68 Pineapples for MXC's Wet Logs and Floating Stones

A single headline caught my eye today amidst the bottomless mug of media feeds that popple into my inbox each day.

Google Launches Algorithmically-Based French Pony?

No. But close.

Comedy Central Animates 'Samurai Love God' for Mobile

The Daily Show's Ed Helms (holla to comedycentral.com for the marvy portrait) will give voice to the "sexually-charged samurai hero," while Jenna Jameson will play his playmate. Casting sounds apt.

The shock value here, on my end at least, is that this wasn't launched by SpikeTV. Is it me, or is this show a precise 50/50 blend of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge (now called MXC, btw) and Stripperella?

As an aside, the SpikeTV website is so crowded and multimedia-cluttered that my ears began to leak rocket fuel immediately upon entrance. Even after I muted it, I was still yelling "no. seriously. shut up." because the colors and logos were heckle-dancing like dirty mind thieves.

45 pineapples to Comedy Central for giving Ed Helms another gig;
33 crabapples to SpikeTV for a website that reminds me of a screaming child who just let go of his balloon and dropped his ice cream cone in the same minute;
but, 68 redemptive pineapples to MXC for the challenge where the contestants skip along the fake rocks that drop into the water. Really... elemental bliss.

Also, can someone please confirm that Cheney's guest quarters are really called Uncle Tom's House? Check out the last paragraph on the 3rd page of this Newsweek article. (Thanks Dependable Renegade)


22 Pineapples for Commanding Teleprescience

Because March is nearly upon us, and because the little girl I was babysitting today pooped her bed during a 15-minute nap (3 crabapples-- seriously, what're the odds?), I'd like to take a few moments to make myself feel smart and powerful at the expense of no one.

I have for you... my flufferedly March predictions:

1. American Idol: The final two standing will be Katharine and Ace. And no, I am not embarrassed to climb aboard the Ace bandwagon (as opposed to, of course, the Ace bandage). The guy sang George Michael, good godders, complete with cheesy narrow-eyed stares and small, choppy gyrations... and yet I was absolutely transfixed. Trans. Fixed. Not to mention throwing goldfish at my TV while yelling "i'm-shallow-but-he's-sexy-shallow-but-sexy-shallow--shallow---but--but..." until I broke down into a mediated headswirl of crumbs and mumbling.

Because of this, and his amazing hair that I would pay at least 5 dollars to touch, and the fact that Paula dribbles all over her silk cami every time he comes on stage, I believe he will win.

Also because of this, I seriously need to vacuum.

However, I'd like to note that in Ace's little bio page on the Fox site, he notes that his "proudest moment in life so far" is helping his nieces "learn life." If he can tell me how exactly one goes about the precise practice of "learning life," I'm sold. But I'm betting that he's using this phrase in solid earnestness, for which I feel a deep, deep, encompassing sadness.

I'd also like to note that for however cute lil' southern-drawly Kelly Pickler is, I'm so totally over her farmgirl-who-loves-her-grandpa act. In a single word: overdone. In eight (one a contraction): I. bet. you. don't. even. own. a. goat.

2. Project Runway: Daniel V. will win. Santino will get a spin-off. Chloe will disappear into the lifehole because she is talented, but completely boring.

3. As for The Bachelor tomorrow night... I'm going Moana all the way.
She's crazy and unstable and all the girls hate her. My prediction stands.

Ace bandage? Come on. Who let me type that?


2.98 Pineapples for Fresh Crabapples

Pineapples for crabapples? Aww... how droll and self-reflexive.

Stop yelling. I wasn't trying to be cutesy. I just want to prove a point from a week or so ago -- that people actually buy crabapples. After taking a closer look, I'm pretty sure that Martha could make some sort of styrofoam-based wreath using these nasty mutants; alternately, you could also use them to make fruit tarts.
For babies. Without tastebuds.

In any case, you can get them for $2.98 per bushel at Russo's Farm Stand on the Watertown/Waltham line.

[Quick Curtsy: Thanks to the staff at Russo's for letting me clog the doorway to nab some shots during the lunch rush.]

As a sidenote, they also have fresh lobster ravioli for $4.98 a pound... and "homemade" BBQ sauce for $5.29 a bottle. Now, please don't consult me as to how BBQ sauce can be homemade--- I have visions of a ketchup-alfredo concoction being bundled in tin-foil and thrown on a big outdoor grill, but I'm willing to bet my bottle that that's not quite how it works.

Tomorrow, I will ask the nice man that let me take my crabapple pics.

So... that said, let me slide along to the actual point of this here post: my obsession with snack mix. More specifically, my obsession with snack mix served in Boston's swankypantsiest bars. It's one of my favorite discussion topics, and it's about time it made it to the big screen, or at least a screen approx 1024x768.

Without further la-di-da or miniature fruits, the rankings:

Bronze: OM Restaurant on Winthrop St. In Harvard Square.

Okay, so this is probably a poor choice to introduce the topic, since it's not technically snack-mix-proper. It's more of a popcorn-based treat. But it's still wicked totally good. And free. The lounge area serves this caramel corn with chili powder that's all clumpy (in a good way) and crunchy. Even I loved it... and I tell people that I hate caramel (although I possibly made that up years ago and began to believe it). I think the chili powder serves the same flavor-enhancing powers to the caramel as it does to chocolate (as explained in the aptly-titled film, Chocolat).

