Breaking News: Moronic Edition!

I came across this article recently, while I was on one of my many recent pilgrimages to Southern Indiana.

It wasn’t so much as I was browsing through the Evansville Courier and Press as I just picked up the front page. This was the main lead story at the same time that the supreme court was ruling the Bush wiretapping snafu illegal, the same time that Lebanon was getting pounded into the ground by Israel, the same time that – well, right, you get the picture.

This article shared the front page with another article about local dogs being euthanized and, I think, something about the local high school cafeterias.

I really love a lot of things about this hard-hitting news piece. For example:

Early Monday, the toilet paper (TP) vandals struck again

.

Just in case you aren’t familiar with the vernacular, y’all, TP is short for TOILET PAPER. If you missed that, you may be befuddled throughout the rest of the article. In that case, there is nothing I can do for you.

Complaints about TPing are "few and far between," said Williams. "We do get them periodically, but a lot of times people don't report them because they know it's been done by friends of their kids," he said.

Basically, according to law enforcement, this issue isn’t really an issue. And yet, the article? Goes on.

"And they are obviously not cheap," she said, holding up an empty bag of Quilted Northern, purchased at Schnucks.

Obviously. Only the best toilet paper (TP) for this particular job. If you would like to purchase your own. . . wait a minute. How did she know IT WAS PURCHASED AT SCHNUCKS? I smell a rat.

Although a popular TP cleanup technique, Williams warns people not to light toilet paper on fire to get it out of trees and shrubs.
"I've heard stories about people catching more on fire than they intended," he said.

Ha. Hm. Ha. HA. HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAAAAA!

The crazy thing is, Evansville, Indiana isn’t a tiny town. It’s not a big city, but it isn’t Mayberry, either. And the locals don’t like that implication. They’re kind of defensive that way. But crap like this is where Americans get the reputation of being absolutely insular, completely blind to what’s going on in the world.

It’s silly, it’s shameful, and, I think, irresponsible to allow the focus of your newspaper to become so pedantic.

But, I digress. Let's get back to the important thing, making fun. Check out this poll:

How much toilet paper does it take to properly TP a two-story home?
8
12
24
More!
None, it's vandalism!

Y’all! “More!” just barely beat out “None, it’s vandalism!” Power to the people!

I hearby nominate this article for Gawker's prestigious Great Moments in Journalism award.

HP Reviews: The Illusionist

The film is a rousing mystery period film, full of . . .okay, no. This film is just arousing.

So, right, this movie is all about Edward Norton sporting some finely tailored suits and shiny, shiny shoes. Lots of dramatically lowered, black-bearded chin, brown laser eyes shooting sexy thousand-mile stares with deadly frequency. Lots of gas firelight throwing dramatic sepia-toned shadows on his sexily-exposed forearms jutting from rolled-up sleeves.

The other thing the movie is about is Jessica Biel, and the best review I can possibly give her is that I did not once think of her as the wayward oldest daughter of a preacher, Mary Camden. Girl looked really gooood.

My movie review of the Illusionist, in ten words: Edward Norton, come down off that screen and date me.

This was also my original review of Fight Club. Of course, Ed and I had a total falling out when I felt like he was being pretentious and long-winded, well, almost always.

But, damn, that man.

I cannot resist him.

He must be magic.

LOOK AT ME (no, don't look at me)

Today, following the popularity of my dashed-out photo essay, I watched the stats to my little blog explode. Suddenly, instead off the thirty of you who read this here navel-gazer there were ten thousand people.

I felt a little bit of vertigo while I stared at the lists of domain names -- among the ubiquitous comcasts and rrs, there were NASAs and Cornells and Harvards and Yales and Princetons. There were government people and media people and people with boring jobs who have time to click on things that make them snicker.

All of a sudden I felt just like an obnoxious little girl who has been jumping around in her favorite ruffled party dress and glittery shiny patent leather maryjanes screaming LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME MOM MOM MOMOMOMOMOMOMOM LOOK! and then, suddenly, a curtain raises and there are ten thousand people looking at you. (Including my mom -- hey mom! -- who thinks everything I write is brilliant. So, like, no pressure there.)

Come to think of it, it's kind of like when Cindy went on that quizbowl show. She was all cocky and braggarty about it until that made-from-cardboard looking camera flashed that red I'M ON light and she totally froze.

