Go Play in Traffic

Owie. The first picture. Ten minutes after the incident.

 I was sooooooo bored today. Seriously. After spending a month merely staring out of the picture window at the torrents pouring from the heavens above, I noticed a strange phenomenon in the sky. It was the color blue. "Oh, joy!" I exclaimed, tears pouring down my face as I raced out the front door to bask in the sun for however long I could. My skin embraced the light as it toasted away the years of my visible youth, the under layers of leathery bliss preparing to later emerge and give me even more reasons for a chemical peel.

What to do? WHAT TO DO!?! I was faced with the quandary of dry air and nothing to do. Since my creativity had been pickled away long ago, not much entered my brain. Weed the yard? Nah. Too boring and too many bees. Wash the car? No. That's peasant work. I then remembered something my friends from middle school used to tell me quite often when I was being especially awesome around them: "Go play in traffic." As that was something I hadn't yet managed to get around to, I decided that now was as good a time as any and set out to find a great intersection for my new favorite pastime.

It didn't take long for me to find a happy little intersection just a few blocks away from my home. This was good because I was so full of caviar and mimosas I was too bloated to move. Lucky for me, it also didn't take very long to find a big truck in front of which I could leap to my certain peril. And super sweet insurance payday.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Some of you that knew me back in my more responsible days may think that instead I was just walking to work as usual and was smacked into, HARD, in the crosswalk, when I had the signal, by a stupid fucker with a small penis in his giant truck when he was making a right turn without looking when he did not have the light in his favor. But, you know that can't be the case because I don't do that sort of thing any more. I was simply dancing about in the intersection with nothing better to do and the guy had the nerve to plow into my arm and then recoil in horror from me at the utter destruction I probably did to his truck. I'm sure he sped off so quickly because he needed to go check on the damage.

I was so busy having a good time I didn't even think about getting his license plate info. It's okay because I wouldn't have much to squeeze him for since it's just my arm which is mostly okay. If only I had endured an injury that would require a neck brace or a wheelchair. Shit. I missed out.

Anyway, I coped the best way I could by FINDING ALL THE LIQUOR and DRINKING IT. And taking pictures of my bruise every few hours. Even after this is posted I'm going to keep taking pictures and updating the bruise situation every few hours. Enjoy my pain, my dear fans.

The aftermath.

6 hours after the first picture.

9 hours after 1st picture.

Corporate America is Trying to Impregnate Me!

The content of my mail has vastly changed in the last few weeks.

In honor of International Women's Day, I've decided to man up and finally post some thoughts that have been particularly bugging me over the last few weeks. I've had the sneaking suspicion that someone has been secretly trying to get me pregnant and now the evidence is too much to ignore. This is a notice to you, Corporate America: I'm on to you. I get it. You want a baby in my tummy (that's where it does its thing, right?). Unfortunately for you, your plans will not succeed. I have no need for any more parasites than the ones I already have special shampoos for. So there.

I first suspected your evil plot when I received an advertising magazine of tips and coupons for expectant mothers. I wondered if I had purchased something in the past months that could have been construed as a purchase for a pregnant woman or a baby. Processed meats? Canned tuna? Champagne? Nothing I had bought should have triggered such a mailing, especially since it was addressed to my maiden name and was for a store at which I do not shop.

The mailing was soon forgotten as I had many naps to take but one day, as I accidentally stumbled out the front door, the mail lady was there and I couldn't avoid having to get my own mail. In it was another terrible item: a catalog for maternity wear. This had to be a joke. Who thought I was fat? The back of the mailing indicated it was directed to my maiden-named self. The only possible answer to my quandary then was that there is a national database maintained by Corporate America and the Gubmint, dedicated to keeping track of unimpregnated women and shaming them into motherhood if it is not achieved by the age of [REDACTED].

There is a whole lot of baby shit out there to buy and if you don't produce children to necessitate yourself and your family and friends buying it, you are hurting the job creators. I suppose the next step is the Obama Fertility Drone, which will come in my window and do horrible medical experiments to me to force me to have a miracle baby but you forgot that my body has a way of shutting that whole thing down. So I win again, fools.