The cocktails here are swell as well-- my champagne and lemon "Fred and Ginger" was served with a big lovely chunk of candied ginger on the rim. Well, it was lovely for... let's call it... 2 seconds... until I popped it in my mouth in one fell swoop because it looked like candy and was sparkly and sweet and it was getting in the way of my sipping.

Just pleeease don't go upstairs. The lounge is trendy but comfy (and the bartender-- the same one on each of three visits --not only mixes a mean Manhattan, but also eerily resembles Michael Stipe); erstwhile, the restaurant itself reflects the truffle parmesan oil they priggishly squirt on the popcorn up there. And the waiters would likely choke on the word "squirt."

::14 pineapples for the down low, but 17 crabapples once you ascend.

Silver: Noir at the Charles Hotel

Bronze and silver for H-Square? Flag on the play? Nope, it's true. Again, please stop yelling.

Most of you know that Noir is one of my favorite places in Boston...uh, Cambridge. Along with sultry red lighting, beaded curtains that amazingly don't look kitschy, and mahogany/black leather furniture that I would try to steal if it wasn't heavy and I didn't wear bright pink way too often, they have a mixed nuts bowl for 3 dollars.

The cute black misshapen bowl is filled with toasted almonds and cashews and corn-nuts (I know...but these are supersized and actually tasty) and plump wasabis. The only drawback-- they mud up the mix with pretzel nuggets still reeking of cello-wrap from the Snyder's bulk bag. Boo. On the drink front, hit up the Chinatown (with a baby umbrella that is kitschy, but I'm kindly reading it as tongue-in-cheek) or the Maker's Manhattan (self-explanatory).

::29 Pineapples for my go-to dark corner.

Gold: Bar Ten at the Westin Hotel

My history with Bar Ten goes back to my online dating days, when I had a scary blind date here with a guy wearing a suit jacket and shoddy-cakey keds. Fortunately, the selection of scotch is wonderful. On a later visit, the waiter introduced me to Hendrick's gin before Hendrick's gin was cool [oh...right...this just in: Hendrick's gin is cool]. It has this sweet little kick of cucumber and pine trees. So good.

And then the magic: a dreamy snack mix of dried pineapples, cranberries, and apples, mingled with roasted almonds and peanuts and sesame sticks. The sweet and the salty play so well together-- like two precious boarding school twerps and their She-Ra dolls. Except in a bowl.

The snack mix here is free, hence my intense love and devotion. It's a great place to take the edge off an angry stomach before your dinner plans empty your wallet anyway. And the waitstaff will bring you as much as you want without looking at you like you are a stupid freeloader (which, of course, you would never dare to be).

::55 Pineapples for perfect pineapple pairings.

I should probably mention that the cocktails at any of these medal-winners range from about 10-17 bucks. Whatever. I'll pay for good whiskey, but I shouldn't ever have to pay for good Corn-nuts.


4 Pineapples for 4 Aching BUT THENs

Tonight, I am aching. I am aching for four very important reasons:

1. This morning, I fell down concrete stairs backwards trying to do a normal human task called "stretching." No, I was not attempting a triple salchow in running shoes; but, apparently, I am as klutzy while in banal stasis as I am in Olympic motion.

2. I have, like, forty links that I want to share with you, but I also currently have the organizational attention-span of a leper. (Yes, yes, lepers, as a rule, are extremely flitty. And mean to cats.)

3. I just ate my last red jello snack cup and now I only have orange and orange can kiss my ass.

4. I have been trying to remember what that dance is called that I think is called "The Monkey." If not, it should be; regardless, I strive for accuracy in my mental minutiae storehouse.

So, let me go ahead with Linkstock '06 so I can then scurry upstairs to tell my neighbor that she is listening to her old-lady-murder-mystery shows at waaay-hey-hey too high a volume.


I have for you a little chronology:

In November 2004, John Battelle (of "the-book-I'm-reading-right-now" fame) wrote this gemlike account of gadgetry, desire, and affordable wine. In sum, Battelle wondered when we would have the technology to price-check (comparing MSRP and other local merchants) by product barcode at, say, the supermarket-- by cell phone. Now, if I had read this in '04, even with a New Media degree in my pocket (or at home... or up my ass), I would have taken it with a little chuckle and possibly a half-grin. Sorta like when I read 1984 in '76. (ahhh---if those days weren't the shit, huh?)

[and by then, I mean now]
John reports back a week or so ago with--- ta di da --- a barcode-scanning phone-o. Toot toot!

[and by then, I mean now]
I notice today that Ad Age has the scoop on a similar phone, but this time with mp3-buying capabilities. Designed for use with satellite radio, listeners can press a "buy" button to download the mp3 they're listening to right then and there-- or put it in a shopping cart for later.

[and by then, I mean now]
I read the latest buzz from Adjab, which reveals ABC's plans to make clothes and products on their shows immediately available for purchase online. Now, there are websites out there (I know because I am not ashamed to visit them) that stock wardrobe pieces of the stars (but, not, you know, the wardrobe pieces of the stars). So this whole idea has been around, sure... but definitely not this mainstream.

