My Favorite Beatles Moment

It's been far too long since I've put something new up here. It's also been far too long since I've worshiped the Beatles in a public arena. Therefore, I bring you:

MY FAVORITE BEATLES MOMENT

It's kind of like those "What I Did on my Summer Vacation" papers we all had to write in school basically every year. Only it's not tedious. It's not boring. And unlike school (says the future teacher), people actually care about The Beatles.

Anyway, it all started at a little thing called Mountain Jam. Mountain Jam is basically where all the hippies get together and pay exorbitant amounts of money to get molested by security, sleep in tents, have those tents leak, and dance around in mud for three scorching days and three blisteringly cold nights. Admittedly, I wouldn't trade the experience for the world.

This year was no exception. Here we were, dust-laden hippies, twirling to the sounds of Michael Franti, when all of a sudden a booming voice comes over the loudspeaker (Is that you, G-d?): It looks like we're going to get a little rain.

In all of its Woodstock-esque glory, the voice was right. We all looked to the left of the field and saw a huge black wall coming ever-so-quickly in our direction. As the roadies scrambled desperately to cover the hoards of electronic equipment poised on stage, each its own little metal lighting rod, the hippies scampered to the woods (which is technically their natural habitat, anyway) and began to huddle as the monsoon rained all its monsoon glory down.

It was strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands. Or rather, strangers clinging to strangers under a grove of trees because we were all convinced branches are waterproof.

PS. They're not.

Regardless, the storm soon passed and we all crawled out from our forest-y covers. As we made it back to the muddy field, a familiar intro began playing over the speakers, quietly then at full freaking blast: Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.

It was the single most perfect Beatles moment of my life. Here I was, twirling in the mud with my favorite hippie, to my favorite band, surrounded by others who understand that the real essence of life, no matter what your age, is learning to splash in the mud puddles after you all almost get electrocuted.

Well, maybe not electrocuted. But certainly wet as shit.

Therefore, if you've taken the time to read this, you should probably stop what you're doing, even if only for a moment, put on your favorite Beatles song, and bask in the glory of the best band ever. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Little Sportscar, Littler Winky.

I hate people. I hate them near and far. I hate them out at bars. But at the risk of sounding like Dr. Seuss' bitter, jaded, red-headed stepchild that the family doesn't talk about, I'll suffice it to say I hate them most in cars. Really though, few things aggravate me more on the road than winky-less jackasses who drive tiny little sports cars yet can't figure out how to put them in gear on the highway. I'm from the tri-state. I huff, I puff, and I get super pissed when I've got somewhere to be and you can't figure out how to go from neutral to fifth gear in fewer than five minutes because you have a penis the size of a runt cocktail weenie and to compensate you bought a car you can't drive. However, I'm amused by the fact that yes, asshole, I drive stick better than you. And yes, I'm a girl. And yes, I'm pretty confident my non-existent man part is bigger than yours, too.

Blarg. I'm going to go sit my snarky self under my imaginary basking lamp since it's raining and I'm only going to get crankier. Is 9:18AM too early for cocktails?

Doombots and Prostitots: The Story of Islands of Adventure

Having exhausted all opportunities in Disney's own parks over the past two weeks, yesterday we adventured to Universal's Islands of Adventure (bee tee dubble ewe, if you find that you've got 90 dollars just burning a hole in your pocket that you plan on paper shredding or flushing, kick it up a notch. Adventure to this park. It's basically the same thing...only this version comes with 3 hour lines per attraction.)

...but that's not the point of today's post. More importantly, I'd like to issue an 80s style PSA regarding parents and their choices of clothing (or...rather...lack thereof) for their little girls. Letting your child walk around in a see through training bra while you carry her shirt doesn't constitute good parenting. It makes you look like a careless dolt and your daughter look like a pre-pubescent, pre-adolescent trollop. Even less sexy is allowing your 4 year old to strut about in a "bikini" top comprised of two teensie tiny triangles (high five for alliteration!) showing off the goodies she won't develop for another 8-10 years. Finally, letting your 8-9 year old daughter walk around TOPLESS in a crowded park (not Islands of Adventure per se...this was encountered on today's Blizzard Beach adventure) should garner you jail time. If not jail time, then at least a swift kick in the teeth. And if that still isn't possible...at least know that I'm currently brandishing my fist at you. You deserve it for turning your baby girl into a pedophile's wet dream.

...Whew. I'm tired. And yes, I just flew the "The More You Know" star over my head.

Best. Shirt. EVER.

To preface, this post is for those of you who remember the 90s. A simpler time. A magical time. A time when we played hopscotch instead of Xbox. A time when we had real friends in real life that we had actually met...not creepy old men who knew a friend of a friend of a friend of a great aunt of a kid who may or may not have sat next to us in one class in junior high...who was just lucky enough to rekindle our :ahem: deep friendship through Facebook's "people you may know" stalker button. A time when caffeine addiction was running rampant through California high schools. A time when said addiction was documented by one ridiculously attractive fake blonde boy and his cell phone which was roughly the size of my arm.

