Pilates With A Pee

Friday night I did something that made me feel a little bit uncomfortable.

Friday night I went to a Pilates studio.

It was strictly for the purposes of trying to find something, anything, that might make me well again, and I didn't wear a leotard or a tutu or those special grippy socks with the toes cut off, but I still had a hard time shaking the feeling that I was doing something very wrong just by being there.

The session itself made me feel even more uncomfortable.

I'm admittedly a bit oversensitive about my physical condition these days, but 50 minutes of straining and sweating and gasping at dumbed-down versions of what so many soccer moms and schoolgirl ballerinas were prancing their way through all around me didn't do much for my self esteem.

To be sure, it was a wonderful thing to have a new kind of therapy to try. To be surer, I've never been overly concerned about getting too in touch with my feminine side. Still, something about going to a Pilates studio, voluntarily and unrelated to any romantic endeavors, and gaining nothing but a polite, perfectly-postured beatdown, was too much for me to take.

I had to do something manly. Something really manly.

So, on the drive home from the studio, I did what really manly men do when they're driving and they have to pee but they're simply too manly to stop and find a restroom.

I peed in a bottle. While talking on the phone and changing lanes.

And this made me feel most uncomfortable of all.

Because, you see, as so often happens in the undertaking of really manly activities, things went horribly wrong and the bottle spilled all over my lap.

I won't go into the horrifying details, or at least I won't go any further into them, but suffice it to say that my masculine self-worth was most definitely not restored. Sore, shamed, frustrated, I turned to the only option I had left to salvage the evening and regain some measure of dignity.

I bought myself a pair of those amazing socks.

Halloween Q&A

Is Halloween my favorite holiday?
Yes.

Is it my favorite day of the year?
Yes.

Do I love it like a fat kid love cake?
Yes.

Do I love it like rappers love lame analogies?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that, despite this perhaps-slightly-maniacal passion, I didn't carve a single-, triple-. or nonuple-pumpkin jack o'lantern this year?
Yes.

Do I feel less ashamed because it was only due to the continued destruction of all I hold dear by The World's Most Annoying Injury?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that I didn't dress up like a scary scarecrow, sit on the porch like a decoration, then suddenly spring to life and frighten the sugar out of all of the little trick-or-treaters who showed up at my parents' house?
Yes.

Do I feel less ashamed because this was also only due to TWMAI? Well, and to the fact that my mom would have undoubtedly called the police on me?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that my first inclination upon seeing the sign pictured below was that the ghost was in search of other ghosts with prominent backsides?
No.

And that the thing he was holding--because it would have had to have been a "he," right?--was some spectral variation of Mardi Gras beads targeted to his preferred body part?
Also no.

Happy Halloween?
Yes.

Platanolapiz

Perhaps you think that bananas are only good for eating or splitting or throwing, mushy-boomerang-style, at unsuspecting enemies.

Perhaps, like me, you had no idea that bananas could also be good for art. Not quite hanging-in-a-gallery art, maybe, but definitely showing-off-to-your-little-sister art. And that's still pretty impressive, isn't it? According to my little sister, it sure is.

My actually-talented actual artist of an aunt is the one who informed me about this wonderful possibility. If she hadn't, I might've gone the rest of my life without having any idea of what I'd been missing, despite some previous experience with unorthodox fruit carving.

But she did inform me, and I didn't miss it, and these two facts--in combination with my lack of anything more interesting to write about--mean that if you can tolerate prolonged inhalation of banana peel fumes, you too can broaden your horizons and your bragging opportunities.

All you do is scrape the top layer of the peel with a sharp object, wait a few minutes, and voila, presto change-o, etc., etc.

Art.

First, though, a few recommendations, compiled through the eagle eyes of hindsight:

1. Do not use a serrated kitchen knife. I don't know if there's such a thing as a banana carving knife, or why the lousy local craft store hung up on me when I called to discuss, but I have to think if I were slightly less impatient, and slightly more mobile, I'd have found something a whole lot more precise to use.

2. Do not use the same amount of force that you might use to peel a potato or carve a scrimshaw. You're giving the banana a tattoo, not a peelectomy.

