http://thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videold=168759&title=matt-taibbi

The Signs Say Move to Portland

I have been trying to figure out what I'm going to do after I finish my Fulbright next Fall. The truth is, I don't see any reason to stay in DC anymore. I love the city, but I don't really like my job, and the city is so transient that it's hard to really establish roots here.

Yesterday, someone I worked with at my old job called me out of the blue. We were good friends and colleagues at my old job. He works in Oregon and brought me out there a few times a year to offer LIVE IN PERSON legal advice. Today, he sent me an email and said I should come out there instead of going to Sweden. OK. That is NOT going to happen. But it got me thinking, again, about maybe moving back to Oregon. I have this idea about a one-year project that I've wanted to do for a while, and I'm thinking it just might be possible to do it now.

So, I'm sitting here watching Hillary's concession speech and, after I was done crying, turned on NPR. Isaac Mizrahi, the very silly, personable fashion designer, is on The Delicious Dish or whatever it's called, talking about food. The interviewer asks him whether he's found any good coffee spots lately (apparently, he's a bean whore), and he says, "PORTLAND. The whole city." Then he starts talking about Voodoo Doughnuts and about Crema, his two favorite spots. Three minutes into hearing about the cheddar biscuits at Crema and the bacon-peanut butter donuts at Voodoo, I'm thinking about moving back.

The voodoo donuts at Voodoo Doughnuts are sugary donuts people slathered in chocolate and then stabbed with little pretzel pins. Even the too-cool-for-school foodie Anthony Bourdain has gone and ate him up an Elvis donut:



Even better, if I move to Portland and actually MEET someone, we could get married at Voodoo Doughnuts.  Yup.  For $175, you can get [legally!] married at Voodoo.  

THEN, as if this isn't Life Direction Road Sign enough, The Delicious Dish (oops, The Splendid Table) breaks to commercial, playing a Cake song that I love. I associate Cake with my friend Stacy, who is the co-founder/co-author of this blog and a certified PDX Fan/Resident.

Anyway.  I'm thinking about it.  Thinking, thinking, thinking.  In the meantime, I'm suddenly craving a cheddar bisquit voodoo doughnut, and I know I won't find one here on Heat-Advisory-Saturday in DC.

ABOK: A History

I noticed on another website that there is a way to do a slideshow within blogger and thought it looked supercool. So, I thought I'd give it a shot. If you sign in to Picasa, it captures all the photos from your blog and lets you make a slide show of them.

So, for your viewing pleasure, in slideshow format, all the pictures from ABOK from the last year:

525,600 Barbies

My Brother is Spectacular

For the third year in a row, my brother Mikie has won the Buffalo Artie Award for Best Choreography. This year, it was for MusicalFare's production of Altar Boyz. I wish I could have been at the ceremony in Buffalo tonight to hear his acceptance speech and give him an arm-pumping "Whoot! Whoot!" while he stood up on stage.

Is it "fair" that he wins and wins and wins, year after year? Why, yes!

If you don't agree, I say: "Eat it, suck-ahzs!!"

No, seriously.

According to The Buffalo News, Altar Boyz, and my brother's choreography, totally rocked:

"From the very first note, in the very first song of the maddeningly funny ALTAR BOYZ, there is barely a moment for audience members to breathe between uncontrollable fits of laughter...

A great deal of the show's irresistible appeal comes from Michael Walline's choreography which, in concert with tight direction from Lisa Ludwig, makes you wonder why on Earth there aren't more shows like this. The moves that come out of these actor's bodies seem to be lifted from Britney Spears and N'Sync routines, exaggerated to absurd proportions and repeated, over and over, until your face turns red.

If it's flat-out, side-splitting comedy you're after . . . it's hard to do much better than ALTAR BOYZ."

That's my baby. I swear, he's the most talented mother-f'er I know on the planet. I'm busting with pride, and it's making me use cusswords. So, instead, I'll offer an interjection (!):

YAY, MISHIE!!!

The Last Peep Post

So, I've ridden my Fifteen Minute Peep Fame Pony into the dust. That pony is TIRED, man, TIRED. Limping on three legs. Whinnying for water. Horseshoes loosing from their bolts. Mane in a mangle. (And with that, the analogy itself dies the same tired death.)



















Anyway, Saturday was Peepsomatic at Artomatic, a 10-story exhibit of DC artists' work. I started off the day by teaching 40 surprisingly well-behaved kids how to make a Peep diorama. My favorite kid made a diorama involving a guillotine and, um, a hangman's noose. He did it in red and white and black--like a deck of cards in design. It was really quite creative. I think he would have respected the fact that my diorama, too, was a little, well, dark. One family wrote on their blog about the experience. There's even a slide show. Here's what the public had to say: "The workshop was fabulous everyone had such a good time and all volunteers were so nice and helpful. I would definitely go to more kids workshops at artomatic." Awesome.

