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oh, okay, thank you

Five years ago, I bought 2 pairs of Thai fisherman pants from this little stand among the bustling thousands at the Chiang Mai night market. I’ve never worn them because … well, I didn’t know how to wear them. Now I do.

I have a plain red pair and a really pretty black pair with embroidery and beading. And they were cheap, cheap, cheap. Man, I loved Thailand!

So two questions:

~ Would I be a weirdo if I wore my fisherman pants around in daily life? Please know your answer will not deter me, I just want to know what I will be labeled, you see.

~ And, can we set up the SYC in Thailand? We’ll travel other places, of course. I mean, we have the crochet bus, the gypsy caravans, the cool motor home, the art boats. Plenty of modes of travel. But I say first stop is Chiang Mai! We’ll drink lassis and I’ll take you to Pop Am where you can eat and eat and eat for two bucks American. (We’ll give Jayne a break.)

Oh, and for dessert is an ice cream treat called Pygmy Boy.

I am not kidding.

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genius

badwaldoart.jpg

Hahahahahaha. The genius of Brian continues unabated. I asked for a Waldo, he gave me a Waldo.

And, yes, NOW I like this painting.

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“christian” art for your holiday weekend

Oh, Lord.

Someone sent this image to me in an email, talking about how GREAT and BEAUTIFUL and MEANINGFUL it is and how I needed to send it along to non-Christians I know.

Why? What for? To say, “Hi! Not only am I a Christian, which probably annoys you, but I have really bad taste, which is inexcusable. Wanna hang out?”

You know, I can’t explain it, but this painting actually enrages me. Mainly because it sucks and I’m a crankypants. But also because this is what Christians consider “great art.” Throwing anything and everything “symbolic” at a canvas and causing sensory overload to the point of seizure and meaninglessness. The effect on me is the precise opposite of its intended effect, I’m sure. This painting actually means NOTHING to me because it’s trying so hard to mean EVERYTHING. Ugh.

(The culprit/”artist” is John McNaughton.)

Oh, his website — which made me a little dyspeptic — showed this piece in cloying closeup and that document Jesus is holding? It’s the Declaration of Independence.

bad-art.JPG

Let me bullet point my issues here:

~ Again, it’s just bad. It is. Anyone with a modicum of taste will agree. I’m sorry.

~ I’m not saying the dude doesn’t know how to paint. I’m saying the dude doesn’t know how to think or edit himself, which is much worse.

~ You know, it’s basically Thomas Kincaide meets patriotism and I cannot stand Thomas Kincaide although I have no issue with patriotism.

~ But it does meld Jesus with patriotism, which I DO have an issue with.

~ Jewish Jesus is pretty and white.

~ He’s holding The Declaration of Independence, which he wrote as we all know.

~ Lincoln has his arms outstretched worshiping Jesus and/or The Declaration. Although, Abe? You’re turned the wrong way, aren’t you?

~ The dude next to Lincoln — Adams? — appears to be worshiping Lincoln or gesturing to Lincoln. “HE farted. I didn’t do it.”

~ I do enjoy the fellow on the far right next to — Adams? — who seems about to bolt from the canvas. Hahahaha.

~ The little kid gets to touch The Declaration, but not Jesus. “Don’t touch the robe, kid.”

~ I also enjoy that Ben Franklin looks slightly pissy and pouty. “You know, I invented electricity, Jesus, so big whoop on the halo thing around your head.”

~ The weeping justice makes me vomit.

~ Is that Thomas Jefferson or John Hancock to the left of Pretty Jesus there? Is that a rolled-up copy of The Declaration or a baseball bat? Is he about to open a can of whup ass??

~ Is the dude in the lower right-hand corner texting?? Hahahaha.

~ Who’s that woman between Franklin and Jefferson/Hancock? Is she wearing a breastplate? It looks like …. Joan of Arc??? I’m so confused.

~ Is that Reagan next to the Betsy Ross chick? What up, Reagan? He seems a blank to me. Is this Alzheimer’s Reagan then?

~ Why is the blonde reporter in the lower right interviewing the pregnant lady’s hair?

~ Who’s the sobby janitor on the far left?

~ O how I hate this.

