Sweet mother of...

Thanks to Rebecca for sending this clip my way. Wow. What you will see if you click on that link is a bride going full-on bat-shit crazy about her hair.

Um. Okay, I'm well aware that weddings are stressful times - I've participated in more than a few of them, and believe it or not I was actually married myself, once*. But... girlfriend's over-reacting just a little, wouldn't you say?

The best part - for me, at any rate - are the bridesmaids' lame attempts at calming her down. They all have a particular plan for this - one continually repeats "It's not that bad!" or "It looks cute!" Yes it is that bad, and no it doesn't look cute. Another one (and something tells me this is the Single Friend - why oh why couldn't I be at that wedding to take advantage of such an opportunity?) constantly says "Remember - you have someone that loves you." As if the bride has any sense of priority or perspective at that point in time - clearly she does not. Besides, we all know that what the girl is really saying is "Why don't I have anyone?? Where's my husband?" (he's hiding from you, you clingy soul-reaper) Finally, one of the geniuses tries to calm her down by pointing out how great she herself and the other bridesmaids look - yeah, that's a good plan, Pumpkin.

Overall, though, I'm struck with a feeling of sympathy for the bridesmaids. I mean, they were having themselves a fine time until Bridezilla showed up and started flinging poo everywhere. That selfish bitch.


*stow it, SPG - behave yourself.

... in bed.

I'm probably dating and/or regionalizing (is that a word? It is now, dammit) myself with this, but what the hell. A favorite game when I was a young'un was adding the phrase "in bed" to things. This was especially fun with the little fortunes you got out of (natch) fortune cookies. See, it was funny because you were insinuating that something sexual was going on - the scandal!

Somewhat recently, I came across the fortune that such banal horseplay was meant for. It read as follows: "You have a naturally slow, unhurried rhythm" (...in bed!) I gave it to a good friend of mine so that he could write his number on the back and use it to pick up guys. Because I'm a giver, you see - I give.

Today's fortune - you all can determine whether it fits the all-important ...in bed criteria for yourselves, I'm not your friggin' dad.

"You will pass a difficult test that will make you happier."

Haiku for a stupid hippie.

This is for the dude I just saw wearing Birkenstocks in our office building - no socks, mind you. Yeah, I know socks and sandals is a no-no, but it's like 1 degree Farenheit here in sunny Minneapolis today.

Hey, stupid hippie:
It's too cold for those sandals.
Fuckin' idiot.

Ode to my new iPod Nano.

Oh, Nano. Your candy-like coating is so very pretty. In truth, I am a bit afraid of you - of your diminutive size. How can you possibly survive the rigors of the world? What if I drop you?

I will hold you with both hands, just to be safe.

How can you possibly fit so much technology into such a tiny package? You have games, even!

Solitaire - We Have A Winner, and it was me!

Music Quiz - you beat me! But I will win one day!

Oh, how you will turn the bus ride into a dream of entertaining technology! It will take a truly smelly person to tear me from your bright screen and endless diversions.

Dear Nano, I thank you for gracing my (obviously very boring) life with your presence. We shall be together always. At least until you break down, at which point I will invoke my Apple Care and have you replaced.

But you will always be my first, my love.

My Nano.

It's entirely possible that I may be growing up.

Those little moments when you realize you're not quite the knuckle-dragging asshat you used to be are nice things, I've decided.

Case in point: SPG and I were chatting today* about hypothetical "Hottie Calendars" we could make that feature hotties that work here at the P.O., and she was going through her list (meaning it was dudes). It was a good list, and I told her as much. How is that growth, you say? Well, lemme tell you: when I was younger I hated these conversations - not because I couldn't recognize that the guys were physically attractive, but because I knew I was not - at least not when compared to them. And damn, that drove me nuts. I was supremely bent that they got height and muscles and looks and I got bupkus.

But I'm older now. And while I'm not exactly thrilled with what I was given, I've got enough experience and perspective under my belt to know that I got stuff they might not have gotten. I can write a pretty good song. I can sing, and by some miracle other people don't seem to think I sound like a neutered goat (for the record that's exactly what I sound like, though). I can play almost any instrument I put my hands on, at least at a rudimentary level ("Never had one lesson!"). I can express myself well, be it speaking or writing. I've got functioning brains and shit. And at the very least, I've finally realized that I'm not ever going to be tall or handsome or anything like that. It is what it is**, and I can rage against it all futile-like or I can drop it and go forward with what I have. It's actually a pretty liberating realization.

