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Category Archives: Fantasy

So much stranger, so much darker, so much madder, so much better.

Well, it’s finally happened.

I kind of always knew it would, eventually, once I set my mind to it. It was just a matter of finding the time, which I did over the Christmas/New Year holiday. I saw this time stretching in front of me and thought, whatever shall I do with it? And I looked at my Netflix subscription and thought, well, YOU certainly have been going underutilized lately, haven’t you?

And I fell headlong into a binge I have yet to come back from. (And to be honest, I don’t quite know what I’ll do with myself once I’m finished, so I’d rather not think about that right now, thanks.)

Yes, it’s finally happened, people of the blog.

I am obsessed – BEYOND obsessed – with Doctor Who.

I even hear the theme music and I get all boppy. I've got it bad bad bad.

I even hear the theme music and I get all boppy. I’ve got it bad bad bad.

Now, I know in even writing this, I’m going to be getting comments from people who are all “I’ve been watching this since it STARTED and I’ve seen every EPISODE and I know THE WHOLE STORY and you know NOTHING, Jon Snow” (sorry, sorry, mixing up fandoms, there, I think that’s a excommunicable offense) so let me quantify this situation.

A while back, I watched the first two episodes of the reboot (with Christopher Eccleston) with some friends and liked them more than I thought I would. I meant to go back and continue with that, but my life often gets in the way of my life.

I’d never gotten into Doctor Who because it seemed weird and I didn’t think I’d GET it and it just seemed like one of those odd things that would confuse me if I tried to get involved so I thought it best if I stayed away. Like sports. Or playing an instrument. I AM OFTEN NOT GOOD AT THINGS THAT NORMAL PEOPLE EXCEL AT! It is a sad fact of life.

But then it became clear that almost every single intelligent person I knew was very, VERY into this show, and I needed to be watching it. Which almost made me NOT want to watch it – when everyone loves something, I immediately think, “Well, I hate fads” because I’m kind of a dick (I mean, you all seem to love that terrible Family Guy show, but the one time I turned it on to see what was up, they were making fun of domestic violence and I was so disgusted I never turned it on again, so what the hell, you guys?) but that backfired when everyone started ranting about how much they loved Serial and I avoided it for a while but then thought “What the hell” and downloaded it for a car trip and became SO OBSESSED with it and now look things up online about it ALL THE TIME because who DOESN’T want to know what Adnan and Hae really looked like, right?

OBSESSED OBSESSED!!! And I usually HATE being talked at! COULD NOT STOP LISTENING!

OBSESSED OBSESSED!!! And I usually HATE being talked at! COULD NOT STOP LISTENING!

And OMG, who DO we think killed her? I’m leaning one way, but I won’t tell you which in case you either haven’t listened yet (and if not, GET TO IT, SLAPPY!) or aren’t all the way done and don’t want me spoiling you. Also, my theory has more holes in it than Swiss cheese on the Titanic, you guys, and super-smart reporter friend at work and I were talking about it this weekend and his theory was SO SMART which is why he’s a reporter, I suppose, so now I am AT! A! LOSS! THERE ARE SO MANY WEIRD MOVING PARTS ON THIS CASE. Season two of Serial, please happen now, I want to fall headlong into another case immediately!

That was a very long digression.

ANYWAY. So I thought, “I will start watching this, what’s the worst that can happen” and now it’s been two weeks and I CAN NOT STOP.

NOW! Before I go ANY FURTHER! I have just started what I believe to be David Tennant’s last season so you are NOT ALLOWED to tell me anything that happens after this. I am trying very hard to stay spoiler-free. Unfortunately I’ve been a LITTLE spoiled, but that was before I started watching this and didn’t know I would ever care. So don’t comment all “In Episode Blah-Blah THE COMPANION IS REALLY A CYBERMAN IN DISGUISE” because I will be SO MAD at you!

Oh, BTW, I also finished "Arrested Development." I'm going to pretend the final season didn't happen. I wasn't impressed. Sorry, world.

Oh, BTW, I also finished “Arrested Development.” I’m going to pretend the final season didn’t happen. I wasn’t impressed. Sorry, world.

There’s really too much that I love about this show to go on about it in detail and you’re going to be split into two contingents, here, the ones that already KNOW it’s fantastic and the ones that don’t CARE and therefore have already tuned OUT, but I’m still going to ramble a bit. It’s my blog, I think I’m allowed.

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT DOCTOR WHO!

  • It’s intelligent and goofy all at once. It makes me laugh AND it makes me think. Sometimes there are mysteries and sometimes it’s just funny and sometimes (most of the time) it’s a little bit of both.
  • The science isn’t TOO sciency. Andreas picked on me when I said I was watching this because the science wasn’t realistic but I don’t know much about all the science, anyway, so if they were being all realistic about it, I wouldn’t know what was going on. It’s just dumbed-down (and, yes, Andreas, probably wrong) enough that it’s cool with me, yo. (Andreas has other issues with the show, he just told me. I’ll let him tell you in the comments. You know what’s great about him? Well, other than everything? Even if we totally disagree, we still respect and love one another. That’s why he’s my Andreas, you guys. And I miss him and his whole family in the land of the Finns like CRAZINESS every DAY.)
  • There is totally romance and emotional things and I am ALWAYS WEEPING. There was one episode where I had to take a SINCERE BREAK from watching the show because I was EMOTIONALLY DEVASTATED. That’s a good show. I love a good cry. So, so much. Like, break out the Kleenex, here I am, and I’m in seventh heaven. (OMG! Speaking of which, the dad from Seventh Heaven was a child molester? Who saw THAT one coming, right? DISTRESSING!)
  • The Doctor makes me INSANELY HAPPY. He is joyous and childlike but also serious with the weight of the world on his shoulders and he has all the best lines and I love love LOVE watching him. I really enjoyed Eccleston but OH, am I head-over-heels for Tennant and his happy Converse All-Stars and bouncy hair. (I knew I’d like him – I’ve seen him in a couple of other things, the best of which being Hamlet with Patrick Stewart, which was BRILLIANT. I am being very all-capsy today. Why the hell did they waste him so much in that awful Gracepoint? So disheartening.) Tennant is beyond amazing here. I am already pre-mourning his loss. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fall in love with another actor in this role like I’ve fallen in love with him here.

    Loooooove. The most charismatic human being alive, sincerely.

    Loooooove. The most charismatic human being alive, sincerely.

  • I was informed I was going to hate Rose, but I LOVED her. I want all Rose, all the time. Yes, yes, apparently there are Companions upcoming that I will love very much (Martha was fine, but underutilized, yeah? It kind of made me sad. Also, all her PINING. Ugh, I think probably I related to her too much, but she started to make me cringe) but right now I’m all “BRING ROSE BACK DAMMIT” and having some issues with her being gone.