~ Although I would totally change my opinion if Waldo were hiding somewhere in there.

Please take a moment this weekend, pippa, to ponder this painting and the rich confusing history it represents.

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!!

(UPDATE: Commenter Brenda put a great link in the comments to the artist’s site. Click on this link and you’ll be able to scroll over all the faces and learn what ALL THE SYMBOLISM is. You must check it out. Lordy.)

Oh, oops. My bad on something. Jesus hold the Constitution. Jefferson, to the left there, holds the Declaration. And here I was hoping it was a baseball bat and someone was about to open a can of whup ass.

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prayer

Hey, pippa.

I have two immediate family members with serious health issues. These do not involve me or MB. One has stabilized for now. One has just been discovered and is potentially life-threatening; we don’t know yet. I don’t want to go into details and I won’t be talking about this regularly on the blog, but I would like to ask you dear people to please pray.

I’m saying thanks in advance because I know you guys will pray.

So thanks.

I do promise this will NOT become the “serious health issue” blog because … well, ew.

I mean, I don’t want this to become “A Very Special Episode of Beyond the Pale” every cottonpickin’ day — because again with the ew.

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there was a day

There was a day called yesterday when I didn’t know what this was. (NSFW.)

I want to know just who poses for these photos on Wikipedia? First, the fellow apparently has a problem. He volunteers, one assumes, to share this problem with the world, but then he has to ….. uh, be proactive with himself…. in order to show the problem in its …. best light??

I’m sorry. It came up in something I’m editing and I didn’t know what it was and now I do and I’m ever so sorry to know, but not sorry enough not to share it with you.

I need my wubbie.

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theme yurts for the syc

I’m trying to remember how it became the “Sudden” Yurt Commune. I think something someone said in one of the early posts about it? While it was still just a twinkle in my eye? I don’t remember, but I know that phrase is out there.

I hit on an idea in the comments of the post below:

We need theme yurts in the SYC. I don’t like the word “theme,” really, because it sounds like Disneyland or something and the SYC is WAY cooler than Disneyland, but I can’t think of another word here. “Theme” also makes me think of “A Christmas Story” and Ralphie’s teacher: I want you to compose ……… a theme! I will think of a better name. I will!

Anyhoo. (I stole that word from Sheila. I totally did. I’m sorry, Sheila.)

The idea would be this: Each member of the SYC — and our membership requirements are very rigorous; you’re a member if you WANT to be a member — can choose for himself or herself a yurt that they host. It’s that person’s baby. Yes, it’s true that in the comments of the post below, I became all despotic, as is my nature, and ASSIGNED a rock ‘n’ roll yurt to Cullen and NF, which they do not have to do. Not at all. Just an idea.

BUT …. I think it would be cool for people to host a yurt that features something they’re passionate about and we can all come and “hang out” in there. Maybe Sheila would do a movie yurt. Jayne would do a cooking yurt. Sarahk would do the gun-toting yurt. Kate P would do a YA yurt. Brian would do the Photoshop yurt, because he has mad skillz. See? Something like that. Something that you’re passionate about, something that you can teach or just share with others. For instance, mine would be the Liam Neeson yurt or the Sweeney Todd yurt or the pouring water on the movie theater seat yurt, for instance, since these are the consuming passions of my life. (The ideas above are NOT demands, just ideas.)

Honestly, I’m hoping for a crochet yurt. I started learning several years ago, stopped doing it, but I really liked it and I need me some instruction, pippa!

These “theme” (argh) yurts — “specialty” yurts?? (ARGH )– can be of your own choosing. Both the theme and the look of it. Yes, I’m the benevolent dictator of the SYC, but these would be yours to do with whatever you wish and we’d all reap the benefits of your expertise and talent! Hurrah!!

It would be so cool if we could add to our gallery of photos in the SYC category. There’s some neat stuff at the SYC. Going through all those photos makes me happy.

So if you’d like to create your own theme/specialty/better word to come yurt, announce it in the comments, please oh please. If you have time to do some Googling and find a picture of a yurt you fancied for your specialty yurt, I would LOVE it if you posted a link to it in the comments so I could upload it to the SYC category in the sidebar with your description of it. Or draw one. Or Photoshop one. Whatever. It’s your wizard master crackerjack passion hotshot something yurt.

