What's New, Pussycat?

Hey y'all! Turns out I'm not dead...only mostly dead. There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. (Ha! Did you see that? Did you get that reference? Now that's what I call comedy, right? Retro movie quotes aren't played and over, are they? Anyone? Sigh. I know. I'll stop.) Actually, my ass was handed to me from a doozy of a flu for the past week. No big whoop, it's all good and I'm back, relatively germ-free. (And PS: what does "ass getting handed to you" even mean, anyway? According to the Urban Dictionary, it means- and I quote- "To be beaten like a Blind, Deaf, Dumb, Quadriplegic, Midget Hooker who owes her Pimp money." Umm, wha? That's beyond stupid. What exactly is beyond stupid is beyond me. I have too many questions today and should stop with the over thinking. But also, one more thing: the random and unnecessary capitalisation of words makes me stabby. Whichever loser wrote that entry should be beaten like a Blind, Deaf, Dumb, Quadriplegic, Midget Hooker who owes her Pimp money.) What was I saying? Anything important? Did I have a point? Who knows. All this DayQuil has me all verklempt. The peanut is neither a pea nor a nut. Discuss.

One quick update: the vintage 50's cat planter drawing will be this friday instead of today, like I originally said. Why? Because I said so. Also, announcing a winner on Friday the 13th seems ominous and wrong and great. So people, you have 2 more days to sign up by leaving a comment here or emailing me. It's totally free! No big whoop.

Rumble In Brighton.

"I hate you. So very much."

"Well I hate you more."

"That's right, just keep smiling, sweetheart. Just you wait until this damn photo shoot is over."

"Ooooh, I'm scared. Not. You don't know me, bitch. I'll knife you while you sleep, I swear to God."

Cat Scratch Fever

Today is giveaway day, my little porkpies! Just my way way of saying thanks a million to my followers and readers and arch rivals, without you I'd be talking to myself and most of the time the voices don't answer back and that gets boring. You guys rock and/or roll. So keep following, always feel free to leave a comment, keep sending the "I don't get it" emails. A few more "You are the bane of my existence. Also, you're awesome" emails would not suck either.

So without further blabitty blah, let's get to the free crap already, GOSH. Up for your approval is this limp-wristed, dead-eyed, vintage cat planter! Or you can keep Sen-Sen in it for when the kids come over to visit because as everyone knows, kids love the Sen-Sen. (Ps. Did you know that it was marketed as "breath perfume"? Gross. That's a fail, unless by "perfume" they mean the likes of say, Aqua Velva.) I used it to hold pens by my phone, for all those phone calls I didn't get. Or you can put your weed in it, what do I care. The kitteh is a wee size at a little over 4" tall. It has some crazing and is a little dirty on the inside, but then again who isn't?





Everyone is welcome to sign up! I'll pick a name from a hat and announce the winner in a week, on the 11th. If you want in on the drawing, you can either leave a comment or send me an email to that email address over there...on the right somewhere --->. Don't leave any personal info in a comment, unless you want all the world to know your name and address. The only person who'll know that stuff is moi, so if someone does a drive-by past your house and leaves a basket of muffins, you'll know it's me. Or maybe I'll just shout pretty random and indifferent things as I drive past, like "Today is Alice Cooper's birthday!" and you'll know it's me. And also, today really is Alice Cooper's birthday. I hope he's reading this and signs up for the cat planter and wins, so I can do a drive-by past his house and shout random things.

Blue Days, Black Nights

Feb. 3 marks the 50th anniversary of the 1959 Iowa plane crash (into a cornfield of all the lame ways to go) that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper. It's hard to wrap your head around the fact that it was half a century ago. Time flies when you're having fun. (Get it- a plane joke? Time flies, like a plane? And they died, which is not fun at all, do you see the sarcasm I did there? Distasteful. I know. I should be shot. Out of a plane and into a cornfield. Hey yo! Sorry.) I guess it's better for some legends to die in their glory so we can remember them at their peak, instead of watching their decrepit aging over the years. The Big Bopper would probably look like Dom DeLuise by now and Buddy Holly like a less neurotic Woody Allen.