    Good grief, Googling Rose was fraught with spoilery. Don't do that unless you know what's coming up, my little gingersnaps.

    Good grief, Googling Rose was fraught with spoilery. Don’t do that unless you know what’s coming up, my little gingersnaps.

  • There are so many shows I can see took a page from this. There are elements of Doctor Who in so many of my favorite shows – Quantum Leap, The X-Files, Buffy (and a lot of Whedon’s work, actually, now that I’m thinking about it), Supernatural, this weird time-travelly show called Voyagers I used to watch when I was little…and there was totally a scene in one episode where I was all “THAT IS SO THE AMBER SPYGLASS!” and it TOTALLY WAS, per a quote from one of the writers that I read. They also reference pop culture things all the time (I’m sure half of the time I miss it, but when they did a shout-out to J.K. Rowling I laughed my ass off) and it’s just the perfect sci-fi/horror/fantasy/thriller nerd show in the entire planet.
  • You constantly get to see British actors and you’re all “I know that person BUT FROM WHERE” and you look them up and you giggle. Of course I knew who Simon Pegg was, but Carey Mulligan looked so damn young I couldn’t place her. And I had no idea the weird brash British chick from the American version of The Office was famous because of Doctor Who. Kylie Minogue looks old. I remember her in scrunchies and slouch socks. Also, the kid that plays Spiderman and is dating Emma Stone was in one episode (he was young) and whenever anyone was at a loss for what to do I kept shouting at the screen “WHY AREN’T YOU SAVING EVERYONE, SPIDERMAN?” Only I pronounce it “Spidermen” like Phoebe did on Friends. Like it’s his last name. “Irving Spiderman.” “COME ON, SPIDERMAN, SAVE THE DOCTOR ALREADY! SHOOT WEBS OR SOMETHING!” I would shout, and giggle gleefully. This scared the cat.

    SAVE THEM, SPIDERMAN!!!

    SAVE THEM, SPIDERMAN!!!

  • “Blink” is the best episode I’ve seen so far. Closely followed by “Doomsday.” The first is a very good standalone if you are trying to get someone into the series. The second would make no sense to someone unless they were following the series closely. One of these two episodes is the aforementioned cry-myself-sick episode; you can decide which one on your own. Play along at home, kiddos. Fun times.

    Not recommended to watch this at midnight all alone like I did. YIKES. Totally kept hiding my face behind my hands.

    Not recommended to watch this at midnight all alone like I did. YIKES. Totally kept hiding my face behind my hands.

  • The baddies are awesome. Some are scary (WEEPING ANGELS! Those Host angel thingies from the Titanic Christmas special!) and some are kitschy and funny (if the best thing ever isn’t Cybermen and Daleks having a snark-off, I don’t know what is, I laughed until I almost peed) and some are VERY EVIL AND WICKED BUT ALSO FUN (OMG, The Master, right?) Some, however, are just the worst. Who thought it was a good idea to make the brilliant and multi-talented Mark Gatiss into a scorpion-thing? What was up with that woman who was playing a giant red spider-creature as if she was maybe a drag queen trying to project to the back row of a large theater? If they bring her back, I’m boycotting that episode. She was TERRIBLE. I have to imagine she was either some famous British actress everyone loves for no apparent reason, or one of the producer’s wives. I kept asking her to shush it up. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to hear me.

    Ugh, PLEASE let this be the last time I see this thing.

    Ugh, PLEASE let this be the last time I see this thing.

I really need to end this.

TO SUM UP.

Big apologies, friends who were all “WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU WATCHING DOCTOR WHO, AMY, YOU NUMBSKULL.” I am apparently attempting to remedy this by cramming it all in my head as fast as I can. Once this is done, the very kind Josh has informed me of the existence of Torchwood (oh, Captain Jack with your dimples, I can’t resist you) and other British shows I NEED to be watching, like, immediately. I think I know what I’ll be doing while Watertown is trapped in what seems to be some sort of eternal winter zone.

Oh, my. So pretty. So sexually and morally ambiguous.

Oh, my. So pretty. So sexually and morally ambiguous.

If you don’t spoil me in the comments, thank you. If you DO spoil me in the comments, I CURSE THEE AND THY OFFSPRING.

Also, I am willing to bet you before the month’s out I will be in possession of a tee-shirt that says “The Angels Have the Phone Box.” I have very little willpower and I need to sleep with that on my body.

Yep. It was really just a matter of time.

Allons-y. There are a lot of episodes left and they’re certainly not going to watch themselves.

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Oh, and I will make myself so beautiful.

OK, I’m late to the party here. AGAIN. Listen, it’s the last two weeks of tax season? Deadline is April 17? AND WE ARE BUSY AS HELL. So a lot of things pass me by unnoticed. Dad’s always saying, “Did you hear about…” and mentioned major things, and I’m like, “Nope.” Because I haven’t. I barely have my Twitter feed open. I have come to rely on people to tweet me. It has become a sad and singular little existence, my sugar plums. But the light is at the end of the tunnel. I can barely see it, but it’s there. It’s on the way. Dim, but it’s there.

So I kept noticing this morning everyone mentioning the name “Samantha Brick” and I made a mental note to Google this because they were insulting how attractive she was. And I hate that shit so it was annoying me. But from the tone, I assumed there was a backstory I was missing.

HOLY HELL was there a backstory I was missing.

So you all know about this Samantha Brick thing, right?

Samantha Brick is a British freelance journalist. She wrote an article Monday entitled – ready? – ‘There are downsides to looking this pretty’: Why women hate me for being beautiful in the Daily Mail. (British Twitter people inform me that the Daily Mail is the tabloidiest of the tabloidy papers over there. True?)

The article is – well, it’s pretty much described in the title. Samantha Brick claims she is SO PRETTY that she has been discriminated against at work and forced to wear dowdy clothing and passed over for promotion because of her stunningness and the jealousy it instills in the other ladies she works with; none of her female friends will ask her to be a bridesmaid because she’ll look better than them in the wedding party; she gets free food, drink, cab rides, etc. wherever she goes; random people take her photograph; and all the women of the world hate her. Oh, and if you read the article and have a vagina and hate her? It’s because you’re jealous. Jealous because she’s beautiful. And you’re not. Beautiful. At all. Compared to her beauty. Her prodigious beauty.

OK, listen, I think we all have beauty and worth and blah blah blah sunshine flowers? And I’m not here to run down anyone’s looks? But do you have a mental picture of what this woman (bee tee dubs, she’s 41, not 21, so you can’t even blame the idiocy of youth for this nonsense) looks like? If not, fix one in your mind.

Here’s what she really looks like.