Okay, no more BUT THENs... one of my widgets just pretended to cough, while I know I heard him muffledly say "not. funny." (And yes, I am now using "widget" as slang for "the other half of my brain that is not amused by me at all and just wants me to stop typing so I will take her/it to Stop & Shop.)

One more story, though:
So when I was little, I freaking loved Building 19. If you did not grow up as a restless child in Massachusetts, you may not know that Building 19 is this gross chain of thrift stores with the motto: "Good Stuff. Cheap." The thing is this: it is not good stuff. It is coloring books that are so dirty that you can't see the black outlines, and it is jello molds that would kill a bird if you threw one at a bird. [That reminds me... Orange Jello-- rot. in. hell.]

So, anyway, as if Building 19 was not gross enough-- (And, by the way, the only reason I loved it was that they had cool crap like rolls of stickers with scary porcelain dolls on them, or packs of 50 pairs of silver and black shoelaces, or big boxes of 100+ skeins of mustard-yellow yarn) -- Adrants was nice enough to expose Building 19 for publishing a promo flyer advertising "Wife-Beaters." At least the Building's spokesman, Jerry Ellis, had the unmatched courage to deliver this heartfelt apology: "It's a slang expression, a street expression, but we should have known better not to use it. I am supposed to read every word. Sometimes it's busy or I am lazy."
Hey-- can't call that guy a liar.

As a final thought on the night, I really would like to know the name of that dance that I have been doing (both in my head and in physical form). I will explain. Both arms are straight, hands in fists, one arm up-one arm down, repeat tirelessly. "The Monkey," right?

See, these barcode phones are awesome and all, but what I really need is a video-to-text search engine where I can do this dance for my webcam and then feed it into a movement-actualizer and it would translate my actions into text (better than I did) and then thread those words through a search engine. Larry? Sergey? Guys? I have an idea!


30 Crabapples for Viral Marketing

Crabapples are sold at farm stands for $2.89 a bushel. What would one use these for? Other than, of course, virtual judgement.

1. The Ricola Mystery Cougher is coming to Boston on Thursday. Awesome. Because if there's one thing I love, it's germs. And if there's one thing that I love more than that, it's germs appended with fine print and asinine stipulations. Check out the rules and regs-- the prize is something sealed up tightly in one of fifty envelopes. I call Ricola's bluff. My guess is that the ill-defined something in at least 48 of these envelopes is an audio file of Nelson saying "ha-ha."

::30 Crabapples for coughing on my city. Even if you cover your biz-buzz mouth.

2. So Larry Summers resigned today, effective June 30th. Supposedly, he'll take a sabbatical (read: try to relax as he is being pummeled with handbags, high-heeled boots, and fat Physics textbooks) and then return as a prof. If only Theo hadn't auctioned off the gorilla suit...

::61 Pineapples for declaring that the ditch you dug was too deep to decamp.

3. How long before Tanith Belbin gets a proposition from Playboy? I give it about 4 minutes. Tops.

::44 Pineapples for a silver medal and innumerable PR opps.

[And, for the record, the pair are not dating; in fact, both Belbin and Agosto have other others. Unfortunately, every TV reporter cannot help him/herself from commenting on their "clear erotic chemistry" or "amazing sexiness." Ten bucks says the other others have made out at least once, spurred by nothing other than self-deprecating spite.]

4. I finally got on the hog and starting reading John Battelle's The Search.

Right... because Google didn't already occupy 83% of my mindspace. I think I'm even composing paintings in that color-wheel-centric Google rainbow. Can someone please keep an eye on me for when I start Cyndi-Lauper-layering my socks in red-yellow-blue...

::57 Pineapples for a read that haunts me in a good way. Kinda like Cyndi.

5. Freestyle-Skiier Emily Cook is actually Alanis Morrisette, correct?


5 Crabapples for Kicking the Carnivores

I have a coupla bones to pick this afternoon.

Uno: Know what should be illegal? Pressing the "walk" button and then deciding not to walk across the street. Or pressing the button but then trying to walk across anyway, without waiting for the signal. Upon deeper contemplation, I believe that walklights in general should be illegal. If you are not capable of skillfully dodging traffic and getting to the other side of the street by your own defenses, then you do not deserve to get to the other side of the street.
4 crabapples for maladroit pedestrians.

Two: Unless you have utterly given up on life, you did not watch the Dr.Phil special on Paula Abdul's failin' & flailin' love life. Because I have only 4% given up on life, I watched about 4% of it. At one faux-poignant point, Paula is lamenting about not being able to find a good man or some shit, and Dr.Phil hands her a hankie--- a hankie embossed with the DR.PHIL LOGO. F you, Phil.

And for being a delicate pansy/faucet on national TV, 7 crabapples for Paula.

Three: Penny Marshall has 3 Tivos. I don't get why anyone would need three. As such, 33 crabapples for abusing ownership power of luxury media items.