I was born far too late in the century (the disgusting 70's) and not into the lifetime I was meant for. (Thanks, jebus, apparently you do make mistakes. Check your inbox before my next life, dude.) So I missed being able to see acts like Buddy or Ritchie. I could leave the "meh" Big Bopper, and by the way, "Chantilly Lace" is annoying as hell, but this is a memorial so I should be, like, respectful or some crap. One memory I do have to honor these fine boys is this: One of the first movies I vividly remember seeing in the theater was La Bamba. I was almost 12 and cried like a jackass in the movie theater- the part when Bob was on the bridge and yelled "Ritchiieee". Good god. The sobbing. It was so good that I kept reminding myself that it wasn't really Ritchie, just Lou Diamond Phillips. (The same way I get lost in Dennis Quaid's portrayal of Jerry Lee Lewis. Only now that I'm all growns up, I've developed a borderline nutbag crush on him in that movie. What am I, 13? More about my pathetic and nerdy psyche on another day.)

Should you wanna party like it's 1959 and are in the Lubbock, Texas area, stop by the Buddy Holly Center where there will be exhibits, discussions and a guided tour all day fo' free on Feb. 2nd and 3rd.




Everything's bigger in Texas.

But for an even more significant Holly/Valens/Bopper outing, the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa (the area of the plane crash) is having a big shindig to honor the boys, complete with a collection of memorabilia & personal items of the trio on display and a pretty rockin' lineup of acts set to perform like Wanda Jackson, Tommy Allsup, Bobby Vee and plenty others. I've heard tickets have long since been sold out, but you can still visit the crash site and wear black socks with sandals and leave behind some retarded hand written note on construction paper with glitter and take pictures like the dorky tourist that you are.

All That Meat & No Potatoes

Round 2 of more delicious recipes, 1950's style! Deliciousness not guaranteed. In fact, it's pretty much understood that most recipes from the 50's should never be eaten, under any circumstance.

This time, the fun continues with 1959's cookbook called How to Become a Cookout Champion: Win with these New Bar-B-Tricks. Please note: there are no interesting "tricks" for meat and you will never become a champion of the cookout. Your macho friends will mock you mercilessly, call you Mary and put you in charge of putting doilies underneath everyone's beer cans while they're watching the foosball match and fixing carburetors. (That is what manly men do, right?)



While I fully support the swell silver tinfoil cover, I do not condone the khaki slacks, blue socks, matching blue Keds and those Judy Garland-approved eyebrows. But why no meat on the grill? And why is lubing up the grill with ketchup? This bbq is off to an awesome start.



Men like meat on sticks, true dat. Adding tofu circles is questionable. And nothing says "crazy summer fun with the boys" like serving a hot cup of coffee.



Serving shit in hollowed-out melons and breadbowls and the like is so hokey it makes me a little stabby, but I guess in the 50's and 60's it was a novel, ca-razay par-tay trick. So I'm not hatin'. Except on another page of the cookbook, all of the dishes are served on ice in a wheelbarrow. Aww, how cutesy-tootsie. I'm pretty sure any man who served his meat-on-sticks in a gardening appliance at a party would get his ass kicked into next week. Except perhaps if he served it while riding the lawnmower. Wheelbarrow presentation is right up there on the hokiness scale, next to toilet bowl planters in the front yard.

But can I just address the beverage choice? Squirt. SQUIRT. "Wherever there's Squirt...there's fun"? I BET there is. A man must have written that ad, because I'm pretty sure no woman would find anything squirting in her general vicinity to be a good time. And sure as hell not in the punch bowl.

Come On-A My House

So yesterday I was saying that I have a new hobby of sorts. It's called "obsessed with vintage cookbooks." Now, before you get all "wow lame-o, could you any be any dorkier?" I would say A.) did you not catch my Chandler Bing impression? and B.) wasn't my Chandler Bing impression proof enough that I couldn't get any dorkier? But vintage cookbooks aren't as boring as you think. The graphics and models in these books are wonderful. In fact, the fembot housewives posing by the BBQ pit like they're Vogueing is hilarious...not to mention the mid-century modern furniture in the background and the cars and clothes could kill me in my tracks. So vintage cookbooks aren't as boring as you might think. (Or maybe they are and I'm the dork. Damn proud of my nerd status, too.)