Then I went to bed last night and dreamed I was at a party with several Chicago bloggers -- that is, people who have blogs I read but not people I know in person. Which may make this like some kind of psuedo-celebrity dream, or just some sort of subconscious stalking. Erin Lady Byrne invited me to come to dinner with Poundy and Drunken Bee. Mimi Smartypants was there, too. It was a grand time, there were other people there who treated me nicely and I had only slight dreamtime social anxiety about the whole ordeal. I was a little perplexed, though, at their choice of venue, it was a Texas Roadhouse, and there were peanut shells everywhere and we all sat at long, picnic-table-type tables with big mugs o' frosty beer.

I woke up deriding myself for being such a goddamn Internet geek that I would seriously actually have a dream about meeting bloggers.

Even though, like, it would be so dreamy.
Oh, God. I've said too much.

America, Fuck Yeah

Thanks so much to Gawker (I'm sorry I said you were over), and Gapers Block (I love you always) for giving my cathartic top nine list a shout out! Also: Feministe!

Um. . . and. . . Slate! Hey everybody! Wow and stuff!

A Slideshow Of My Own

Disappointed in myself for taking the recent misogynist pap published in Forbes so seriously, I have decided, upon some thought, to publish my own photo essay: Nine Reasons You Should Marry a Career Bitch. Enjoy:

1. She won’t be so clingy if she got something to do. I think this is pretty self-explanatory – send her to the office all day, let her feel important, and she won’t be interrupting you every five minutes with needy whining because she’s bored at home. “Wah, I need to talk to an adult, Wah, I need a raise in my allowance to buy shoes, wahhhhh, pick up the drycleaning on the way home.” Useless.



2. She’ll end up with a major guilt complex. Lisen. Even if she is making more than you, no one has to know it. You can take those checks, buy yourself some golf clubs, and exploit her sense of guilt about not being around for her kids to ensure that she’ll spend the whole weekend with them, cleaning the house, and crying on the phone to her mom instead of nagging you to clean out the garage. The result? Tee time, baby.



3. She’s more likely to order pizza. And let’s face it. You married her for her ass, not her cooking skills. Bring on the pepperoni, baby.




4. She’s less likely to turn your son into a sissy mama’s boy. And that kid is never going to be on the varsity team if he’s still on your stay-at-home wife’s apron strings. Sticking him in daycare gives him a chance to get some guts, so what if the other kids are beating him up, gives him goddamn character. You know what happens to sissy boys. They take theater class in high school and they end up light in their loafers.



5. She’s less likely to make your baby girl into a tragic mess. Women who work have way fewer hours to enter their children in little girl beauty pageants, harping in their weight and various imagined shortcomings, and ultimately turning her into a possible sociopath who is going to end up being one of “those girls” in high school, possibly marring your reputation in the community, or, even worse, banging one of your buddies.




6. She will be more likely to wear high heels. Women who stay at home let themselves go. No sooner are you married than your woman is lying around the house all day in sweatpants and dirty socks. Want a woman to keep wearing those hot black hose and stilettos – send her to the office.



7. She’s less likely to question your “business trips,” if you know what I mean. All you have to do is say, “Baby, you’re a career woman, you know what this is all about.”




8. You might be the one to get something out of the divorce. Hey, if she's making more than you, YOU could be the guy living on alimony. Sweet.


9. She won’t notice you’re a douchebag. She will be too tired from trying to do everything, and deal with you, that she won’t have any time left to notice that she's married an asshole.

Forbes, you stupid fucks.

This . . . article . . .

Yes, it's likely that marriages where both spouses are career-oriented are likely to encounter rough patches. Is this because careerwomen are essentially not "marriage material?" (Please note that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm, so don't take too long pondering the answer.)

Careers are time-intensive. Marriages are time-intensive . Understandably, two-career marriages are a huge challenge. Is that because of women?

No. That's because of human nature.

Look -- There are just so many common sense criticisms you can make to an article that, quite seriously, lists "9 reasons not to marry a careerwoman" -- but, to me, it just gives yet another excuse for people who are like my sexist asshole ex-boss to denegrate women in the workplace.

This type of tone -- the idea, even, that this type of tone is acceptable for mainstream business press is horrific -- and unbelievably sexist. And disappointing and hurtful. And sad.

And note to self -- don't marry a man with a subscription to Forbes.