I know, I know. I should probably have nine or eleventy kids right now but I'm still too selfish. There's a lot of my life I would have to change that I'm just not ready for, so you will just have to wait. I'm simply not ready to:

• Hand my social media accounts over to my child. This phenomenon occurs when the avatar changes from a picture of a friend you used to hang out with into an image of a child. This is because children are whiny little jerks starving for attention and you are required to give up any and all of your accounts over to them. Your parasite has been expelled but still manages to drain and control every part of your social life. No thanks. Tell your kid to stop posting selfies of him/herself all the time, too. I get it; they're cute. So are the other 20 kids doing the same thing today. 
• Have to actually do something for once, like hire a nanny and another publicist.
• Listen to other people tell me what to do with my body. Sorry, that's between me and my plastic surgeon. I don't need to hear lectures about breast feeding vs. not, natural birth vs. C-section. This slammin' bod is for teh sex0rz, not having babies.
• Share baby food. That jar of mashed pears is mine, bitch!
• Take my cat out of my purse. I can only carry around one little needy thing with me each day, and two don't fit in there very well. I could be like everyone else and carry a baby in the purse while putting the cat and everything I buy all day in my catch-all cart aka stroller, but until Balenciaga makes one I'm not buying one.
• Stop mainlining coffee. Self-explanatory.
• Stop mainlining vodka. Also self-explanatory. (Unless the baby was cool with that or something.)
• Stop being a naked sushi body. Because Take Your Child to Work Day would be awkward unless they wanted to do it, too.

I'm sure there are lots of other reasons why I don't want to parent right now but I can't type them all while I'm shaking so hard from caffeine withdrawal. The moral of the story is, I'll have kids when I'm good and ready. Which is probably never. So stop sending me stupid mail.

It's Okay, I'll Be the Worst Timbers Blogger

I know we all have strong preferences for and allegiances to certain members of the blogging and reporting community when it comes to the Portland Timbers. It takes a long time to learn one's craft and place in this demanding field and when someone isn't up to snuff, we all hear about it on Twitter, Facebook, by comments on the actual blogs, and in person. The sniping and verbal poo-slinging between broadcasters, writers, their readers, the people who read the tweets from the readers, people who once walked past the park during a match, their grandmothers and anyone who's ever seen a soccer ball, over the last season and into this off season, has simply been too much to bear and I can't take it any more. In order to create peace in the Timbersphere, I am hereby accepting the position of Worst Timbers Blogger EVAR so that the debate can end. If I take the title, you can all leave each other alone to read, listen to or watch anything else you like without judgment and play happy families again. It means that much to me, I am going to seal the deal by providing conclusive direct evidence of my suitable ineptitude over which you can bond.

Certainly I've had some health issues over the last few years keeping me from my true potential and restricting a majority of my contributions on the OregonLive.com Timbers blog to snarky photography, but that's irrelevant. Now that I'm perfectly healthy, I won't have any excuse for the ridiculous crap I'm going to be spewing all season and beyond. The main reason for this is that you'll have so much more content to judge and you will be able to notice that I have absolutely no idea of what I'm talking about when it comes to soccer, the Timbers, or anything else, really. And I'm truly sorry for that because it's all my fault. Whenever I had the ability to improve myself and my product, I refused any sort of advice and assistance. I am willing to admit my shortcomings and keep it this way so that everyone else will seem even more super duper awesomer in comparison and you can all shut your pie holes. Your whipping girl is ready for action.