Four: Who is Tim Allen's agent and why hasn't s/he been shot yet? Good gracious... all that Santa Claus(e) shit, and now he's starring in a remake of The Shaggy Dog.
1 Crabapple for Tim and his agent to share. Paired with a handle of Jim Beam.

Five: Nick wants Jessica's money; and who can blame him? It seems that Jess failed to compose a prenup. Poor Jess needed Jamie Foxx about 3 years ago when the popsters popped it: holla, we want prenup, we want prenup...
And where the fuck was Daddy Joe? He's all up Jess and Ashlee's asses now, where the hell was he when his baby-blond baby was being swept away to be bedded for the first time?

Six: Boots over jeans. Especially ugg boots and/or gross fur-rimmed suede wanna-be-uggs pulled awkwardly over "how the fuck can you sit?" dark denim. 67 pineapples to anyone who can look me in the eye and tell me how this trend is in any way flattering to anyone.

Now, in all fairness, I also have some bones to bone.

Uno: Shania Twain's husband is 57 years old! 2 Pineapples to him!
[Although... in the same article, Shania mentions that they have raised their son (named Eja-- what? stupid.) as a strict vegan because "We can't say, don't kick that cow. But you can eat that cow." Why not? I'd say it. Okay, so maybe you wouldn't want to replace "cow" with "kid" in their holy mantra, but otherwise, it sounds fine. 5 bracketed 'bapples.]

Two: Rachel Ray reviewed this restaurant called "Dips" in NYC today on Tasty Travels (no, I'm not at work). I would like cheese fondue as soon as possible. Also, her husband (I think... although she referred to him as her "sweetie," so I don't really know what that means) is super cute. For that, 5 pineapples dipped in some kind of cream cheese glaze.

Three: I got a letter in the mail on Saturday from Arbitron radio ratings. Inside was a letter telling me to sign up to be a rater-person. And a dollar. Huh? Are they playing off the whole "I'll give you a dollar if you tell Mr.Smith he's an asshole in bio today"? Or what? Seriously, what? It was a fresh spankin' dollar, too... hot off the press.

Maybe they're taking the route of Microsoft, which is launching a new promo in which they hand out prizes to their search engine users when they hit on winning keywords.
Theme: We must incentivize because Google is big and scary and good at what they do.
(And, as a sidenote, some blogger uncovered all of Microsoft's keywords and caused a big pre-promo uproar. Good for him, even though hacking is very bad.)

This may be nutty, but why don't you just...um... make your search features/ rating systems better so we want to use them because they are useful, not because you are proving to me that your products are sub-par by giving me dumb things in exchange for wasting my time using them. Know what I do with dollar bills? I spit on them.
[Actually, I plan to use this dollar to buy 20 pieces of Bazooka, but whatever.]
1 pineapple for a free dollar, but 55 crabapples for the point behind it.

I apologize for my huge crabapple count today. I obviously don't understand President's Day.


16MB of Pineapple Chunks for Widgets

I am a mac user.

As such, I know that widgets are magic and that I love them.

For those of you who are not mac users and do not know the full glory of widgets, I will tell you.

Widgets are like little squirrels with furry cheeks full of information and fun. You can change them every day or every hour or never. And each time you turn on your computer, it is a new experience, ripe with fresh news and weather and recipes and stock/Simpson's quotes. When you want to rid yourself of the baubly clutter, you just close your dashboard, and your clean desktop reappears. I tell ya: love.

If widgets had tails and ate dogfood, I would prefer them over the yellow lab that I'm jonesing for.

I took a screenshot for y'all so you can check this shit out.
[It's sorta difficult to see, but the bottom left is wikipedia, the stamp thing is my gmail inbox counter, and the rest is highly-switchable jouissance-- like, um, weather.]

Neat, clean, bold, ever-new, and info-packed. Honestly, does it get any better?

Give me comfy clothes and a fireplace and I'd say, nope.


22 Pineapples for Stayin' High n' Dry

It's official.

Bed-wetting has gone online.

Thanks to Kate (as opposed, of course, to Kate), I got the inside scoop on 360Kid's soon-to-be-released wet sheet extravaganza! It's so secret that I can't even link you to it until it goes live, so you must be good and patient even though you are probably dying inside.

The concept is this-- Incontinent little dweebos earn virtual chili peppers for every night that they don't pee the bed. They can then use these chilis to play fun online games that take place in the desert.

Get it? Dry sheets. Like a desert.
Kiddie metaphors are so great.

Next, I would like to see similar games marketed to the geriatric set on the Depends or Vesicare website.

Now, can someone please visit that Vesicare site and tell me why an anorexic RTD2 is pushing overactive bladder drugs?
Old people metaphors are so elusive.


1,007 Crabapples for Google Ruining My Fun. Woof.

Gmail is mean.

It just delivered me a headline spoiling the men's long program tonight. I had cheesy pretzels and ginger ale all set to go. Now my parade is rained on and I will boycott gmail for at least 12 minutes.

I want information, but not before I want it.

Crabapples with razorblades for you, anticipation-wreckers.

6 Pineapples for Sultry Snowbunnies

While I sit back and let Google play out its elaborate shadowboxing routine, I need to find some fun-filled filler...

