Ruh roh raggy.

Crud. My computer is hosed. Crappity. I'll be back soon. Meanwhile, here's a picture of the bandit girlpup at bedtime tonight.

Cheers, m'dears!



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Stars!

Peter said these shoes had Phlegmmy written all over them, and I suppose I do rather rate in the twinkle-toes department. These gold & diamond stilettos register in at a cool £100,000 jumping-off point. Each solid gold shoe is encrusted with 1100 diamonds.

What's most hair-raising to me is that these shoes have a 1000 year guarantee.

Come again?

I'm trying to wrap my brain around that. So, like, if in 400 years, a diamond falls out, some great-great-great granchild of the designer will pony up a replacement stone? What if they've been quite banged-about? I mean, would that void the guarantee? I'd like to know the specific terms.

Then again, I suppose if you have to have the terms, you can't afford it anyhoo. So much for that, eh?

Thanks for the bit of perspective, though, Peter. I'm always looking for affirmation that the $400 or $600 shoes for which I lust are actually rather modest investments! ;)

How about a nice bit of 50s vintage Cheesecake?

From Son of Sinbad, 1955

I don't know about Sally Forrest's milkshake, but her honeybuns are way more compelling than Princess Leia's, imho. Also, any movie with Vincent Price is a winner, in my book. A Howard Hughes production, this film's abundance of girlie show elements apparently morally outraged some folks. I suppose so-- this is far more erotically compelling than a wardrobe malfunction, or a starlet flashing her bare crotch when exiting a vehicle, yes?

Pimp my cubicle

Pimp my cubicle for under $3.00?

Tempting. Very tempting. Still, I think the owner of my company would look askance at such a decor choice for my cubicle...

Take your cubicle from boring to *bling*

Come to think of it, the folks at work might find the pimpery less alarming than wallpapering the cubicle with crack-shot target papers from leisure time at the range.

What do you think?

Sunday, Puppy Sunday: Puppeh Movie

Was home sick with the puppies on Wednesday and decided to film them so you'd see them in action. Or in inaction. Will try to get you some vid of more activity. Maybe some snortal combat. :)


La!

Get 'em before copyright infringement turns them into unobtanium

Holy crap, but we watched Army Of Darkness last night, and I noticed over at snarkybytes' that Bruce Campbell's birthday was a few days back, and I squee'ed when I saw his post title "Good… Bad… I’m the guy with soup." What a coinkydink!

SciFiWire.com made up some labels for Bruce Campbell's Soup in honor of his birthday. There's a link where you can print the labels out and bung them over your existing soup can. I'm SO having some of this in my shelf. Coolest. Soup. Ever.

Nothing can compare...

Here's a superbly ethereal version of Finley Quaye's Dice (LOVE this song) sung by Beth Orton and produced by William Orbit.

Have a great Saturday. :)

I intend to.

Begging your pardon?

...in which my gentle readers get to settle a fierce disagreement. *snerk*

When I moved into the house, I couldn't use my brand new gas range, because the house has an electric hook-up for the range in the kitchen, and it came with a functioning range. I shrugged it off. I knew very much that this was a project house coming into it, and so using the manky old stove that came with for a while was not an oogy prospect to me. I'd just make sure to not let any of my edibles touch the surfaces, yeah?

Well, the more I've looked at the range, the more I've come to realize it's not that old after all. It was simply limned with a revolting mix of greasy, grungy icky filth. Yes, I've been living with that for a few months now, but looking at it Thursday night, the major gross-out factor on the range was the little venty things which were clotted with muck and oomska. I went to the bathroom, got an old toothbrush and began scrubbing away at the mess. Well, I got the lion's share of the gunk out, but the areas near where the handle attached to the door were un-reachable.

Himself was in here on the computer, typing up a post, and I called him in for an assist with the dismantling of the oven door. With power tools. Yes, it had to come out of there. That gooey muck was so frelling nasty. [How the hell did they get grease, goo and foody bits in those vents? I mean, you'd literally have to have food glops oozing down the front of the range. And it wasn't just one event, because there were different fields of certain colors or textures. One was tomato-red, another baby-doodie golden and so on. Anyway. How? HOW did this happen? How could you have a long gloopy food smear down the front of your appliance and just leave it there? How did I live here for 4 months without scrubbing it out before now?] So, the door disassembled, I merrily tucked into taking the vent and the handle apart and was scrubbing away with the toothbrush, a sponge and a paring knife at the igneous formations encrusted on the vent innards when Himself exits the room and lobs a little depth charge about OCDism.

Me? I'm a messy person. Truly I am. But I'm all about the clean clutter. Yes, there are free-range dust buffalo around my place. There's a backlog of laundry at about any time you come here. But I don't have crusty nasty foody stuff drying/solidifying/molding/mutating anywhere in the place. Does that make me OCD?

What do you think?

I think I was just being thorough. It looks so clean and shiny now and I'm sure it'll do a much better job of cooking now that it feels fresh and cared-for.

I am NOT OCD. If I were OCD, I wouldn't wear mis-matched socks. I often wear my Tuesday panties on non-Tuesday days. If I were OCD, I would have hoovered those two teeny spiderwebs off the front of the inside of my windshield when I noticed them a few weeks ago.

Note to self: must have car detailed.

*ocd cat courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger

"Stop Falling! Stop Falling! You don't wanna crawl anymore...

you left your face and your hands on the concourse..."



Well, it was bound to happen. Lady Gaga has fallen off her shoes in the airport in London.



Mind you, for me there was also the question of a leather train of considerable length, and there was also the matter of trailing chains which may or may not have been attached to the train or to the not-pedestrian-friendly boots from Noritaka Tatehana, a footwear designer LG favors.