My obsession started the usual way, by total accident. A couple weeks ago, a few of my out-of-town friends stopped by for dinner and drinks. After a few more drinks, we started playing records and had a few more drinks. And you know that it rolls, you have a few mai tais and start scheming and making plans which sound like a great idea at the time, but then then next morning you're all "Why am I wearing different clothes? Why is the floor sticky? Where's my goldfish? And who is that sleeping on the couch?"

What we came up with is an idea to throw a period-correct, 1959/'60 style dinner party, complete with the apropos clothing, music, cocktails, appetizers, dinner and dessert. We're gonna party like it's 1959. Literally. At the time that sounded swingin', but guess who's stuck doing all the work? Google. And then me. I've been searching vintage food, vintage recipes, vintage desserts, you name it, looking for what would have really been served at a swanky party in 1959. And so this is how I stumbled across the vintage cookbooks that have taken over my life. Either the folks who wrote these cookbooks were part of some 1950's conspiracy of brainwashing housewives across America to believe that in order to prove you're NOT a Communist, you will use pimiento loaf on a daily basis- or- people just really ate that way, which I cannot accept the idea that anyone could enjoy dinner that was made in a mold.

Can I get a witness? The following delights below come from the 1962 cookbook "Knox On-Camera Recipes: A Completely New Guide To Gel-Cookery".



Thanks for gettin' our backs, Knox. I'm sure I'm not the only one bored with your old guide to gel-cookery. Also, there never should have been any guide written with the words "gel-cookery".

Behold the culinary atrocities that only the 1960's could bring! Warning: if you haven't eaten yet, you may want to skip these pictures. Most of these dishes look like they've already been eaten.





What the HELL? Really?! Stupid Knox jerks. Lemon jell-o with corn and a side of olives sounds perfect.



This is my favorite. Not only do I not want to even go near this, what with it's pale complexion and questionable meat paste filler, but it looks like something you'd go to the doctor to get removed.

9 To 5

Hey, hey, kids! Contrary to popular belief I did not get taken captive by a traveling group of nomadic breakdancers, I am not moonlighting as a von Trapp singer and I did not fall off the face of the earth due to a moon boot malfunction. Although, breakdancing in moon boots sounds interesting. (Note to self: Start an 80's revival new wave band. Name it "Breakdancing In Moon Boots".)

Update time. Here's the haps: I've been multitasking like a crackhead and because of which I've not been blogging my face off like usual, simultaneously annoying and slightly amusing some in the usual manner. You know how I roll. For that, I'm sorry. (For the not-blogging part, not for the face coming off part. Because having no face would be gross. And unsanitary.) I just got in a mountain of vintage to consign for some of my bitches, and while that is delightful, it's also panic attack-making, what with all the work that needs to be done. And how can one get work done when there's American Idol to be watched? So there's that. Lots of new vintage, lots of work to go with it and waning mojo. And while I may not be super worker USA, as jebus as my witness I shall never be without my mojo. So back to work. Wa-pssssh! (That was indeed a lame attempt at making a "crack the whip" sound. What do you expect from 4 hours of sleep and not enough coffee? Must I keep reminding you that I'm not a hilarious comedian like Carrot Top? Although I would like to smash some crap like Gallagher.)

Be warned: in the next few days I'll be posting my very first giveaway! What could it be, you ask? Something way nerdy, you can bet. If you like free crap-free vintage crap- make sure to stay tuned and sign up. Or don't. You'll be crying your eyes out when you don't win an Evel Knievel lunch box. (It's not an Evel Knievel lunch box.)

Also, I have a new obsession which has been eating up my time lately. I'll get into the details of it later, perhaps in the next day or so. But it is way nerdy, yo. Which is also how I roll. I can tell you that my newest obsession is not: starting a Baywatch coffee mug collection, adopting Russian refugees or learning to speak Elvish.