Um.

She’s…fine?

Kevin blogged about this today (WAY TO BEAT ME TO THE PUNCH KEVIN), and I was interested to see an intelligent guy’s take on this.  He thinks she’s unpretty and her eyes are cockeyed. 

I’m not going to say she’s UNpretty. I hate to be judgey. I really do. I mean, I totally am judgey, in my HEAD. If you say you’re not, you’re a liar. We’re all judgey in our heads, don’t even deny it. But out loud…um…well, we all have shit we’re going through and dealing with, you know? And adding an extra layer of cattiness to that really isn’t productive to anyone. I don’t go around falsely complimenting people, either, I just want to make that clear. If I think someone looks pretty or handsome one day, or something’s a good photo of someone? If I genuinely think it? I say it. Otherwise, I just keep my mouth shut. It’s rude otherwise. Also, if you keep dishing out false compliments, people stop trusting you when you say a real one. And you can’t sleep with a clear conscience. At least I can’t. I hate false compliments. They taste like ashes in my mouth. Sincerely.

That being said…how to put this delicately.

She’s kind of plain. Not UGLY, I wouldn’t say UGLY. She’s plain. Average. She’s FINE. She’s just nothing special.

And her eyes really are crooked. Nice call on that, Kevin.

So what the hell’s going on in this article? Is she trolling the internet? Is she TRYING to get all the hits? There were almost 5,000 comments on her article when I went over there to gank the link for this post. Most of them all “WHAT AN UGLY HOSEBEAST” but still, that’s 5,000 people moved to comment – and if my own comments and stats are any indication? Only about 10% of the readership comments. So that’s about, what, 50,000 hits, or so?

Also, Twitter blew up, as I mentioned. It’s what we do. We’re good at it. It’s one of the many reasons I love Twitter. Here, click on this. The hashtag (or, if you’re my dad, hashbrown) #samanthabrickfacts is full of people making jokes about her. Some are humorous: “She can’t walk through wooded areas in case she attracts many furry animals, singing to her.” Some are mean as hell and I’m not going to repeat them. The good ones make fun of her self-involvement; the bad ones make fun of her looks, or, worse, seem to vaguely threaten her? Way to be, weirdos of the interwebs.

If this paper really is a tabloid, I’m guessing content really isn’t that big of a deal to them? Are British tabloids like American tabloids, like, with “BAT BOY SPOTTED IN KANSAS CITY” and “WHITNEY HOUSTON PREDICTED HER OWN DEATH” and such presented as real news items?

Does it depress anyone else that the Weekly World News went out of business? I used to love looking at this thing at the checkout.

Who can answer that for me. Rod? Elaine? My new internet kid sis Emma who I would protect from a marauding herd of water buffalo if called upon to do so?

Or – and this is my inclination – does she really think this is the case? Does she really think she is SO PRETTY that it’s holding her back, that it’s causing rifts in her personal life, that it’s the root of all evil?

If I had to guess, here’s what I think the ACTUAL root of all evil is.

She has an inflated sense of self-worth, she’s kind of a twatwaffle, and no one wants to hang out with her. She, like most twatwaffles, doesn’t put the blame on her OWN plate, no no, why would you do THAT? She, INSTEAD, blames HER EXTREME BEAUTY. Because they can’t POSSIBLY dislike her PERSONALITY! I mean, what’s to dislike? She’s OBVIOUSLY the very model of utter perfection in word and deed. It can’t POSSIBLY be HER. It’s her GORGEOUS VISAGE. And, by extension, everyone who treats her poorly is such a jealous asshole!

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes when no one wants to hang out with you it’s because you’re a complete and utter douche-kebab, you know?

I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she lives in the part of France (the article says she lives in France) where all the people with facial deformities live, so she’s like a goddess, comparatively, I don’t know. I’m just saying, I can walk through my office – which is just your everyday average office – and every single woman in that office is as pretty or prettier than this chick. And no one’s sending them spur-of-the-moment flowers because they couldn’t help themselves. No one’s going all cartoon-goggly-eyed if they wear a skirt. No one’s telling them they can’t be in a wedding because they’ll upstage the bride.

Kevin mentioned this in his post as well, and I agree – I think all these amazing wonderful acts of kindness (which are actually, ZOMG, OPPRESSING her) are like Brian’s Canadian girlfriend in The Breakfast Club. No one’s actually SEEN them happen, but she SAYS they’ve happened, so they MUST have happened. “She lives in Canada, met her at Niagara Falls, you wouldn’t know her.” “Oh, ANOTHER man PAID for my CAB today, help, help, I’m being OPPRESSED because I’m so BEAUUUUTIFUL. When? Oh, when you were over feeding the meter, you wouldn’t have seen it, sorry.”

SHE LIVES IN CANADA I SAID.

I honestly am befuddled about this whole situation. I mean, I’m all for thinking you’re beautiful. I’d like all of us to think we’re a little MORE beautiful. I’d like even a quarter of this self-esteem, some mornings. But if this chick’s for real – um – there’s a fine line between self-esteem and delusional, isn’t there? I’m not saying she’s ugly. I’m really not. She’s just fine. And that’s IT. She’s FINE. She’s AVERAGE. And honestly, I don’t know if, say, Heidi Klum, who I think is just stunning, or Kate Winslet, who’s my total girl-crush, are getting all these random “people buy shit for me because of my stunning stunningness” or “all the ladies hate me because I SO PURTY,” you know? Even the two of them! Who ARE stunning!

I'd be half-tempted to give Heidi a free latte...

...and I'd give my girl Kate anything she wanted. She recently RESCUED someone's GRAMMA from a burning BUILDING. I LURVE HER.

So what the hell? Is it delusion? Is it a day-late April Fools’ joke? Is it trolling the internet, trying to get hits and get the name of either the paper or the author out there? What say you, minions? I’m genuinely curious what your take on this is. I’m just flummoxed.

I know. I know. I wouldn’t be saying all this if I wasn’t just so damn JEALOUS, Samantha Brick. *skulks off kicking rocks*

As I was just about to publish, my lovely Amanda also blogged about this. So check out Amanda’s take, because I adore her. If it matters, Amanda, I’m TOTALLY daunted by both your beauty AND your brains. But I don’t hate you for them. I LOVE YOU MORE.

(Title’s from the Hole song “Reasons to be Beautiful.” Have we talked about my Courtney Love/Hole obsession yet? Probably not. In a nutshell: I have a Courtney Love/Hole obsession. I know, but listen! Have you ever been in a really bad mood? Put on a Hole CD and scream along with the lyrics in your car while you’re driving. IT CURES ALL ILLS. I swear.)


It’s only a matter of time before I’m riding a pegasus with Joseph Gordon-Levitt, this is going to be great.