So, I've got that going for me.


*only 4 more days to have important chats like this. Sniff.

**I love this term. Far too much, if you ask some other folks.

I SAID, Are We Having FUN yet?

I work at this place - I'm going to follow my pal Matt's (from A.S.S.) lead and refer to it as the Pseudonymous Organization. It's an... interesting place, let's just leave it at that, for now.

Matt recently escaped, as will St. Pauly Girl in about a week. Me, you ask? How kind of you, but no - I will never escape this place. As has always been the case, I've spent the past 6.5 years building a skill set that's so friggin' particular to this place, it's worthless anywhere else. In other words, I'm not so mobile. I congratulate Matt and SPG, as well as Elise and Christopher (also from A.S.S. and also former inmates - er, employees here at Your Soul Is Ours, Inc.), but I will miss their presences here. It gets harder and harder to handle the scat this place throws at me (I swear, it's like working for angry howler monkeys some days), and will no doubt get even harder without them around. Just me against the howler monkeys, I guess - time to go buy a saucer sled to shield myself from the scat.

I could go on for far longer about the ills of this place than y'all want to see, but for now I'll concentrate on my main peeve - they love enforced merriment here. LOVE IT. They're so myopic it's actually frightening. Screw giving people the proper tools to do their jobs, or competent leadership to help them succeed - why invest in all that when you can have a pizza party? Everyone loves pizza, right? You betcha!

This week my former department (I did manage to escape that chunk of rotting hell, at least) has set a new low in terms of enforced merriment - they had a theme week of sorts that included showing crappy old movies, serving rancid popcorn*, crappy sheet cake, and of course handing out utterly shitty "prizes" for the dolts who participated in a series of not-at-all-challenging trivia contests. The capper to this week of crazy bedlam and "fun"? They had the poor sods dress up as either T-Birds or Pink Ladies, with the best-dressed winning - wait for it, it's worth it - a DVD of Grease. Yes, that rancid old musical was someone's "prize" for dressing up like a knob and subjecting themselves to the ridicule of the rest of the company (who were not "celebrating" this week).

First of all, I'd like to personally offer NBC an extra special kick in the nuts for bringing that shit-fest back. Really great, guys. Next you should branch out into prepared foods and offer us some sort of sandwich that combines awesome things, much as you have combined Grease and reality TV. How about shit and bile? That'd be awesome.

Finally, I'd like to say this to my former comrades in that department. Get. The. Fuck. OUT OF THERE. I don't care if you have to gnaw your own goddamn hands off to escape the shackles, do it.


*We have a couple popcorn carts here at the PO, and damn if they're not dragged out for any damn reason at all, as if they're some sort of panacea for all the world's problems. Weak.

Dear nature: You are creepy.

Check out this crazy shark they found near Tokyo. Looks like a severely over-grown eel - that would like to gobble us all up.

Apparently it's called a Frilled Shark (Chlamydoselachus anguineus, if you want to get all specific and shit), due to the fact that its gills (and it's got 6 of 'em, not 5 like modern sharks) look, well, frilly. Personally, I've decided to call it the Gobbler Shark, and I'm cool if I never actually meet one.

That's actually a good segue into one of my little life rules (I have a lot of them, of course): I don't go places where I'm not the apex predator. Thus you will not see me swimming in the ocean. It's this kind of thinking that will keep me from being eaten by something.

Allow myself to introduce... myself?

MySpace. It's the thing to do - if you fancy yourself a musician and you haven't got a MySpace page to pimp your wares, you're nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada.

I've had a page for one of my projects, 'C. Kerns and Futiles' for some time, now; it's right here.

I've started a new project with my pal Kyle and several potential drummers - we're calling it Jim Jones Trio, and we're pretty excited about it. Should be an opportunity to turn the volume and speed up and just rock a bit.

And now you, fair consumers of the HSO, can also share in the fun via the all new Jim Jones Trio MySpace page! It's very exciting.

If you're the type who does the MySpace thing, we invite you to check it out.

EDIT: If any of you have clicked on the above link, only to find a curt message saying the account no longer exists - first of all, thank you. Second, for reasons I have yet to ascertain, our MySpace page has gone *poof* and disappeared. I'll work on either getting the geniuses at MySpace to restore it - or I'll just plain re-build the thing - next week, and I'll make sure to post here when it's back.

