Also, my friend Huy is having his second annual Halloween party at Hasbeen Design tomorrow. Visit the first four levels of hell and bum out his neighbors. 6:00 to 9:30. 521 NE Couch St.
Photo source
October 29, 2010
Hello! My name is . . .
I am so excited for Halloween. In the past I have been, amongst other things, a tupperware salesman, a pet rock, a unicorn (with disastrous results), a pregnant eighties coke wife, and a dead prom queen. Here is hint for this year's costume:
Also, my friend Huy is having his second annual Halloween party at Hasbeen Design tomorrow. Visit the first four levels of hell and bum out his neighbors. 6:00 to 9:30. 521 NE Couch St.
Photo source
Also, my friend Huy is having his second annual Halloween party at Hasbeen Design tomorrow. Visit the first four levels of hell and bum out his neighbors. 6:00 to 9:30. 521 NE Couch St.
Photo source
October 28, 2010
Guest Blog: How to Ruin Halloween
Yay! I love guest blogs. Here is Elizabeth's take on Halloween and her own mortality.
I love Halloween. I love costumes, and dancing, and fall, and pumpkins. I love that prudish girls become slutty referees, nurses, and Dorothys. I love scaring children when they come to the door, body paint, eating candy, fog machines, and lasers. I love fake blood, fake swords, haunted houses, fake spiders, and hay rides. I even love the way the rotting leaves smell while I dance the Monster Mash.
What I do NOT love are doctors. Latrophobia is, as far as I’m concerned, one of the most rational fears that modern man has to deal with. When you go to the doctor with any type of symptom, there is only one thing that he or she can relay, which is that there is something wrong with you. Either they have reasonable empirical evidence that there is a disease, break, disorder, wound, condition, infection, mutation or detrimental lifestyle habit, or there is nothing medically wrong, and you have to continue to live with the symptom while knowing they think you’ve made it up. In addition, the only person who can say with any authority that your life is about to end is someone with a medical license. Considering my eternal demise is also one of my least favorite things. I tend to believe that all those people who have come to terms with death haven’t really grasped the gravity of the end of their existence.
Needless to say, going to the doctor is extremely low on my list of priorities. I typically go only if there is no other way I can avoid it. When I have to go, I will hyperventilate for several days preceding the event while I think of ways to tell my family that I do in fact have a chronic disease that is very painful and will soon kill me. Depending on severity of the issue and the amount of time I have between scheduling and execution, I may break into hives, have a spike in my diastolic blood pressure, and/or cry until my face looks like Rhianna’s at the end of her relationship with Chris Brown.
Long story short, I thought the doctor couldn’t get much worse, but on my recent visit I found that to be false. My doctor came into my room and introduced himself with a smile. He apologized for being late, and was still wearing his scrubs from the surgery that he had just completed. He had me lay back on the table while I was violated with cold metal instruments more appropriate for an alien abduction than a Tuesday afternoon. As I stared at the ceiling during my probing, there was only one thing to look at . . . . the bloody skeleton doctor seen in this photo. All I could think was, “How could you ruin Halloween too?”
I love Halloween. I love costumes, and dancing, and fall, and pumpkins. I love that prudish girls become slutty referees, nurses, and Dorothys. I love scaring children when they come to the door, body paint, eating candy, fog machines, and lasers. I love fake blood, fake swords, haunted houses, fake spiders, and hay rides. I even love the way the rotting leaves smell while I dance the Monster Mash.
What I do NOT love are doctors. Latrophobia is, as far as I’m concerned, one of the most rational fears that modern man has to deal with. When you go to the doctor with any type of symptom, there is only one thing that he or she can relay, which is that there is something wrong with you. Either they have reasonable empirical evidence that there is a disease, break, disorder, wound, condition, infection, mutation or detrimental lifestyle habit, or there is nothing medically wrong, and you have to continue to live with the symptom while knowing they think you’ve made it up. In addition, the only person who can say with any authority that your life is about to end is someone with a medical license. Considering my eternal demise is also one of my least favorite things. I tend to believe that all those people who have come to terms with death haven’t really grasped the gravity of the end of their existence.
