12 Crabapples for Being Too Moo

Starting today, I am making a concerted effort to change a major facet of my personhood. It will surely be a long and dreary road, filled with blood, sweat, tears, scary masks of Richard Nixon, and probably a few portabello mushrooms
(ooooh how i want all mushrooms killed by committee).

The proposed resolution is this:
I need to stop using "moo" as a filler word, injection, and replacement for real words.

A few tidy examples:

"Today sucked. Moo."
"He asked me what I was thinking and I was like moo."
Q: "How was it?"... A: "Ya know-- moo."

Typically innocuous.

Today though, the question was "What does she look like?"-- in reference to an older, portly woman.
You see where this is going.

Yup: "I dunno...moo."

Now Jaynie, that's not nice.
And then I was self-inducedly forced to spend a solid (but flimsy) 15 minutes explaining that "moo" obviously does not indicate "sound a cow makes," but instead "a deviation of 'meh'... a kind of verbal shrug, ever-imbued with a healthy dose of apathy, ennui, and, well, you know...moo."

I would make a shitty linguist.

17 Crabapples for OverTasting the Rainbow

Because I am in a terribly shitty mood right now, I want to tell you all a funny and slightly rancid story to make myself laugh.

So, today, I'm at Out of Town News, tightly contemplating the repercussions that this might have for SJP's career... [uh, dowdy-Donna-Reed much, girlfriend?]

When, out of the corner of my eye, I notice this kid bouncing skittles off the dirty-crusty-ass sidewalk by the T station, AND THEN PUTTING THEM IN HIS MOUTH. and eating them.
EAT---ING---THEM.

Icky sticky, my friend, icky... sticky.

You know what people do on that sidewalk? Yea, I do. They throw crap. like pizza crusts and shrapnel. and they walk. and spit. and groooooooooossssssssssss. you're groooooooooosssssssssss.

His day will be worse than mine when he gets bird-shit-n-kitty-litter-in-yo-mouth disease.

All in the name of cool...

94 Pineapples for the GenPets Code

For the past week or so, I have been haunted by these eeky freaky little creatures. They have snuck into bed with me and curled themselves into the back-part of my skull and have otherwise made my skin crawl. Why? Because they are gross.

But, in other news, the marketing team is a troop of fricking geniuses. After doing a little researchario, I learned that Genpets are the creation of a Canadian mixed-media sculptor named Adam Brandejs. These Puppies of the Corn were originally part of a larger show, held last summer, called Pulse (thanks We Make Money Not Art).

But then they reemerged on the ad blog circuit in a big way last week.
The lull makes me desperately curious.

The buzz around the blogosphere is that this is a big hoax, but these artistic roots make me think Adam Brandejs is one smart self-marketer.
His site reads:
!! Saw or heard about Genpets through TV/Print/Radio? Please contact me (they don’t…) and as a 24 yr old artist, knowing about this press is REALLY important for my CV. Thanks.

I don't quite believe him. His site is the third hit on Google when you search for "genpets," so he's far from flying under the "zygote micro injection" radar. Did Bio-Genica really just steal his idea and start mass-producing, or this is one brilliant publicity stunt by the artist himself? Or was this a fair idea buy-out and Adam is just pissed that the corp is now incommunicado? [Adam, please tell us you got a patent??]

In any case, it's very well done.
But the Media Kit is almost too well done... unless that kid hugging the genpet is just naturally wicked freaking creepy.


*Photos courtesy of Bio.Genica-- I thank you, even though you confuse the shit outta me.


UPDATE: Because I can't leave anything well enough alone, check out my 6.25 post on BMA for resolution to this icky madness... ahhhh.

67 Pineapples for the BPD

Thanks to Max for tipping me off to the Boston Police Blog, a virtual treasure trove of things-to-keep-you-up-at-night.

The Weekly Dig dug this up in today's issue, so I'm expecting a buzz peak right about... now.

Many of the posts are very very very disturbing. And many posts, as Max informed me, have been commented on by fellow gang members of the person in question, which adds a nice new layer to the blogosphere.

And then other posts are unreasonably mockable despite the fact that a terrible and sickening crime is involved.
I give you:

Robbery Suspect Found Hiding Behind Tree

Officers from District 2 responded to an armed robbery call at about 8:13pm last night... Responding officers observed a suspect matching the description given by officers hiding behind a tree... After a brief foot chase, the suspect was caught and positively identified by the victim.

