Bless This Mess...A Commentary on Arrested Development.

This show beats everything else on (current or past) television silly. I miss it and love it.

Also, I still find Jason Bateman really attractive. And this is post me finding out he's kind of a self-righteous prick whose unaware of how old he is.

I'm in love with Michael Bluth and the gang.

Watch.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/12194/arrested-development-exit-strategy#s-p1-so-i0

AND this is from season three, mind you. The "worst" season. I dare you to name a show with a funnier "worst" season. Dare you.

And those are my thoughts thus far...

Back To Work...Thinkin' Bout My Girl

Girl Talk that is. At first the buzz behind Feed the Animals just made me angry (mostly because I was one of the last in my group of friends to listen to the phenomenon). Various exasperated huffs of "I know I KNOW. Girl talk is awesome. Get off my dick,"s ensued after the initial discovery of feed the animals...but now, at work, in the epicenter of the nine to five doldrums...listening to girl talk gives me the energy NAY the effervescence and vitality I need to get me through the day. GODDAMN I want to kick box and scream every time I hear a familiar song clip (Hey, girl talk, I know Sinnead O'Connor! I know the Jackson Five! I know them!!)

Here is the first song off of the album.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6jFrMPibaA&feature=related

Here is one of my favorites. I may be kind of partial to this song due to its tactful usage of "Lithium" by Nirvana...I may or may not have had a soft spot for Kurt Cobain in my younger years that may or may not have fueled an ever classic teen angst that may or may not have created a really funny memory for me to have and look back on.

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

SO GOOD.

Anyway. then there's this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCJTR3XeiAc


For no reason at all other than WHAT THE FUCK, that's hilarious. Also I do a lot of Youtube-ing whilst working. A LOT. And I'm getting paid.


Hey, I can see the Washington Monument from my office window.

And those are my thoughts thus far...

Assume the Missionary Position...A Piece on Religion and "The Family"

I was surprised that the dog had the indecency to scratch his own balls in that "holy" place.  His instinctive needs seemed filthier, more unwelcome, and even more out of place in the presence of La Familia.

Tonight, in the middle of the dusty and plateaued Monterrey, I met a religious missionary group known as, The Family. 

How I ended up there was the result of a series of fairly simple events. My boyfriend's brother was invited to attend a Familia barbecue (this was not out of any sort of blue area...rather they invited him because he had done some missionary work for the group). Seeing as La Familia centers around the concept of a "family" (go figure), my boyfriend's family was also invited to go, and, like the polite and obliging people that they are, they went. I came along as well. The first thing I was told about the nighttime barbecue had nothing to do with religion or familiar concepts or even conservatism. I was simply told that we'd be eating lamb for dinner. I had no idea that our hosts were even American. I thought I was in for a nice cultural awakening amongst fellow Monterrey inhabitants-eating cabritos and avoiding fresh vegetables and ice water. But, alas! I came to meet La Familia. 

We drove up to a rustic, concrete mansion. I was a little uneasy after being informed that the hosts were: 1. American, 2. Conservative, and 3. Basically Evangelical. I felt the infamous thing rise up into my chest (I'm so, sorry Voltaire!) But intolerance consumes me when ultra-conservatives are involved. 

Turns out that twenty six individuals inhabit the house. I met Lisa* first (she's one of the adults and, consequently, the main teacher for La Familia's children) , and from there on out, children and children and more children came streaming out to greet me. They were all so incredibly polite, so cordial, so grown up, so poised, so eager to meet you and chit chat, that I felt sad and uneasy. 

My first observation was about the two young girls I met first. They were eighteen and nineteen and seemed not only sweet, but hip and stylish in their attire. Upon closer inspection, I discovered matching cartilage piercings, bare mid-rifts, and a lavender bra peeking out from one of the girls' turquoise tops. The top was speckled with decorative holes, each giving away a small glimpse of her underwear and pale, fleshy breast. Either they trusted all in the Familia to not look below their necks, or they were crying, aching and longing for anyone to do so.  All of the kids were also beautiful. Their skins were pale (with the exception of the one Mexican member), and they were all slender and fit. As I proceeded onward into this world of perfection and devotion, I began to panic. I looked over to my boyfriend various times, to see if he registered this eerie perfection and throbbing happiness that seeped throughout the enormous hacienda. His eyes remained glossy and calm, happy to meet the crowd. I felt instantly guilty for feeling so uncomfortable, but continued to feel so anyway. Something was so wrong. 

I began to talk to a fifteen year old boy member. He bore what seemed to be a Familia devotional ring on his right hand on his middle finger. His two girl siblings (out of the five other siblings he has...all living on grounds, mind you) bore the same branding insignia. 

Anyway, this boy was charming, well spoken, beautiful, attentive, and affectionate. I looked at him and all I saw was white, purity and cleanliness among the surrounding humid smog of Monterrey. He asked me about my hobbies and about school and college. If anyone can keep a conversation going, it's a fucking missionary, I'll tell you that. 

It was later, when I sat down to dinner that I almost began to cry. 

