Kristen Bell's Sloth Melt Down

Feeling down, therefore Short Round showed me this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5jw3T3Jy70

It is so incredibly worth watching, I cried with joy that there are other freaks in the world, and that some of them look that good.

Especially ones that every man I have ever dated has a mad crush on. This video makes me not only laugh until my eye makeup runs and I literally hug my sides, but gives me hope that I might be somewhere in the ball park of Kristen Bell.

Or at least in the nosebleeds.

(And if anyone wants to tell me how to download videos like this and/or embed them directly, I'm eager to learn.)

Drill Kiddo Drill

Today's Assignment: To hang a closet rack.

Tools: power drill, level, pencil, pre-made (non Ikea) rack/shelf unit.

It should be noted here that Ikea is superior in almost all ways. This instruction manual comes in three languages. Ikea's comes in none. The graphic designers and engineers they

have at Ikea have no need for words---they are THAT good at showing which to tool to use when on which piece of wood or metal or wall or plastic or cloth... They are brilliant. They also design ALL of their pieces of furniture, each shelf, screw, leg, support board, are unique and distinct looking from all others. They are also all precisely measured so no hack sawing is required.

I am circumnavigating the need for a hacksaw today by adapting the design of the non-Ikea shelving unit. That's right, I'm a genius, it's ok to worship.

What is not so precise about this particular, generic, Best Buy of DIY stores, are the numbers of things they include. I have three too many fat screws, two too many thin screws and one too few stud covering plastic cap guy.

Luckily, I am an adult and will refrain from knocking my noggin on the edges of any white metal.

I feel like I'm commiting treason against my holy land, Ikea, land of marzipan and gravy, land of color and delight in efficiency, land of show, land of self explanation, exploration, mix and match heaven. Where a person can easily make a nest worth feathering.

Drunk the koolaid?

Um, that's lingon berry juice--B****.

Why MamaGaard Rocks 1

My father doesn't like travel or vacations much meaning my mom, Colleen Ostergaard, who adores travel and adventure, sometimes takes vacations solo with excess children. She approaches these vacays with a balanced diet of planning and spontaneity; hotels are usually booked, cities are always met on schedule, days are free to who we meet and what we encounter. Getting lost, missing ferries, meeting pool sharks, she incorporates these things with poise and a competency that enriches every trip without losing all-important safety or plane ticket deadlines.

The greatest example I have of this, is the first time I was aware of it. I was seven and Mom and her friend Kimiko wanted to take me and my best friend Mika to a super sweet, mountain top spa resort thing outside of Taipei. We lived in




Taipei at the time, so this was to be a weekend trip. No worries.



We start. Lovely weather, road trip games, Mika and I have little idea as to where we are going, but don't care, because we're together, and we're seven. The moms do their chat thing in the front, we pay them no mind.



Half up the mountain we get flagged over by some dirty looking chinese people. Thank golly Mom speaks chinese, so she can understand what they're talking about. I don't get a translation, so we must be ok. We go on, there's this amazing cliff to our left, and clouds start filling in the valley so I can't look at the trees and bushes anymore. The same cliff rises to our right and the patterns of the rock blur as we are trucking along at a good 30 miles an hour. There's a tunnel up ahead.


I like tunnels, we hold our breath going under them. A good car game. Instead, though, there are chinese police men in blue uniforms waving their arms and shouting. I can't hear or understand what they say, but Mom gets out to talk to them. She can. She's cool.


She comes back and talks seriously with Kimiko. Mika and I start being quiet, I ask if I can hold my breath through the tunnel. “Of course, honey,” says Mom. Mika and I hold our breath, but because of the serious talking between the moms we don't try to tickle each other while we turn blue. We enter the tunnel. When we come out the other side we pass under a honest-to-goodness waterfall like I have ALWAYS wanted to see. It was awesome. On the other side of the water fall are more peasant looking ladies, they are also waving their hands.