That evening was the party for Peeps artists. This is where I learned of the sincerity and talent of my co-competitors. You wouldn't believe how carefully crafted these things were. My friend Stacy suggested I sit by mine and sign autographs but a) mine wasn't exactly a Big Ticket Item. It wasn't generating a lot of audience ooh and aahs when sitting there in the sugary flesh being compared to stuff like Full Metal Peeps and Peepadeaus; and b) I wasn't about to sit there and do it by myself.


After an hour, I'd had about my fill of Peeps and Peeps tattoos and pizza (Peepza?) and art and dioramas and children and my little high heeled shoes which, after a day on my feet, were killing me. I was ready to leave. While I was taking a last look at the Nightmare in Peeps and planning my launch into my Happy Bunny Jammies, I heard a whistle. A distinctive whistle. The whistle my dad has used, for 40 some years, to call kids when we've strayed too far from the Family Farm.


"That's odd," I thought.


Really odd, actually.


So, I turned and looked around. And there, walking toward me, like that first scene in Reservoir Dogs, were my brothers Jim and Mikie and my brother's girfriend, Lissa.

Yes. My brother Mikie flew in from Buffalo. For me. For the gosh darned Peeps. The weekend before his big event for his REAL art-- the Artie awards in Buffalo--he flew to Washington, D.C., to go to Peepsomatic.

That's love, my friends.


True love.


And a fine end (yes, END) to the Peeps.


Until next year's contest at least.

For Mikie.

MAC

So, Feist convinced me to get a Mac.   Yup, I got a MacBook.  And it wasn't Feist's shiny blue jumpsuit that convinced me to bite the bullet but Tom's constant exhortations (is that the right word? hm.) of the wonders of Mac-i-ness that pushed me over the edge.  

I have had it one day and I don't know if I really like it very much.  The picture is amazing and I got an extra speedy one with extra processing power (or whatever) but what is bugging the shit out of me is the teeny tiny keyboard and teeny tiny screen.  I can't justify another $600 on a MacBookPro but I also know this is the computer I'm going to use for the Fulbright Papers, so I'm a little worried about how crampy my fingers feel on it.  I have enormous hands.  HUGE.  Seriously oversized.  Plus, the keyboard has this ticky-takcy cheap feel to it, I think.

Do you love your computer?

Sheela Na Gig

I saw this image on a webpage and realized that this is very similar to the little statue woman that you have on your mantlepiece. A google search for "Sheela Na Gig" brings up all SORTS of stone women with pronounced entryways. Do you think this is the answer to the question of the genesis of your little stone woman? Perhaps (perhaps, perhaps) you already knew about the Sheela Na Gigs?





And, of course, PJ Harvey turned her into a video.

Somewhere quiet

I have always wanted to have a family vacation home. It would make sense to own one in Wells Beach, Maine, because everyone in my family goes there. We have been going since I was a little girl. The thing is, a two-bedroom condo on the beach costs at least $389k, even in this depressed market, and I can't swing that on my own. I think I COULD swing it if my siblings were interested in doing it, too, and if everyone trusted that the rental market would take care of a large part of the costs. BUt they don't. Heck, I don't, even with the rental history right in front of me. Besides, my mom says to that: "What's the point in owning a place if you just rent it out all the time?"

Whatev. I don't want a two-bedroom condo anyway. I want a cottage-y house with wood floors and a sleeping porch. I'm beginning to think I don't even want a house in Wells. Maybe it's because I realize I'll never be able to afford it. Or maybe it's because Wells is much different now than it was when I was little.

Here is how Wells used to look:

Now, every inch along the shore has a house on it. The postcard is from around 1900. Add an Atlantic Motor Inn on the left and pave the road, though, and this looks similar to how the town looked when we were little. Some of the houses in the postcard pictures are still standing and are so pretty and weathered. Then, every three houses or so, there will be a comparative monstrosity with big ole weatherproofed windows and a winding staircase up to a lookout point turret. Seriously. Did no one think to add restrictive covenants in the titles to these properties (e.g., "You may not do dumbass things to your house that make the rest of us feel . . . uncomfortable.")

And once you get on the beach itself, it's filled with . . . I swear . . . Canadians. French speaking ones who put big blue tents up at the beach and then sit in them like cabanas. I like the French. The cabanas? Not so much. And once you get off the beach, to Route One, there is now a frenzy of McDonalds, miniature golf courses, and condos (ggggahhhh). This invites riff raff. RIFF RAFF, I say!!!! I am now. officially. old. I said "riff raff."

