Relaxation With Ina

In this heat, pants are not an option.

The other day I went to GAP and tried on a bunch of clothes. I picked out a good pile of stuff to buy, but as I gazed upon the autumn appropriate clothes, I decided to abandon the purchase because of the heavy reality, that there is no end of summer in sight. I realized how ridiculous it is to buy various sweaters, thermals and jeans when the temperature this week is reaching 108 degrees. I wouldn't be able to wear any of these great items till November, and that kind of long-term preparedness, is not me.

I knew this week we'd be laying around in our undies, watching obscene amounts of TV. I set the DVR for The Barefoot Contessa. I used to watch the show daily when Kiki was a newborn. She was a "bad sleeper" and her afternoon nap always had to be in my arms, so I'd watch Ina Garten make delicious food. Ina is a diamond in the rough of Food Network. Her food is healthy, fresh, and easy to make. In fact her catch phrase is, "How easy is that?" Which always makes me smile. Last year Ina was on a talking tour, and I saw her speak in downtown Sacramento. She was interviewed by a woman with the honest-to-god name, Kitty. Kitty drove me mad because it was clear she had not bothered to read Ina's Wikipedia page before writing down questions to ask the chef, caterer, gourmet grocery store owner, writer, and branding genius. I fumed in my seat thinking, "Get this attention whore, Kitty, out of the presence of brilliance." Ina was graceful when faced with Kitty, a women drenched in gaudy clanging jewelry, and Ina didn't slap the hussy for being unprepared and shamelessly overstepping her moderator role.

My mom likes telling me how I was Mr. Rogers's number one fan when I was a kid. I'd sit cross legged in front of the TV and smile at him as he talked to me. My sister came to visit, and we watched Barefoot. She was impressed by Ina's presence, and said, "You know who she reminds me of? Mr. Rogers." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't see it." But afterwards, I realized she is right. Ina Garten and Fred Rogers are the most calming people I know of. Their emotions stay within a very tight range of happy and a little bit happier.

On Monday, in anticipation of being trapped indoors all week, I stocked the kitchen with everything I expected we'd need.  In addition to food for meals, I bought popsicles, ice cream, chips, salsa, yogurts, milk, chocolate milk, cheese and a couple boxes of cereal, like I was preparing for an apocalypse. Boredom and TV watching set the stage for noshing, and Barefoot Contessa makes me even more hungry. I found myself eating a box of cereal a day. The thing with cereal is it is so damn delicious that its easy to keep eating it past the point of being full, but after it's in the belly, soaked in milk, it swells to four times its size, causing painful post-thanksgiving fullness. Each evening I'd lay in bed with Kiki waiting for her to fall asleep (she is still a bad sleeper) feeling like I had cement hardening inside my stomach.

Kiki and I watched Barefoot this afternoon. The episode was called "shake it up" and Ina gave recipes for cocktail snacks and drinks. Kiki watched all week, but today she was really engaged. She started talking to Ina like she was having a conversation. She said, "Wow, lady! That's a lot!" and "Hey little girl! Hey you!" screaming at the TV to get Ina's attention. As Ina explains how tuna tartare is cooked by lime juice, Kiki realized her hollering wasn't getting Ina's attention, and Kiki asked, "Who is she talking to?"
I said, "She is talking to a camera. She knows people are going to watch it, so she is talking to an audience." Then I added, "She is talking to us, baby. She is talking to us." 

The Fat Jewish on Girls

Duck's butt tuft on my head

I follow The Fat Jewish on Instagram. If you haven't heard of him, he's kind of a big deal in the digital world. He was in the press lately because he got a book deal, and this upset people because he's more of a curator rather than a writer. He posts funny pictures that he's pinched from other people. He also manufactures wine, which makes me suspect that he's really a high society bitch, who likens himself a people's person because he dons absurd clothes, looking like a modern day clown.

I started following him a couple weeks ago, and chuckled at some funny posts, but then it became clear most of his posts make fun of "white girls." His wine is called, "white girl rose," so its a marketing schtick, but seriously, if white girls are his demographic, how is degrading them going to boost sales? What kind of woman is willing to buy his wine, aside from his Upper East Side gal pals who feel they're part of an inside joke.
His most common cheap blows at white girls are for taking selfies, but I'm calling bullshit. I follow a wide array of people on Instagram, and there seems to be no difference in who selfies. For example, three women I follow are Jennifer Lopez, Amber Rose, and Taylor Swift, and they all post selfies the same way. There doesn't seem to be a difference in how Taylor Swift, the white girl, does it compared to the non-white girls.
I'd like to see The Fat Jewish start posting jokes on how black girls act, or how Chinese men are, he wouldn't dare because, even though it looks like he has a 17 inch dick growing out of his head, he is really a giant pussy, who foresees the backlash for sounding like a stereotyping racist.