OK, first, before I get going:

EVIL ROBIN UPDATE.

SO MAD.

I called home tonight and I was all, “Hey, what’s up with the robin?” and Dad said, “That stupid robin is gone.”

The robin was gone when he woke up! It didn’t even come back today! This is the worst. I wanted CLOSURE, dammit.

Jim found us a link that explained the robin was attacking its own reflection because it thought its reflection was a competitor or some such nonsense. Well, good gravy, Robin, why so fighty? Make love not war, Robin. Especially not with my dad’s window, he didn’t like that one little bit.

OK, now on to the festivities. WHAT. We’re totally having festivities. EVERY DAY IS CARNIVALE AT LUCY’S FOOTBALL. Isn’t it?

So we were discussing dreams the other day on Twitter. More specifically, how I am broken, as I don’t have them. I mean, I DO, I suppose. “They” – the all great and powerful nebulous “they” – say that even if you can’t remember your dreams, you’re having them.

I totally feel ripped off. I think I would have the BEST dreams. I would WIN dreaming. I’m very creative. I can make up a story out of NOTHING. I do it ALL THE TIME. So therefore, my dreams would be full of bunnies made of rainbow yarn and being able to fly and staplers that talked. OH SHIT AND PEGASUSES. Right?

Well, who the hell knows, because I don’t even remember the last time I dreamed. Dreamed? Dreamt? Doesn’t dreamt look stupid and affected, like a hipster would say it? Spellcheck says it’s not a word. However, spellcheck says 99% of my posts aren’t words, because I make shit up. I think I’m sticking with dreamed. I don’t know if it’s the meds I’m on or just that I’m so damn tired but I can’t remember a single dream going back to last summer, that I recall clearly. And that one sucked, I was back in high school. WAY TO RIP ME OFF, LAST DREAM I REMEMBER.

ANYWAY, so I was thinking, you know what I want? My dreams back. Because I think they would be great and just a little added chance for awesomeness. I mean, I like to multitask.

So I went online to look for ways to make this happen. What, the internet can make ANYTHING happen.

(SIDE NOTE. You know how Google starts to autofill things when you start typing in questions? Some random autofills I found recently? “How to have twins” [um…genetics? Prayer? Luck?]; “How to insert a tampon” [this one made me utterly despair for the youth of America – there are INSTRUCTIONS inside the BOX of TAMPONS, come ON!]; “How to jumpstart a car” [hi, future thief, welcome to the internet!]; and “How to make moonshine” [YEE HAW!] Also, everyone seems to want to make something called a “fishtail braid.” I didn’t know what that was, so I looked it up.

Apparently it’s this, which is some sort of fashion craze:

Pretty enough, I guess. I can’t do braids. I have slippery hair. It just SLIIIDES out of braids and then goes back to being unruly. It’s all WILD HORSES CAN’T BE TAMED, my hair. I’ve stopped despairing, what’s the point.)

So, back to the dreaming conundrum. I looked up “why don’t I dream” and this poorly-designed site tells me that:

Would you please tell me why people do not dream?

Everybody dreams! This is a scientifically proven fact. Research has shown that all human beings in a study exhibit brain activity during their sleep. Just because you cannot remember your dreams does not mean that you do not dream. So why is it that some people don’t remember their dream? This may be attributed to alcohol consumption, certain antibiotics, fever, lack of sleep or too much sleep, high levels of stress, and/or unconscious fears about the content of your dreams. Some researchers believe that certain people have a genetic dispositions to forget their dreams as they come out of their sleep.

A ROBOT WROTE THIS THERE ARE NO CONTRACTIONS IN IT AT ALL IT IS ALARMING BEEP BEEP BOOP

Well, hell, I am all kinds of strikes against me if this is true. Lack of sleep – CHECK. High levels of stress – CHECK. Genetics all wonky – CHECK. Drinking – eh, haven’t been lately, only because I had to stop because of the antibiotics I was on, then didn’t start again yet. I don’t think I have a fever. If I did, I know the cure is more cowbell, so I could clear that right up. I don’t know if I’m afraid of the content of my dreams. As stated, I’m sure they would be AWESOME. One time, I dreamed the boy I was in love with all through school showed up at my house and we…um…wooed. There was wooing. That was a nice dream. MORE WOOING PLEASE. (In case you’re wondering, wooing is a euphemism. For boning.)

So apparently there’s not much I can do to get back the dreams. My dreamer is broken. I suppose I could take acid or some such foolishness but I don’t believe in that. You know I’d end up all weird like Jim Morrison or something. Have I mentioned my irrational hatred of all things Jim Morrison? I HATE JIM MORRISON. So, so much. I don’t understand why everyone lionizes him. At all. You can enlighten me, if you want. I think he was a burnout, and I don’t think The Doors were all that good. Also, his poetry was AWFUL. It read like a NIGHTMARE OF SUCK.

But then I found this link that was all, “How to lucid dream” and clicked it and THIS IS TOTALLY EXCITING.

So apparently, once you master this shit, you’re totally going to be like the people in Inception.

I don’t especially want to be like the people in Inception. I REALLY don’t want to be Leonardo DiCaprio. He has the weirdest head. He looks like a pissed-off Kewpie Doll. I just don’t get the appeal. BUT, I am hoping, once I master this, I will be able to lucid dream my way into Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s lucid dream, the one in which he’s wearing those kick-ass Inception suits. Yowza.

Also, I SWEAR one of my blogger people that I read talked about this. And I DOUBLE swear it was Andreas. But I can’t find it, even with a total stalky-stalk of his blog. ANDREAS. Did you cover lucid dreaming somewhere on your blog? If you did, I so apologize, and please link in the comments, I’m an asshole who doesn’t know how to use a search box, apparently. (Also, SIDE NOTE, you know what’s fun? Watching the evolution of a friendship through blog comments when you’re supposed to be looking for a link to someone’s lucid dreaming post. Because I found this old comment I made on one of Andreas’s old posts and it was like I was all FORMAL and STUFFY and TRYING TO BE A GROWNUP! Then you see the comments now and I’m totally comfortable and wearing sweatpants and hanging out on a beanbag chair because we are BONDED NOW, yo. So that was fun. I think we may have figured out why I don’t ever get to sleep on time. It’s because I CAN’T STICK TO A TASK.)

OK. Back to it. So. Lucid dreaming. Lucid dreaming is when you’re dreaming, but you KNOW you’re dreaming, so you can CONTROL your dream. Fun stuff, right? AMY, you’re wondering. HOW CAN I DO THIS?

Well! I am HERE TO TELL YOU.

I learned all about how to do this from WikiHow, because I learn good things from there. Like How to Flirt and How to be an Actress and How to Stop Thinking About Sex and How to Make Cheese out of Yogurt Also Known as YoCheese.