Years ago, my first attempt at joining the Timbers culture (after I moved back from England) was met with failure because although I did watch all the EPL I could every weekend morning at the Horse Brass, I learned that wasn't enough. On a very enlightening Craigslist-arranged tête-à-tête, I discovered that to be the best supporter around I should have been getting up at 3 a.m. to watch Serie A and Eredivisie, or even sneaking down to the local middle school matches to scout the next Chugger Adair or Brian Winters. I was clearly not ready to be a football supporter. Now that I realize it, since I never did start doing any of that stuff I am an even less qualified blogger. When I started writing, I made the assumption that my having my own unique history and experiences in regards to the team would allow me to offer something of my very own. With everyone else writing or photographing at other outlets with their own unique backgrounds we would all have something different to contribute, providing quite a range of media and styles from which audiences could choose, allowing everything to form a complete picture with something for everyone. But, I am proud to say my life experiences have resulted in a point of view that sucks more than you could possibly believe.

Personally, I've learned that since I don't have the ability to devote every second of my life to this sport, and I don't produce something that absolutely everyone loves every time, I have no business doing it. It's about devotion, people, and having to spend time working at a job to pay my mortgage is secondary to knowing if maybe I had been able to attend more practices and pay closer attention, perhaps I would have noticed Brent Richards or Bright Dike limping slightly and I could have shouted over to Coach Porter, "HEY! I think they're about to have some ACL issues! Better get them checked!" And then I would have been a hero and everything would have been unicorns and rainbows and Bright would have carried me off into the sunset as Kip wept with joy at the fact his wife got the honor of hooking up with such a goal scoring beast. Alas, this did not occur and therefore I deserve more negative blog comments than everyone else combined. I wish Facebook would hurry up and make a dislike function so you guys can use it on my posts.

Also in the beginning of my supporter culture schooling, I attended a certain TA party. I discussed the subtle nuances of Andrew Gregor's demure facial expressions and gentle bodily encouragement (some of which cute little Tommy Poltl would continue with) with an assortment of gentlemen I still know to this day, and I'm still proud of how well I manipulated them into thinking I paid attention at all of those matches I attended. Outdoors, later that evening, I was overjoyed when blessed with the opportunity of keeping one of those men from touching the flames he kept trying to grab, which were courtesy of a fire breathing show brought to us by another attendee. I'm sure I saved his life that night. It all seems like just yesterday we all had these joyous adventures and now we writers and photographers are all hardened, bitter strangers remembering only faint echoes of the magical fun times being TA used to be. Such regrets I have...

On my first Shittle away bus trip, when there was still only one bus and some guys I tried to get a ride with pretty much pretended I was dead to them, I sat in the middle by myself, not really knowing anyone else. I ended up, however, talking to a couple of gentlemen with whom I would later be on a bowling team. On the way back to Portland we discussed West Ham and gaming until a very talkative and mainly creepy fellow planted himself in the seat next to me, drank all the rest of my liquor, begged for a ride home and bragged about topics I found scary and/or tedious. From the back of the bus, the other kids sang so enticingly and would call to me, "Giiiiiiirrrrl, come back here and play with us. Girl (my board name)... come here... we want to talk to you." Oh, how I wished I could have climbed over that creepy fellow and joined you, but I'm sure I would have lost the last of my wide-eyed innocence that day and I would never have been the same.

Still, I wonder what things could you have taught me about myself, my love of the Timbers, and exactly how much volume of beer vomit is humanly possible to pass through my nasal passage in three hours' time. I'm sure these topics would have improved my writing and photography to a level I can't even begin to fathom, so now as consequence I must embrace my mediocrity with fervor. Maybe if I had gone to the back of the bus on that trip or any of the later trips I could have published a book by now. But, I know this sacrifice was essential so that you will cast your frustrations aside and let me be the reigning champ of Timbers suckitude. I mean, I'm even willing to start tweeting breaking news two weeks after it happens, or start a podcast where I drink copious amounts of cider as my cats interview me about what it was like to see Josh Wicks get an assist in San Francisco.

Don't worry, for those of you that are wondering, my photos will suffer, too. I'm finally able to afford a couple of new lenses and filters but I'll only use them at inappropriate times and encourage as much J.J. Abrams-style lens flare as I can because it's so crappy it's artsy-cool.