As such, my Olympic vigor is back in a big way, thanks to my unmatched ability to make absolutely anything into a Festival of Shallow Thought.
[This is a defense-mechanism, friends, and it takes practice.]

So, I think it’s far enough into the games to start crowning the Hot-to-Trots and the Hot-so-Nots of Torino ’06.

[Note- If you work in an open-layout office and sit especially close to a prudie old lady, you probably want to wait til you get home to open the first two links. Midriff exposure will occur.]

Jeremy Bloom: He is a real boy. With real fabulous obliques. May I please direct your attention to the bottom row, middle photo? Are you serious? Seriously, are you serious? You can put that shirt down, Jeremy, you won’t be needing it.

Let me also mention that upon returning from Torino, he’ll be attending NFL tryouts while balancing his Tommy Hilfiger ad campaign with Laura Bush.
Loser. I think he needs a hug. And 4 pineapples.

Gretchen Bleiler: First off, she’s a snowboarder, which is hot anyway. Although, the first picture is a little weird (she'd be really cold like that), and she talks obnoxiously about getting her panties stolen while she was hottubbing (come on... get a new damsel-without-her-thong plotline, girlfriend). Nonetheless, she has a tight little body. The third pic is funny because she can’t seem to get her silly little skirt on. Aww, shucks, Gretch, we know you tried real hard. 2 pineapples for effort. [see pic 4 for the sad conclusion of this skirt struggle: no dice, it seems, and that’s okay—we’ll put that with Jeremy’s superfluous shirt.]

I like how I’ve already amassed a pile of unnecessary athlete clothing. EBay, perhaps?

Two hotties down, I need to conclude with a not-so-much-so: Apollo Anton Ohno. He looks too much like a shrunken Dave Navarro, but without the hard, sexy edge, and markedly without the added allure of knowing that he gets to sleep with Carmen Electra. Apparently, though, he does gets to rub knees with the Crocodile Hunter and Mini-Me.

I guess that’s pretty cool...
For a Critical Fluff Hot-so-Not, of course. 2 Crabs.


5 Pineapple Rings.
Unless I Require Surgery.

In the wild, flag-flyin’ spirit of the Olympics, I have decided to pull out my back somethin’ fierce. And, because I have an acute case of endorphin envy, I blame the pairs’ long program for my injury.

You see… what happens is I watch them doing cool crap and smiling hugely, and then I want to do that, too. So I do things like double axels in the open 2-sq ft that I have in my apartment. And sometimes I hit my bookcase or my coffee table. But I have to keep going because I am, of course, chasing the gold. And then I have to bow dramatically to each quadrant of the skating arena, and sometimes I see someone I know in the audience, so I wave a small tight wave (you know… just for them). And then sometimes people throw things at me. Like roses and stuffed bunnies. And my friends from jail throw things in little baggies that I believe to be plant food for the aforementioned roses; they are thoughtful.

So last night I was doing that. And it was fine… I hit my bureau once or twice with my left shoulder (spiral sequence), but no real deductions.

But then I was stretching after my run this morning and I felt something important in my lower back snap.

So here it is… merely 5 days into the competition, and Michelle Kwan and I are on the bench. Life, I tell you, is simply not fair.

Not to mention the fact that NBC has popped 14% more ads into Olympic TV coverage for this go’round. Force me to strain my back and then bury me in boxy SUV commercials? My ardent Olympic spirit has been seriously attacked.

If Johnny Weir doesn’t wear lots of sweet feathers for his free program, it’s totally over.


12 Scoops of Pineapple Sorbet for Locamoda. In a cone. With rainbow sprinkles.

I was already glowy and aflush over Mobot, and then I find Locamoda, based out of Somerville, MA. All this cool new media boomshakalaka happening in my own backyard! My eyes definitely haven't been open enough... must be that liquid eyeliner I bought online.

So Locamoda takes the Mobot model and completes the media circuit in a trippy WOM-but-IYF (in yo' face) kinda way. They call it "the world's first in-location blogging platform for The Web Outside." Now, consumers not only interact with ads, but they interact with other consumers who are also interacting with the ads. While the Mobot set-up brings together consumers and advertisers, Locamoda constructs a multidimensional conversation among consumers interested in a certain product, event, or venue. Even people not at the mediated event can portal in remotely and share the experience with those who are. [need an example?]

Can I call it buzz-blogging? I sure can.
Can I call it sweet? Yup.

Steve over at Adrants announced today that two Boston venues will be Locamoda-ized for Val-Day tomorrow:
Toscanini's Ice Cream in Cambridge and Good Time Emporium (over by that sketchy Somerville movie theatre and my old gym that smelled like old, sweaty garlic bread and cats).

The Good Time Emporium may not see my face ever, but Toscanini's?
Like I need an excuse to get ice cream... HA.


1 Mulligan for Largely Overused Metaphors. And Toast-Engravers.

I’m not sure what this mood I’m in is all about.

I’m waiting and I’m not any good at waiting.

But I have this persistent, milky-odd sensation that reminds me –if I were to stick my hand in it— of heavy cream and bath beads and cherry jello. Something you can squeeze and release and squeeze again and change the integrity of the whole, but maintain the whole of the parts.

And it’s all… very, very good. Very hopeful.