Inez bit a bull.

Or inevitable, depending on how your crazy's doing today (as you can see, mine's in fine shape).

What's inevitable, you say? Okay, fine - didn't realize you were SO effin' busy and important. I'll get to the point.

Point being: Fuck Valentine's Day. Right in the ear. No lube. That's right, dry-fuck that bloody depression generator right in the ear until it bleeds. If you're with someone, it's a lousy excuse to do what you should have been doing all along; if you're alone, get ready for the entire world to spend the next ~4 weeks reminding you just how much you suck.

And I say No More. We, the American People need to stand up and draw a line in the sand - say NO to Valentine's Day, people! If you've got a significant other, go buy her/him something nice today. For no particular reason, just because you love them. Isn't that better than giving them some lame, perfunctory crap because Hallmark says you should? Of course it is, and you know it. If you, like me, are alone, ignore this piece of shit entirely. If you can't blow off the never-ending stream of V-Day themed commercials and episodes of your favorite shows (because they'll all do it, even the good ones), turn your fucking TV off. Don't feel more despairing or alone or like a looser just because it's V-Day; we're all alone and losers EVERY day, so there's no need to feel worse just because of a worthless holiday. Chin up, loser - we'll all get another shot to fail miserably at love (again) soon enough.

Seriously, this bloody "holiday" exists because we allow it to exist. And we can make it go away. Think about it.

And please, if you must participate at least try to be a little clever about it. I submit this swell page of Valentine's sentiments as a starting point.

Caramelized upside down... what?

I don't like awards shows. No - I freaking HATE awards shows. Let's see... we've got actors, directors, writers and musicians - all of whom (generally speaking) are earning a good living doing something they love. Their lives are charmed, they're catered to constantly and by and large we love them - moreover, most of us are not at all shy about letting them know how much we love them.

You know what, those poor bastards aren't getting enough recognition! We need something more - something better. Dammit, these people need validation!

Feh.

Anyhoo, I do realize I'm in the minority when it comes to this - most everyone I know LOVES these bloody things, and some of them get into them enough that their enthusiasm is almost infectious. Almost. For instance, the Snarky Squab did some liveblogging during Monday night's Golden Globes ceremony. And I have to admit - I was highly entertained by her description of the evening's events. Far more than I would have been if I'd actually watched the damn thing, that's for sure.

BUT. Squab-ster, you know I think you're The Shit™, but I'm going to have to take some serious issue with your unwarranted attack on one Jennifer Love Hewitt. We here at the HSO, we love our JLH - she's our girl in the Forrest Gump sense of things. We will love her forever, and she can do no wrong (have you seen the Garfield movie? She's fucking AWESOME in that one, for reals). So we're going to have to take issue with your statements about her.

"I actually liked her for like a season on Party of Five, you know?" We didn't watch that show - it was for girls. But when we did finally learn that such a pure goddess roamed the earth, we wanted that Bailey kid dead. Very dead.

"But now she's so ... cringeworthy." Take that back, Squab. Just take it back. She's adorable, yet still very sexy, and we lub lubba lubba love her. Cringeworthy? We think not.

"And that dress is like some kind of fucked up carmelized upside down boobcake." ...oh, sorry - what? I was in a bit of a reverie, for some reason. Boobcake.

In the interest of fairness, our crack research staff scoured the internets to see for themselves what the deal with the dress was all about. You know, being thorough and whatnot. Turns out the CBS Early Show's Suze Yalof Schwartz also didn't like the dress - she said JLH looked "awful" and that the dress was similar to a bad prom dress. Get bent, Suze - you're on the list now. When we finally found some pictures of the dress - okay, let's get real, here. We don't know diddly-squat about fashion or dresses or any of that. But we still say our girl looked dandy (and it turns out that Squab's description of the dress was somewhat accurate, but she makes a boobcake sound like it's a bad thing, you know?) - and it turns out she was able to dial in all that hotness in a mere 20 minutes! You go, Jenny.

In summation: Boobcake.

Hope I die before I get old.

Ah, youth.

As a young'un, I fully intended that I wouldn't live to see my 30th birthday - it seemed my destiny and my birthright. In hindsight, it seems that if I were an artist worth my salt I would have shuffled off this mortal coil before I was 30 years old. But no - I had to go and get married for 4.5 years, which I'm now convinced threw the whole shebang off-kilter.