Needless to say, going to the doctor is extremely low on my list of priorities. I typically go only if there is no other way I can avoid it. When I have to go, I will hyperventilate for several days preceding the event while I think of ways to tell my family that I do in fact have a chronic disease that is very painful and will soon kill me. Depending on severity of the issue and the amount of time I have between scheduling and execution, I may break into hives, have a spike in my diastolic blood pressure, and/or cry until my face looks like Rhianna’s at the end of her relationship with Chris Brown.
Long story short, I thought the doctor couldn’t get much worse, but on my recent visit I found that to be false. My doctor came into my room and introduced himself with a smile. He apologized for being late, and was still wearing his scrubs from the surgery that he had just completed. He had me lay back on the table while I was violated with cold metal instruments more appropriate for an alien abduction than a Tuesday afternoon. As I stared at the ceiling during my probing, there was only one thing to look at . . . . the bloody skeleton doctor seen in this photo. All I could think was, “How could you ruin Halloween too?”
October 27, 2010
The Joys of a Significant Other Vol. 1
I always assumed that couples don’t have any friends because they get so deeply involved in each other that there just isn’t enough time in the day to devote time to such a paltry thing as friendship. There’s also that strange mutation from large group of fun single people who are all friends, to large group of decreasingly fun people who are all in relationships.
What I am realizing now is that it’s not that couples don’t attempt to foster friendships, it’s that their friends just don’t want to hang out with them anymore.
My theory is that a relationship creates a socially coddled person who can’t take the harsh realities of the outside world. When you are in a relationship, your partner nourishes the side of you that would normally be called into question by any chemically balanced friend. Here are some examples that have no bearing at all on my life. These are just examples. You don’t get to cry at the end of Christmas specials without being ridiculed, you don’t get to force your friend to give you back rubs, and no friend would allow you to sit on the couch looking like a bag of clothing refused by Goodwill and watch seven hours of Twin Peaks. Eventually a friend would say, “I’m hungry, there is absolutely no food in your house but a butternut squash and oatmeal, and you need to brush your hair.” Who wants that when you can hang out with someone who says you look beautiful even when you look in the mirror and see that, in fact, you do not?
Additionally, my limited social graces are going out the window. I hate small talk. You may find that ridiculous considering this blog is basically dedicated to talk that is small, but it’s the truth. It actually pains me. I like meeting new people, but only if I immediately like them and can start joking about hunchbacks or bodily functions. Now that I am armed with a boyfriend who excels at chatting in an easy and friendly manner with complete strangers, I’m giving up. We were recently sat at a wedding with some random aunts and uncles of the bride and I just sat there and ate and sipped wine and smiled occasionally while he talked. It was heaven. I will probably never make another new friend.
Eventually I may realize that I want to make new friends. But by that point it will be too late. I will be unable to introduce myself and ask the appropriate getting to know you questions in a coherent fashion, will say “we” all the time even when standing by myself, and be otherwise unpalatable for friendship consumption. And then I will go home and comfort myself with Twin Peaks.
What I am realizing now is that it’s not that couples don’t attempt to foster friendships, it’s that their friends just don’t want to hang out with them anymore.
My theory is that a relationship creates a socially coddled person who can’t take the harsh realities of the outside world. When you are in a relationship, your partner nourishes the side of you that would normally be called into question by any chemically balanced friend. Here are some examples that have no bearing at all on my life. These are just examples. You don’t get to cry at the end of Christmas specials without being ridiculed, you don’t get to force your friend to give you back rubs, and no friend would allow you to sit on the couch looking like a bag of clothing refused by Goodwill and watch seven hours of Twin Peaks. Eventually a friend would say, “I’m hungry, there is absolutely no food in your house but a butternut squash and oatmeal, and you need to brush your hair.” Who wants that when you can hang out with someone who says you look beautiful even when you look in the mirror and see that, in fact, you do not?
Additionally, my limited social graces are going out the window. I hate small talk. You may find that ridiculous considering this blog is basically dedicated to talk that is small, but it’s the truth. It actually pains me. I like meeting new people, but only if I immediately like them and can start joking about hunchbacks or bodily functions. Now that I am armed with a boyfriend who excels at chatting in an easy and friendly manner with complete strangers, I’m giving up. We were recently sat at a wedding with some random aunts and uncles of the bride and I just sat there and ate and sipped wine and smiled occasionally while he talked. It was heaven. I will probably never make another new friend.