Mom rolls down her window. I see giant, giant rocks in the road before us. Giant. Some of the ladies are trying to push them into the valley, they disappear into the clouds. I want to throw one. Mom rolls up her window and I have no recollection of how the hell we turn around in a one-lane tunnel or one-lane cliff face switchback. The next thing I remember (does stress block memories? Mom tells me I was very quiet for this part) is Mom and Kimiko throwing more boulders into the clouds like the ladies did. We'd returned past the police men and going down hill now. She told me to stay in the car. I wanted to help, I wanted to throw a rock, but I stayed because Mom is always right about what to do and how to do it.

My mother stayed calm and pragmatic. One villager might spread rumors, one police man might exagerrate, but 5 villagers and 3 police man and several hundred big rocks are enough evidence to destroy a good holiday. She weighed options and made life-saving decisions. She used all her mental and physical skills in a synthesis of competency to get Mika, Kimiko and I home safely. This was when she stopped being just my mom, and started being, objectively, a hero.

Buck Versus the Vacuum

Buck is over-motivated in protecting me from live vacuum cleaners. He finds joggers, golfers, and walkers to be threats to his national security also, but they are safely outside his glass portculis, and away over his grassy moats.

They are also pretty silent and have many obvious weak points to scratch and disembowel.

This guy though, is under the sway of a trusted pack mate, loud, completely metal and plastic.

He will, I'm sure this is not unique to this dog, chase it and bark at it from a distance of 4 inches but never get closer. Very barbarian in technique, but without any follow through. Have we, his human pack reined him in?

Whether this intimidation tactic is instinctive or learned, his new behavior is definitely learned. Thanks to 4 months of very consistent contact and lots of discipline sessions, Buck now hears the vacuum and starts to bark, looks over his shoulder at me, growls, and I say No, and he trots over and goes into pre sleep mode on my lap. It's amazing. I'm very proud.

But a little worried. Have I stripped my little warrior buddy---competent slayer of aliens---of his protect-and-scare-off nature?

Tumblr

I have three friends using the blogging competition: Tumblr. It is a little intimidating for me and my pretty little space here. They are both serious and prolific--things I will never be.

Differences: layout. subject. content. commenting. exclusiveness.

I love google. I am a minion and devotee to the gods of free stuff and laid back environments in which to enjoy them. Google offered me this free place to design and yak to my little heart's content, and I took it.

Tumblr has some very cutting edge looking pages with big, black fonts. The users speak in bullet points and just show things they like, and drop grains of thought out after them, or refer to what other people have said about whatever it is. It's very much like a live serial of Vanity Fair or The New Yorker. It, actually, is like a cyber New York. As seen by this suburban hick, anyway.

I, therefore, am fascinated. I want to be more like it. I want to be serious and prolific! I want people to say things to me and to respond to them. I want pretty pictures on my blog.

So, Kiddo will heretofore think less, react more, and find prettier pictures.

For example, when running an image search for "Tumblr" you are as likely to get that logo up there as you are to get this awesomeness for sexy Spanish hipsters:

Naivte and Movies that are Probably Good

The Oscars. The Academy Awards.

I don't know the etymology of "Oscars," I like to think it is the name of the guy who modeled for that statue. I do know where Academy Awards comes from. It's simply descriptive. Literally, The Academy chooses who gets the Award.

Who the s*** is the Academy? Get this propaganda:

They are the more than 6,000 artists and professionals who bring the magic of the movies to life. They are the men and women who transport audiences to galaxies far away and to worlds long ago and who create the previously unimagined for the big screen. They are the entertainment industry's preeminent filmmakers. They are Academy members.

Could you be any more into yourselves? I hate that I admire these people. They are so smarmy that this year Hugo and The Artist, amazing amalgams of Hollywood masturbation, are the big names for the series of awards. 11 for Hugo, Martin Scorcese's attempt to be warm, paternal, and heroic for his educational prowess. 10 for The Artist, a super fun looking silent film revival attempt that no one but over-educated film nerds like me are going to attempt watching or ever possibly enjoy.

