This real alligator head can be purchased at Mr. D's Leather and Novelties in Newport News, VA for a mere $45.
Hey, anyone ever been to Mr. D's?
ROAD TRIP!
ROAD TRIP!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Theres no such thing as free therapy.
I saw PostSecret first.
Damnit, I still need to send that book to Erin.
Damint, she probably already has it now.
DAMNIT, I wanted to send her something cool!
Then, a more basic cyber version on FlawLes TV's website.
Mary B., where I come from, its illegal to be that cute.
Sometimes I think the Universe likes to watch me squirm. Bonus points for all-out breakdowns.
Confessionals.
And not the Catholic-booth kind, which I find uber creepy.
Catholic school, I was 12 and was told that I wasn't "prepared" for the Sacrament of Penance. I've had an aversion to confessional booths ever since. At the time, I thought ooohhhh....something dark and terrifying happens in there. I shouldn't go in there. Ever.
I dont walk to close to confessionals in a church. You'd have to pay me to step in one. I dont like it when authors describe their, or their character's, experience in confessionals. I dont like to see actors in them in movies or TV (exception: Kate Moennig as Shane, season 2, episode 8).
I don't believe in vibes, juju, or auras - I think humans project their own bullshit and then say things like "its just a feeling I have in here." But if there was such a thing as bad juju, 50 bucks says I'd find it in a confessional. With all that sin spewing out of people in those boxes, how in the bloody hell does the wood not rot?
I digress.
No, no, I did not begin this post with that kind of creepy confessional in mind. I am talking about the instant, anonymous, tell Cyber-Les or PostSecret everything and no one will ever know its you, confessional. And I still can't do it. I'm too paranoid. I fear that if I design a postcard and send it in to PostSecret, they will publish the damn thing and then somehow, somehow!, my artistic mark will be so potent, so prominent, that I'll get busted. Freakishly ridiculous.
Same thing on FlawLes. On their website you can post an anonymous confession. Type a nickname, confess and hit enter. I was about to do it- I had my confession all typed out, edited for relevance and entertainment factors, when I noticed a little button...
Then, a more basic cyber version on FlawLes TV's website.
Mary B., where I come from, its illegal to be that cute.
Sometimes I think the Universe likes to watch me squirm. Bonus points for all-out breakdowns.
Confessionals.
And not the Catholic-booth kind, which I find uber creepy.
Catholic school, I was 12 and was told that I wasn't "prepared" for the Sacrament of Penance. I've had an aversion to confessional booths ever since. At the time, I thought ooohhhh....something dark and terrifying happens in there. I shouldn't go in there. Ever.
I dont walk to close to confessionals in a church. You'd have to pay me to step in one. I dont like it when authors describe their, or their character's, experience in confessionals. I dont like to see actors in them in movies or TV (exception: Kate Moennig as Shane, season 2, episode 8).
I don't believe in vibes, juju, or auras - I think humans project their own bullshit and then say things like "its just a feeling I have in here." But if there was such a thing as bad juju, 50 bucks says I'd find it in a confessional. With all that sin spewing out of people in those boxes, how in the bloody hell does the wood not rot?
I digress.
No, no, I did not begin this post with that kind of creepy confessional in mind. I am talking about the instant, anonymous, tell Cyber-Les or PostSecret everything and no one will ever know its you, confessional. And I still can't do it. I'm too paranoid. I fear that if I design a postcard and send it in to PostSecret, they will publish the damn thing and then somehow, somehow!, my artistic mark will be so potent, so prominent, that I'll get busted. Freakishly ridiculous.
Same thing on FlawLes. On their website you can post an anonymous confession. Type a nickname, confess and hit enter. I was about to do it- I had my confession all typed out, edited for relevance and entertainment factors, when I noticed a little button...
"click here for Confessions policy"
Wait, what?
Theres a policy?
Well fuck me, now I have to read it!
Leave it to the les's to write a policy for confessions. I'm not blaming Mary B and Jess for having a policy because I know why they have it. If they hadn't posted their confession policy then they would be accosted by emails from lesbian who wanted to know -
...is this really anonymous?
