Aw man! When did the masses lose their sense of humor? People are actually mad over Roadkill Candy. What? Are we done throwing red paint on the fur industry already?

Fugitive links for youuuuuuu-gitive.


Just because I can't write everyday doesn't mean I don't think about you everyday. Get the freak outta here, of COURSE it doesn't! But just wait until I get dooced and boy, I'll write all night and all day. You'll get extra-sick of me at that point. EXTRA.

But until then, here are a few fugitive and random links I've saved up for you.

ps to Katy: Yes, oh yes-yes, I do love the magazine "Everyday Food". Very much.






Meet Zaioli. Very cute. Observation: I can't understand all the French, but I love that dogs speak the same language all over the world. Ar-rooooooooo woof woof. That was French for "Enjoy!"

More links:

I got on a cupcake kick and found Candied Flowers and (pardon me while I drool) my dream job, the Cupcake Cafe. Someday, man, SOMEDAY.

cool website for cool glasses

one variety of rose we planted in our rockin' Yarden

conserve energy, y'all

The Elusive Liger if you ever had your doubts

I can't believe I'm considering firing up the Visa to order a box of ladybugs for The Yarden. Hey I bought redworms last year, so why not?

Yum bunnies

retrocrush

Fisher-Price keyboard. My idea in high school. Didn't patent it. Oh well, WAY TO GO. Still, I want one anyway.

More roses for The Yarden. Boy, I hope they make it. Go, worms, go!

Once again, not dead yet. In fact, I'm reanimated from The Terrible Land of Zombiedeath.

I've just been insane at work, phlegmtastic at home, and lollygaggin' on a completely chairless and totally disgusting floor at Laguardia airport for approximately 9 hours on Monday. Do not get me started, I will rant more than the usual mad woman.

But it was all worth it since New York city rocks the entire world. For once, I was home. Finally, a place where I didn't feel alone, retarded or out-of-place. Or all of the above. Home I tell you! Able to leap subway cars in a single bound, hopping puddles of hobo urine with absolutely no human eye contact with anything but the pigeon eating the puddle of vomitted carrots and milk. Disgusting, yes, but it's a lot less freaky than watching a pigeon in Memphis pick a porkrib bone clean:

"Your eyeballs!" she screamed, "Your eyeballs are nexxxxttt!!"

New York was literally It for me. No. Really. I understand It, I get It. I am not the one to start the fight, but as God as my witness, I will finish it:

"What is MY problem? No pardon me, @#$%er @#$%er, what is YOUR problem?! Can't you see I'm walkin' here? What are you, the QUEEN of the 130 East 94th, over here? You really want a bite of this?! BRING IT!"

Good way for me to purge the past couple of weeks anyway. Plus we walked everywhere in the cold, the temperate, and the snow. Many of you do not understand how that makes me Very Happy. Being that I was born in the Deep South and tried for years to get my parents to take me to Sesame Street, not because I liked Muppets, but because apparently some places had this thing called seasons, besides just summer, and snow versus frog-strangling terrarium humidity. At the age of 5 even, all that looked like a fun to me.

So we saw Christo's Gates. We did a Da Vinci Code themed scavenger hunt at the Metropolitan Museum of Art through Cityhunt, and that was incredible. I don't even like playing games really, and this was extremely validating fun for me. Then we ate dinner at L'Orange Bleue which was surprisingly casual and extremely tasty. Then we ended up at an Amsterdam-type caviar-and-vodka bar named Pravda with a bunch of models, so if you need to know where any of those beautiful types hang out, well there ya go. Then we ended up at Prohibition, which again, was incredible fun.

Okay, so if anyone is left out there reading this, 1. I think you are the absolute greatest person in the world, 2. I'm sorry I made you worry, I'm not dead (yet) so 2. let's take a trip to New York, like, now. I'm still packed. I'll keep an emergency bag packed for the rest of my life, by the way.

Also, check out the darkened picture of me'n'my ponytail and m'(borrowed)red coat praying in front of an out-of-service elevator. That's a long story. At least I'm devout-looking.

One final note

Regarding painful PowerPoints.

They really do leave a mark, lemme tell ya.

February's Most Extreme Elimination: A Giant Powerpoint Presentation

Giant. Behemoth. Huge-asstic.

And that's all I really want to say about it for the time being. Let's not tell my parents. I don't want them to question why I went to college for a BA in Fine Arts. And for anyone who's laboring under the misconception that "Powerpoint is just like Flash!", my special note to you is, "You, I got nothin' for anymore."



Things I have done in the past 10 days that didn't require group therapy, for the most part:

Sat courtside at Grizzlies game in a free yet $450 seat. It's funny. I thought all I'd focus on was how tall everyone was. But really, they are all tall so it's this crazy optical illusion. I was also hoping for more swearing (I must've been living vicariously for the moment), but all I heard was one "bullshit" from Bonzi Wells and someone said "mutha fukk." In retrospect, it could've been me.

Traveled to Tupelo for a client meeting and lo, there was an angel named Angela. So for an hour or so, I got to reunite with one of the rarest of types: A Good Roommate. One of the two only truly decent roommates I ever had. And there she was twelve years later, still married and now with one kid. Life is like that.