It's enough to make me start doubting the objective integrity of the academy.

ha.

Like it possibly existed before.

Kiddo = naive.

Joe

"The only people who should compare themselves to Ronald Reagan are Margaret Thatcher and Pope John Paul II, everyone else should just be quiet."

The first time I have laughed out loud today.

Thank you Joe Scarborough, for giving me a worth while reason to be awake this early.

Target Infatuation

Shopping at Target is different. It's the lighting or the quality of floor, or the cart, everything is a little more plush. The plastic is denser, the linoleum thicker on the concrete, Carpeted sections are more clearly defined. The holiday décor is themed, and consistent—providing a feeling of walking through a story, rather than store.

I was forced, forced I say, to shop at Target. My list was all in-edibles. I had to drop off library books. There were shopping bags to be recycled, and the last time I used my Trader Joes bags at Safeway, the check-out chick gave me more passive aggressive criticism than I had previously thought the breed of people capable of.

With these seemingly unconnected reasons, you, darling reader, can see clearly why I had to experiment with my grocery shopping settings.

And it bloomed with so much contentment. Open, cleverly, with winter clothes on sale. The sale racks organized by size—a whole rack of extra smalls at $4. Yep. One thermal and two tanks in the cart. It's smart on their part and smart on mine. Right?

Duped?

no.

Surely not, the layout of the store did not weasel me into obeying the demands of the economy...

The layout of the food section, once I got there, was incredible. No confusing sections or deviations from logical order of foods, no weird inedible soaps or towels shoved in among tortillas or coffee. It's awesome. All snack food is even right at the back, sequestered safely away from where I needed to go.

People are friendlier at Target. First conversation was around the sale tank tops. Second by greeting cards. Third at check out. All women, all smiling, all dressed well but not flashy—Have I come to the home of tasteful middle class house wives? Why do these ladies value, like me, company brand tissues with pretty patterned boxes? All the colors are subdued, and calm, as though they had been knitted for Etsy. The detergent aisle included three brands of eco-friendly and minimalist designed companies of soap. Soap.

Still duped? No, it's really a wonderland.

The Boredom

Regular life being what it is, and so many of us experiencing it, little can actually be interesting. Expression therefore, becomes the thing that keeps us from inertia.

When I become bored, I become boring to others as well.

But when engaged, the Tree of Life, or football, or sitting very still become fascinating, and descriptions of them flower in entertainment.

But the boredom is so easy. Is it like recharging? Like sleeping? Does coffee cheat us of quality boredom? Do we cheat ourselves of better entertainment by cramming too much of it into our days?

Is my boredom bringing me to similar conclusions usually reserved for stoners, drunks and philosophers?

Jammin' Mon

T-Bone said: Yea, I got that for you because you need to chill out.

He referred to my suite of Bob Marley tab book and cd.

It's a new, weird thing that I don't really think adheres to my personality, because I'm anal retentive about everything. Thus proving T-Bone's the point.

So I find myself, very shortly thereafter, and in a no way related series of events, in the quintessential jam band basement of suburbia.

Everything about the experience screamed a teenage life I ducked out on while rock climbing, watching Audrey Hepburn movies, and making gnocchi.

I arrived in my little car with a tinful of homemade cookies. Puffy coat, fluffy gloves, hair all tangled in a giant scarf-- and not knowing anyone in the house except Pippin who, last night, had gotten a tad defensive of jamming 'cus girls always fuck up the creative flow.

Teen Sister answers the door after Dad yelled stuff. Between two and five dogs bark. I wonder frenetically how I will say things. Hi! I'm here for Pippin, Hi, my name is Kiddo, is your son here? Hi! How are you—point me in the jam band direction? How do you do, I'm here for the band.

The labs jump all over me I'm so thrown off I don't even introduce myself. I'm escorted to the basement door: “Pippin! Your Friend is here!” Teen Sis smiles and walks off. Dogs continue jumping and sniffing my crotch. I side swipe into the cellar and clump down the stairs, trying to pull my scarf off and purse back up my arm and getting over the four dog gang bang I just pulled my girl parts out of.