It’s a really long article. I’ll recap the important parts. I know you’re going to want to get to sleep and try this shit out. I’m saying shit a lot today, what’s up with that? I’m not even especially cranky.

  1. All day long, ask yourself, “Am I dreaming?” and pinch yourself. Then when you are sleeping, you will remember to ask yourself the SAME QUESTION! And apparently…um…give yourself a different answer!
  2. Keep a dream journal! According to WikiHow, this will “tell your mind you are SERIOUS about remembering your dreams!” Mine would be empty. I’d end up writing shopping lists in it. Or blog post ideas. It’d be the saddest dream journal ever.
  3. Research when is best to have a lucid dream. The article implies it is best to wake up, then take a nap a few hours later. Yeah, I think that’ll work out great. My boss will really enjoy me just crashing out around 9:15am. I’ll print out the WikiHow article, it’ll serve as a doctor’s note, right?
  4. Torture yourself. OK, the article didn’t say that, I did. But it said to set your alarm for four hours after you fall asleep, then wake up, write down what you were dreaming about in detail, then lie back down, repeating to yourself, “I will remember I am dreaming, I will remember I am dreaming” over and over. If I set my alarm for 4am, I’d be up at 4am. I’d never fall back to sleep. And if I repeated a stupid mantra like that I’d REALLY never get back to sleep. This is the worst.
  5. OH WAIT NO IT GETS WORSE. Then, THEN, it says to set your alarm for five hours after you fall asleep, make yourself stay awake for an hour concentrating on lucid dreaming and LUCID DREAMING ONLY, then fall back to sleep. LISTEN. Who has all this TIME for this shit? I’m lucky if I sleep 4-5 hours a night, lately. I don’t have time for effing with my alarm clock and talking to myself and nonsense like this. I just want to fly a magical dream pegasus. WHERE IS MY DREAM PEGASUS.
  6. Then it tells you to meditate for a while and that might make you lucid dream? This one’s confusing, let’s skip it.
  7. Ugh, this one is also about meditating. If you fall asleep while meditating, you might be doing it wrong.
  8. Write the letter “A” on your hand with a magic marker. Look at it ALL DAY LONG. It will remind you that you are awake! A FOR AWAKE! And then when you are asleep, you will look at your hand! And there will be NO A! And you will BAM! Realize you are DREAMING! Or maybe you’ll think, “No A. A for asleep” and then go right back to regular boring non-pegasus dreaming, I don’t know. Also, writing on your hand makes you look like a crazy. SIDE NOTE. I always have writing on my hands, do what you will with that information.
  9. ZOMG this one is the best so far, ready? OK, so WikiHow wants you to perform “reality checks” throughout the day, and then you’ll also do it in your dreams, eventually, and then realize you’re dreaming. Therefore calling the pegasuses. Pegasi? I don’t know. Here are some reality checks, according to WikiHow. (Also, please ignore the numbers in front of these, I can’t make them go away and WordPress is being a jerky jerk and it’s REALLY REALLY LATE AT NIGHT)
    • Looking in a mirror (your image will most often appear blurry or not appear at all in a dream). However, your figure can be horribly disfigured in a mirror, frightening you into nightmare or a dream; WTF THIS IS NIGHTMARISH
    •  Pinching your nose closed and trying to breathe; UGH NO THANKS
    •  Glancing at your hands, and asking yourself, “am I dreaming?” (when dreaming, you will most often see greater or fewer than five fingers on your hand); AAAHHHH
    •  Jumping in the air; you are usually able to fly during dreams YES PEGASUSES HERE I COME
    •  Poking yourself; when dreaming, your “flesh” might be more elastic than in real life; a common reality check is pushing your finger through the palm of your hand; WHY ARE YOU RUINING THIS FOR ME WIKIHOW
    •  Try leaning against a wall. In dreams, you will often fall through walls. STOP IT STOP IT RIGHT NOW
  10. Apparently you can prolong your lucid dreams by spinning around in your dreams (and maybe turning into butter?) or rubbing your hands (like Mr. Burns?) Odd.
  11. Look through your Dream Journal constantly. It will give you signs. Ooh! Will it tell me to swing away, Merrill? Will the aliens melt when touched by water, even though they came to a planet that is mostly water? Will asthma SAVE MY SON’S LIIIIIFFFEEE?

OK. These are not very good tips. None of them seem to make Joseph Gordon- Levitt appear in a suit, or pegasuses.

FINE. I’ll do it MYSELF. Stupid lucid dreams.

ZOMG. What is happening here WHAT IS HAPPENING. Unicorn! Pegasus! FIGHTING? And there's a wizard? Are they in the air? How did that unicorn get up there, unicorns can't fly. I'm getting this airbrushed on my panel van.

Aah. This makes it all better, right? Right.


Leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and winning at time travel

I’ve spent the past week (as anyone who follows me on Twitter knows, probably to the point of you wanting to shake me to make me shut up, and NO I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE) wrapped up tight in Stephen King’s grip, reading 11/22/63. I finished last night, past the point when I was supposed to be sleeping, because I couldn’t let it go one more night without knowing what happened.

I’m not going to give you a review here – a review is forthcoming, but elsewhere, cue evil laughter and plotting Burns-hands – other than to say I loved it, it’s unlike anything of his I’ve read before, and I cried on at least five different occasions, two of which were ugly, noise-making weep-a-thons that would have been embarrassing had they not been done in places where no one could see me. Well, one was in my car in the parking lot of the Rite Aid? But probably no one peered into my car. I mean, PROBABLY no one did. If they did, sorry, Rite Aid shoppers. I wasn’t having a breakdown. I was there to buy cat food and then got reading and it got REALLY GOOD. Please forgive.

The plot of the book, in brief, for anyone who doesn’t know, is this: a schoolteacher in Maine travels back to 1958 through a “bubble” in the fabric of time to pull a Quantum Leap and right what once went wrong. Only on Quantum Leap, those things actually DID go wrong. Jake doesn’t know that what he wants to right wasn’t supposed to happen the way it does. He doesn’t have Ziggy and Al to help him, and he’s not changing a little moment in time like some woman leaving her abusive husband or something. What Jake wants to stop is the Kennedy assassination.

I’ll save my big, profound thoughts for a time yet undetermined, in a place other than this (Burns-hands, Burns-hands, muah-ha-ha) but of course, as you do, I started thinking, what would I change, if this was a real thing I could do?

And I came up with some things. I mean, first I came up with the one real thing? And that’s none of your business, because it’s sad and it’s private and it made me cry. But then I came up with SARCASTIC things. So I would obviously win time-travel. I mean, did you doubt that I would? Did you really? I’m disappointed in you. Maybe you have a fever. You should have some soup and go back to bed, I think.