For instance, I’ve had an obsession with the sky lately. Even though it annoys me to the end of all get-out. Not the sky... the obsession.

I realized, last Tuesday or so, that I’ve always had this fixation. I’ve watercolored it endlessly; I’ve pulled up its mutating patterns and shadings of blue-orange-pink-black when I otherwise would have thought about digging my fingernails into my wrist; I’ve asked it questions and waited with a crazed stare for an answer; I’ve gotten answers (although most, if not all, had nothing to do with the questions asked).

How trite, right? To shove my worries and hopes into the biggest metaphor ever? That’s, like, so like me. When times get rough and messy and incalculable, toss ‘em all to the vast upstairs, just like I do in my little apartment space: sure, obsessively neat on the surface, but –shit- check out my closet.

I hate that I love the sky. I want to love something more specific, more categorical, more kitschy. Isn’t random cool? If I love the sky, do I also love Winnie the Pooh and Disneyland and Ben and Jerry’s and heart-shaped chocolates and candles that smell like jasmine? Does that make me have bumper stickers on my car to the tune of It’s Arbor Day, Charlie Brown and own ceramic figurines of little boys and girls in fur-trimmed snowsuits?

Why oh why can’t I love those little toast-press contraptions that you push into your toast to emblazon your bread with sayings like “GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE” and “SWEET THING.” Why can’t I have a fetish for fish tank pebbles? Or cat’s eye marbles? Or, for christ’s sake, tie-dye lambswool booties?

Do I really love the sky? [collective gasp]

Nah. I feel like the sky and I are like buddies. Like I would wink at it in the closing scene of a movie while the Goo Goo Dolls sing some kind of scratchy, all-encompassing ballad about frozen love, sweaty sex, broken records and gin. I wouldn’t really know what I was winking at or why, but the audience might sniffle despite themselves, because they would think that I had figured myself out.


32 Crabapples for Bad, Bad Monkeys

Not that I would see it anyway, but I will now refuse with every fiber of my temperamental soul.

The title character of the new Curious George movie sounds like a teletubbie. Even the commercial caused me to stick my fingers in my ears and loudly repeat: "I will not be taken over by gigantic infants, I will not be taken over by gigantic infants, I will not be taken over by gigantic infants..."

Actually, I only said that twice. It doesn't really roll off the tongue as smoothly as I had hoped.

Does anyone think it's weird that one of the original C-George writers was found dead in a driveway this week? [The movie premieres Friday.]

Not to start paranoia or anything, but I blame Tinky Winky.

You see, this Shalleck guy was also a writer on the 70s kid's show Winky Dink and You (about which, I'll come clean, I've always wanted to write a new media analysis... I even went so far as to buy the whole winky kit on eBay, which is now under my bed).

Winky Dink.... Tinky Winky. Can you say copyright dispute?


40-Something Pineapples for Madonna's Rock-Hard Kabbalah Buns

First off, K-Cav's new UPN venture was not only terrible, it was terrible. As you can well surmise, I am so upset about it that I refuse to think of two different adjectives. It deserves nothing. Nothing. I watched some chirpy girls have a 21st birthday party in Vegas; Kristen stood there like a trendy lump of coal. I had to shut it off before I started trying to touch my elbows together behind my back to amuse myself.

Has anyone been watching Entertainment Tonight? If not, you've been missing Tonya Harding at a sleek 250 pounds doing some sort of week-long expose. Tune in tomorrow night as she "reveals a family secret."
What, T-Hard, thyroid problems?

Mother of all idols, I tuned in to the Grammys a minute ago just in time to see Madonna and The Gorillaz in the opening number.

Wait for it...

Wait for it...


Madonna looks unbelievably, incredibly, magnificently, fantastically hot. I'm, like, not even kidding. Her body is sick. Like, sicker than in the Open Your Heart vid, sicker than the Hung Up vid, sicker than all sickening get-out.

I was not only mesmerized, but now I'm prodded to do pilates for, say, the next 16 hours straight.

As for the new media buzz-o for the day, NYT has joined with Brightcove (of Cambridge, MA, glory be...) to amp up their online video offerings. Score one for not wanting to be outmoded.

And my media-critic-crush-of-the-moment, Steve over at AdRants, talks about the boot in the ass that NBC got from the American Family Association for the nomenclatural details of Britney's upcoming guest spot on Will & Grace. Brit was slated to star in a cooking show called "Cruci-Fixin's."

To the AFA: 55 blanched crabapples aimed right at your whiny faces.
And, wait... you're targeting W & G now? Go ahead, latey-pants-es.


17 Crabapples for Peeing on the Wrong Shrub

From good doggies to very naughty dawgies...

Google reports that BMW.de (the German home site) tried to be tricky-slicky and ended up being just plain stunata. Google has super clear guidelines for SEOs, and don't f-ing call their bluff, 'cause they'll sure as all hell call yours.

What the BMW.de peeps tried to pull off was to create a "doorway" page that feeds into the google search trove. This page, a verbal cornucopia of every keyword that could ever be associated with BMW, doesn't actually exist on the site, but serves quite nicely as a digi-carrot.