The basement has a couple plastic christmas trees, country kitchen style wardrobes abandoned in the last century, a semi circle of seven distinct amps, a rack of guitars, a bass, and a drum kit I am stunned is actually on a cheap persian rug—who knew, all stereotypes are genuinely rooted in basement reality.

My adorable friends screw together a genuine steel drum. It's silver and pretty and sways, and makes noises like fairies alighting on stars. They discover problems with two amps, a cord and a bass. One compromises to play the bass like a dulcimer, and the other finds the trippiest sounds a little keytar can spew. We eat my little choc chip cookies and I wish, for the umteenth time I were talented.

It is the afternoon, and no one thinks of drinking alcohol. Pippin asks “I have flavored water, and water flavored water—what do you want?” No one even thinks to smoke things, like I had half expected.

They, and therefore me too, chill out like only 15-year-olds should be able to.

Censorship

Dear Honorable Senator/Representative, and his/her staff,

Please do not support the Protect IP Act / Stop Online Piracy Act. The internet is not an entity that can or should be controlled to that strenuous a degree.

In the way that arming policemen with guns heightens the motivation for criminal firepower, attempts to muzzle online piracy will only inspire such pirates to escalate their methods.

In the mean time, students of all ages, start up businesses, researchers of foreign websites, and even curious searchers of knowledge, will lose out.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

Kiddo

Copy, Paste, Adjust, Send.

Heathers

An epic tale of the changelessness of humanity, no matter the actions taken.

When a couple of cute 17 year olds, Smoothie and AdoptoGaard, wanted to know about fashion in the late 80s and early 90s, I, being the loving elder that I am, first thought Clueless. It wasn't free on Netflix, but the internet seems to know me pretty damn well, and it spaketh: “You Will Like Heathers.”

It's true, I do.

Zap forward an hour and a half---

AdoptoGaard is shouting “I told you! He wasn't dead! Find an adult!” she gets so excited she leaps, double footed off the super plush, super suburban couch and gestures with both hands wildly at slightly worse-for-wear Winona Ryder.

Heathers isn't about achieving happy ends through following society's suggestions, NetFlix aside. It's about forcing society to conform to ideals of the tortured, less popular kids in high school. Or at least it starts as a fantasy for those of us who fit that role. And it is appropriately cartoonish in its portrayal of this fantasy.

In its gore: a blue mouth full of draino, perfectly symmetrical gun shot wounds.

It's colourful in its language: “Very very,” “It's will be so very,” “I love my dead gay son!” And who could forget “F*** me gently with a chainsaw”? The quotes are timelessly naïve in their brutality and dipshittery.

In its wardrobe: Red scrunchiis, and the world's greatest cheerleader outfits (Kurt Cobain clearly jerked off to this film at some point). It's a time capsule of attitude.

It was exactly what Smoothie and AdoptoGaard needed, but not what they expected. No teen/tween movie made in the last 10 years has featured something so edgy as serial killing, suicide as a social problem, or even Christian Slater's lesser work with pirate radio in Pump Up the Volume.

If I'm wrong, I'm willing to watch. Challenges like defusing bombs are deemed too stressful or outlandish for teen/tweens, but if we've learned anything from the course of the nineties and the centurian zeroes, it is that people destroying their classmates is something you may want to prepare yourself for.

Books like How to Survive a Zombie Invasion or How to Survive a Robot Uprising may be amusing in their premise, and their deadly serious tone, but they won't actually help you stop Columbine from happening to your local collection of queen bees, nerds, jocks and outcasts.

Winona Ryder will. How ought one respond to finding out you just inadvertantly killed your greatest frenemy? Fake it to be a suicide. How do you stop your super hot boyfriend from blowing up your school? Shoot off his middle finger and smoke a cig.

AdoptoGaard was floored.

I feel my duty as a Knowledgable Elder has been fulfilled.