My hair is looking like a FUBAR disaster because I thought I was a fucking hairstylist to the stars and cinged a good portion of my hair into one inch horse hay. I am tempted to cut it off, but the last time I tried to cut my own hair I looked like a mushroom head, complete with a circumcised penis silhouette. Besides, I finally learned from my recent hair fuck up, I need to stop doing my own hair.
While I was bleaching my hair, I had a conversation in my head on how I am a great hair stylist, and how hair is not rocket science, but as I started combing large clumps of hair from my head, I swallowed hard, fearing I was going to end up bald. I took a selfie in celebration of not loosing all my hair. I recently posted another selfie of the short hairs sprouting from the top of my head, looking like I just left jail, with the tagline, "My chemical hair cut gave me a tuft of hair resembling a ducks butt."
Since my hair is starting to look like how I feel on the inside, unhinged, I think it would be best to shave my head. I try very hard to bury my feelings deep inside, and now they're starting to eek through my hair follicles, and it isn't pretty. I guess I'm too narcissistic to laugh with The Fat Jewish, and I can't relate to his over generalizing white girls because, I'm special, damn it. I'd be a bit more impressed if he could hone in on me.
An idea for his next white girl degradation, post a picture of a woman in front of laptop, snapping fingers to music, with a tower of Coors Light stacking up. The tagline will say "An hour of Steve Earle and peeing every five minutes level of hydration; this white girl's ready to break the cyber fourth wall."

Mean Reds

This morning I woke up with the Mean Reds, that's how Truman Capote describes feeling worse than The Blues in Breakfast At Tiffany's. I started my run with dragging feet, trying to think of why I felt like there was sludge in my brain.
Did I listen to really sad music the day before? I didn't think so. I've learned I can only take sad tunes in small doses. If I have Elliot Smith playing all day, as I clean toilets, mop floors and fold laundry, in the moment I feel alive, awakening strong feelings I don't often tap into, however, the next day I feel like I'm recovering from a tequila paved hangover. An epic emotional hangover.
I thought it might be from finally finishing The Liars' Club, and maybe I was sad that the book was over, or that her childhood was so awful. I told my mom I thought she'd like the book, saying, "Mom, you'll like this book. You kind of remind me of Mary Karr." Then I told her the story, and she said, "Alicia, I had a very happy childhood. Why do you think I grew up like that?"
"I don't think you had a shitty childhood, but I think you talk real Southern, like Mary Karr. You say "warsh" for fucks sake. You'd like her tone." My mom acknowledged the commonality.

I settled on my funk being the outcome of greedily attacking a box of ice cream yesterday. In total, from all my back and forth trips to the freezer, I shoveled a gallon of ice cream in my mouth. It's hot as fuck again, so I was feeling bad for myself and turned to eating therapy.

When I wasn't trying to pinpoint the source of my distress, I was shirt-tugging, self conscience that my pants were sheer in the sunlight and I was showing off my bare butt to some lucky morning commuters. I decided to go commando because my undies were too thick rimmed, and I didn't feel like wasting a clean pair on my jog. Aside from not possibly showing off my butt, a nice cotton pair of briefs would have been a great buffer for the coochie equivalent of a 5 o'clock shadow. Hindsight is 20/20.

I think I will feel better if I start cleaning my dirty ass house, getting feng shui in order. After the kids and I got back from music class, I ate the rest of the ice cream because I need it out of my life. I'll offset whatever damage the ice cream will do by eating a pound of kale for dinner. It's already 106 degrees outside, so I'm not rushing to get the cleaning done yet. Were going to be trapped in doors all day, and other than cleaning, all I need to do is make kale, and heat two hot dogs for the kids to eat, with their kale. I'm all about offsetting bad food with kale.