Stupid fucks.

I really want this.

A little something for everyone.

Wow. Television is so full of riches. I just made a most incredible discovery. Who Wants To Be A Superhero?

It's just like a regular reality show, only all the contestants wear bizarre superhero outfits. They refer to to each other by their superhero names -- including "Major Victory" and "Fat Momma."

There is a super villian named "Dark enforcer."

The elimination involves a big oscar-the-grouch style trash can.


I just. . . I can't. . . I want. . . Just. . . Look.

Dorks.

Look! I'm Putting Something Up Here!

First off, "Scientists invent sodomite robot?" EFF YEAH!


Okay, now, some tidbits:

I took a knife skills class last night from a local cooking school. Where you stand around with other yuppies and try out various fabulously sharp, expensive knives and chop things! I chatted pleasantly with some of my fellow class-goers, and was slightly disappointed that no one laughed when I referred to my knife as "A pretty good shank."

They just looked at me blankly and nodded.

I also got overenthusiastic and took a chunk out of my fingernail. The instructor chirped cheerfully, "That's what fingernails are for!"

Thanks.

I had an awkward job interview, pushed on me by an overenthusiastic recruiter. The job was a Power Job. A Director of North American Stuff for a Huge Fortune Five Hundred Company in the Suburbs. That would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.

A job that there is no way in God's sweet heaven I would want, much less really be truly qualified for.

Me to recruiter: Um, yeah, I have heard bad things about the corporate culture at Big Fortune Five Hundred Company.
Recruiter: YOU NEVER KNOW UNTIL YOU TALK TO THEM! IT COULD BE AWWWWESOME!
Me to recruiter: I'm kind of happy where I am.
Recruiter: YOU GOTTA GO FOR THIS IT IS AWESOME!

Did I mention that the recruiter also told me that the hiring manager for this job was going "under the radar" by hiring a recruiter in the first place, because she was "bypassing HR?"

Those who know me know I'm leery, at best, at the prospect of "bypassing hr."

Subsequent phone interview:
Hiring manager: So, what are you doing now?
Me: Well, I work 30 hours a week, I have time to pursue things I love like writing classes and freelance projects and volunteer jobs.
Hiring Manager: So, why are you interviewing for this job?

Good goddamn question. I just had a huge revelation that I don’t have to go after the big fat jobs just because they’re there – in fact, I don’t want to do anything like that at all.

I’m just saying, life is pretty good right now. Wouldn’t want to jinx it by adding stressful, unnecessary opportunities.

So, right! More time to look at robots Online! And watch this video of Dwight crashing his car from The Office on YouTube:

In Which I Regress to My 19-yr-old-self

So, I read about how you can check for vanity plates in Gapers Block, So I checked on, um, the fantasy plate of my Ween-obsessed 19-yr-old self. Ween is in trouble here, dudes.

And dude, Check it:


I love the look on Jessie's floating head above said plate. Excellent.

Work The Eff (Dobber -- I censor for YOU) Out.

Work Out is the most amazing show.

By incorporating the elements of:
- bizarre, immature workoutfreaks
- akward lesbian dates
- weights, crunches, boot camp classes
- a super christian mom of a lesbian
- a weird little latina named "mimi" who bites a lot
- the sweetest, most sincere main character ever to dominate a reality show

It manages to create the most compelling television ever.

Not to mention, it included the best line of overdubbed narration ever: "After I showed a picture of my boyfriend's penis to Jodi Watley, I knew I was probably in trouble."

PS: Jodi Watley also says, "Hey Jackie, I hear you're looking for a new love." She also wears a shirt that reads "I heart JW." That's for Jodi Watley. She hearts herself.

Jodi watley is so damn crazy.

Brilliant

So, my friend MK and I have a habit of amusing ourselves throughout the day by sending emails to each other.

The emails have no subject line, no text, just a picture cut and pasted from the internet.

Generally, these exchanges will start when one of us sees something that tickles our fancy, perhaps a nice photograph of a dog wearing sunglasses or a cat with a stupid haircut, maybe a man dressed as a giant hotdog. Normal stuff. Usually, the inital photograph or two will set a specific theme, and we'll go with that theme -- photo after photo, for example, of dogs with casts. Or, say, Glen Danzig. There actually have been an alarming number of photos exchanged of Glen Danzig. I might have seen every photo of Glen currently residing on the Internet.