3. Do not shout swears at your banana when your best efforts to carve a straight line are thwarted by its slippery roundness. It's not the banana's fault that it's not a museum-quality canvas. Also, it can't hear you.

4. Do not expect other people to be as rapturously delighted with your handiwork as you are. Expect something more along the lines of "you better be eating that poor thing after you're finished with it" or "Is the internet connection out again?"

Okay, I think that's it. Work hard, keep those suggestions in mind, and remember that if Plan A for Art doesn't turn out the way you hoped, and the wicked critic philistines mock your efforts, there's always Plan B.

B for Boomerang.

**Special thanks to Creek Johnson Photography**

Contest Winner (Loser?)

Dear Everybody,

Thanks for guessing. And also for making me feel a little less alone in having viewed that frothy deathbeast.

The winner of the $5 (and all of the disturbing personal questions that come with it) is Roscoe Jenkins. Her Holiday Card will be stuffed accordingly.

The picture is indeed from the 1980's television series "V," a show that I randomly began watching a couple of weeks ago, brilliantly determined would be a perfect candidate for a remake, and then saw an ad for, you guessed it, ABC's remake.

For those of you wondering--and really, how could you not be?--the creature in the picture is the offspring of one of the lizardlike alien invaders and a whiny, man-haircutted Earthling named Robin. It was actually one of a set of twins, who, as should be apparent from the photo below, were clearly fraternal.

When the demon baby was extracted (everything was done via C-section, as alien-human hybrid deliveries invariably are), I started laughing. When its little brother climbed out--yes, the doctors panicked and it delivered itself--I almost had a hernia.

I can't tell if it looks more like a tiny green Krang or a tiny evil (live-action) Ninja Turtle.

Creepiness, Creaminess, Contestiness, Cashiness

Posted below is an image that is simultaneously all of the following things: (i) disgusting, (ii) horrible, (iii) terrifying, (iv) hilarious, and (v) Shamrock Shake-y.

If you are easily grossed out or frightened, or if you want to retain your ability to consume mint-colored foods, you should probably stop reading right now. Go fly a kite, or a weather balloon, or, to quote pre-insane Tom Cruise from A Few Good Men, go "do whatever it is you do when you're not here."

Now, on the other hand, if you read that list of adjectives with a growing sense of wonderment as to how I'd managed to isolate so precisely the deepest fascinations of your mind, I have good news for you. Well, I actually have good and bad news, but there are three pieces of good and only one of bad. Wait. Is that statement itself another piece of good news? Does that mean there are actually four pieces of good news? Wait again. Wouldn't that statement be additional good news in itself, meaning there are actually five pieces now?

I think I'll probably stop right there before I break one of the few remaining parts of my brain that aren't broken already.

Back to the news. The bad: If you like the sound of whatever's being described by those adjectives, you're almost certainly deranged. I'm sorry, but there's really no arguing it. The good news, though: Part 1 - You will be able to see said image in a moment, free of charge; Part 2 - The first person to leave a comment successfully identifying the origin of said image came will receive a $5 bill in his or her Holiday Card this year; Part 3 - Yes, the Holiday Cards are coming. Stay tuned.

Are you ready for the image now?

You will never be ready for the image.

Here it is:

Good luck, and may the best weirdo win.

Hey! Guys! The Recession's Over!

Oh, wait. Never mind.

So, Basically, Nothing Happened

I'm extremely proud to say that I didn't read a single "article" about this idiotic "Balloon Boy" "story" all day. I'm also extremely proud at how dexterously I wield snarky quotation marks.

Back to the Balloon Boy thing, though. Is there a better example of the imbecilic depths to which mainstream American media has sunk than a story about a 6-Year Old Boy Who Took Off In a Hot Air Balloon! Fell Out Of A Hot Air Balloon! Isn't In The Balloon But Is Still Missing! May Be Spearheading An Al Qaeda Hot Air Balloon Attack! Never Left His House? Almost certainly yes, but this is still pretty bad.