Really? A tree? That is not a very good hiding spot. Come on now.

[Okay, yes, it scares me that I am this desensitized. I will listen to Jack Johnson's Lullaby and throw marbles at my own face.
Okay, no, but really, I am reading horrible crimes as jokes. Who am I? Fox News?]

305 Pineapples for Wireless Wandering

Oh, precious, sweet, full-of-honey little mobile router, how I want thee...

Kyocera, huh? Absolutely fabulous idea.

100 Sweet Crabapples for Apt. 31

I assumed it was a pretty standard truth that nobody enjoys thumping bass at 6am on a Sunday morning.

This, apparently, is untrue, as proven by the asshole who lives below me.

I have lived here for 4 weekend days now, and each Sat/Sun dawns with a backbeat heavy enough to shake my floors. I exaggerate not.

So, considering that installing curtains yesterday turned into a huge gross big fat mess and all I wanted to do was enjoy my newfound bedroom darkness, the crescendoing drummation of thud-thud-thunky-thunky-thud at 5:45am was completely uncool to me.

So, sad and tired but not defeated, I marched down there. Really, there was marching. I took my phone in case s/he pulled a gun (so I could call 911 or use as "crime deterrent" since I do indeed have a Sprint phone). I knock, softly at first and soon with the force of an entire nation behind me. No Answer. Of course not. You are an asshole.

[Please also take into consideration that this is a charming old building which is completely silent and rustic and nice.... except for him/her. And the cute little doormats that serve as welcome to most people's doors are instead replaced on his/her door with a label-maker-made "Beware of Dog" warning. Also keep in mind that there is a strictly enforced No Dogs Allowed rule, so he/she is obviously being self-referential.]

After knocking for about 10 series of knocks, I walk back upstairs.
And I have a thought:

I am your upstairs neighbor.

I tried to solve this diplomatically, and you would have none of it. You made the call.

So I did what any self-preserving girl would do. I put on platform shoes and started tap-dancing on my hardwood floors. Then I took a quick break-- so I could do some drills with my mini basketball.

OHHHHHHYEAAAAAAAA.

The music magically stopped.
I was far too proud.

14 Pineapples for SYTYCD

Two quick things:

Last night, I inadvertently stepped on my glasses, and I am currently seeing crooked. Okay, yea, of course it was inadvertently. Who would, like, just do that? Okay, forget it. I might. No, wait, no I wouldn't. Because right now I'm a little mad about it. Although I do do things purposefully that later make me mad. I should not be allowed the power of words right now; I am abusing it.

Ever since I moved into my new "back to the olden days" apartment with its dark wood and antiquey fixtures, I have been buying way more fresh vegetables. And I have had no impetus to turn on the TV. Except when So You Think You Can Dance was on. But that's a given. Mary Murphy? Can't help but like her.

46 Crabapples for Flitty Fuses

Because you're surely all dying to find out what happened with my air conditioner, I will tell you.

I enlisted helpers and I got it installed at lunchtime (this is the beauty of living 7 minutes from work). And then I scurried home tonight to turn it on. And promptly blew a fuse. Boo. So I threw my purse. Because that would solve it.

And then I went on a hunt for my fuse box. I found it. Up high(er than I could reach) in the kitchen. [please note that i have just moved in and do not own any chairs except a rocking chair, which is hard to stand on because of its eerie "rocking motion."] So I stacked Tupperware and got a closer look. It was painted shut. With, like, gobbyballs of paint. So I got a screwdriver and tried to pry it open. Oh my god this story is lame.

Okay... let's wrap this up-- the maintenance man just left (whose name was Nomar, but not the Nomar...who is quite busy reestablishing himself as someone who can hit the ball very well), and he brought me a new fuse, and it is fixed. Although for the last ten minutes my lights have been flickering and fading and being otherwise unreliable.

This is not good. Now, it's been decided that pilot lights cannot be made electric... but is there a way to strengthen the fuse-ation of my apartment? No, really... is there?

34 Crabapples for an Idle AC

I moved this weekend, which is my convenient excuse for being a bad blogger.
My new place is great though. You should all come over. I have a fireplace and a sink with two spickets. And there is a fallout shelter in my basement. And the laundry room has current magazines.
Yea, you heard me.

