by pie at 10.45 AM | permalink:.