Crack The Champagne

Anxiously awaiting 

It's a day to crack champagne because the new Libertines album is dropping tomorrow. I watched the documentary There Are No Innocent Bystanders a while back, and clearly Carl Barat is madly in love with Pete Doherty, but how could he not be? It seems any band's success usually hinges on one bandmate's magnetism, and when this person figures out they are the draw, the source of success, then corruption ensues, unless they are given clear authority as the leader (see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band or Win Butler and Arcade Fire, oh wait…)

On my drive home from Tahoe today, I listened to Libertines albums and thought about their dynamic relationship. From the documentary, it seemed obvious Pete figured out he is the draw for The Libertines, however, the band was not tolerating his lackadaisical work ethic, in regard to him wasting their time, and they gave him the boot.
Pete does not hide his financial woes when he talks to the camera, claiming money is the reason the group is getting back together. Pete has a power over people, most especially supermodels, which paved way for his offspring. The supermodels looked happy to carry on the Doherty name, and happy to collect their child support checks, which will keep even a rich man working because rich people are accustomed to, as they like to say, "a certain way of living," that a retiring young artist will be unable to provide for.
Pete must have been a work horse coming up in the music world, but then he sort of lost that passion. Maybe he was underwhelmed by wealth and fame, or maybe it is high levels of tolerance people have for reckless behavior when everyone's check is riding on his ass, that allows for someone to get to bad places with drugs and alcohol in a very public space. There is a resentment that comes along with being the money maker, and its a well thought out defiance to make people believe you're always on the brink of a drug induced melt down, therefore they're always on the brink of being out of a job.
Arbeit Macht Frei came on the player and I reminded myself to google what that means. Turns out, it's a German slogan from nazi concentration camps, meaning "work will set you free." Next, I googled the lyrics of Arbeit Macht Frei, which is a perfect length for analyzing, two versus. The message in this song is don't pat yourself on the back for seeing the evil in Nazis because racism and concentration camp equivalents are basically alive and well. Maybe he says "work will set you free" in the modern text because it will distract you from the racism and hate that are very much prevalent in modern times. Boycotting Chick-fil-a doesn't mean you're not a racist hate-monger, it really means you are a slightly less racist hate monger, because the seemingly innocent task of grocery shopping is feeding into a world view where the third world is enslaved. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, or go to work, and work harder, keep yourself distracted from these hard truths.
I don't think Pete wants to live out his days walking cobblestone streets in Spain, feeling as much joy he did while performing by singing little ditties in his head. Anyone who has the drive to make it from the bottom to the top has a burning need inside them to keep producing. Maybe that is brainwashed Americanism speaking. Americans do love to work, but they really love talking about how much more they work than other people. It's a great superiority complex that imprisons its citizens to car payments, house payments and 3,000 square foot homes full of shit.

So basically, kudos for identifying racism in the Nazis, but don't be stupid enough to think that it doesn't exist in other forms today. The best way to deal with it is by distracting yourself through hard work, and then buying stuff that buries your conscious.
Pete's team is going to have to play this song on repeat to get him back to his youthful workaholic self. Then they can work on getting him off the bad shit and addicted to cold-pressed juice; a Winston Smith level transformation.
After googling "gaspers," meaning cheap cigarette, I feel like I am reaching my quota on new information for the day. Looking forward to hitting play on the new Libertines album tomorrow, and keeping my fingers crossed for a US tour. In which case, we know the transformation would be complete. Pete standing at the mic, two gin-scented tears trickling down the side of his nose, happy the struggle is finished as he sings, "I love you, Big Brother."

Right to Bare Arms

Practicing my right to bare arms

Kiki is back to school, so our art gallery is reopening. We also all got a cold, which kicks starts our next year of snot filled, brain flexing glory. My kids are "super smart" as I like to say, and they require so much attention it drives me to the edge of insanity. I find myself recovering mainly based on gratitude, because if I looked to the media I'd probably drown myself.
I read another shooting took place last week, at a Sacramento campus, although they're finding it wasn't a deranged gunman, but rather violence bred from birth. I'm not sure which is worse, although I don't think gang members should get the lead-end because white kids come off as "depressed" and "sad" after shooting off rounds, since their violence was absorbed through video games and abhorrent advertisements for cheap guns, instead of hearing actual war zone violence outside their bedroom windows.
Here is the thing with gun reform, there are people who are equipped to own fire arms, but it should not be a right for every citizen. It's not anti-American to say we don't all have the right to bear arms, especially after those idiots made that lady smother her baby after they shot her son chasing the family dog during the Ruby Ridge Massacre, because things have gotten out of hand. Timothy McVeigh, in his younger days said, "When guns are outlawed, I will become an outlaw," and he ended up the most atrocious US terrorist. What did gun yielding get him? Nothing, but it got us, as in the U.S., a slap in the face, and we stupidly mistook it as government treason.

There are sound reasons why people hate the government, but allowing guns to fall into any one's hands, leading way to murderous violence, is not a way to take a stand with the government. Since the government's inapt, hands-tied attitude toward gun reform doesn't show any sign of stepping in to try and disarm the population, I have an idea for future deranged gunmen. This is going to sound like I should be on anti-psychotics, but instead of gunmen killing innocent, bright-faced people, why not let their rage out on the child molesters and horrific rapists listed, with address and photo, on Megan's Law. It seems so sensible to me, to knock off the bane of our existence. It's unapologetic, and non-liberal, but still, if someone should be killed, take the bottom of the barrel first. The killer can feel like they're accomplishing two goals; mass media coverage, and privately winning the hearts of Americans through their Dexter mercenary missions.