But, yesterday, we really hit, I think, a new high in sophistication with a most excellent theme that started, inoccuously enough, with this photo I saw of a lovely little beauty queen:

From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 3:58 PM
To: MK
Subject:



MK took this, one-upped it.

From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:39 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:35 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:59 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:58 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:16 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:




From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:15 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:31 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:32 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:

To that I say:

Check, and Mate.

Boobies

Ethereal Boobies
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

So, my work is, like, 98 per cent women. Really girly girls. Super girlish girly mcgirlytons who like handbags and shoes and pink drinks and manicures.

There is, in fact, a manicurist in the office on Fridays.

They know the names of nailpolish colors. (Favorite combo -- Essie -- coat of ballet slippers followed by a coat of madamoiselle.)

Anyhow, lately there has been a lot of talk about boobs.

My boobs.

Apparently, at the last drunken company outing, the merits of various boobs were discussed and, in my absence, mine were declared big winners. Some descriptors include:

Fabulous

Like kittens

Giant

Thanks, ladies.

In Decidedly Less Tearstained News

Saturday night, Sus, E Money, Danny, John and I went and got all VIP at this VIP party for VIPs.

I am sort of related to this party by work, so I kind of can't say anything about it being lame or poorly run or anything, but they did have hundreds of glasses of free booze. The kind of free booze that you drink copiously, perhaps against your better judgement.

The biggest lapse of judgement (or stroke of genius?) was the decision to drink copious amounts of that alcohol along with big glasses of Red Bull.

Susan, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, announces I LOVE RED BULL!

Then she gets her dance on with extreme predjudice. In a circle of people clapping. That's badass. (Later, she says to me, "In my mind, I felt everyone was probably super impressed. I'd like to keep it that way." Also, later, it is the thing that turns me from helpless sobbing to helpless laughter as I remember her dance, hair flying, so fabulously unbridled.)

We ended up manning the door at the end of the party, stamping hands for reentry, watching people get literally carried out the door by burly body guards.

Can You Dehydrate Yourself By Crying?

Window at my therapist's office
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

My tears taste supersalty concentrated, and the area around my eyes is stinging, dry and prickly and hot and wet at the same time. This, too, I attribute to the salt.

I've been crying all day, big, unbridled sobs, wrenching, wining, keening, whinging. I've thrown myself dramatically on my bed and couch, variously, crumpling and shaking, managed to work the whole spectrum from silent weeping to explosive outbursts.

I'm exhausted, dried out, wrung out, but not done.

See, someone I really really love, someone I adore and worship and who is beyond divine, my gorgeous, perfect, wise, sweet funny amazing grandmother, is being eaten alive by lung cancer.

I know, right, she's almost, ninety, a brood of children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, full life, blah fucking blah blah but I DON'T CARE. I'm pissed.

I want to keep her. Forever. I want her to meet my children, I want her to hold my hand and laugh with me.

I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

Oh, here I go again. Useless.

Google Knows Things.

email from my cousin, who googled me:

Hey Rebecca,

I wasn't sure if this work address I had was still correct, so I hunted
you down and found the blog/gmail one.

I like robots too, some of my favorite people are robot makers. Robots
rock. No joke check out our friend Garth's dynamic biped:
http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~garthz/research/biped/

Seriously, I love robots, the internet, and cousins.

The boys went to market days yesterday

Picture043.jpg
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

and all I got was this half-naked, super gay pix message.

Feeling Breathless?

080406_19441.jpg
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

Yep, that's a blurry cell phone picture of Corin Tucker jamming on her guitar in Grant Park. Third to final show, packed with kids way younger than us, bopping and screaming along to tons of songs from the new cd that Johnny and I glazed over last summer.

The result? Youth went nuts without us in the front row. We bounced a bit and pretended the buzzing in our ears from the billion-decibel feedback loops wasn't annoying us.

I texted Johnny: It's too loud. We're too old.

We pushed out of the crowd and walked the half-mile to the other stage, pushing against the masses of stoned teenagers as they flocked to see Death Cab for Cutie.

We were part of the (significantly smaller) crowd of old people and hippies to see Ween, a classic fave from my college days. Johnny and I knew an embarassing number of lyrics and secretly (or not so secretly) proclaiming this to be the icing on our lolapalooza cupcakes.