Made flight reservations to New York City for next weekend. Going to visit my best friend since third grade. She's getting married. This is the part where I don't talk about how the guy she is marrying is not good enough for her because no one really is. This is the part where I hope I am wrong.

Decided to fall victim to advertising once again and bought some Crest White Strips. Effective commercials. But they don't show the pretty lady with the big mouth and white teeth hocking an oyster into a nearby garbage can after she takes those nasty strips out of her mouth. "You can whiten your teeth anywhere! As long as you know how to spit like a cowpoke!"

Got a new battery-op toothbrush *free* with the strips. I like that thing.

Didn't vacuum the house.

Went to Bart, Mamie and Hannah's house and helped Mamie fry tiny chicken wings and played with Hannah's My Pretty Pony collection. Thank God for down-to-earth, good, decent, honest, funny people. Thank someone as much as possible for this.

Lost a pound here or there. Gained a pound here or there. Good news: It's probably all sinus weight. Welcome, Spring. I'm feel your deathgrip on my face. Ah, Memphis.

I had a picture and linkie or two to post, so lemme find them. I always miss you guys when I am gone. No, really!

I caught you a delicious bass.


Here.

But if you'd rather have some Ralph Wiggum, just listen to your heart. That's what I do.

Back to happy fun time!


No talk, just love. Many happy Japanese love time for me and for you.

Click "menu" then start the song.

Two more things to live for: June and October.


You know how I feel about Tim Burton's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" due out in June 2005. It makes my eyes glaze over like two enchanted Krispy Kremes. See the clip here if you haven't yet. I watch it every now and then when things get monotonous. So, I have watched it lots lately. It's one of the strings I keep tied to the sturdy oak so I don't get lost deep in the forest, you know, the one you can't see for the trees on most days.

So now, I have two trees. I think I'll make this one an elm. Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride". See? Life is very good. And really, life-after-death looks very slimming.

"Then we shoot dogs and have a party."

You know, it's the optimism in me that always makes me forget just how boring business can be -- I mean real business, like being busy for the sake of producing practical business items to sell. Belch. Then being lazy after being busy like that is, well, just depressing. It's an endless circle that looks exactly like a pie chart to me. So I've got nothing much to talk about unless you feel like talking about lumps of coal and projects due in 24 hours, with a 2-liter Coke and breadsticks for only $17.99.

On top of this, it's a full moon, and I have developed another undying obsession with Borat and Kazakstan.

I am embarrassed to say that I am addicted to a terrible song. This is partly Scott's fault because he introduced me to this particular song Borat performed in a cowboy bar in Tucson, Arizona.

No, it's not one of those dandy-fop, leather-chapped cowboy bars in NYC where the conversation is witty and the talk turns to rugged fabrics over three or four cosmopolitans. No, this one is a little more authentic, where they actually ask you to "give a hoot'n' a holler" to this person on the stage, but it's not as rough as the bar in The Blues Brothers where they sang "Rawhide" in a chicken-wire cage.

So now I'm basically stuck in this quagmire (bonus points for use of the word "quagmire") over this horrible song named "In My Country There is Problem". I apologize to anyone who doesn't know me, to those who do know me, and to anyone who doesn't understand that his approach is actually brilliant.

Anyway, Ron found the official site of Kazakstan, and now I know why Borat's fun evening in Kazakstan is shooting dogs and having a party. They have a game (under "Culture", nine links down in National Games) in which you Fight Over a Goat's Carcass. What? Am I making fun? Man, give peace a chance. It's fascinating.

Luckily, I can't find the video clip for you to actually see Borat sing it. It'd only make things worse for you because you'd have the images of the innocent Borat with his giant cowboy hat on and his unwashed-for-seven-years suit (so he said and I believe) singing amongst a bunch of semi-cowgirls and -boys in a bar who find it ok to sing along with this song.

Oh, I can't say anything. I skip down the street singing it now. This is the first day since I have seen it that I haven't woken up with it in my head. I hope that's not one of the first signs of schitzophrenia.

Oh rats. I found it. Here. Enjoy, and I'll save you a seat at my new support group, "Misunderstanding Laughter at the Expense of the Audience, Not the Song, So Don't Hate Me or Anyone, Ever, Unless it's Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan."


And finally:

Who knew, in the spirit of "shakin' those haters", this week is No Name Calling Week. Next week, it's Explosion of Repressed Rage Week. Oh, you saw that one coming from a mile away, didn't you? Well, I cannot wait.

Man, that last post sounded terrible, didn't it?

Ah well, you know I was just trying to be funny. Trying, trying, trying. But I bet I'm not alone in thinking that a Hummer could be driven into Paris Hilton in more way than one. I must be jealous that I'm not a millionairess.

No. She's an annoying waste of space. Yes, she annoys me. At least Versace and/or others can advertise on her for free.

Ok, enough of that! Drive out the jive and unpack the love -- Happy Monday, People! I got nothin' to talk about today. Can you tell? Ever since I got my new garbage can, my life has been kinda status quo. And uneventful, like a gardenhose. I could use a cupcake though. Or a piece of birthday cake. Or something like that. Sorry I'm extra-boring today.

Good story, huh? I need a nap.