A Marshmallow World

Because everybody in the US of A knows what an Easter Peep is (side note to my international amigos: do you know what a Peep is?), I bring you tidings of Easter cheer the only way I know how: with the unexplainable and time-wasting creative use of said marshmallow abominations, combined with utter geekery to the ubiquitous modern nerdaholics' anthem movie of choice, the Lord of the Rings, as told by Peeps. (Yes. Yes that was a run-on. I worked very hard on it. Thank you for noticing.)

People of the Earth, I bring you: The Lord of the Peeps: The Fellowship of the Peep. (<-- Go to that site if you wanna see the entire storyline of the first episode of LOTR done with Peeps.)







































"A Marshmallow World" by Dean Martin. Yeah, I know it's an Xmas song, so what, you wanna fight about it?

When The Ship Hits The Sand

Continuing on with my adventure in vacation land, one unexpected and seriously interesting stop was to the U.S.S. North Carolina Battleship, a place you'd probably assume was as boring as watching a bowl of dead Sea Monkeys, but in fact was pretty emotionally moving. The ship is massive and you look literally like an ant, dwarfed by the sheer height of this thing. I remember standing on the deck, looking around in amazement, letting it sink in that this was once an actual working ship with thousands of crewmen aboard during WW11, cruising the Pacific and shooting down buttloads of Japanese planes made me misty. And I don't cry. I would rust. The conditions the men have to live and work in, these small, claustrophobic spaces and boiling hot engine rooms is nothing short of heroic. Visiting the battleship was the farthest thing from boring, in fact, we only had an hour to sprint through all the levels of this behemoth (or else we'd miss our plane home) and really, I could have spent hours more exploring it and wondering what ever happened to the guys who once called that ship "home".



Apparently the battleship is haunted, but I didn't capture a single ghost in my pictures, nor did I hear a voice from beyond the grave calling "Kiiiimmm... Avast, ye wench! Batten down the hatches and ahoy, matey! Oooooo....". (Apparently Navy men of the 40's speak like pirates. It's a little known fact.) I was bummed for the lack of ghostery. I was also annoyed that neither Charo nor Tony Orlando showed up on the lido deck to do their song-and-dance disco numbers and that Isaac never did bring me that Mai Tai I ordered.

One kicky little detail of the USS North Carolina was the black and white pictures of men aboard the ship during it's heyday, set up throughout different sections of the ship, like the various parts of the kitchen and control room. Standing in front of a picture of a guy standing in the same spot you're standing in, only 60 earlier was phenomenal. My sister and I referred to the guys in the pictures as "The Hotties". They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Onward to pictures! Some are not the best quality and stupid Blogger makes you shrink your pictures small, so you'll just have to deal with it.





I was standing where the guys made bread. Guys! Making bread! On a ship! Hot guys! I can't take it.



Guys stirring soup. Soup! (Ok, Ok, I'll stop.)



This is a bulk potato peeler, chafes the skin off them and shoots them out. Word was that sometimes the guys would slack and not watch the potatoes (you know how distracting a Betty Grable poster is), and the taters came out the size of marbles and then they'd get in trouble. Oh those wacky sailors.



Something technical that did stuff.



This was the Master at Arms' room and it was behind locked glass, for reasons I don't know. I guess he didn't like people touching his stuff.



One of the medical rooms, which are always creepy, so I hightailed it outta there.

We ended up in the bowels of the ship, way down below. I'm sure there's some sort of actual boat-y name for it, of which I don't know. It gets a little panicky when you know you're that far from the surface of the ship and you have to climb 4 billion stairs to back up. I don't know how the hell those guys did it everyday, let alone when under attack. That's too much like exercise for my taste, thankyouverymuch.



This is where Captain Stubing drove the boat. I love the aqua and deep red color combo, though I'm sure the guys then didn't appreciate it. Men!



The view from the portholes in the captains' driving room, looking out over the shooter dealies. Yeah, I don't know what those things are called either. But I do know that Cher sat on some like it in her "If I Could Turn Back Time" video.



A cute, little old man told me that the ship's bell is important, but I didn't have the chance to find out why. So here's the bell. It's important.


"When The Ship Hits The Sand" by Little Jimmie Dickens

Way-Out Wednesday: Cover Me

(I know I've not been around much, but it's craptastic trying to get back into your old groove when you've been away from it! Yeah, that's it. More like I've been prone to woe-is-me-ing. At any rate, I'm back! Bad news for you.)