Can’t wait to hear what your yurts will be. Describe in as much detail as you wish. I need this happy place right now.

So let’s do some work on the SYC.

And pictures, crackie! Picturrrres!!

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so what? i like her

She’s Orianthi and, yes, I like her.

Plus, I think she rips that guitar UP. But I need Cullen to tell me if she does. If he says she doesn’t, then, clearly, I am done with her.

Although I will still continue to work out to these songs. But with contempt then, of course. Contempt will drip from every word I sing at the top of my lungs.

Ooh, at about 3:20 in the video below, I was on sheer tenterhooks as to how it would end! Nailbiting suspense, pippa!

In the one below, she has a purty sparkly guitar. I need Cullen to explain what’s going on with the guitar in the foreground because it doesn’t look to be what she’s playing, but maybe it is. I really don’t know. So … is that cool or just weird?

The red eye of Sauron is making me insecure. I need non red-eyed people to tell me what to think. As usual.

Oh, but check her out at about 2:12-2:27.

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the thing the eye doctor did

I’m at the eye doctor’s today. A new eye doctor for me. I’m there because one half of my left eye is blood red and zombie scary and has been that way for two weeks. I decided I needed to see someone once I started wearing my sunglasses in the bathroom so I didn’t have to look at myself and then in bed, so MB didn’t have to look at me. Don’t look at me! I’m a hideous monster! I’m a plague of Egypt!

Last week, I didn’t even go to The Banshee’s little recital because I didn’t want to traumatize her with Super Gross Tee Tee or give her anything that would make her become Super Gross Banshee and then blame Super Gross Tee Tee.

The eye doctor is balding and short and has an ominous demeanor. Meaning, there are just too many pregnant pauses between his words for me to believe that the end of the world — or my eye — is not imminent. He swings the Viewmaster thingie in front of my face and tells me to place my chin in the chin stirrup with the little disposable tissues. Never know what dread disease someone else’s chin may give you. Trapped this way, I have nothing else to do but “stare straight” as he says, right into the cavern of his left nostril, and wait for him to finish a damn sentence, for the love of God.

“Well, it looks like …….”

“What?”

“…………..”

He’s still looking through the Viewmaster.

“Is it bad?”

“…………………………”

He is enthralled by the Viewmaster.

Good God, man! Just hurry up and tell me I’m gonna die because of my zombie eye!

“There seems to be an inflammatory process ………”

Really? What gave it away? I mean, it wasn’t the hideous redness, was it??

“So what does that mean?”

“………………………………………”

He doesn’t answer. He just does the weird thing. Or, rather, the weirder thing.

He pushes the Viewmaster away from my face, takes a little light, and shines it into my red eye of Sauron.

Oh, but that’s not the weirder thing.

No. The weirder thing is this:

He touches his forehead to my forehead while he shines the little light into my red eye of Sauron.

He touches his forehead to my forehead.

Without telling me, “I am now going to touch my forehead to your forehead,” he touches his forehead to my forehead.

Sure. It’s not, “I am now going to insert this frozen speculum into your frightened vagina,” but a little heads up about the forehead thing would be nice. This is not a date. To me, anyway.

He’s holding my head loosely to shine this light, but I don’t feel I can pull away and maybe this is all perfectly normal and I’m a paranoid baby, but he’s close enough for me to start counting the gray hairs in his mustache. He’s close enough for any number of things that I would label more “pervy felon” than “eye doctor.” The lights are off in the room and it’s all just a teensy bit creepy.

I am literally planning “a move.”

If you get any closer to me, dude, which I actually don’t think is possible, I am taking my knee and ramming it into your crotch and I will walk outta here still with my plague eye but you will walk out of here with a brand new plague penis. Talk about your inflammatory process, Slappy. You have mere seconds to get the hell offa me. I am not kidding.

After about 20 of the longest seconds of my life, he stops touching his forehead to my forehead, thank God, and I can once again live my life as an independent entity — and, you know, not a conjoined twin.

I believe in the future, I will be taking my red eye of Sauron, should it ever rise again, elsewhere.