Eventually I may realize that I want to make new friends. But by that point it will be too late. I will be unable to introduce myself and ask the appropriate getting to know you questions in a coherent fashion, will say “we” all the time even when standing by myself, and be otherwise unpalatable for friendship consumption. And then I will go home and comfort myself with Twin Peaks.
October 26, 2010
Blood, Chainsaws, Freaks and Lasers
In the spirit of Halloween, I have been working on terrifying myself. This included a trip to the Milburn's Haunted Manor last Friday.
I'll be honest. I have only attended a few haunted houses and am certainly not a connoisseur. The first was when I was eight or nine. Maybe older. Our Aunt Sharon took us to Enchanted Forest. We were having a great time until she suggested we go into the Haunted House. I got about 10 feet in and when the first dummy with an ax fell out of a trapdoor, I yelped, "I don't like this!" and we marched right out the front door. The next haunted house was at Disney Land when I was thirteen. Pretty mild stuff. I had a bad shag haircut and an equally bad attitude. Was more terrified by the Small World Ride. The third and fourth were the aforementioned haunted corn mazes, which were certainly fun and relatively scary.
Milburn blew them out of the water. If the website alone doesn't entice you (please check out this feat of technology), I will say this. I screamed, convulsed, almost knocked over my friends, and gibbered with terror. I don't want to give away any surprises but it was intense. I was losing my voice by the end of it. They offer three separate features for $20. You should do all three.
I'll be honest. I have only attended a few haunted houses and am certainly not a connoisseur. The first was when I was eight or nine. Maybe older. Our Aunt Sharon took us to Enchanted Forest. We were having a great time until she suggested we go into the Haunted House. I got about 10 feet in and when the first dummy with an ax fell out of a trapdoor, I yelped, "I don't like this!" and we marched right out the front door. The next haunted house was at Disney Land when I was thirteen. Pretty mild stuff. I had a bad shag haircut and an equally bad attitude. Was more terrified by the Small World Ride. The third and fourth were the aforementioned haunted corn mazes, which were certainly fun and relatively scary.
Milburn blew them out of the water. If the website alone doesn't entice you (please check out this feat of technology), I will say this. I screamed, convulsed, almost knocked over my friends, and gibbered with terror. I don't want to give away any surprises but it was intense. I was losing my voice by the end of it. They offer three separate features for $20. You should do all three.
October 25, 2010
Recapturing the Magic
The trifecta of amazing was, well, amazing. Here is a quick summation of the events:
Hooters: Insane. Absolutely insane. It was UFC night at Hooters which meant we had to park in the Safeway parking lot due to the sheer mass of Hooters attendees. We had to sit with randoms and they were turning large groups away due to the two- to three-hour wait. The wings were satisfactory. People love taking their children to Hooters. Charissa and I donned leopard-print leggings which would remain the sartorial theme of the evening. Laurence befriended our table mates and Charissa and I impressed and amused them with our UFC commentary.
B-ball: We jogged over to Irving Park. In the rain. Played a game of PIG. Charissa wore the leopard-print leggings and booty shorts. I wore the leopard-print leggings with a Fernandez jersey and leg-warmers. Laurence and Sam fell to the wayside, Charissa and I battled it out for the gold. I turned the corner with a three-pointer and emerged victorious. Picture to follow.
Dirty: The leggings made the transition to evening. 4loko with licorice straws. We caught the bus on MLK and then walked across the Burnside Bridge where we were accosted by Kyle Arthur pretending to be a creepy crack distributor. There were a lot of poles on high platforms, light-up disco-square dance floors, scenes from Coyote Ugly playing on a large TV screen, and many awkward people. I befriended an Egyptian exchange student wearing Ali G glasses, hanging out in Dirty by himself. I'm not sure why. I felt sorry for him. Charissa and I did attempt to dance on the poles. If you can call attempting to climb the pole like it's the rope in gym class while wearing slippery leggings dancing (it wasn't really dancing). At one point a random girl started dancing with me and cried, "Save me from that creep!" I turned around. It was the Egyptian guy with the Ali G glasses. Birthday drinks for Kyle Arthur (it was his birthday! Happy birthday Kyle Arthur!) and then we went to Tube. Things kind of fell apart at that point, as they are prone to do at Tube due the logic vacuum located in the back near the bathrooms.
Aftermath: So many episodes of Twin Peaks.
* Image source
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