In summation, we should all remember that everyone covering the Timbers does not have equal income and time to devote, or equal access and opportunity to every player, coach, event, rumor, and such. Most of us got into this organically just because we loved the Timbers and wanted to do what we could to provide information, opinion or entertainment solely for the pure joy of it. Since everyone's coverage isn't uniformly perfect and has variance of style, opinion, statistical usage and substance, I'm more than happy to be the most ridiculous and take the brunt of all dissatisfaction until we all coalesce into a hive mind of egalitarian soccer coverage. By that time, hopefully the readership will have become an easily-entertained blob of consciousness, as well.

I think that's Spock there on the right.

It Looks Like We're Not All Dead

I was just so certain that the exalted Mayans had it right (or the people translating their calendar, anyway) and we were all going to be floating through space, disassembled back into the subatomic particles we once were. I didn't fear this, I welcomed it. There was nothing else important to accomplish in my life, I thought, so why not make the best of being blown up into tiny pieces? That's what truly seemed exciting.

Unfortunately, there was no catastrophic event on December 21, 2012 to send us screaming into oblivion. Of course, what if we were all wrong and the end was going to be slightly later? Coming to this realization made my disappointment a little less and allowed me to dream that the end was only a few days away. I napped with greater intensity, ate even less and drank even more as I waited a few more weeks for the apocalypse. Alas, the end still didn't arrive and I was left with a sense of longing I had never before experienced. How could the Mayans do this to me? Laaaaaammeeee.

Then, I had a secondary realization: what if I needed to help the process along? After all, as super famous and influential as I am I should be able to help bring about the end of the world, shouldn't I? I resolved to make a list of things I said I would rather die than do, hoping that the universe would step in and make that result a reality.

#1 I would rather die than wear neon colors. 

And leggings. And slouchy boots. And a denim jacket. And wear pink eyeshadow. And pose cheesily on a staircase while hoping that my mesh tank stays firmly over my hot pink and yellow tank.

At some point in one's life, the "retro" look comes into play and you wear it either as an ironic statement or an homage to the classic. For me, it was an exercise in excess, an attempt to experience a life I wished I could have lived without having to dress that hideous way all the time. From what I've heard, the 80s were the time for supermodels, cocaine, jet setting and the ultimate life of leisure. Unfortunately, I'm too young to have lived in that era as I just missed being born in that decade and can only imagine what it would have been like.

I spent an entire evening in this horrific outfit (drinking plenty of wine to cope with the embarrassment) and no galactic portals opened, no puzzle box was solved to release creatures addicted to inflicting delicious pain, and Jesus himself did not knock on my door and tell me, "I take back everything I did for you." So much for that plan.

Everyone should spend some time in the 4th circle of Hell.

#2: I would rather die than shop at Walmart.

This should be fairly self-explanatory, but the less-sophisticated of my readers may need to be clued in a bit. Each year, a family member sends me a gift card to the scary emporium for icky poor people, despite my protestations. I end up trading it away for cash or alcohol.

This year I decided to use it on myself for things that are useful to me, such as laxatives and diet shakes. I spent a whole hour experiencing a frightening side show of the macabre and the Earth did not implode. I did see a man that looked an awful lot like the Gorton's fisherman (full yellow outfit) and a lot of creative tramp stamps with accompanying animal print leggings, so you can't blame me for thinking it was all over.

I later discovered that the world was not likely to end upon my entry to that store due to the fact some of the richest bazillionaires in the universe have made their money from charging low, low prices while having the awesomest balls ever to not pay a living wage to employees. I felt so inspired from this example and started daydreaming ever so vividly about someday starting an awesome sweatshop of my very own. This plan of mine clearly backfired in a big way because I wanted to die, not be motivated to greatness!

Daisy is professional and discreet.

#3 I would rather die than get my ears pierced at home.

During my irritating teenage years, a common slumber party activity was someone putting ice on someone's ear, then sticking a needle through that ear into a potato. The mall piercing establishments required parental permission or being 18 years of age, so finding a friend to stick you was often seen as preferable if you had shitty parents.