I sat across from the boy and his two sisters. Their father is the group musician. He played guitar and sang " A La Bamba" harshly and throatily as everyone else plummeted their face into the delicious black beans in rice (in wait for the slow-cooked lamb). As the evening went by, I decided to ask the children a couple of questions. I was itching to know what these children were doing here and I wanted to know more than just that they were all "missionaries." 

The boy and all of his other siblings were born into the program. They had lived in that magic hacienda their whole little lives. I responded to this with an "Oh" and a big smile to not give away my increasing uncomfortableness. I went on to ask them what they would do when they grew up, what jobs they would like to have. Little did I know that these specific missionaries cannot have higher education (which in older doctrine meant more than a 10th grade education, but is now updated to a 12th grade education) and therefore do not go on to have any jobs besides preaching the word of God. In fact, when I asked if there were anything they would want to do professionally, the boy's sister responded "Well, what else is there besides this" in a sassy, matter-of-fact, pre-pubescent girl kind of way. The lump in my throat began forming there. 

I then asked them about their daily routines. Keep in mind, i kept my cool and did not bust out into tears and did not corrupt them by saying fuck a lot, which a mean, sadistic part of me was yearning to do. 

Turns out their days start at seven forty-five in the morning. They eat (or sleep through breakfast...which is the cool thing to do), then have devotional, then have spanish class, and so on and so forth until school finally ends at seven o'clock PM. No more than half an hour for lunch, and an hour or so for "Quiet" or reading time. Not to mention chore time, or JJT "Jesus Job Time" which takes place somewhere between lunch and seven o'clock.

I really really wanted to cry and shake them. 

I know I sound intolerant and malicious, but I was raised to always have qualms with religion, particularly when it keeps you secluded in a desert. 

Though I obviously had my share of problems, I found that the actual people within La Familia, were among the nicest people I have ever met. The children were sheer pleasure to talk to, as were the adults. They all inquired as to what I was doing in Virginia and what college I was going to regardless of their beliefs. In fact, I talked to a sixty year old woman named Sue* for well over an hour (I estimated her age after she told me that she gave birth to her youngest daughter Melinda at 44, at home with a midwife). She told me about finding and devoting herself to the lord at 23, about losing 2 of her 9 children in a terrible accident in Dallas, and about different health regimens she practiced within this hacienda. 

I found that they only got hostile when I asked them specifics about their way of life. Particularly the children. Their eyes would shine with defensiveness and they would go on and on about the two ex members that betrayed them live on Larry King as soon as I asked what they were called officially and how I could learn more about them. It's that hostility that made me almost cry, that made me reject going on a rock climbing trip with them. One night was more than enough. Knowing that those children are trapped and that they are in the desert and that they exist will stay with me for a long time. 

And those are my thoughts thus far...

When I Think About You, I 'Ipod Touch' Myself...I regret this title almost instantly.

I am thrilled beyond thrilled to have my Ipod Touch up and running, as you can tell by my pathetically unimaginative title. I'm so aware that that particular song has finagled itself onto Facebook bumper stickers and boardwalk T-shirts alike, but cut me some slack! I'm tired! Weakened by the midday food coma that comes after wolfing down a Potbelly sandwich and milkshake to boot!

But that is besides the point...the point that I have yet to make.

I'm off to Mexico in just about two days. I'm really excited. Trips are always fun, with the exception of the unavoidable airport tie ups and delays, and of course any sort of vacation which may or may not involve exploring the modern day man's take on colonial life. Those are never fun. But I digress.

Although I am excited (there really is no other word for my current emotional state) I am also sad about the end of the summer! It's creeping up on me so quickly now! Ugh! i feel as though i haven't done enough to make this two month break even qualify as a "summer". It feels more like an elongated Christmas break, where usually the inclement weather keeps me from going outside or anywhere for that matter, and I find myself sitting on the couch eating a lot. Work is draining too. It's all draining. Not very fun in the sun at ALL. And for those reasons I am happy to leave. To sunny Mexico.

Another point I'd like to make, is that although I have seemingly been wallowing in disgusting lethargy after an 8 hour work day six days a week, I have actually channeled my sluggishness and taken the time to watch many a David Lynch film. I've become semi-obsessed. I've Blue Velveted myself into developing a constant fear of waking up and finding Dennis Hopper, huffing what I will now refer to as Ether, seeing as I lack the power to recognize drugs based on the paraphernalia of choice (in this case, an oxygen mask...but I can tell you with utmost certainty now that that boy was not in need of any sort of respiratory assistance). I have watched Mulholland Drive twice, both times revering Naomi Watts to anyone who will listen. (I really do love her); and I have since moved on to watching Wild at Heart, starring a young, aviary Laura Dern. Nicholas Cage is also in the film, acting like a really bad Elvis impersonator and lifetime enthusiast (seriously, think Uncle Jessie from Full House, except not funny or cute...not that John Stamos was either...ahem). I have yet to finish it, but am liking it a lot.