1985

A backyard in upstate New York. There are two children in the backyard, a ten-year-old girl with unfortunate glasses and a seven-year-old boy who has an evil look in his eye. There is a board on the ground, balanced on a triangular rock, like a see-saw. The girl is standing at the end of the board closest to the ground. The boy is standing at the other end.

Future me: Hey! Kids!

Prepubescent me: Um, stranger danger.

Little bro: What the hell.

Future me: I am here to stop the insanity.

Little bro: OK. What?

Future me: Hey, little bro. Let me guess. You JUST asked your sister to stand over there so you can test out this boss see-saw you invented, right? And you’re going to ask her to look really close at one end, then you’re going to step REALLY HARD on the high end, so the board flies up and smashes her in the face?

Little bro: Um. What? No. I would NEVER do THAT.

Future me: And! Little Amy! You’re actually STUPID enough to think that your brother ISN’T going to take this opportunity to use the simple laws of physics and your own naïveté to whale you in the face with a board.

Prepubescent me: Um…you look really familiar. Like one of my aunts, or something. But you have really bad hair.

Future me: I AM A VERY BUSY WOMAN AND DON’T HAVE TIME TO STYLE MY HAIR. In the future no one cares about hair.

Little bro: I bet that’s not true.

Future me: Wow, you’re totally rude, little bro.

Prepubescent me: So you’re saying I was about to get hit in the face with this board?

Future me: YES. Little bro here stomps on the board. The board flies up – PHYSICS, darlin’, you don’t do great in it in school, but I promise, that’s how a pivot point works – and it smacks you in the glasses, breaking them, and the cheekbone, cutting it. There’s blood, and there’s a scar. It’s kind of a thing.

Prepubescent me: That’s mean of him.

Future me: Don’t worry. He gets nicer once you both grow up.

Prepubescent me: You are the best, Future Amy! But seriously, why is our hair so messy?

Future me: You ask a lot of questions. Go read a book or something, kiddo.

1992

A lovely young lady is watching a long-haired guy sing in a band. He is singing some Doors song. Sorry. Mangling. MANGLING some Doors song. She looks like someone hit her over the head with a love-hammer. Like, stars and birds wheeling over her head. IT IS HORRIFYING.

Future me: Hey. Goofy Matilda. Over here.

Lovestruck me: Um…yes? Sorry, I’m really trying to watch this.

Future me: Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m here.

Lovestruck me: I’m sorry?

Future me: Listen, it is NEVER a good idea to fall for a guy in a band.

Lovestruck me: Who are you? You look familiar. Do you want to borrow a brush? Your hair’s kind of a mess.

Future me: THIS IS HOW WE WEAR OUR HAIR IN 2011 WHEN WE’RE VERY FAMOUS BLOGGERS.

Lovestruck me: What’s a blogger?

Future me: That doesn’t matter. OK, see your honey up there? He’s about to dedicate a song to you.

Singer: This one’s for my lady. (Launches into the most horrendously sexual version of “Feel Like Makin’ Love” you’ve ever heard in your LIFE.)

Lovestruck me: Aw. That’s so nice! (swoons a little)

Future me: THAT IS RAPEY. You’re not even EIGHTEEN yet.

Lovestruck me: He LOVES me. I love HIM. We’re going to be in love FOREVER.

Future me: Nope. You break up after falling for a ginger boy two weeks into freshman year of college. Jim Morrison up there then proceeds make a total and complete Marky-Mark Wahlberg in Fear out of himself until you threaten HIM with a restraining order.

Lovestruck me: You don’t know what you’re talking about. WE ARE IN LOVE.

Future me: Also, avoid the ginger boy. Because he’s just heartbreak in a freckly, adorable little body.  But mostly, NO MORE BAND BOYS. Also, theater boys are usually bad news, too. Mostly because you have the wrong naughty-parts for them, get me?

Lovestruck me: Um, no.

Future me: I kind of want to headdesk right now, kiddo.

Lovestruck me: It’s like you speak another language. Is that how they speak in the future?

Future me: Yep. The cool kids, anyway. LISTEN. Rules. No more band boys; no more theater boys. Stick to the nerds. The nerdier the better. OK? The smart ones who read a lot and like computers and video games. They’re going somewhere. I’m telling you.

Lovestruck me: Seriously, I have a brush in my bag. Do you want to borrow it?

Future me: I feel like I’m screaming into a brick wall of hormone-driven stupidity right now. I am not winning time travel at all, Lovestruck Me. Thanks a LOT.

1997

A bored twenty-something is working at a video store. Her uniform consists of a white button-down tuxedo shirt, a red ball cap, black slacks, and a totally bitchin’ vest that smells like all the employees that have come before.

Employee me: Hi. How can I help you.

Future me: I’m going to give you a little quick advice, minimum-wage Sally, so listen up.

Employee me: Um, ok. Did you want to rent a video, or…

Future me: I’m you. Fifteen years from now. DON’T MENTION MY HAIR.

Employee me: I wasn’t…ok, I totally was. Did we just give up on a hairstyle?

Future me: YES IT TAKES TOO LONG WHATEVER. Listen. See that guy over there?

Employee me: What guy, the new guy? Yeah, so?

Future me: Start talking to him. NOW.

Employee me: Why? He’s just some guy.

Future me: Yeah, no. See, that “just some guy?” Your future best friend. Trust me on this. Every minute you spend NOT talking to him? You’re missing out on face-time with the most awesome person on the planet.

Employee me: I don’t even KNOW him.

Future me: I KNOW. That’s why I’m HERE. You waste like a MONTH because you’re weird and awkward about getting to know new people. Get over there and start talking. In five years, you move across the country and you don’t get to see him very often anymore, so take advantage now, please.

Employee me: I’m kind of finding it hard to trust you. With that hair and all. Like, you know you have a million flyaways, right? I think they have protein sprays or something that could fix that.

Future me: YOU ARE A JACKASS, DISAFFECTED YOUTH OF AMERICA. Go. Now. Time’s a-wastin’. You’ll thank me later. I promise.

(Awww, I know, I KNOW. Sometimes I get all sap-sap-sappy. I CAN’T HELP IT. IT SNEAKS UP ON ME. Psst…love you, W.)


They made Hulk angry, and they didn’t like Hulk when he was angry.

Happy November! The gateway to winter, is what this is. ARE YOU READY FOR SOME WINTER? I yelled that like they do on the football programs. Don’t even tell me that the name of my blog is misleading. I HAVE SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE.