Well, I had the non-permissive parents but also a sense of self-preservation and fear of hepatitis. If a mom baking cupcakes at home and bringing them to school could give you organ failure, I was certainly not going to let her daughter stick something sharp into me so close to my brain. Therefore, I had virgin ears until the age of 18. After that, as long as it was professionally done, I had anything and everything shoved into my lobes and surrounding zone as much as humanly possible.

Now that I was finally ready to do damage to myself at a slumber party, I realized I didn't have any teenage friends or potatoes in the house. Luckily, Daisy offered to do the deed for me in exchange for ten cans of gooshy food. This was a payment I could easily promise as the world would soon end anyway and I wouldn't need to actually follow through on the agreement. But, like with the other attempts, Armageddon did not materialize and I now had a raging infection and an angry calico.

After so many failed attempts to doom us all, I gave up on the rest of my list and polished off a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and an entire cookie sheet of baked tater tots. Unfortunately, it looks like we're going to live after all. The worst part is now I have motivation to do things again. But not too much. I suppose I'll just have to blog about my doing things in addition to my not doing things from now on. This really sucks.

Personal Revelations in the End Times

I'm going to miss all of you. Well, some of you. If really pressed, I'm sure I could probably come up with a couple of people I'm going to miss as soon as the world blows up/dark planet smacks into us/fire and brimstone rains from the sky/all the real 'Murricans get raptured/planets align creating massive gravitational forces/sun sends off face-melting rays. No matter what the cause of our impending doom, I've had to come to the realization that I only have few precious hours remaining to speak to you, my fans. It would be most selfish of me not to reveal my current festering thoughts to the world before computers and phones stop working from the electronic disturbance of the magnetic poles switching. Firstly, as you are crying from the sting of radioactive gasses, feel free to focus on this image as the last bit of earthly beauty you see:

I couldn't tell if duck face was better with eyes open or closed so I did both. HOTT.

The above picture was from a party I crashed a few weeks ago. It was the event of the season, I tell you. My celebratory senses were tingling as I started walking down the street and happened upon* a school filled with energy and delight. Students, staff and volunteers were gathering to share breakfast victuals and good cheer in the cause of raising funds for community programs such as the food pantry. I wasn't exactly thrilled by the lack of mimosas or dubstep but this "Santa" phenomenon was such a novel idea I had to get a picture from his delightful throne. I removed him first as he kept getting into my shot and that certainly was not acceptable as although reds and other jewel tones are in this season, fur is murder unless I'm wearing it.

Another surprise from the day was that a well-loved professional soccer player from a local team embodying greenery made an appearance to sign memorabilia and take pictures with the attendees. This player was unfortunately traded later, but now that makes everything he signed so exclusive! As we know, exclusivity is everything. Shame on him though for doing selfless things when he had packing to do. I bet he rushed everything so his clothes are all wrinkled now. Certainly helping to raise money for people in need of food and other entitlements is secondary to assuring a seamless move to God's favorite state.

In retrospect, the only aspect of the gathering that could have been better would have been the safety. In light of recent tragic events, I did a minimal amount of reading and sniffed once or twice at the lamestream media before finding the best information on Twitter, facebook, and Fox News. Now that I'm aware that more guns (rather than adequate mental & physical health care and education) makes us safer, all of the people at the event should have been packing heat. I don't want caregivers around children unless they have a weapon on them at all times. As a former teacher, although I often worked with special needs children and couldn't even have any earrings on or loose hair since both were frequently ripped out by those children, I realize now I still should have had a gun on me. All of the other teachers should have, too. We should have been required to buy weapons at our own expense, gladly pay for the training in their use, and bring them around our precious children on a daily basis. Nothing is more safe than having multiple emotionally charged people spraying bullets in all directions instead of just one irrational person doing so.

I don't know about you, but my reasoning and aim is always best when the adrenaline's flowing and the children I'm trying to protect are running everywhere, without my even having the benefit of being experienced in weapons or law enforcement. I would enjoy having to make quick judgment calls about whether or not that angry dad is getting out his gun, a phone or a business card. Sounds good to me. It's so easy to live with the guilt of killing someone, intentional or accidental, and that should just be another part of the role of a responsible educator.