So. You know, don't you love it when your no-plans weekend turns into a real plans weekend? I know I don't. This Easter Sunday was supposed to be easy peasy lemon squeezy, but now I have peeps coming over and I have to be, like, a gracious host or something and give them vittles and whatever. Not that I'm a bible-thumpin' betty by any means. In fact, I'm pretty sure at this point my picture is hanging up in most Catholic churches that says "Do not serve or accept checks from this person". But Easter is just "one of things" you do, just because you do. Plus there's ham. So with that, foodstuffs must be bought and the house made to look less tornado-in-a-trailer-park looking. The weird cold weather stunted the growth on my Easter flowers outside, so a quick Martha Stewart-y fix is throwing down a vintage tablecloth and calling it a day. I have no appropriate Easter tablecloths. I've got half a dozen 50's tablecloths with roses on them, but that's boring. So this year, I'm celebratin' jebus with a cowboy print, since I'm pretty sure he was known as "Jebus of the Amarillo Texas Hold 'Em Covenant, of the Bon Jovi Wanted Dead or Alive Sect". (I'm so getting smited. Sorry jebus, but you know how I roll.) This is mine, not for sale, just for fun:



Saloon girl garter belt? Check. Spurs? Check. Fire water? Check. This is gonna be the best jebus-approved Easter yet.

So for Way-Out Wednesday, of course I found more vintage tablecloths apropos for spring, but would make Martha Stewart angrier than a jackrabbit on a greased-up griddle. (I don't know what that means really.) All but the last one I believe are are vintage 50's, the last one is just...well you'll see.

(Each one below is for sale, the pics are clickable to take you to each listing.)



Wha...? Soulless basket weave Italian restaurant wine decanter farm animals? If you say so.



Rooster lived a happy life on Campbell's Chicken Noodle Farm, and is doing his happy dance because it's raining and he loves the smell of soup on rainy days. Rooster does not know that he is the soup.



In the world of fowl, it is customary to bring 2 of your children on an oval platter to housewarming parties as a gift.



Little chick does not like where this is going. Bunny does.


"Cover Me" by Bjork. Or Bruce Springsteen. Or the other 4 jillion bands that share the same generic song name.

I'm Baa-aaack!

Hey y'all! I'm back from my fabulous jet-setting life (read: family dysfunction, vacation-style.) It was...well, whatever the word is for "more than freaking fantastic", staying in a multi million dollar ocean side beach house (yep, multi million dollar beach house, with the ocean right in the backyard), on Holden Beach, a quaint, fancy pantsy island in North Carolina. It's the kind of lifestyle one quickly becomes accustomed to, not that the Dollar Store strip malls and Wal-Mart superscenters aren't an amazingly luxe life to live. Needless to say, being easily-amused mountain folk (where the most tropical locale is Big Bob's Bass-Fishin' Lake and RV Park), the ocean was exactly the kind of "let's get the hell outta here and see something new" trip I needed. Waking up to the sound of traffic is not quite the same as waking up to the sound of waves crashing, I'll have you know. I'll post more pics in the next few days of an education sort and quit yer bitchin', you'll learn something and you'll like it! In the meantime, here's some Rear Window- style peeping of the ghetto in which I had to live in:







It's pretty tragic isn't it? Can you believe I had to have this in the backyard
every day? I feel sorry for me.

And it's like I've been sayin'~birds are indeed flying jerks and are plotting some sketchy human invasion in the not too distant future as we speak. You can't trust 'em. Interesting fact: Seagulls have a blood lust for Cheetos. They will stalk your ass. Sea gulls will invade your personal space, attack your villages and dive-bomb you from the back, ninja-style. True story.





Oh sweet jebus in a Prius, see what I mean? Too close! Mayday! Birds' beaks and fists of fury nearing my 3 foot safety bubble! Give up yer Cheeto booty!

So Long, Farewell!

Auf Weidersehen, goodbye! I'm getting the hell outta dodge and taking a break from the real world for vacation, where I can pretend to not live in the real world for the next 5 days. You're sad, I'm sure. But you simply must soldier on in a peaceful and positive way, until my triumphant return, still not tan and still not a fan of most things. I'll be back on friday, perhaps with some hokey pictures (Dolly Parton Dixie Stampede, represent), perhaps with a trunkload of moonshine, Pall Malls and fireworks, you never can tell.

I think for the next 5 days I may go by an alias, because you can get away with stupid crap like that when you're away from the real world. From now on, you may call me Fanny Humpington-Featherbottom, of the Walla Walla Featherbottoms and formerly of the Cornhole Humpingtons, notorious for the way we revolutionized animal husbandry and corn-husking. Yes, those Humpingtons.