Which brings me to the best shirt ever, the inspiration for this very post. I happened to be in Epcot a few nights ago trolling the grounds between one side of the World Showcase and the other. As I was crossing the bridge between France (BOO Frenchies!) and England (YAY Brits!), there it was...the BEST.SHIRT.EVER.

I was momentarily shocked and awed by the beauty standing before me. Simplistic in its design, the shirt featured nothing more than a bottle of caffeine pills surrounded by the words "I'm so excited. I'm so SCARED." Immediately, I was in love, and transported back to the time when 7 year olds didn't weigh 145 pounds. It was like sex...only 90s-er.

With that, I conclude this post. I hope it managed to transport you all back to a better time. A simpler time. A time when Jessie Spano went to rehab for caffeine pills.

Cheers.

I Am My Own Darwin Award.

If we've known each other for over five minutes, or if you've ever had a conversation with me, it's pretty likely that you've heard me utter the phrase "I'm the dumbest smart person ever" or something to that effect. In fact, you've probably heard it on a regular basis because, well, I'm the dumbest smart person ever.

What brought this on in blog form, you might ask, given that this is coming from the lady who once managed to cut herself on bread. Why now? Why this day? Well, while vacuuming my room two days ago I somehow managed to wham my outer calf into my bed post and now I'm sporting a super sexy bright blue bruise just in time for vacation. Granted, this probably doesn't seem out of the ordinary...a lot of people smack into their bedposts. However, my bed post is only 4 inches off the floor on a good day. And since I'm taller than 3'9", there's really no physiological reason I should have managed to whack my calf into my midget...er..."little person" bed. Now I just look like I'm dating an abusive Keebler Elf who is six inches tall and views calf abuse as his only way out of his dead end job, nagging mother, alcohol problem, and calf kid he's about to father.

Sigh. (Yes, I just threw a sigh in there for good measure.) I may be bruised, but at least my grammar is flawless.

An Open Letter to Guys with Facial Hair.

Dear Guys with Facial Hair,*


*This includes all of you with beards, goatees, sideburns, moustaches, or some weird yet sexy combination of the latter two like Joe Cocker rocked circa 1969. This excludes all you with unibrows and freaky chin pubes. Those aren't facial hair. Those are just scary.

Disclaimer aside, and inspired by Steppenwolf (the band, not the book, because really, who reads when there's classic rock to be had), I wanted to thank you. With the plague of Justin Biebers and other pre-pubescent looking, hairless boys masquerading as males, it's time to thank you for stepping up to the plate, spitting in the face of femnazis (lest they steal your hair in addition to your balls), and growing your manly man hair, just as nature and Grizzly Addams intended.

I'm not sure when it got cool for men to no longer look like men. Once upon a time, facial hair was revered. Cavemen had it. General Grant had it. And then the 60s happened... and everyone had it. And it was good. And men looked like men.

Then, somewhere down the line, it was decided that men should be as clean shaven and hairless as their lady counterparts. Even the Brawny Man was unceremoniously stripped of his man fur. And that was sad, because, well... beards are sexy and moustaches are neat and sideburns are basically the coolest thing ever. Unless they're on the face of that one chick I went to high school with.

So, rather than do my annotated bibliographies for work, I decided I'd applaud you manly men. Be fruitful and multiply, and fur-ify, and spread your furry man love throughout the land.

Thanks guys,
<3 Me

The Cookie Monster, Fred Durst, and Everything in Between

Recently I became fixated with a dress I saw in JC Penney's. Now, understand that I don't typically fixate on a single article of clothing- especially in our modern world of skank-and-ho couture. However, this dress stood apart from the others. It was cute. It was black and white. It was on sale. It was not in my size. Disappointed, I decided to troll New Jersey for this magical dress. Four Penney's-es later, I finally found it.

The above really has nothing to do with the rest of this post. I just really like that dress.

Adult-onset ADD aside, as I was trolling said Penney's aisles, I came across a shirt in the juniors department that said "I did it all for the cookie" and featured the one, the only, the Cookie Monster, dressed head to toe as Fred Durst.

As I stood, staring, as one stares at a four car pileup or train derailment, I wondered to myself...was the target audience of this shirt even BORN when Fred Durst was doing it all for the... [(cookie - c) + n]? (She CAN do math!) And was Nookie REALLY that much of a cultural epiphany that we're still shirting about it 11 years later? And have I mentioned how much I LOVE my new dress?

Now I'm not saying the juniors department is reserved solely for the prostitot crowd (it's also a marvelous option for midgets like me who just never felt compelled to grow into the size of normal adults who can wear normal adult clothes)...but a Cookie Monster Fred Durst? Come the fuck on.