I am currently fighting the urge to try to be a superstar hero winner and install my 655 pound air conditioner in my bedroom window. Because it is one million and 50 degrees in here right now, and my down comforter can die. But it really weighs a lot, that air conditioner. And I'm almost certain that I'll drop it directly on my toes, or, even worse, my foot (ha. those are, like, the same thing). But it's right there with my name on it, literally in sharpie at the bottom. [okay, fine, that's not true.]

What else? I hate gas stoves. I am pleased with their even cooking ability, sure, but the funny flamebutton of horror people call the pilot light? Absolutely horrifying. Can't we technologify that in some way so it never goes out? Someone? Anyone?
No? Okay. I'll just fear earth-shattering explosion with every casserole. That's fine.

577 Pineapples for Ghostworld

I had the type of day today that requires (yes, by law) that I come home and watch Ghostworld in the dark, with wine and candles and humming.

Okay, no humming. That's just strange.

For those of you who have never experienced the bored and overaffected wittiness of Ghostworld, some random good person has been kind enough to download/upload(?) this video, which also serves as the opening sequence of the movie, to youtube.
[Ew. That sentence was trash.]

I dare you not to dance. And long to wear fringe.

Snoop, Eazy, LC, and EPT: Crabapples Take the Cake

I have a lot to say today. Pull up a pillow, grab a cigar or an english muffin, count your chickens before they hatch... whatever it is you do.

1. I have a hefty confession to make. It involves something very close to my heart, soul, and obsession with all things beautiful and true:

I forgot to watch the premiere of The Hills last Wednesday.
Yea, you heard me. I'm not repeating it.

I loaded up my gmail on Thursday to find this:
"How strange was it when the fashion woman critiqued their outfits?... Also, how do you feel about Heidi?...Unlike Cover Girl's partnership with ANTM, this will definitely work to Teen Vogue's advantage... when Lauren was fumbling for words and said that the always reads Teen Vogue and gets her ideas from it, I seriously thought about going out to get a copy."

I almost ended it all right there.
Instead, I watched the rerun three times this weekend. And still seriously debated if I could afford Tivo.
Something like this simply can't happen again.

::12 Crabapples to me. For reading a book during an important historical event.

2. Today, I was at a graduation party for my cousin. After the cake was cut, this old lady from the other side of the family kept saying loudly, "Any cake-eaters? Who's a cake-eater? Anyone a cake-eater? Let's see some cake-eaters!"
Holy fucking shit. For the love of God, lady, please stop saying cake-eater.
I'm dying here; dying.

::15 pineapples for inadvertent impropriety.

3. I HATE the new EPT Pregnancy Test commercial.
And I quote: "I can't concentrate; Could I be pregnant?"
Uhhhh.... ever heard of ADHD?
Know what might work better?:
"I had unprotected sex my realtor; Could I be pregnant?"
One more, while I'm at it:
"I have a disconcerting bump near my uterus, and I'm currently dipping my fishsticks in custard; Could I be pregnant?"

[note: after 2 glasses of wine, it was just necessary for me to google "women's reproductive parts" to come up with "uterus."
For this, I hate myself.]

::Crabapples chopped into little bite-sized nuggets, thrown everywhere with no logic, thought, or pattern.

4. I am wicked in love with the new Snoop/Pussycat Dolls video. I wish I could rock boots like that. And I wish I had a pole in my apartment. And those beads. Ohhh! Those beads!
Maybe I just have a thing for videos containing chair thrashing. I say this because two of the three videos that I have watched tirelessly and tried to emulate contain, yes, chair thrashing: Brit's Stronger and Brit's Crazy.

The whole Crazy obsession may also have something to do with the fact that my junior year of college, our On Demand stations offered two movies, which we watched over and over and over. and over. One was Drive Me Crazy, featuring Sabrina the Teenage Witch, the hot guy from Entourage, and this song.
[fyi- the other was Friday. Neither movie will I ever watch again.]

::For the 80th time, 93 pineapples to Britney for getting married and having kids before I was done enjoying her.

5. Speaking of, the third video that I have "watched tirelessly and tried to emulate" is Janet's If.
[um, Kate-- don't say you can't do the whole thing, too.]
Anyway, I'm listening to this on a mix CD in my car today, and I catch myself knowing all the words. And I suddenly felt embarrassed (and this is from a girl who, to this day, can recite every single word of the Eazy-E's classic, Gimme Dat Nut.)
Seriously, though, who let me sing those words when I was twelve?
Gosh.

::21 conclusive pineapples for not knowing what any of these lyrics meant until I was in college.