For fun, guess how many trick-or-treaters I got last night? No, guess. GUESS. If you guessed anything but ZERO you are WRONG. None! No trick-or-treaters. I didn’t even see any walking around outside. Did I get the day wrong or something? So now, guess who has three whole bags of mini-candy at her disposal? If you want some mini-candy, I’m your woman. I’m kidding, of course. You totally can’t have my candy. HANDS OFF I SAID.

I need to think of a name for these increasingly-more-common posts where I just blather on about a number of topics because listen, do you even KNOW how much awesome is in my brain? You can’t even imagine. MY BRAIN IS A PINATA OF AWESOME. …and now I think we have the name for these posts.

CARA HAS STOLEN MY ABILITY TO SLEEP

So yesterday, I wrote about how ten years ago I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a shadowy man with sparkly eyes standing over my bed and I was frozen. BOO! Ha. You weren’t expecting that because Halloween is OVER, right? GOTCHA SUCKERS. Anyway, so after she read it, Cara, my honey badger of a friend, said “You were visited by a shadow person.” So of course, as you do, I thought, hmm, what is a shadow person?

THANK YOU SO MUCH CARA NOW I’M NEVER SLEEPING AGAIN.

Shadow people are a THING. A THING THAT PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT. And I read THREE SEPARATE WEBSITES that VERIFIED THIS. But there were more. MORE! Than THREE!

Shadow people are sometimes seen out of the corner of your eye, when you’re just going about your day all la la la, and sometimes standing over you when you are sleeping. Oh, wait, you totally want a picture HERE IS A HORRIFYING ARTIST’S RENDITION.

What's with the steam rising from the Shadow People? Are they hot? THEY'RE ALSO HOT? This is INSANITY.

And HERE are some things I learned from a TOTALLY LEGIT WEBSITE THAT WAS TRYING TO SELL ME GHOST HUNTING EQUIPMENT. I’m totally picking up a Melmeter. They’re named after the creator, you know. His name is Mel.

“…the movement of shadow people is said to be quick and jerky, sometimes with stops, starts, and changes of direction, not at all like the smooth floating motion often associated with ghost sighting. “

“…some people report being able to discern that the shadow people are wearing a fedora style hat like a 1930’s-era gangster or a cloak.”

“…there are very few reports of positive interactions with shadow people.”

“Unlike the friendly ghost sightings that are fairly common, encounters with shadow folk are almost always frightening or shocking.   In fact, even the experts that view shadow men as a subset of ghosts, usually concede that shadow men are a malignant beings.”

“One of the many ideas is that shadow people represent a Thought-form, ghost or demon that was created by extraordinary pain, suffering, and trauma in a dying persons life.  Others suggest that shadow folk have been purposefully summoned from another realm through black magic or other occult practices.”

THESE ARE JUST UTTERLY NIGHTMARE-INDUCING FACTOIDS.

The worst is the FEDORA. Why is the shadow person dressed like a gangsta? Is he coming to make me an offer I can’t refuse, seeeee? Am I going to sleep with the fishes? I AM TOTALLY SO MUCH MORE SCARED NOW.

Mandy at Borkadventures had a similar situation happen to her, only hers was a girl, and Mandy said she didn’t seem malevolent. I’m going to assume Mandy’s Shadow Person was not wearing a fedora. MANDY. Was your girl wearing a FEDORA? I think this is something we should figure out. Probably it’s important since I’m going to become a ghost hunter now that I found that orb and I’m getting a Melmeter and all.

Also, it’s sad there are no positive interactions with shadow people. Now that I think about it, I blame the fedoras. It’s hard to be jolly when you’re wearing a fedora. Because fedoras make you want to be all serious, like you’re a grandpa. Or one of the Mad Men. Someone really needs to talk to the shadow people and tell them, listen! Cheer up! And maybe tell them to wear something more cheerful. I suggest a cap like those kids in Newsies wore. They were dancing ALL OVER. And I didn’t see it but wasn’t it set in the Depression, or something? If Newsies caps can make you dance even though businessmen are jumping out of skyscrapers, Shadow Men, WEAR ONE.

I’M SAD NO ONE COLLECTED THOSE LITTLE SPOONS WITH STATE CAPITALS ON THE HANDLES

So this article was in the paper this weekend and I cut it out because it just tickled me so much I wanted to read it AGAIN. I think this is a totally interesting window into my psyche you should note, by the way. Me reading the paper every Sunday: I read the inserts and such first. I throw the sports section to the wolverines. (I don’t KNOW what wolverines. THE wolverines. It’s a SAYING. It’s NOT a saying? Well, I just SAID it, doesn’t that MAKE it a saying? Good grief.) I work from the inside out and finally read the news part, which is usually pretty boring but it’s like taking your medication: you have to, really, don’t you? And then sometimes you find things like this and it makes it WORTH YOUR TIME.

FINE, I’ll give a synopsis in case you don’t want to click. Do we need to have a talk about your energy levels again, Clyde?

It is an article about some international autocrats and the memorabilia they collected when their houses were raided and/or just that we know about because we haven’t killed them yet. That was kind of harsh. Sorry. Probably we’re not planning on killing ALL the international badguy leaders, right? I don’t know anything about politics.

The things that stood out, quoted from the article:

“In one of Saddam’s mansions, U.S. forces uncovered what’s been described as a ‘1960s-style love nest, a mirrored bedroom, lamps shaped like women, and fantasy-art paintings featuring scantily-clad, bodacious women and buff warriors.’

The Guardian’s art critic…said the “artwork” was “dredged from some red-lit back alley of the brain.”

“A group of Western journalists in 1952 received a tour of the Cairo residence of King Farouk I, Egypt’s last king…Time’s correspondent reported ‘… a bedroom filled with a weird mixture of pornography, childishness and sentimentality — mild glamour shots like those advertising Chicago burlesque bars; Kodachrome nudes complete with pocket viewers; trick photographs that could be squeezed to make a fan dancer bump and grind.'”

And…my absolute WTFFFFF favorite…

“(Moammar) Gadhafi also had a well-documented obsession with U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, who he called ‘my darling black African woman.’ Rebel forces found an album of photos of Rice in his residence in Tripoli, a discovery the U.S. State Department called ‘deeply bizarre and deeply creepy.'”

Um. I know. I KNOW. You guys, I totally know. These are baddies. I get it. But come ON. Saddam Hussein liked things like this:

(I know that’s probably not what he liked but this makes me laugh. What’s going on here? I don’t know. VOODOO FANGS! Someone’s RIDING A ZEBRA! Also I think maybe the woman’s saving the man, which, +1!)

Lamps shaped like women and “bodacious” fantasy-art paintings. TOTALLY FUN SADDAM.

(The Guardian’s art critic was SO UP IN ARMS, right? OH MY STARS AND GARTERS!!!!)

