Woman is Danger Cat

Moved!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 11:10:00 +0000

Hello all, I have moved. Click here to be redirected, and don't forget to bookmark my new digs.

Colorado Strikes Again: Strippers and Golfers Converge

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 21:47:00 +0000

I must thank my news-gobbling friend in Denver for passing on this sweet snippet to bolster my repeated claim that Colorado is the most insane place in the continental U.S.

Camera Phone Picture Gallery II: Return of the Hot Pink Razr

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:24:00 +0000

With all the between jobs traveling, sleeping in late, afternoon boozing and subsequent napping; the reality show TV-watching, the sunning and the directionless strolling, I have been noticeably disconnected. In truth, I have nothing to comment on—not even the birth of Jamie Lynn's baby girl, because two of my good friends just gave birth, which to me, is much more exciting, nor the death of Tim Russert as it has already been discussed ad nauseum. So instead of describing my father crying as he watched the news, or impart the rather gruesome knowledge I have obtained about child labor, I will simply unload my camera phone for another gallery entry. Innocuous; uninsightful; kind of amazing.

1. Taken at a McDonald's parking lot in Colorado—where else?

2. Indisputably the most terrifying mannequin in all of Manhattan, a "little girl" who sits in the window of a fabric shop on 38th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues.

3. Really, FDNY? Don't you think it's a little too soon post-9/11 to be making light of your jobs? Or do you (shudder) actually call your firetruck the Batmobile?

4. My camera was unable to capture this photo in a way that would relay the entire, rather hilarious, effect of this man lounging in his cowboy boots against a tree in Hoboken, NJ, nonchalantly talking on his phone.

5. Nothing brings out pure Hulkian rage in me like the overt display of a prized possession.

6. And I thought the days of dressing like Michael Jackson were over. I guess band uniforms never really change.

7. Beowulf Kitty: still fat, still likes to lounge like an overweight baseball fan watching the Yankees game from a stained couch somewhere above 125th Street.

The Widget That (Almost) Ruined My Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 22:20:00 +0000

That slimy, slithery Flight Tracker Widget! You can't trust it. Take it from me: I missed an 8 a.m. flight this morning from Newark Airport in New Jersey to Denver because that fallacious contraption insisted my plane was running 25 minutes late. Mark my words, I will curse that erroneous desktop adornment till I lay withered on my deathbed.

Still unwilling to abandon an evening inhaling cool mountain-y air, I waited for the next flight, as a standby passenger, but was passed over for an old couple with a funeral to go to. My luggage, of course, made it and is currently locked away somewhere that surely smells of aspen trees and burnt pine needles.

With all hope lost and left to contend with the NJ Transit System, I snail-crawled my way through the industrial patina of inland New Jersey back to civilization. It was during this journey that I realized I wanted to marry Michael Ian Black, if not for his deadpan humor than for the title of his new essay, "What I Would Be Thinking If I Were Billy Joel Driving to a Holiday Party Where I Knew There Was Going to Be a Piano."

The Wind Whipping Through My Leg Hair

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 23:21:00 +0000

I just experienced something wholly new and utterly awesome: the feeling of a warm summer breeze blowing off the Hudson and through my thigh hair. Incredible.

Over the winter not only did I gain ten pounds, but I also stopped shaving above my knee for the first time since I was in fifth grade, allowing the fuzz to fill in where nature intended. And then it was no longer fuzz, but a wispy, white-blond covering. Soon after, it morphed into a flaxen shield that sexiness could no longer penetrate, which is where I stand today—leg hair blown back as if I were cruising in a convertible.

Alien Update

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 30 May 2008 21:31:00 +0000

Click here for the Denver Post article.

Alien Believer Pushes for ET Affairs Bureau

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 May 2008 17:02:00 +0000

The state of Colorado is like a modern day Australia—at least in a sense that Australia was once an asylum for potato-noshing criminals and lunatics. It seems that every time a WTF headline drops jaws, it sprung from that schizophrenic square in the middle of the country.

Case in point, a Denver man is currently petitioning for a ballot initiative that would require the formation of an Extraterrestrial Affairs Bureau. Why? Because aliens are real, dog.

In about a month, the man, a Mr. Jeff Peckman, will show footage of a 4-foot-tall alien creeping around a car, peering into the windows, and blinking. Blinking?!