I guess I'm officially about to give up on the dream of owning a house there. There's another house that I am looking at somewhere else. It's in the town that inspired Blueberries for Sal. It's on a lake. We can play croquet and ping pong. And eat blueberries. With Sal. Or whomever.

But.... no ocean? No Congdons doughnuts? No..... Forbes? Buying the house in Blueberry Land would be fantastic in 100 different ways. I fear, though, that I'd end up sitting on my sleeping porch, eating blueberry pancakes and whoopie pies while my siblings were down in Wells eating fried clams at Billy's.

This will require additional rumination.

I didn't win her on Ebay.

But I can post her here. ISN'T SHE STUPDENDOUS??

Art Contest

My childhood experiences with art contests were less than rewarding.

In fourth grade, we were given an assignment to make a drawing using non-traditional media. At the time, I didn't understand it to be "non-traditional media," and perhaps that's only my adult mind retroactively throwing a label on it out of an extreme need for order, but long story short: I drew a small, skewed house with a slash of a roof made from charcoal. And slapped on a red wax chimney. Non. Traditional. Medium. la!

Weeks later, I found out that my artwork was a winner, selected for display at the museum across the way from the Albright Knox Art Galllery. I remember being baffled. Why was my picture in a museum? What contest? Was I going to be in trouble? That last question was almost always my first question when I found something out.

My parents were really awesome about attending all six of their kids' everything: figure skating shows, air band contests, figure skating shows, baseball games, Honor Roll Society induction, figure skating shows, award-winning musicals, figure skating shows, but the art show fell under the radar, and I never saw it at the museum. I will always wonder if my charcoal house is in a little frame in a little museum somewhere.

My next art contest experience was the Mill Middle School 1980 Olympics Poster contest, judged by Art Teacher and buffant hair-do-wearer (and, I suspect, chainsmoker and lounge rat) Mrs. Roth. The Games were in Lake Placid that winter, and USA fever was runnin' high. I drew a figure skater in a layback spin, which was VERY difficult (check the body position, left), added all those Olympic rings, and made up some catchy slogan like "GO U.S.A.!" I pulled an all-nighter (well, stayed up as late as my parents would let me) and got it in just by the deadline, a lifelong habit thus born.

I still remember Mrs. Roth (Mikie, is that her name?) coming up to me in the hall the next day. I was ready to be showered with praise because, secretly, I thought it was pretty good. Mrs. R. had other ideas. She said that, while the concept of the poster was very good, she was "appalled" by the condition and sloppiness of the poster. It had smudges. It had eraser marks. It had mashed potato juice stains on the edges. (Well, that's my guess. Who knows? I got mashed potatoes everywhere.) I wanted to take it back and hide it, but it was too late. All of the Olympics posters were hung in the principal's office windows, which looked out into the main hallway, where the previous year's art contest winners' entries lined the walls. Thus, my Abominable Laybacker looked out on my friend Anita's perfect, 11" x 14" framed poster of a water color sailboat floating behind carefully calligraphied lyrics to Christopher Cross's "Sailing." I went back to the school about ten years ago, and that damned Sailing poster was still there.

My one uber-rewarding art contest experience? In seventh grade, having my poster selected as a contest winner by "Barry's Cat's Pajamas," a late-night local tv show hosted by Buffalo WGRZ's then-weatherman Barry Lillis. He'd run old movies, old episodes of the Dick Van Dyke show, etc., and tell really bad jokes after Letterman (which was on 12:30-1:30 back in the day). God only knows why I was up so late, but Barry invited viewers to draw pictures of cats in pajamas and send them in. So I did. Winners got their picture shown during the breakaway to commercial. My very NOT-smudgy drawing of a pajama-ed kitty sleeping in a hammock suspended from a crescent moon was selected, and I won a sub at Mike's subs downtown. I was superproud. But I never got my sub. I couldn't drive down town.

SO.... now is your chance to similarly damage your own child. BUT FOR A GOOD CAUSE! Coastal America, through its Coastal Ecosystem Learning Center, is sponsoring an ocean art contest for students in grades K-12 (college and university students can enter, too. um...yeah). The nationwide contest is to "enhance public awareness of the importance of the ocean through visual expression and incorporating one of the principles of ocean literacy." Whatever, dude. It's a chance to DRAW SHARKS. Or Free Willy. Or starfish. Or a giant one-eyed squid.

The winning artwork will be displayed at the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History in time for the opening of The Ocean Hall exhibit. Entries are due by May 30, 2008. Check it out at: http://www.coastalamerica.gov/2008artcontest.html. And do the kids a favor: wipe off the mashed potato juice before they mail in their poster.

Crafty Bastard

Last night I applied for a booth at a crafts fair. Yes, I am actually going to try to sell some crafts.