I also like King Farouk’s wacky photos that you can squeeze to make a dancer bump and grind. Pretty sneaky, sis. I like to think of this old-timey king all squeezin’ his photos and makin’ ’em do nudie dances and laughing and laughing and FINE probably also getting all hot, because he’s totally a weirdo perv.

BTW, this is King Farouk I. Um, he’s totally the kind of person who’s squeezin’ the Charmin, right? WHOA. Stylin’ mustache, chap. And a FEZ! You don’t often see a fez pulled off this serial-killery. This guy totally has a van with no windows he trolls public parks with. YOU GO KING FAROUK I.

And then, there’s Moammar, who TOTALLY HAD A TEEN-BEAT-ESQUE STALKER BINDER DEDICATED TO CONDOLEEZA RICE. And a little NICKNAME for her. I can’t EVEN. What is happening. And I just have to wonder, what exactly went through Condoleeza’s head when she found out about this? Are you outwardly disgusted but inwardly flattered? Are you all-the-way-through disgusted? Do you laugh? Do you cry? WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN THIS PERSON WANTS TO LICK YOU LIKE A LOLLIPOP.

Doesn't he totally kind of look like a disgruntled bullfighter here? "Damn you, El Toro. You have bested me again. Touche, El Toro. Touche."

I TOTALLY WORK WITH THIS PERSON

I don’t know if anyone remembers this:

M. PIEDLOURDE!

(Oh, I can hear you NOW, you HEATHENS. M. WHAT? M. WHO? That’s Mr. Heavyfoot, for those of you who are not TOTALLY BILINGUAL IN FRENCH like I am. OK, FINE, I’m like 1/8 bilingual. I can say, very clearly in French, “Please speak more slowly. I only speak a little French.” THIS IS HELPFUL WHEN TALKING TO FRENCH PEOPLE. Because listen, they totally talk the FASTEST. Yeah, yeah, scoff it up, I can ALSO say “grapefruit,” “stop,” “why,” “fire,” and “library” – and string them all together in an awesomely perplexing sentence, “Stop! Why is a grapefruit on fire in the library?” – and when I was in Paris, I only got laughed at about 7/8 of the time I tried to speak French to the locals, which is where I got the 1/8 bilingual statistic from. I AM SO PROUD OF THIS ACCOMPLISHMENT. How, you ask, did I become this awesome? The answer is 6 years of French in high school and 2 in college. BAM I’M LIKE THE FRENCH MASTER BABY. It is totally the language of LOVE. And there, you see, is why I am SO SUCCESSFUL ROMANTICALLY.)

I work with Mlle. Piedlourde. SHE HAS THE LOUDEST FEET EVER ZOMG. And she walks past me 80 KABILLION times a DAY. Back and FORTH and back and FORTH and CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP LOUD LOUD SHOES I WANT TO HIT YOU WITH A CAST IRON FRYING PAAAAAAAANNNNNNNN

Sorry. Sorry. So, to entertain myself, and so I don’t brain her with a frying pan (I mean, I don’t even HAVE a frying pan at work, WHO HAS A FRYING PAN AT WORK HA HA HA) I pretend I’m listening to that jazzy little M. Piedlourde music as she walks by. Doo doo doo doodle oo-doo…

HULK MAD! HULK SMASH!

OK, disclaimer going in, here. I KNOW DEAD PEOPLE ARE UNFUNNY. I’m sorry, dead person. I am totally sorry you are dead. I am not laughing about the fact that you died. I am laughing at the events that led up to your death. I wish you had NOT died, if only because it would be interesting to find out WHAT THE HOLY HELL.

So yesterday I started seeing news stories titled “Man Dies in Struggle with Police at Latham Gym.” And hey, I used to live in Latham. It’s really close. So I’m totally morbid and wanted to know more! I like crazies.

Um.

Here’s the dealio, friends and neighbors and also pervs here for the scantily clad chick on the zebra. Yesterday, a guy at Gold’s Gym (and SIDEBAR, but does Gold’s Gym scare anyone else? It’s right next to Kmart here, and when I used to go to Kmart, I’d be afraid to walk to my car because the testosterone level in the parking lot was SO EFFING HIGH) “fell off his elliptical machine” and then “went over to the machine where another man was working out, increased the speed of the machine and punched the man in the face.”

Was that enough? No. No, that was not enough for Roid Rage Ricardo*. (*Not his real name.)

Roid Rage Ricardo, “who police described as 6-feet-1-inch tall, about 230 pounds and very muscular, then pushed over several universal weight machines, each weighing over 600 pounds…then went into an office where he ripped computers from the wall and toppled office furniture.” (Which I totally daydream about doing here at the office EVERY SINGLE DAY, just so you know.)

The police arrived. They tased him. (TASE HIM BRO. Please. He’s totally being a nuisance.) The taser brought him down. A cop was standing over? on? his back cuffing him, when he “stood up with the officer on his back.” Like they were playing that chicken game in the water that they play on old-timey movies!!! Totally fun. Only with TASERS. And HANDCUFFS. Also, are you imagining him growling? I am.

He then grabbed the taser from the cops, may or may not have tased himself, and had a heart attack and died not long after. He’d been tased 4-5 times total.

OK. LET ME REITERATE. I’m sorry he’s dead. It is sad. I don’t THINK anyone who knows him is reading this? But you never know. If you are friends or family with this person, my condolences. I am sorry for your loss. He might have been the kind of person who rescued puppies on his free time while also reading to blind war orphans, who knows. The NYS cops have recently been accused of overusing their tasers; whether or not that happened in this case, I can’t say. It does sound like they weren’t able to restrain him without one. Eyewitnesses say he was out of control and they were afraid. Three or four cops were injured bringing him down.

BUT WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON AT THE GOLD’S GYM.

Fell off his machine? Randomly went over to another guy’s machine, made him run fast fast fast like it was torture, then PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE? Then TOTALLY Hulk-handsed the weight machines and the office!

Steroids, right? Steroids. One of my co-workers who is a killer of joy and also always insinuates himself into the conversation unneccessarily said that it was probably a brain tumor but what kind of brain tumor makes you all muscley and go to Gold’s Gym to work out and then Hulk out all over the gym equipment, I ask you? That’s an unlikely explanation, Joykiller. I mean, I guess it could also be angel dust. Didn’t that make Helen Hunt think she could fly on an ABC Afterschool Special or something? Maybe STEROIDS LACED WITH ANGEL DUST. And then maybe some PCP and the marijuana cigarettes. THIS IS HOW MY GRANDMOTHER TALKS ABOUT SMOKING THE DRUGS BTW.

THIS IS WHY I REFUSE TO WORK OUT I AM TOTALLY JUSTIFIED NOW.


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