Die With Your Boots On

I've been in a very 60's sort of mood lately- not the disgusto hippie/peace love and patchouli 60's, but the swanky, tough broad, early to mid 60's Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill! kind of way. Spy girls, shoot from the hip, lurex jumpsuits, go-go kind of way.

Think: Emma Peel, avenging the crap outta wrong-doers...



...Julie Newmar, thanks for everything! Best Catwoman ever...



...Nancy Sinatra, not quite living up to her Dad's swagger, but saucy all the same. (And I will NOT use a cliche and overdone "these boots are made for walkin'" reference, because it's lame and has anyone ever really used that phrase and meant it? No! So stop saying it!)



And these chicks have the right apparel: skanktastic boots that every girl should have. How's about vintage gold boots? Ohhellsyeah! Am I nusto for thinking these are way too cool?



The seller calls them "Superhero boots" which is made of awesome and now I want to dress up like Wonder Woman and MUST HAVE the matching gold cuffs. Though I probably wouldn't be so motivated as to fight crime in it. More like vacuum and watch Maury Povich in it. Also awesome: the gold boots of glory are a US size 10. (!)

"Die With Your Boots On" by Iron Maiden. That's right, Iron motherlovin' Maiden, bitches.

Way-Out Wednesday: Barbecue Any Old Time

It's Way-Out Wednesday and that means there's vintage to be found, struttin' it's stuff along on a fine line between wholesome kitschy fun and "Oh sweet jebus, my eyes!".

Today's picks are for the boys. The men! The manliest of men! The hairiest and most mustachio'ed of macho men! I mean of course, the Manly Apron. No girlie-men allowed on this day, for today it's about grillin' meat! And aprons! Macho aprons! Which require much shouting! And the use of superfluous exclamation points!!!

The man apron (Manpron? Apman?) is pretty much a dead fashion statement these days, and I'm not referring to the cheestacular, fleeting interest in manly aprons of the 1980's that said "Kiss the Cook" or had a risque drawing of a naked man on the front, so when worn, it looked like the chef was standing there, cooking in the nude. Hilarious.

You may recall the days of the Ward Cleavers and the Ozzie Nelsons- not exactly who you think of when you say "manly men", but as the head of the household they manned the bbq grill, as did most dad-types in Anytown, USA beginning from it's post-war explosion of grilling-pit interest to modern day. And they wouldn't wear their wives' pink froo-froo aprons (unless, of course, it was for slapstick comedic gold, such as when Ricky and Fred traded lives with Lucy and Ethel and they wore their lacy aprons. What a hoot.) Nay, your average Joe had an apron of his own, usually with a wacky, totally 50's novelty print on the front and almost always some sort of derogatory-to-womankind picture on the front. The good ol' days. (I'm a chick and even I can say lighten the hell up already! Kitsch isn't meant to be apologetic.) So with summer creeping up, I think it's high time men also lighten the hell up already and take back the grill in style.

(PS: Is it just me or have I been talking about meat alot lately? What...is up... with that? (said like Jerry Seinfeld). Meatmeatmeatmenmenmengrillinggrillinggrilling. Freudian or coincidence? Or a blogging hack? Or in need of upping her dosage? All of the above? You be the judge.)

So here are a few of my favorites, all available for sale as of this very second. (None are owned by me, which makes me and baby jebus sad.) Each pic is clickable to take you to the listing where you can purchase it and wear it with testosterone-y flair. Extra points to anyone who owns a Trans Am or rocks a Smokey and the Bandit mustache.



Looks like Sam the Butcher has been dipping in the sauce again. I would suggest avoiding the Liver Special.






"There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun." Such as...? DO tell.




For the man who prefers AA to A1. That's right, Borderline Alcoholic Gardener, screw the "B-Que" and head straight to the "Bar".




"Please don't stand up while the room is in motion." "Our policy: The customer is always tight." Will the hilarity never end? "Don't take life so seriously. You'll never get out of it alive" sounds like something your annoying office buddy would have hanging on her cubicle wall, right next to the motivational "Hang in There" cat poster and Cathy cartoon clippings.





By far, this one's my favorite. While I appreciate the coolness of the pinups and the play on "Hot Dish", is it necessary to have the gals writhing in pain in a frying pan? That's not safe. It looks like something out of a cheesy Bugs Bunny cartoon. I know they're supposed to be sassy and all, but look at their poses- they even look like they're dying a slow death by frying. And PS: As IF a fatass, old slob like him would have a harem of babes like that. (A man must have invented that one.) Reality FAIL. That only happens in movies. And Utah.


"Barbecue Any Old Time" by Blind Boy Fuller