My boyfriend speculates that, in fact, the video is just the last ten minutes of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Celine Dion: A Death Threat

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 27 May 2008 22:07:00 +0000

Emaciated singer Celine Dion must still be scrubbing the lecherous stain of Vegas from her freakishly toned body. The UK's Daily Mirror reported yesterday that Ms. Dion used 6.5 million gallons of water at her Marin County, Florida home in 2007, or enough to fill a 50-gallon bathtub every four minutes.

"Most homes in the area, which has a population of 126,000, use just 10,000 gallons a month to water the grass and clean their cars."

So Celine, I will have to kill you. Water is a commodity and you don't even shave, so how is it possible that you use so much? Don't answer. It doesn't matter because I have already put a hit out on you. For the greater good, for all mankind, and especially for my parents in Colorado where the paucity of water makes me shudder.

When a slick character with a spit-drenched Cuban and tricolored top-siders comes knocking, know that I sent him. Oh, I sent him alright.

What do the College Kids Say? PWNED?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 26 May 2008 23:29:00 +0000

Zachary, a smoked out Colorado University sophomore who introduced me to the term "zanibar"—and also happens to be my little brother—often trumps me in the logic department, despite the fact that he operates in a weed-induced stupor much of the time.

When we were talking on the phone earlier today—me from my increasingly familiar post on my boyfriend's couch, and him from the dormitory kitchen where he took a summer job in hopes of banging the girls who stay there for sports camps—he was watching a clip of Kobe Bryant clearing a swimming pool full of black mambo snakes.

"Dude, have you seen that video of Kobe jumping the Aston Martin yet?" I asked.

"Yeah, but that shit isn't real."

"Wha?"

"Do you really think that Nike would let him do that? Or do you think that the Lakers would let their star player, the best player in the league and the 2008 MVP risk his life for a stunt? His contract doesn't even allow him to ride a motorcycle, much less jump a moving car."

Silence. "Oh man, you are totally right!"

Blast! Outsmarted by an 18-year-old stoner—again.

Girl Equation

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 May 2008 19:25:00 +0000

Gould Plated Self-Awareness

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 May 2008 00:23:00 +0000

As I read Emily Gould's article, "Exposed," the lead story on the Times homepage this morning, my breakfast began its esophagus-burning procession back up my throat. It was all so familiar: the extreme exposure, the vitreous attacks and the gut-eviscerating self-doubt (which I can only assume she is feeling).

When I was twenty and a student at the University of Kansas, I wrote a candid blog about myself hosted by Lawrence.com. It was called Powder Room Confessions. Every time I posted I was pummeled by a barrage of hate mail. After four short months, my fragile ego couldn't handle it and I quit. Much like Emily, I later wrote a feature about my experience, and about the nascent blogging industry in general, for the student magazine (not quite the NYT, but still).

After finishing the article and scanning the 400-some comments, my first reaction was pity. Perhaps that isn't so. My first reaction was jealousy, as it often is when I see someone my age published in the New York Times. But after that, pity. And then a creeping feeling of schadenfreude. Watching someone else get chided in much the same manner that I did years ago was shamefully cathartic. So cathartic, in fact, that I think I am going to buy up all the tissues in Brooklyn so she has to wipe her porcelain, tear-drenched cheeks with paper towels.

But the jealousy? Yeah, totally over it.

C/O Democractic Party

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 May 2008 20:06:00 +0000

The mile-wide tornado that tore through Northern Colorado earlier today was no doubt whipped up by the GOP in an attempt to instill fear before the Democratic National Convention in August. Next up: locusts.

Moldy Peach Dog Biscuits

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 May 2008 00:33:00 +0000

Music artists lending their voices or songs to television commercials is as old as Madonna, and to be honest I don't even consider it "selling out." Really, was Aerosmith's aural offerings over the past two decades ever so sacred that a partnership with Dodge changed the band's already fledging rocker reputation?

So when I saw the new commercial for Atlantis resorts, set to "Anyone Else But You" by the indie twosome Moldy Peaches—better known as the song that Ellen Page and Michael Cerra cover at the end of the movie Juno—I thought it was problematic for other another reason, and that is cognitive psychology.

Flashback back to PSYCH 101. Cognitive psychology is a school of thought that emphasizes a patient's mental processes—the same paradigm that harbors Pavlovian theory. And much like Pavlov and his salivating canines, this commercial makes me think of bastard children and awkward teen sex, not giggling frivolously in a one-piece under a poolside cabana. But hey, that's just me.

**and Nick, I know this is probably a complete perversion of cognitive psych and Pavlov and those mangy, blessed mutts. I look forward to the inevitable earful.

