…because I care.
Posting the armadillo shoes…
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Category Archives: Bizarre
Spill it.
Don’t be shy. We all have confessions to make. I don’t mean the kind that might get you into trouble, or cause undue embarrassment — feel free to keep those secret — but rather, the silly type, whereby people might question your judgment and taste, but not your mental stability. Heh.
I’ll start. You continue, k? One or two will be fine; y’all don’t have to appear as messed up as myself…
- I just don’t think Jerry Seinfeld is funny. (Sorry Stoney & Wendell.) The whiny, semi-loser, smirking Jewish guy with the expressionless eyes just doesn’t do it for me, as it apparently did for millions of others.
- I love the song “Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne. I play it in the truck all the time, volume on 28.
- When I was little, I had a nightmare in which Abraham Lincoln was under my bed, and he grabbed my ankles. The horror has never left me. As a result (every night since 1968), I yank my feet up into my bed as fast as I can.
- I refuse to open a public door without grabbing my shirt or sweater sleeve and covering my hand with it so I don’t have to touch the handle or knob. When I am in short sleeves, I have been known to stand there, trying to figure out an alternate plan, or trying to jimmy it open without the use of any fingers. I look ridiculous.
- There are certain words I cannot bear to hear or say. I’m like the Knights who say “Ni.”
So yeah. Spill it. What makes you certifiable? I covet your responses. #6: I love to say that I “covet” this or that. I love the word; it has a nice mouth feel.
Fink out (of her mind, I know).
If and how and where
If you wanted to disappear in this highly technological age, when almost anything and anyone can be found, how would you do it? Where would you go?
Well, first thing I’d do is ask Osama bin Laden for some expertise on the subject. Thasswhat I’d do. But since I wouldn’t actually be able to find him, I’d probably just experiment. Like Evan.
Evan Ratliff is a freelance writer who decided to test the system after writing a story for Wired on the guy in Arkansas who faked his own death and disappeared. But this time, there’s fun and cash involved for the searchers, as opposed to the escapee.
Wired has offered 5,000 semolians to the first person to Find Evan Ratliff. That is actually quite cool. It’s like a cross between The Amazing Race and Where’s Waldo? As the article explains, Evan disappeared and left his credit card and other personal, trackable information with someone at the magazine. Clues are given out on the site each day.
If I had the time and the ambition (both in reeeeeally short supply at the moment), I’d get my sleuth on and try to participate. Sounds like fun.
But so does a nap. *yawn*
Fink out. (You’re yawning right now, aren’t you.)
What a knockout
I’m talking about Diprivan (propofol). It’s what they use to put you out when you have surgery. Ask me how I know this.
Since 1980, I’ve had twelve surgeries. That’s a dozen, cousin. I’ve survived Diprivan all twelve times. (Obviously.) I know everyone reacts differently, but here’s how it went for me:
Anesthesiologist: We’re going to start some medication through your IV now, Mrs. Fink. Just begin counting backwards from 100, OK?
Fink: Ninety-nine.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in recovery. That’s how fast it puts me out. And for the next several weeks, all I can think about is getting home and going to bed. It stays in my system like it was its job. Ack phooey. Hate the stuff. I don’t know how anyone would voluntarily take it to help them sleep, especially since it’s not supposed to be used outside a controlled surgical environment.
Yet, that’s what they found in Michael Jackson’s house yesterday. I’m sure you’ve seen the interview with the nurse who told MJ that if he took that drug, he “might not wake up the next morning.” No surprise that she feels sick in her soul now. But, according to reports that have surfaced over the last couple of days, you just didn’t say no to Michael. I wish I could remember where I read a quote from someone close to MJ (Brian Oxman, maybe?) who tried to tell Michael he was killing himself with all the drugs. The statement went something like, “Michael shot you a certain look; he didn’t say a word, but you knew that you had better can it or you’re gone.”
I don’t know if it was just spoiled-bratism, or if Michael was simply desperate, addicted and lost. People who are tortured in childhood often live long enough to torture others as adults — at the very least by building up emotional walls made of petrified wood. But that’s analysis for another day.
I still can’t believe he’s gone.
FO
PS – Happy Fourth of July to all my fiends. I am delighted to go to the annual Polk Speed Shop Bash, given by #1 Son and Hannah, this night. Best part: we girls rented Revolutionary Road. Heh.
Phil Spectacle
You have to wonder why they do it; why otherwise successful people would throw it all away by committing felonies. I do not get it. I mean, desperadoes and career criminals, yes. People who have lost everything and exhausted their last straw, yes. I can see that path. But it doesn’t figure with Phil Spector — the “Wall of Sound” boy wonder who became a millionaire at 21 years old.
For those who don’t know what the”Wall of Sound” technique sounds like, just listen to any Spector-produced record, especially from the 60s (“You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” by the Righteous Brothers, “Da Doo Ron Ron” by the Crystals, “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes, and “River Deep, Mountain High” by Ike & Tina Turner).
Truthfully, I never much liked the WoS. And I *hated* it in “The Long & Winding Road” (and reportedly, so did Paul McCartney), which Spector produced.
What I didn’t know was how many hit songs the guy wrote. I had no idea he was behind “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” “Chapel of Love” and “To Know Him is to Love Him.” And while his résumé as a producer is impressive by any standard, his bio reveals some huge problems — stuff people should have seen coming.
Possibly the most bizarre thing about Phil was his choice of hair apparatus. Hilarious. Courtesy Getty Images, I put together a little montage:
And from bizarre to disturbing…this photo was taken in 1975, with Spector’s bodyguard, a former federal marshal. I didn’t notice the haircut stolen from a standard poodle as much as I did the pointing of a gun at a camera:
Pictures from his trial often revealed him as looking heavily sedated. Maybe he was under the influence when the murder happened at his house that night, who knows. If he gets the full 15 years for killing Lana Clarkson, he will be 84 when he gets out. What a waste. As is customary, his lawyers are appealing the 2nd degree murder charge and the sentence. Still, while all that goes on, he sits in jail.
So much talent, so much money…and now look. Have you ever said anything similar to, “Man, if I had that much money and such a perfect life, I would never be so stupid as to get myself into that kind of trouble” ?? I have. I mean, I know money can’t buy you happiness. But it can sure as heck buy you a lot of things that can make you happy, ya know? Actually, I’ve never had money, so I don’t know — and the folks in the cheaper seats can clap their hands in agreement. The rest of you can just rattle your jewelry.
FO