...what do you do with my "optional" email?
...can you track my IP address, discover my true identity and email my girlfriend/ ex-girlfriend/ boss/ neighbor/ university my confession?
Hmmmm? WELL? CAN YOU?!
Needless to say, I couldn't confess.
While I hate - haaaate - paying $130 to emotionally puke in front of a PhD, I must admit...I appreciate the fact that I can purchase the professional standards of therapists. You see, I know they can't tell. As long as you are not going to hurt yourself or hurt someone else: They - Can - Not - Tell. Ever! Nothing. If they do they risk their license and, hence, their fat-ass paychecks. And I believe in the lure of that dollar. I know how attractive that paycheck must be. I dont think anyone would ever walk away from a job where you sit on your ass all day in a chair of your choosing, making $130 an hour in order to leak some bullshit sob story of mine.
Greed. Keeping secrets secret for millennia.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
See that ticker?
The fingers...on the left of the screen. Thats a hit-counter. An American Sign Language webpage hit counter. Vanity made me add it. Its pretty nerd-bally, I know, but I love Sign Language and since everything else on 52islandweeks is nerdy, it works.
Recently, I became *acutely aware of just how weirdo my blog is when someone asked if I had a Facebook page. They asked for reference-sake. I dont mean job interview reference...more like "I want to make sure you're not a weirdo" reference or "do you have a picture of yourself" reference. In this day and age, its a perfectly legit request and I felt compelled to offer something. But I dont have a facebook. Fuck facebook. All I have is this blog and a 6 year old MySpace page...and I can't even remember how to sign in to that damn thing.
But, I'm not so sure this blog is a good reference. I mean there's a reason why its 95% anonymous. I keep it anonymous so I can vent. So I can let the extremes of my personality out without fear of judement. I look at the ticker that counts my web-hits and I think...
...the hits are not really the result of 1000+ people looking at my blog. That number is simply the result of my mom and Erin clicking on it a hundered times to make me feel like someone reads this bullshit. Lets, for my pride's sake, pretend like it is.
Recently, I became *acutely aware of just how weirdo my blog is when someone asked if I had a Facebook page. They asked for reference-sake. I dont mean job interview reference...more like "I want to make sure you're not a weirdo" reference or "do you have a picture of yourself" reference. In this day and age, its a perfectly legit request and I felt compelled to offer something. But I dont have a facebook. Fuck facebook. All I have is this blog and a 6 year old MySpace page...and I can't even remember how to sign in to that damn thing.
But, I'm not so sure this blog is a good reference. I mean there's a reason why its 95% anonymous. I keep it anonymous so I can vent. So I can let the extremes of my personality out without fear of judement. I look at the ticker that counts my web-hits and I think...
...the hits are not really the result of 1000+ people looking at my blog. That number is simply the result of my mom and Erin clicking on it a hundered times to make me feel like someone reads this bullshit. Lets, for my pride's sake, pretend like it is.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Paris
How many times have you heard that the French don't like us Americans? Plenty, I'm sure.
And we're not so fond of them either. Remember back in Bush's first war when the French questioned the integrity of our "proof" of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? They called our President's bullshit and we didn't take to kindly to that. So we did the only thing we could think of: boycott them son'bitches! Ugh...I'm embarrassed for us. Like hide-under-the-table embarrassed.
I don't think the boycott hurt the French economy too much. It never really took off. All in all, it was the spirit of the protest we were trying to convey. That "Oh yeah?!" attitude the U.S. tends to exude when we want someone to bow down and call us "Daddy."
But the French refused then, and now, to recognize our superiority on every front. Politically we are imbeciles. Culturally we are void. Academically we're lazy. And don't mention food: we're the hotdog to their foie gras. Our literature is predictable, our fashion...well, pathetique translates simply enough.
A friend of mine who resides in France, but is neither French nor American, recently told me that the French, however dismissive of us they may seem, only hold Americans in contempt superficially. Ironically, if you scratch the surface, he claims, the French think Americans are "cool." They admire our swagger, if you will.