With the fifth complaint you get a free note.

On a lighter note, here is a sweet note I received a couple of weeks later after I continued to crash school functions every day:










The reason I went to go hang out with these kids every day was to have them create a cyclone of destruction throughout every room in the school. It's preposterous to think I would feel any responsibility for keeping my impact to a minimum, having had my own classroom in the past and remembering just slightly how it felt when someone else used the room. You're right. I have told those kids to get in your desks and just TEAR. SHIT. UP. Guilty as charged!

I laugh maniacally while ordering the children not to sweep up or spend 10 minutes picking everything up at the end of our pure senseless chaos. I have never notified the custodian after we left if there was something I just couldn't clean up. I have also not started taking pictures of the classroom when we enter and when we leave so I have evidence of the difference. That would be insane because those pictures would in no way show how messy all your classrooms are when we get there and that the clutter was actually yours and your students'. I would be completely irrational to be deeply insulted by your repeated complaints to me or my supervisor if I had one. Of course, I wouldn't expect any of you would actually have your students clear off their desks or anything so there wouldn't be the possibility for anyone to accidentally displace their precious items just in the course of using the space, because you don't have any way of knowing via a regular schedule that we are coming to destroy your room. Now I'm just being ridiculous.

By the way, what I really enjoy and hope you will all continue doing, is make phone calls or have meetings while I'm in your room doing wreaking my havoc and roll your eyes at me because that lets me know I'm doing my best. Again, you certainly had no idea I was going to be there or anything and I love nothing more than being able to inconvenience you. How I wish I remembered what it was like to be one of you so this situation could even be more hurtful than you know.



*Note: this is most certainly not a school at which I have happened to become employed. That sounds silly. I promised I would never work in education again, forsaking all reasonable and valiant activities for the lifestyle of a wandering drunkard. This sounds like something my terrible impostor might do! In her responsible way, she would likely remove identifying information and change names as not to cause friction in the course of her sad, frustrated, disappointed ranting at the end of the world. Think no more on this.

The Most Fabulous Accessories You Can Never Own

Yes, I know you want them, but you can't have them. They are all mine. After I spent endless hours callousing my fingers in the creation of my beautiful hats and related accoutrements I have decided I simply cannot part with them. I once thought you may have enjoyed buying a horribly overpriced fashion accessory with my name on it merely so you could attempt to capture a small part of my brilliance for a fleeting moment, basking in my glory as you weep at your reflection, but it is not to be. Sucks to be you.

Hatterday enthusiast GB peruses the most exclusive fashion house in Portland

I arrived at my conclusion after an extended period of research and contemplation. The design and construction of jewelry and other accessories, afghans, quilts and some basic clothing has been a consistent hobby of mine over the years. I had become quite talented in the production of my wares and thought that perhaps I could make a slight bit of income from them instead of just bestowing them as gifts.

Working feverishly to complete a sufficient number of hats for stock, I was driven by the thought my success would be soon at hand. Fortunately, my handler had a line in to a festive event where I could place my wares on a table and my fans would come by and throw endless wads of cash at me. I went into the endeavor fully conscious of how spectacular I am, equipped with impressive works that everyone would cherish as much as I do.

For two days, I sat in a frighteningly white and chilly room, populated by mulleted or poodle-permed women selling such delights as "NASCAR potholders", "scripture bookmarks" and things having to do with the fine art of "scrapbooking". Of course, all of their sales paled in comparison to the cackling coven of witches peddling their evil. I wish I could forget what they were selling, but it was difficult to when every waking moment they screeched at anyone within a two mile radius, "CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAAAAKES! ONLY A DOLLAR! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAKES! OOOOOOOHHH! AND SNICKERDOODLES! YUUUUUUUMMMMMMMY! CUPCAKES!"

Wait, I lied. They didn't screech that at every moment. There were a few times in the ladies restroom or at the sales floor when in not-so-hushed whispers they would discuss the horrendously high cost of my hats and why I wasn't selling anything. I truly wish now that I had known previously to the bazaar that people in East County do not have any money for a hat that would last a lifetime and help them try to look fabulous while keeping warm, but they do have plenty of funds available for multiple cupcakes and trips to Burned Coffee Mermaid Land and the vending machines each day.