I sound like a whack-a-doo I used to answer phones with during fund raising times at public radio (I'm one of them). Because they have style ironic hipsters can only dream about, and they like to carry 14 memorized books around in a cat adorned tote bag, that they love to share, they get grief for being peculiar, un-kardashian, and it's only because they care and want to talk about how our country can change. Everyone is too distracted clicking heart buttons on their Instagram (I'm one of them too) to care our country is in upheaval. We all need to get schooled, and care about gun reform.

Preschool back in session, art gallery reopening

A Golden Beam to Uranus

New Ride

I bought a car last week. Car buying is a dreadful but also very exciting experience that I can only tolerate every half decade because the emotional roller coaster takes ages to recover from. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, "Could I have gotten a better deal?" Then get a drink of water and pace back and forth in the kitchen while glaring at the shiny new car in my driveway. Other times, I think how fun it is to act like a hard ass, negotiating the price as the sales manager runs back and forth to an office where the dealership's Wizard of Oz gives a nod of approval.

The dealership contacted me because they made a mistake on the paper work and I needed to resign some documents. I consulted my horoscope to make sure Mercury is not in retrograde before I signed the papers because it is a bad idea to buy anything major while Mercury is in retrograde, and signing contracts will cause long term headaches, so says Susan Miller, astrologer to The People. As I read my horoscope, it gave me the usual optimistic outlook on things. My month looks great, and Mercury doesn't go retrograde until September 17. Uranus made an appearance, and that always makes horoscope reading fun. I giggled to myself as I read, "Venus and Mars join forces to send a golden beam to Uranus, bringing an influx of cash, career praise and applause!" My anus has never been so excited. However, the projected date of the golden beam entering my anus was yesterday, so I never noticed my astrological sodomy session.

I love my money, and it concerns me when I am frivolous with it. I'm like Mr. Wonderful on Shark tank, I consider my money familial, and I like to gaze lovingly at my bank statements online, so if I fear I let some go without something better in return then my Scrooge McDuck fantasies of swimming in an enormous vault of gold coins isn't as exciting. I hope the car buying emotional oscillations from pride to doubt begin to shorten and ends at content because I need my sleep. It doesn't matter if I could have negotiated a better price because the papers are signed, and it's a done deal. So if I got it up the ass from the dealership, I didn't feel it. I'm thinking I have a knack for that.

Saved By The Bell Movie Breakdown

Not getting sucked into watching the Dustin Diamond Porno

Last night I watched the Lifetime movie, The Unauthorized Saved By The Bell Story. I am not sure why the film is "unauthorized" since the most interesting discoveries were the pronunciation of Mark Paul Gosselaar, Zach's eyebrows and hair don't match, and Gosselaar is half Paicific Islander (where was this information when Cameron Crowe casted Emma Stone in Aloha?)
The movie boasted scandals, and all we got was a bunch of hand holding. When Screech is the most hard core, you know you're dealing with career minded teenagers who considered themselves serious actors.
Dustin Diamond, who played Screech, was an executive producer, and the film mainly focused on his hardships. Considering Dustin Diamond turns into a broke, porno star who gets in knife fights at bars, I'm surprised how tame his celebrity childhood was. He hung out with an Asian dude who was an extra on Saved By The Bell, and apparently this guy was a bad influence on Dustin, and got him into drinking vodka and smoking weed, but to Dustin's dismay, it was only to get a better part on the show, not because he really liked Dustin. After the hour and half movie, we learn Dustin Diamond has a major complex with being the unattractive geek, no one was nice to him at Saved By The Bell, and his father was aggressive towards him when he'd fuck up. Nothing terrible, especially since he was living his dream of acting on the hottest TV show.
This movie makes me wonder what Dustin's porno is like. I'd have to guzzle 12 Coors Lights to watch it, but I imagine it's him crying on a set of inflatable tits describing how different his life would be if he could have managed to pull Tori Spelling, who dissed him for Mark Paul.

The only thing shocking to me was the use of the word "douchebag." The word reared its head at least twice, and I don't remember this word being around till 2000's. Perhaps "douchebag" was just kicking off, and originated in Hollywood in 1990. The only thing worth fact checking in the entire movie.

The Mark Paul brown brows-yellow hair combo