Perhaps you're thinking, "How do you know so much about the 'story' (thanks for the quotes setup) if you didn't read anything about it?" Perhaps no one cares what you're thinking.

What I'm thinking, though, is the following list of questions, which are and shall remain rhetorical in the truest sense of the word. And I just looked it up, too, so don't try to get fresh with me about it.

I don't want any answers. Because I truly don't care. I just can't help but ask:

1. What the Child Services was this wacko family doing with an unsecured, homemade hot air balloon?
2. How the TMZ did this go from "our kid has been missing for a half-hour" to "a Nation Riveted" so lightning fast?
3. What the smoking cigarettes was that little punk doing hiding up in the attic, anyway?
4. Why the CNN can't we put each of the authors of the 3,339 "news articles" on their own DIY balloons and float them into oblivion?
5. Why the whiny hypocrisy did I just spend fifteen minutes of my life on this?

Wherein I Remove All Doubt

As someone who possesses five working senses and nearly average intelligence, I notice a lot of curious things happening in the world.

As someone who possesses a healthy distaste for looking like a jackass, I do my best to laugh at the funny curious things and shake my head condescendingly at the offensive ones.

The problem is, sometimes I can't tell which is which.

This album cover*, for instance. Is it fair game to look at it and be amused by the combination of the artist's name and the photo's, shall we say, "unorthodox" orientation? Or is it rude and juvenile and tasteless and should I be embarrassed for even asking?

Don't answer that.

The reason I bring any of this up is that I saw something today that was so curious that I feel compelled to share it. I just don't want to offend anyone or look like an insensitive jackass. Especially the jackass part.

Is what I saw funny? No. It's not. Definitely not like my new favorite Rock/Pop artist's album cover. Is it offensive? I worry that it might be, even with all of the qualifiers I'm attempting to set up in advance. I guess I'll just assume that most people have already reached a verdict on the jackass question as it applies to me, and I'll take some solace in the protection afforded by the doctrine of double jeopardy.

It was this morning that I saw what I saw.

I was exiting the local JCC (Jewish Community Center), where, I'm delighted to say, I've once again returned to regular engagement in That Activity Which I Already Jinxed Once Before And Will Not Be So Foolish As To Do So Again By Direct Reference To Or Celebration Thereof.

What I saw was right in front of the building when I saw it, parked in the fire lane. I was so tired from almost forty-five minutes of almost drowning that I almost missed it anyway.

Here it is:

I'd actually passed it before I'd fully processed what it said. I walked back for a closer look and, naturally, a closer photo.

Adolph Sufrin Office Products.

Adolph.

Sufrin.

Office Products.

Parked outside of a Jewish Community Center.

Hopefully you now appreciate the difficulty that I faced in deciding whether or not to post this. And the difficulty I now face as I try to decide whether or not to discuss it any further.

I think I'll just begin and end by saying that there has to be some other "Office Products" company somewhere within the state of Pennsylvania and that whoever at the JCC chose this one instead should be fired immediately. Or at least forced to listen to the latest Jay Reatard album.

Have I offended you? Do you think I'm a jackass?

Please don't answer that.

*In the interest of full disclosure, a cursory Amazon search seems to indicate that the picture is intended to be oriented normally, and that eMusic's album page just screwed it up. This obviously doesn't resolve the original question; it just re-frames it slightly.

Sometimes I Help Out Other Websites

(Link)

LOL I ♥ UR HOUSE

Dear Ms. Bassichis,

I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but with a first name like yours, I'm sure you won't be down for long.

Ready? Okay. Here it is:

No one who has enough money to buy a house communicates via text message.

Perhaps you were thinking of NBA players or big time rappers or Miley Cyrus. Fair enough, but as you should be well aware, we don't have any of those in Pittsburgh.

If it was just a matter of trying to stand out from the thousands of other "For Sale" signs out there, I have a much better idea for you:

A giant, 20' x 20' cutout of your head, on top of a neon sign that reads "Building a time machine to send myself back to the '80s. Buy this house and help me get there."

Like it? I thought you might. If you have any questions, or need any help with assembling it all, hit me up on MySpace.

Your Pal,
Dan