Last weekend, my friend Dee and I found this ENORMOUS thrift store (seriously, WALMART-sized). In each of the 140 aisles, a line ran above the top shelf of merchandise, and clothespinned to the line were bag after bag of "grab bags," which cost from .99 to $2.44 (why 2.44? I have no idea, but it seemed to be the magic number). The bags were filled with everything from Barbie parts (hm.) to old Zippo lighters to felt markers.

Of course, as life would have it, if I wanted to buy ONE thing in a particular bag (Barbie head.), I didn't want to buy every thing in that grab bag (stack of Ken-L-Ration Dog Food labels), but it's the SURPRISE of it, and the SPECIAL MIX of it all that was fun. 'Cuz you can't separate them out for separate purchase. You can't. Against the thrift store code. Heck, you can't even open them and smell everything, which I love to do and consider to be an integral part of the purchasing process. If you open the grab bag before you're at the counter, you not only ruin the suprise but I suspect a group of carnies come and take you out back and beat the crap out of you. THE CODE IS SACRED.

Of course I walked through every single isle. And touched everything. In aisle 87, I SCORED! Bags and bags of little things leftover from defunct churches or a First Communion Store or something. Each bag contained a hodgpodge of churchy stuff: little incense burners, little Holy Host plates, little silver cups. I swear to God, I am now the proud owner of a little bag of BRASS BUTTERFLY WINGS. Butterfly wings!! Cost? $1.19. Smell? Metally!!! Real brass incense burners. Sterling silver cups. I'm. Not. Kidding. I left with a huge bag full of stuff, and my total bill was less than $22.50.

So, what am I going to make with my crap? Time will tell.... For now, I made the box above last night. The woman is from a website of Unknown Women--old photographs of women that are just lost in the ether, floating in the frecca. Unknown, unloved, unlabeled. So, now she's a Goddess of Happy. I gave her an outfit, and a crown, and a holy halo. Then added things I like. Paris. Flowers. Pink Faux Fur. Now I just need to cram in the plastic jelly shark and the Barbie head, and it will be complete.

Now he's going to the monuments.

My brother Jim took the awesome Lincoln photograph.

I added the Peep.

I crack myself up

He's swimming.

I have too much time on my hands.

ALL Southpark ALL the Time.

I LOVE SouthPark, it's finally back in new episodes on Wednesday nights.

Better yet, now all of the episodes are online. ALL of them. Free. Courtesy of SouthPark.

Here are two of my favorites:

Freak Strike

Episode 601 (Original Air Date: 2002-03-06)
The kids learn that Talk Shows offer special assistance to grossly disfigured people who appear on their show. They immediatly sign Butters up as a guest with a a strange deformity. With the help of some strategic physical enhancement, Butters is sure to beat out all the other freaks and win a prize. However, when there isn't enough of Butters' prize to go around Cartman makes a bid for his own guest spot with Maury when he talks him mom into joining him on the segment entitled, "Please Help My Out of Control Child." THE ONLY REASON I LOVE THIS EPISODE IS TO SEE CARTMAN, DRESSED LIKE A LITTLE BRITNEY SPEARS, SAYING: "wuh-EVAH!!!!" on Maury.

Sexual Harassment Panda
Episode 306 (Original Air Date: 1999-07-07)
Sexual Harassment Panda visits Mr. Garrison's class. Cartman Sues Stan for sexual harassment and Kyle's dad is getting rich. The boys go in search of "Sexual Harassment Panda" to stop the insanity. They find him at "The Island of Misfit Mascots Commune" and convince him to change his cause. He becomes Petey, the "don't sue people" Panda.

Every night, I sleep with a giant stuffed panda. For real. (wuh-EVAH!) He used to be named Bunson until my brother Jim named him "Sexual Harassment Panda." Jim sings the song whenever he sees it, which makes me laugh. Although, yeah, I know: sexual harassment isn't "funny."

No Country for Old Peeps

The "No Country for Old Peeps" diorama made it to the semi-finals of The Washington Post's second Annual Peeps Diorama Contest Finalists and Semi-Finals and will be shown at Art-o-Matic in May. Yaaaaaaay! Don't forget to vote for #33 (No Country!) online. There's some talk that the fan favorite will be featured later on in the Post.

Even better, BestWeekEver (a funny celebrity news show on VH1) named it their THIRD favorite. Go here.

Dream Cupcakes

I ran across these cupcakes on Flickr. They belong to Shamima Desai, who lives in South Africa and, apparently, is a marzipan artist/Goddess. I would like to be her friend.

My Day So Far

Where do you get one of those bottles? Full of P-I-Ls?

Finally~!!

Someone understands me. Follow the link to buy her stuff. She's my hero.