Because the real splashpage of BMW.de is sparsely taggable, this doorway page seems like a splendid way to score visitors. Well, yea... it is. But so is running across the basketball court with the ball tucked under your arm.

I came across this story on the MediaPost homepage, and later bumped into Google's own Matt Cutts' blog, which explains exactly why they threw down a fatty red flag.

Looks like BMW.de now has a page rank of zippo. Shit right on you.
Guess you should go fix your actual mainpage, suckers.

Herr BMW-SEO ist im Hundhaus, ja?

28 Pineapples for Swift and Slick Canine Urination Patterns

That little Sirius doggie is earning his bones.

Along with his puppy playmates Webcast and Podcast (Webby and Poddy, if you will), Sirius seems to be smelling the asses and biting the floppy ears of media mogulaires everywhere, unapologetically and with a cute lil’ tail wag.

"Woof, woof, evidence?” you arf.

Well, then: Business Week reports that audience numbers for the Big Tres are down 18% from a decade ago, while that right-wing propaganda montage that Fox cheekily calls "news" slumped 14% in their most recent quarter; even CNN took a 5% dive.

To Rupert Murdoch and friends, I say this: watch where you lift your leg to pee; that there Sirius pup is adroitly marking his territory.

Unlimited Pineapple Confetti for a Match Made in Airspace: The Abridged Non-Anxiety-Inducing Version

Out with the old media and in with the new, right?


Check this out: a bad-ass company based in Lexington, MA called Mobot has elegantly thrown print media and interactive media in the same bed. Do they get along? You bet your ass they do.

Mediapost explains the marriage most clearly:
[note: If memory serves, you'll have to register to enter the site fully, but do it. Mediapost is magnifico! And I'm willing to bet that they have a free dl of Jessica's Superbowl Pizza Hut 'mercial.]

"...ellegirl will become the latest publication to offer marketers the ability to reach readers via mobile phone, using a technology created by Mobot. Readers will be able to use their camera phones to take photos of ads they're interested in and instantly send the digital images to Mobot, which will send them back promotions and information, such as locations where the products are sold, coupons, or free sample offers. [They also get entered in an ellegirl contest each time they "submit" an ad.] This approach to digital print may sound familiar to survivors of the dot-com crash who remember Digital Convergence Corp., a once-hot Web player that developed the CueCat, a computer modem-like device that Internet-connected readers could use to scan codes in an ad or editorial content in a magazine to receive more information via the Web.

The next generation of digital print will come via a new 'magnetic ink' technology that can literally print a microchip on a magazine or newspaper page, which can interact instantly with electronic devices nearby.

...[or] ask the folks at Coca-Cola Co. or Carat Interactive about the 'billboard' they erected in New York's Times Square. They call it a 'digital interactive portal.' It's capable of communicating directly to consumers via cell phones and over the Web, and adjusting its content accordingly."

Doubtful? Freaking out? Think it's intrusive?

No. Nope. Maybe, but I'm a'ight...
Nonethess, I felt better about feeling good after reading Maura Welch's Boston.com business blog. Welch formerly worked for Mobot, so, while certainly a bit biased, she lays down the stats nicely: "A study reveals that participants' purchase intent and aided recall of advertisers increased 14 to 33 percent. And 96 percent of contest participants said they were likely to engage with similar promotions. Another company, NextCode, has advertisers add a unique sequence of printed squares that a phone cam can read to trigger the same kind of marketing."

I totally, totally dig it. Yes, I'm at advertisers' mercy, but I feel a little bit more opted-in.
Go ahead, blitz me. I brought my umbrella because I told it to rain, and, yes, I'll probably still get wet. But maybe not so soaked that I'll have to change my clothes?

And, speaking of cameraphones, thanks E for snapping a lovely pic for me of the Bambi 2 billboard on Comm Ave(?). I am pleased as punch to report that there is no image of Bambi's dead mom anywhere in the adspace. That Disney corp is just so darn tactful.

***Yup, I removed the pic because it was spurring server chaos. Moo.***

And to mollify the masses-- I just watched Kristen Cavalleri guest hosting ET on MTV (gotta love meta-meta-media), and she was actually darn good. Get This Party Started starts this Tuesday as we throw a party for Hurricane Katrina victims in Vegas. Really though... nothing says "let's rebuild your life" like three-card.


90 Pineapples for Fresh Funky Fierce Fairy Faces

I think I'm back.

Fricking thank God, because it's rumored that Kristen Cavalleri is dating Ashley Olsen's ex-boy Scott Sartiano. My source? Hollywood Rag. Viable? I say, "oh hell... sure."

Jesus, I feel so much better. I was positively aching having to hold onto that knowledge for a whole damn day.

AND AND AND... promo pics of the new gals of ANTM 6 are out!!!

The UPN mainpage pic reminds me of the Britney perfume commercial in the forest with the guy-that-looks-like-KFed-but-isn’t; she shoots him with an arrow and breathily voiceovers some crappy copy and they embrace and it’s all very clearly quite stupid. This is like that-- uncomfortably fairytastic --except that the girls are wearing even less clothing, and most of it is made out of (kinda mutey-dull?) peach shades of taffeta and chiffon. I would prefer the girls in a rich green and the backdrop in light corals, but they didn’t ask me. Not sure why.