Not yours.

Even the lady that came by and asked me to make two custom hats overnight for her found a way to let me keep those, too. I had attained measurements from her, procured materials, crocheted like a beast and brought them in the next day after little sleep. She never returned. I now know that a $20 total quote for two handmade hats was unfair of me, because I should have tried to sell them to her for even more of a loss. Selfishly, I just wanted to be able to say I sold something and at least break even on the materials. I should have tracked her down, given her the hats, and bought her some cupcakes for the trouble of having to talk to me.

This year, I attended a sale at a religious school near my home. Every* person that walked past my table picked up a hat, commented on how beautiful/cute/well-made/stylish/fun they were, placed it back down, and kept walking. I just couldn't swindle the horrendous $25 dollars for a crocheted hat adorned with beads or crystals out of their purses. The exorbitantly priced $10-$15 textured baby hats elicited many cries of joy, but none as exuberant as mine as I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't have to give them up and could take them home to where they would truly be appreciated.

I consulted with my fashion magazines and realized that the most sought-after fashion tends to be the most unique and exclusive. And what could be more exclusive than accessories from a line no one is able to purchase? From now on, I will be making them only for my own enjoyment and bragging rights. Why attempt to get money to survive when I can certainly sustain myself merely on the jealousy of others? I did see some very plain hand crocheted hats this weekend at the Giant Downtown Book Fort being sold for even more than what I was charging. However, they are made in the exotic country of Indonesia so I'm certain it's best you keep sending all of your precious hat money out of the country either at the Book Fort, Cheap Shit Workers' Hell or Nonsensical Ancient Military Allegory.

Thank you, all, for helping me find my path to true enlightenment. I am the only one awesome enough to wear my creations and no amount of begging will ever change my mind. I'm certain of it. Fairly certain.

*Special thanks to the woman that informed me of the fact people with curly hair don't wear hats. You do learn something new every day.

Stop Putting Horseface on My Magazines!

Daisy says no to Horseface and yes to tuna.

My cat Daisy shares my sentiments when it comes to the world of fashion and the coverage of it. Yet again, I open my mailbox and stand aghast in horror as I see Horseface on the cover. Seriously, again with the Horseface? WHY?!? Is there some reason of which I am not aware that you are compelled to force her down my throat?

Are there no other people considered fashionable anymore so that you must frequently return to the same stable? I find that so hard to believe, considering that I myself know at least a few more than twelve people. Although they would not look as fabulous as I do, they would still be able to provide some variance to the medium. You fashion folk have an entire network at your disposal that I do not, so it now seems that you are simply trolling me.

On one of the other magazines that arrived a few days earlier, I had to endure That Other Girl from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie, which is only slightly better than Boring McOneExpression from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie.

Of course, I could have even been subjected to even more Boobage O'Drugbutt Fame Whore or Heiress vagFlash vonUseless, so I should really count my blessings. Hell, at this point I would even welcome more SadEyes Escapey DeBeard than these chicks, just because I'm happy her ignorant butt finally woke up and fled from her ex-husband Cult Shillington the Vile.

Fashion is a dynamic, ever-changing realm where ingenuity, creativity and innovation are essential and yet historical reference and tribute is also apropos. Why then is it, that nearly every month, the same faces are staring back at me from the fashion magazine covers? I used to subscribe to far more of them but was forced to discontinue my loyalty when I was tortured by repeated exposure to actresses, models, and celebutants for whom I could, how you say, give a "nary a shit".

Please, for the sake of all that is holy, find some new faces (that don't look like Skeletor, either) that could use the exposure and simultaneously help move the industry forward.

PS: I have been six feet tall since I was twelve, and according to your standards, I have always been plus size, even after I had mononucleosis and lost 10000 pounds in a month. Everyone thought I looked dead, not sexy. Hint hint.