Interesting tidbit - the following geniuses died either prior to 30 or not long after: Nick Drake - 26, Kurt Cobain - 27, Jeff Buckley (whose own father, Tim, died when he was 28 - cue the freaky music)- 30, Elliott Smith - 34.

I'm now 37 and will be 38 all too soon. And I've not lived a careful or healthy life. I won't make a list, but suffice it to say that I've done enough stupid things, put enough horrible things into my body (hell, I still drink like a fish and smoke like a bloody chimney), and damaged myself enough that by all rights I should be outta here.

Which leads me to believe - no, make that fear, that I'm possessed with a Keith Richards-like constitution. I'm a cockroach and I cannot die.

Bugger.

Weeeeeee!!

(Not to be confused with Matt from A.S.S., who is consumed with his quest for a Wii)

I feel a little bad about not coming up with anything new or cool to write about. So, by way of apology I give you this fun little internets diversion that proves
presidentin' is indeed hard.

Enjoy

Come Again?

There are times when people say things to me that leave me in a dual state - part non-plussed, part consumed with a sudden need to punch them on the spot. Today was one of those times. I was standing with a co-worker - one of those co-workers you don't necessarily like, but who often accost you when you're out smoking, as if the fact that you both smoke makes you kin-folk, or some such shit - and I was fidgeting a little.

At this point I'll have to briefly digress to explain that at times a man's underwear and his - um, let's just call 'em Bits And Pieces - will interact in an odd way. I don't know who designs underwear for us, but it seems that no design - tighty whiteys, boxers, boxer/briefs, whatever - can eliminate this sort of interaction. It's like some cosmic force inexorably tangles everything up now and again, for some reason.

Anyway, I was fidgeting in the throes of one of these interactions when the co-worker appeared - and dammit, a person should be able to weather something like this alone. But no - he had to walk up to me and exclaim "What, do you have a dog in your pants or something?"

Um, WHAT? Who the hell says that? I mean, I was fidgeting - I didn't have a medium-to-large mammal wriggling around in my pants, a fact which was clearly evident. So, as often happens in situations like this, I mumbled something non-commital and then walked off, explaining that I had a meeting to get to (of course, I did not), and then spent the next 30 minutes mulling over how I should have responded.

The best ideas were as follows:

1) "No, do you have a baby elephant in your shoe?"

2) "I'm going to gut you like a fish, you piece of shit - like a fucking FISH."

3) "How in the HELL could I fit a dog in my pants? I mean, honestly."

4) "Has anyone ever mentioned to you that you're a great argument in favor of euthanasia?"

5) I should have said "Yes, and it doesn't like you." and then shoved him into the path of an oncoming bus.

Feel free to let me know what your favorite of the above options are, or alternatively suggest an option of your own.

Dear Surgeon General: You Don't Make No Sense.

So I smoke. A lot, actually - I'm like a walking talking chimney at times, it seems. If it weren't for pesky things like working, sleeping, and evil bans on smoking indoors, I would likely smoke 24/7, at least for the year or so I imagine it would take for such a course of action to snuff out my feeble flame.

Anyway, I was looking at my most recent pack of cigarettes just a moment ago (Camel Filters, this one is a fancy "art pack" that features the art of a fellow from Hastings, UK - it's actually pretty neat art), and I noticed that the Surgeon General's Warning is a little unclear:

"Quitting Smoking Now Greatly Reduces Serious Risks to Your Health."

Good to know, really. However, I'm a little confused - are you saying that quitting smoking NOW reduces these serious risks to my health, as in before it didn't? If so, why? Did you just make these risks up or create them? Is it very ethical to create serious health risks? What kind of sick game are you playing with us? Or are you saying that if I quit smoking right now, that will reduce these serious risks that you may or may not have created, whereas if I quit, say, tomorrow I'm shit out of luck?

Either way I'm not going to quit, I'm just asking.

Aw, c'mon - JT doesn't deserve this.

I always enjoy lists like this one (10 worst songs of 2006), and by and large I agree with every one of their choices.

But "SexyBack"? C'mon - if it's nothing but guilty pleasure fodder (and I would assert that it's more than that), it's awesome at what it is. Agree to disagree on that one, MSNBC.

Now, "Wind It Up", that there is utter tripe.