Although they look a hazard, I do on some level admire the heel-less wonders she's been trotting about in as she's appeared in recent weeks, like this pair to the right. I'm sure that like myself, Ms. Gaga has probably heard cruel invective such as impossible, ridiculous and torturous with relation to her shoes all her life. On some level, she obviously enjoys it. If I had her budget and her obvious ease of social schedule and lack of an 8-5, I'd probably be sporting some of these puppies my ownself, if only for the sheer novelty. I'd probably be pretty sparing with where I'd choose to wear them, however.



The getup in the aeropuerto was a smidge on the too-much side. In airports, you have to walk absolute miles, darling. Donning fetish gear may be iffy, but wearing something which by nature is nigh impossible to stride in effectively virtually guarantees this type of occurrence, and one which will yield a look-at-me factor of a different variety than one might desire.



If you wear ridiculous shoes, one day-- sooner or later-- you will wipe out, generally in public, and to huge and embarrassing effect. I did have this marvelous pair of Robert Clergerie lace-up oxfords with a very *ahem* severe chunk heel, and I fell flat in them on my uni campus once, and then a few months later I fell in them in front of a store. That was so ossum. *blush* You do that thing where you look back as if you tripped on something, but deep inside you know it was either A) you or B)your shoes or C) some lethal combination of both. Fortunately, camera phones were not available and I was a mere nobody on some unremarkable day going about my own tasks only I would remember. Still, I recognized that for some reason, despite all the heels, wedges, creepers, Frankenhooker shoes I've ever owned and successfully navigated the planet whilst donning, that one particular pair was a hazard when combined with something about my stride or foot or something. I continued to wear them, but only on occasions of minimal walking, and I always stepped carefully thereafter.

She is tremendously talented. I sometimes think Lady Gaga is a test-tube clone-thing of Madonna with a genuinely good voice and some mad piano skills spliced in. She's talented enough to really carry a music career without the gimmickry, but I suppose going out there stripped down to mere-human stature to make her music might be a lot more intimidating than trying to dazzle with outrageousness. I just think that some of the things she wears are damned unflattering. I'm not happy she fell. I suppose I'm a little disappointed for her... ...or maybe it makes her more real than anything she's done on stage. It's a curiosity.

Honorable mention to the assistant with those cute black and white wing-tips. Also the lackey guy with the mini Tin-Tin flip-- are they still doing that?

...speaking of Fashion Victimry-- anyone beside me remember 6 or 7 years ago when Chlöe Sevigny fell off her 8" Balenciaga boots and broke out her eye teeth? There were only a handful of these boots made, they were ghastly-expensive (about $3000, I think?), and mere days after her fall, a pair of them appeared on ebay to much speculation amongst the footwear savvy crowd...

Aw, crap!

Apparently some guy bought a warehouse of Michael Jackson family memorabilia, and among the artifacts were hundreds of masters of unreleased Jackson family recordings. Crap. Are we going to have to listen to that stuff, really?

Oh, wait. There's no nudity and pole-dancing, so it'll probably die in AM radio somewhere.

*whew!*

...the latest buzz...

Even a creature with the gripping intellect of a housefly knows the Affordable Care Act stinks on hot frelling ice. He may think it's fly, but all the rest of us know it's not-so-fresh.

His milkshake brings all the flies in the yard,
and they're like: "it's better than yours."

ew. um. busted.

Goody. Technology gives more opportunities for creepy weird French stalker behaviour.

le yuck.

Call me naive, but...

...when I saw a news teaser that hometown fans went apeshit after the Lakers game in Los Angeles on Thursday, I figured they'd lost, right? Not so.

What can possibly be said about a bunch of people who go bananas and are just looking for a reason to tear stuff up?

A typical liberal reaction would be that these are poor, disenfranchised people who had no means of watching the game. Um, judging by the number of video phones and iPhones which illuminate the darkness around the burning taxicab, I'd say these people are well-off enough to afford cutting edge technology, so the poor-little-poor-things argument doesn't wash here. The LA Times journalist in the second video clip says there were no jumbotron screens on outside the arena, so the fans didn't have the outlet of watching the action inside the venue. (waaah waaah) She asks how can we find a better way to celebrate this victory together? I'm thinking the question is not how do they celebrate, but why on earth they would have such a defective culture as to have an ability to break down so easily from a semi-civilized state into a chaotic mob which destroys the means of livelihood for one of their "fellow citizens?"

That cab was an Independent Cab Company vehicle. I looked up this company and found that -- heigh ho!-- the dirtbags in LA were not destroying the property of some big corporation or even of a huge local company-- they destroyed the means of livelihood for one mere human person who lives in their community. This person probably scrapped and scrounged and saved to earn the capital to go independent. Yes, there are a lot of dirtbag cabbies in the world, too, but I've taken a lot of cab rides here and abroad, and I'd say collectively, they can be some of the nicest folks you'd want to meet. They put up with a lot of crap, they are exposed to a lot of rude, condescending behaviour, and yet they perform their duty which is a service and one on which many folks rely to get around town.

This is part and parcel of why I do not live in a city, for one thing, and plan to never set foot in LA again for the remainder of my life. If your society is so pathetic and wrong-headed that you break into violence when something good happens, I sure as hell plan to be a long way from you just in case something you don't like happens.

Way to go, jerks. I'd agree with Silver that California needs to go, full stop, but there's something of interest to me in the Napa/Russian River Valleys, and other places as well, so it's not a total wash. But San Francisco and Los Angeles?

I say we dust off and nuke the sites from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

In all of life's lotteries...

My steadfast belief is that in all of life's lotteries, the best one to win is having extraordinary parents. I have that in spades and my Dad is the best in all the world. I'm so blessed.

Who could ask for more?

I love you, Dad. Thanks for being such an incredible, one-of-a-kind. I'm so proud of you.

Happy Father's Day.