Check out the Tinkerbell Powder Room promo shot and the ANTM trailer here.

Have a pre-game fave-o?

I do. Middle row, far right. A little Scarlett, a shot of Jessica Alba, and some general doe-eyed waifness. Alternately, I enjoy top row, second from the left. In that pic at least, she looks somewhat like a sultrier, younger Debra Messing. And if they give that red-haired girl next to my favorite girl long, black, wavy hair-extensions, I could give her a holla, too. We'll just have to see, won't we?

Starts March 8th. I'm keeping an eye out for clear rhinestoned heels, feather-trimmed wings, and a matching magic wand to wear for the premiere. If I can get them without going into a sketchy shop off the far-reaches of the Orange Line, all the better.


please don't come to my blog for the next two days

technical difficulties.


15 Pineapples for Clouds that Look like Backlit Buttermilk Cobblestones

After waking from a dream in which I was dressed only in a minidress made of white-meat Thanksgiving turkey [right, right...what? I know.], I began my run in the dark... still, deservedly, quite haunted.

But then I returned to a sky that looked like this. And I swear... it was camera-worthy, even if I was still halfway melted into my full night of half-sleep.


Girls, Cocaine, and Miniature Deer

What's not to love about Groundhog's Day Eve? Phil-Hawg is gettin' all stylin' and limber right about now-- waxing his bushy brows and buffing his claws for his sexy, sultry, shadowy silhouette photo shoot. He's so hot. And meteorologically-acute. Therefore, in honor of the number of legs a groundhog has, tonight I am setting out to discuss four very crucial points.

1. Because I have my CNN.com account set up to send me updates when Lindsay Lohan news hits the wires (no, like, really), I was shocked at this headline this morning: Lohan Injured in Teacup Accident.

My initial reaction: Golly!
My secondary reaction: On the Disneyworld ride?
My tertiary reaction: Do you think that was to help her puke? (Oh, shut it, you were thinkin' it a little.)

Turns out, no primary-colored carnivalism involved. Merely a ceramic teacup. Lodged in her leg. In Bryan Adams' house. While he wasn't home. And she was all lotioned up. Because she had just gotten out of the shower. But failed to towel-dry. After making eggs.

Holy what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say? The bulimia and crack thing made sense. This is just daffy.

:: 53 crabapples.

2. On the Kelly Ripa front: Kell makes $36,000 per episode of Live, not to mention her yearly $100,000 clothing and accessories bonus. She is very close to entering I-walk-down-hardwood-stairs-holding-fragile-objects-while-i'm-soaking-wet-and-expect-not-to-fall-down territory. Good thing I think she's cute and likeable anyway. Or I may have lodged a sweet porcelain rosebud in her thigh myself.

:: 3 pineapples for making good choices with your clothing allowance; 4 more for getting one in the first place.

(3). I am not going to expound upon Google's baby's-first-stock-slump because it means absolutely nothing yet. And I'm in the mood to be more flitty than socio-economic tonight anyhow. But, if you want to read another great Financial Times article (you're watching me becoming a fan in real-time, here)... check out Richard Waters' take. I promise I'll be back with a worthy comment when something happens that actually entreats it; otherwise, i'm being a foolhardy reactionary numbskull of the variety towards whom I have repeatedly and decisively expressed hate.

:: Yuppers- a mully.

(3). This one doesn't count either because it's not important, but I wanted to announce that I have purchased a lovely new set of turquoise and white martini glasses. These are in replacement of the set of four bubble-crystal ones which I have broken over the past two months (purely due to poor product design, not because I am clumsy or because I don't towel-dry). Anyway, I just made myself a very chic drink with 6 cherries on the bottom. 6! That is two more than the number of legs a groundhog has! Groundhog's Day Eve is always so much fun!

:: 2 parenthetical pineapples.

3. Madonna and the Gorillaz will team up for the opening number of the Grammys! Sweet wad of cartoon sexiness!

:: 89 pumped-up pines.

4. I was a lucky girl today when I received a demo CD of a swishy-smart emerging Boston band: Silent Service. Click on audio and stream Girls & Cocaine. I dare you to listen and not want to:
a.) say "shit, this is wicked f-ing good."
b.) snap your fingers and dance like a helicopter-person.
c.) feel a intense urge to grab a straw and bang a slut. In a good way.

Check it out. I enjoy them even more than all these cherries. And we're talking cherries with stems here, readers; this is serious.

::158 pineapples, fresh fo' yo' pickin'.

(4). I know, I know, I lied. But I nearly forgot a tidbit of momentous news: yesterday I had my first visitor who found me from a Google search for... for.... Mousedeer! (12/22 for the newbies). That dear little deer is sexy, you betcha. I'm thrilled that the public is finally catching wind.

:: 7 itsy-bitsy but smoldering pineapples.

I just gave out 263 pineapples in a single post.

And the fact that I pulled out a calculator for that affects me a little bit.

And yes, I put down a paper towel to snap a cherry pic--- I don't stain white countertops, gratia artis or not...

And, when, prithee tell, did I start thinking in Latin?

I'm scary.