So, onto David. I enjoy the fact that his films are all kind of the same, which I know makes it sound like he is unoriginal or can't get past the thing he's good at and explore his creativity, but I think that part of his charm is that all of his movies have violence, sexuality, insanity, and one crime at the very center of it all. Did I mention insanity? His movies evoke the same feeling you'd get if you vacationed with the Addams Family on an undercover porno set in Tucson, Arizona. Just a bunch of crazy shit all the time with odd characters coming in and out of every shot. It's exciting and appealing to me. I love David Lynch!

God, ok now I have to get back to work. BUT, as always, those are my thoughts thus far...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CSoWg3nBeU

Just a taste, above.

Woopie Ira Glass(es)!

As always on this blog we have a theme. Today's theme, Ira Glass and his glasses. What they represent, and how they weaseled their chic little selves into my life.

Let me begin by saying that I have had the pleasure of meeting Ira Glass. He is actually quite tall, handsome in a quirky, new age sort of way, and surprisingly and refreshingly different than on the show, This American Life (NPR listeners unite). He's not as happy as when he is on the air, speaking to thousands of pretentious nine-to-fivers on their way to work, but then again, attention and praise from society's enlightened folk will undeniably better someone's mood and consequently their ego. But I digress. He was pleasant and cool and seemed to be interested in what the small group of hopelessly indie kids waiting for him outside of the D.C venue had to say...which is really, quite nice of him. Nobody listens to kids, especially the sexually ambiguous, independent film watchers I'm usually friends with. Rest assured, I take everything with a nice, big grain of salt, though.

ANYWAY. My point is, I got glasses that mimic Ira's without meaning to. I have been desperate for Ray Bans (let my materialism kick in!), well, FAKE Ray Bans (that's better), for some time now (particularly the red ones that Keira Knightly has been seen wearing whilst jangling her bones), and yesterday, I found some at good old Urban Outfitters. The problem arose when the red Ray Bans I wanted had one of the Ray Band insignias missing, so instead, I settled for fake Ray Ban glasses that resemble those of the Ira, King of public radio and enlightener of the masses. Pictures will ensue soon enough so you can answer the question I'm just too timid to ask in person..."Hot or Not?" And those are my thoughts thus far...

Mood? Observant. Discoveries? Perversion.

As I sit here listening to Martha and the Vandellas, I am left to contemplate and reminisce about the various perversions I have witnessed in the past couple of days. Martha has nothing to do with perverts, I just happen to be listening to her right now on my break, that's all. Also, her song "Nowhere to Run" was on at the sandwich place, so I felt inclined to listen to it without the white noise of fellow District of Columbians belting out there orders. But I digress, yet again.

It's a scary world out there and odds are you're going to run into a pervert. Much like I did yesterday on my afternoon Metro ride. This particular creeper first asked me if he could sit by me (unnecessary kindness is your first clue to picking out an "up to no good" pervert), then proceeded to look over at my i pod and discuss his taste in music with me. Now, you may be thinking "That's not so bad. She's just being paranoid." Well, that my friends is how you end up in the bottom of a pit being asked to rub lotion on your skin. You can never be too careful! Also, his taste in music was SO Patrick Bateman. All I know is if he started talking to me about "Lady In Red" I would have instantly ripped out my mace and yelled "fire!". I'm seriously contemplating taking my boyfriend's advice and taking a pocket knife with me on the Metro...No, wait, I still think that's ridiculous and creepy to boot. Not to mention a knife could easily be wielded onto a victim. Mace and tasers ought to do it.

Another source of perversion, you ask? First story not enough? Vern Troyer has a sex tape. In which he proceeds to "make love" to his girlfriend 3 times. Chew on that for a while.



...And those are my thoughts thus far.

It's 4:20 PM and I am desperately wanting out. I know it's only been my third week, but work is tedious even when we do have things to do, and at the end of the day, all I have to look forward to is the resident homeless man who I've chatted to once or twice, and the grueling hour ride home. I kind of want my summer back. I don't care if I don't have a job! You know what they say: "The best things in life are free!", which depending on whether your a pop-culture buff or not, you could follow up with "I want money." Ugh this world is a complex place. Particularly in a clean, white, air conditioned office where you are left to wonder if the pad-Thai your boss ordered for you counts as being culturally savvy or involved in foreign affairs.

ANY WHOODLE. Nothing ground-breaking or stellar has happened. Mostly dull things and the occasional skirmish with the beau, the sister, the friend, whatever. I did re-watch The Others last night. I found myself, once again, scared out of my wits. The thought of things creaking in an isolated, seemingly haunted big house is part one of the classical recipe for shitting your pants with fear. Not to mention Nicole Kidman (playing herself, mind you) is really eerie and unsettling. As are those pale, Vitamin C lacking children she owns. Shudder.

So to complete my lackluster life of a middle aged woman (which I am too young to lead, by the way...) I have to take care of a "girlfriend's" cats. That's right CATS (by the way don't you love how older women refer to other women friends as "girlfriends"? Also, the bathroom becomes the "powder room" or "the little girl's room" or something equally as infantile and equally as discomforting). There are two of them and I have to give them diabetes medication. Fuck! What have I become? I am so distraught, mostly because I'm looking forward to it and kind of like those cats. Let the cat lady remarks ensue, I GUESS.

And those are my thoughts thus far.