Tom Selleck Has Nothing To Do With This Post

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 13 May 2008 06:59:00 +0000

Upon careful consideration and a lengthy pros and cons list, I have decided to pack up shop and move to ~~Wordpress~~ Tumblr. Blogger is like living in black and white when everything else is in technicolor; like being on MySpace when everyone uses Facebook.

Now I just have to figure out how to pull off the ole' switcheroo. If I happen to come across any speed bumps, detours or overpasses, rest assured you will be the first to know. And in the unlikelihood of a water landing, your cushion can be used as a flotation device. Same goes for Tom Selleck's mustache.

Anatomy of a Viral Video

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 May 2008 22:34:00 +0000

Earlier today, a clip of an irascible Bill O'Reilly from his pre-Factor days took ahold of the blogotron. While Billo will have you clinging to the pant leg of your own splenetic boss, whose rants will suddenly appear tame compared to O'Reilly's outburst, what is most surprising is the video's proliferation. Pop culture blogs were on it like flies on a dead hooker—and yes, in this analogy O'Reilly is the hooker. Let's follow the breadcrumbs.

I first entered the online media ring at Radaronline.com, which was sent to me as a link via IM. The poor schmucks at Radar magazine (who I would give my boyfriend's left nut to be) apparently don't have the gear (or perhaps the inclination) to edit out the College Humor logo in the lower-third, thus their source was clear. Skip to Gawker, where O'Reilly took the page view cake with 37,000-plus views by 7 p.m., a boon for Gawker night editor Ryan Tate who posted the video at 2:30 a.m. By 4:30, New York Magazine's Daily Intel blog, which sources all its gossip, had picked it up from Gawker and whirled it into a combo piece about curmudgeonly white men, leading with a clip of New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg erupting at the press.

Four mega gossip sites, one mortified television personality. Is this enough for O'Reilly to crawl under a rock and never reappear?

'Bittersweet' Muff Diving

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 07 May 2008 11:09:00 +0000

Certain songs you feel ashamed to love. You'll hear a catchy tune in passing, track it down and two days later "For You I Will (Confidence)" by Teddy Geiger is in your Top 25 Most Played. Shameful.

Such was the case when I came across "Bittersweet," a song even gayer than Ellen Page. The thing is I can't stop listening; I want to hear it over and over again until my ears are bleeding from Sapphic sentimentality and I just want to spoon.

Memoratorium

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 01 May 2008 22:12:00 +0000

Me: What's that game called again? The one that you played as a kid with the farm animals and the cards, and you match them up?

Bruce: Um, Memory.

****

Earlier this week, I had that exact exchange. My ability to retain information is startling low. Like, chronic amnesia low. And as my pot intake has decreased over the past few months, it has become increasingly clear that the blaze wasn't solely to blame for the haze. In my case, it just might be a question of intelligence.

But there is hope. A recent study published on Monday in the The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (a title I would never be able to remember) describes the correlation between memory games and the increase of "fluid intelligence.

Will farm animals cards be able to undo that semester in college that I ate extacy as if it were Flinstone vitamins? Probably not. But would I be the lovably spacey, serotonin-deficient depressive had I not gone on weekend-long pill binges, thereby altering my entire identity? Definitely not.

Chewed Up and Spit Out

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 19:14:00 +0000

You know your music career is in jeopardy when even a collaboration with Lil Wayne is a radio flop. Perhaps wisely, former Creole Lady Marmalade Mya Harrison has turned her attention away from self-loathing teen girls and her yet to be (officially) released fourth studio album to the plight of the pups.

Teen girls? Oh yes. Mya's last philanthropic tour was the Secret to Self-Esteem, a mall-hopping brigade of back-patting health care specialists sponsored by Secret antiperspirant. Sadly, it appears that the only ones still interested in Mya is dog food companies and the producers of sweat inhibitors.

The Semen Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 21:58:00 +0000

Every spring, I smell semen—or spooge, baby batter, love mayonnaise, the sometimes viscous, mostly watery (and fingers-crossed, never chunky) male juice that has been the bane of many a' girls' existence since the dawn of the blow job. The culprit? An efflorescent tree blanketed in odorous, white blossoms.

At times I chalked up the thick stink to an olfactory misunderstanding rooted in my tendency to eroticise everything—even botany. That is, until the most recent issue of The Onion cemented my observation in cold, hard fact (as The Onion is known to do).