And we're not so fond of them either. Remember back in Bush's first war when the French questioned the integrity of our "proof" of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? They called our President's bullshit and we didn't take to kindly to that. So we did the only thing we could think of: boycott them son'bitches! Ugh...I'm embarrassed for us. Like hide-under-the-table embarrassed.
I don't think the boycott hurt the French economy too much. It never really took off. All in all, it was the spirit of the protest we were trying to convey. That "Oh yeah?!" attitude the U.S. tends to exude when we want someone to bow down and call us "Daddy."
But the French refused then, and now, to recognize our superiority on every front. Politically we are imbeciles. Culturally we are void. Academically we're lazy. And don't mention food: we're the hotdog to their foie gras. Our literature is predictable, our fashion...well, pathetique translates simply enough.
A friend of mine who resides in France, but is neither French nor American, recently told me that the French, however dismissive of us they may seem, only hold Americans in contempt superficially. Ironically, if you scratch the surface, he claims, the French think Americans are "cool." They admire our swagger, if you will.
You know that tacky American tourist traipsing around Paris wearing Teva sandels and khaki shorts? They think its disgusting, but we could give a fuck. We're oblivious. We're oblivious to French politics. They know all about ours. We are oblivious to their culture. They know all about ours. We don't even acknowledge the French Masters...to us, they belong to the World and we could give a shit (once again) about where they were born. Besides, if its at the MET, New Yorkers own it. Go 'head...ask 'em. Dare ya.
I've been in Paris now enough times to say that I scratched the surface - and I am equally positive that in doing so I have rubbed more than one Parisian the wrong way.
I tried to buy cigarettes at a drug store.
I never say Bonjour when I walked into a store.
I look for the closest Gap if I need an extra pair of socks.
I've stuck my nose up at Duck liver and have gotten bored in the Louvre.
The Eiffel Tower strikes me as large and not much else.
When I hear 2 Live Crew blaring in a swanky club, I laugh hysterically and refuse to pay the cover charge.
Pleasant little American, ain't I?
Actually, I am. No American has ever accused me of being course or difficult. Well, maybe my mother, but in her case its true. But no one else. Its just that in France, everything I do is wrong. And everything they do is weird. The French are the Ying to my Yang in almost every sense.
I leave for France in about a week again and I am sure that when I am there it will only take a few days before I piss someone off with my ignorance. So I beg you, if you are French and you see an American with unruly brown hair wearing her best Gap-duds...please, dig deep, be as pleasant as humanly possible - because I like you...despite yourself. I know my culture has replaced delicacy with convenience. I know I worship my Ipod and bow to my Blackberry. I totally get that Coypell was a genius and yes, I wish we had a Gabriel to design D.C.
So to show my appreciation I'm bringing my collection of JayZ C.D.'s and a shit-ton of Budweiser.
Works every time.
I've been in Paris now enough times to say that I scratched the surface - and I am equally positive that in doing so I have rubbed more than one Parisian the wrong way.
I tried to buy cigarettes at a drug store.
I never say Bonjour when I walked into a store.
I look for the closest Gap if I need an extra pair of socks.
I've stuck my nose up at Duck liver and have gotten bored in the Louvre.
The Eiffel Tower strikes me as large and not much else.
When I hear 2 Live Crew blaring in a swanky club, I laugh hysterically and refuse to pay the cover charge.
Pleasant little American, ain't I?
Actually, I am. No American has ever accused me of being course or difficult. Well, maybe my mother, but in her case its true. But no one else. Its just that in France, everything I do is wrong. And everything they do is weird. The French are the Ying to my Yang in almost every sense.
I leave for France in about a week again and I am sure that when I am there it will only take a few days before I piss someone off with my ignorance. So I beg you, if you are French and you see an American with unruly brown hair wearing her best Gap-duds...please, dig deep, be as pleasant as humanly possible - because I like you...despite yourself. I know my culture has replaced delicacy with convenience. I know I worship my Ipod and bow to my Blackberry. I totally get that Coypell was a genius and yes, I wish we had a Gabriel to design D.C.
So to show my appreciation I'm bringing my collection of JayZ C.D.'s and a shit-ton of Budweiser.
Works every time.
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