Frida of the Yearn for Zion Ranch

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 11:54:00 +0000

The Dutch Oven

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 02:41:00 +0000

The other day I received this voice mail message from my friend: "You probably won’t listen to this message, but if you do, know that we desperately need your help as we are trying to discern what language the people of Holland speak, and whether or not they are both speaking Dutch and they are Dutch. And if they are from Holland, why are they Dutch? Why aren’t they hollandaise? And how do the Netherlands fit in there?"

As a product of the Colorado public education system, I am no more qualified to answer these questions than, say, Miss South Carolina, but I was once employed by a Dutch man. He was unusually tall and had an affinity for milk pudding. Unfortunately, that just about exhausts my knowledge of the world's wooden shoe-clad populace, so to answer these questions I will resort to Wikipedia, whose wells of unreliable information ne'er run dry.

Holland: Although ill-educated Americans (and some Dutch) use Holland and the Netherlands interchangeably, Holland is actually only a portion of the Netherlands. In fact, North and South Holland in the western Netherlands are only two of the country's twelve provinces. While Holland may have sticky greens and sailor-stuffed hookers, the Netherlands' outer provinces are populated by languid windmills, virginal milkmaids (see dildo below) and polychromatic fields of buttercream tulips.

Hollandaise: First described by chef François Pierre La Varenne in his 17th Century cookbook, hollandaise sauce has been making buttery goodness of unsavory comestibles for hundreds of years. Comprised of a piss-yellow powder from one of those Knorr sauce packets in the spice isle and a splash of milk, hollandaise sauce is indubitably delicious. It is not, however, the word used to refer to the occupants of Holland, nor the language that they speak (more on that later).

Netherlands: The Netherlands is the European part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, which consists of the Netherlands, the Netherlands Antilles and Aruba in the Caribbean. Yes, Aruba. Who knew?

Dutch: Resembling the sound of a German death metal band getting ass-raped by a Viking, Dutch is inarguably the ugliest language in the world. With this is mind, it is of little wonder why the Nazis killed Anne Frank (zing!).

The Keyword An(n)als

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 16:41:00 +0000

Through some XXX-rated force of panty-sniffing fortuitousness, I recently learned that an Internet peruser was led to my website after Googling, "www.woman naked with man having sex while pooping." It's good to know that I'm attracting my target audience: perverts and poopofiles.

Elizabeth Berkley is SO EXCITED!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 21:43:00 +0000

When super gay entertainment channel Bravo tapped Elizabeth Berkley (better known as Jessie Spano) to host its new reality/competition show, Step It Up & Dance, they seemed to forget one important thing: no one cares about the towering talent-monger unless she is naked. Cue one of my favorite videos from You're The Man Now Dog, a community of nerdy video hacks with just enough time on their hands. It is a work of staggering genius, spliced together by a true visionary: my roommate.

YouTube Wunderkind

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 02:45:00 +0000

If emerging pop sensation du jour Marié Digby (as in Mary-ay, as I just learned) has taught wannabe artists anything, it's that covering billboard hits and broadcasting them on YouTube can actually launch a professional singing career. Sure, Marié might've been signed to Hollywood Records even before she became a DIY video star, but her real-life fairytale gave anyone with a keyboard and a camera hope—perhaps, even, too much.

Take Tiffany Jo Allen, a world class yodeler from Arizona who recorded a twangy cover of "Apologize" by OneRepublic last December. Interestingly, her video has gotten seven times the hits than the winner of the Myspace"Apologize" Cover Contest (chosen and announced by OneRepublic themselves). One can only hope Tiffany Jo will be performing her dipthong-heavy rendition during this summer's state fair circuit.

Or Britney Nicole, a Green Day-loving teen who belted a heartfelt acapella version of Leona Lewis's "Bleeding Love." What I want to know is why she didn't just come up with the stage name Britney Nicole Paris Lindsay. I think it's rather catchy...and very SEO friendly.

And then there's Chris Comisso, an aspiring Christian pop impresario who covered Sara Bareilles's "Love Song," not because you asked for it, not because you needed it, but because he thought it was about Jesus.

Hot VF on VF Action

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 22:22:00 +0000

While Vanity Fair, with its superlative design and carefully arranged celebrity spreads, tops my list of monthly must-reads, the m agazine section of VF.com (reporting almost solely on operations at the mag itself: we just shot a new cover—hooray!; VF.com interviews a Vanity Fair reporter about writing a story for Vanity Fair) seems, well, vain. Perhaps Condé Nast's prodigal cultural digest has a right to be, but if this is where respectable news-blogging is going, give me Drunken Stepfather.