Sabrina stumbles into the frame, holding a tiny man in a space hat.
Sabrina: AAAAAAAAAAAAAALEX!!! Yer space phone’s ringing.
Alex pokes her head into the shot and looks around suspiciously.
Alex: Ahoy ahoy?
Sabrina: How many times I gotta tell you – save that crap for Alexander Graham Bell Assassination Re-enactment Day. The BLOG is ringing!!
Katharine runs in, holding a smoking gun.
Katharine: Is it the neighbors? I just shot their parrot.
Alex: Dammit, Katharine! He was the only one who knew my email password!!
Sabrina: (Looks at the tiny spaceman) We should probably wish them a Happy New Year or something. We’ve neglected the blog for a while.
Alex: What about the neighbors?
Katharine: Taken care of. I told you I just shot their parrot. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?
Sabrina: No, no. Not Jim Nabors and his wife, who coincidentally happen to be our neighbors. It’s time to wish our blog readers a Happy New Year.
Katharine: Taken care of. That was last year. I wrote a Haiku about it.
Sabrina: No. For this year.
Alex: AGAIN??? This happens every time I drink whiskey. WHERE DOES THE TIME GO?? (sings) Sunrise, sunset..sunrise sunset…
Katharine: You really need to stop blacking out. You miss so much. Also, people keep writing “Twat” on your forehead.
Alex: This pop stand blows. Let’s get in the time machine!!
Sabrina: But…but…(looks sadly at the spaceman, who has fallen asleep in the crook of her arm.)
Katharine runs out of the frame and returns with a Vita-Mix with a large pineapple sticking out of it.
Sabrina: We can’t all fit inside there! Tiny Spaceman, you’ll have to stay behind.
Tiny Spaceman: Mumble, mumble, fart, poop.
Alex: Good job Tiny Spaceman! That’s another Adam Sandler script in the can. Stay here and write us a Steve Guttenberg vehicle.
Sabrina: Enough jibber-jabbering! It’s time to go BACK! To the fu—(she begins violently coughing. Alex slaps her on the back and a dead parrot shoots out of her mouth. Somewhere, John Cleese rolls over in his cash-filled swimming pool.)
Katharine: (stroking the Vita-Mix time machine affectionately) I have complete faith that this will work.
Alex: That’s what I’m afraid of! Never tell me the odds! Yippy kai ay motherf— (Katharine slaps her.)
Katharine: GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!!
Sabrina covers the tiny spaceman’s eyes with her hand and gently carries him off-screen. She returns and the three ladies climb inside the blender, alongside the pineapple. Alex hooks the pineapple up to a computer, and the lights begin to flash. You put a bra on your head and press this link, as it disappears beneath your finger: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDe5Ckt4joQ The screen goes dark, and one-by-one all the lights in your house/coffee shop/office/train car/box of donuts go out. You sit in darkness, wondering what in the Heckleberry Finn you have gotten yourself into, when suddenly power is restored and your screen comes back on. The moonscape is gone. You are now watching the past, a New Year’s party in an old-timey wild west saloon. The date is December 31, 2011.
Alex: (Looks around) What a dump.
Katharine: I don’t think my spleen made it.
Sabrina: It did, but it’s over there, sitting on Mark Twain’s Melba toast.
The camera zooms out and reveals Mark Twain, Shania Twain and Damon Wayans standing in front of a poster of Dwayne Wayne, star of Michael Bay’s remake of Shane.
Mark Twain: All things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the surroundings of barbers. These never change.
He eats Katharine’s spleen.
Shania Twain: Men are like shoes! I ain’t got time for the flip flop kind.
Damon Wayans: I was 12 years old when I had my first job, delivering packages.
If you decide to follow Nostalgic Damon Wayans to the nearest UPS, turn to page 15. If you decide to suggest that Mark and Shania Twain are the same person, click this link: http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Mark_Twain If you think politicians have become way too political, grab some poster board, the ghost of Andy Rooney, glitter glue, and make a sign about it, why don’t you? If your name has any vowels in it, continue enjoying this space blog.
Alex: This Western SUCKS. Where are all the floozies and sarsparilla?
Katharine: Ooh check out this trunk fulla junk!
Sabrina: EXCUSE ME? Just because a lady has a curvaceous derriere does NOT —
Katharine: Wha chu talkin’ bout, Brina? I was just pointing out this mysterious trunk full of Olde Tyme Western Wear I just found.
Alex: I call dibs on the chaps!!
Sabrina: I call the tiny spaceman! Wait, what’s the spaceman doing here? I thought we left him behind.
Katharine: Don’t question it; this is fantasy. And put a kerchief on that spaceman; he’s nude, and this is a family show.
Alex: Isn’t it New Year’s Eve? Sabrina, didn’t you and Don Rickles have a gig tonight?
Sabrina: Crap, you’re right. (turns to the blog audience) Thank you all for coming to the New Year’s Eve Friar’s Club roast of Kadeem Harrison. I would like to take this opportunity to share this eggnog recipe from the restaurant formerly known as St. Elsewhere with you:
6 eggs separated
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1.5 teaspoon vanilla
1 pint milk
1 pint cream
3 tablespoons white sugar
Beat the egg yolks with the brown sugar, salt and vanilla to the ribbon stage. Add the booze and the dairy and mix until incorporated. Set this mixture aside.
Whisk the egg whites with the white sugar to the medium-hard peak stage. When ready fold the egg whites into the boozy mixture. Season generously with freshly grated nutmeg. FRESHLY!
Allow this to sit for at least an hour or two to let the drink separate from the foam a little. Garnish with a pair of round flip glasses and shoulder pads. Enjoy!
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large crowd begins to count down in unison. The Ladies of the Hatch throw on their Western wear, dress up Mark Twain as a saloon tranny floozie, and pose confidently against the flimsy backlot film set as flashbulbs pop and confetti cascades down upon them. There is a resounding cry of HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Ryan Seacrest makes out with a New York City cop and all is right with the world. Sabrina, Alex, and Katharine clink glasses of eggnog.
Sabrina: (leaning on the tiny spaceman’s rifle) God bless us, every one!
Alex: (through violent hiccups) It really is an (hic) anytime drink…Ann Jillian (hic) was right…(hic)
Katharine: Who’s the dude?
Sabrina and Alex: MARK TWAIIIIN!!
Katharine: Huh. He looks different in person.
Why do you hate me? All I wanted was to breathe clearly and not cough all day long. All I wanted was to be halfmy usual spunk and have the ability to speak sans frog in throat. What did taking the red pill get me? I find myself speaking baby babble while my thoughts sift through a meth withdrawal haze of pure confusion. Every time I blow my nose, my sinuses make a high pitched ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh’ sound and my eyeball bleeds. My ears are growing cotton and my mouth tastes like earwax. Thank you DayQuil. You have made this day very pleasant. Instead of sleeping on my couch watching another episode of ‘Storage Wars’, I stand in my office slowly dipping to the floor in a heroin nod. You the man.
Xoxo- Katharine “this snots for you” Houston, Brooklyn, NY
Dear NYC Straphangers,
I call upon you this 4th day of the eighth month of the 2011th year of this calendar on my wall, to stand with me against those who defile our noses! We who silently agree to stand back to back, nose to pit and knee to crotch with those whom commute at our same hour each day have had enough! No, I speak not of the soupy body odor that guy with the short sleeves emits while holding his arm up. I speak of a simpler evil. We of the olfactory sensitive stand before the accused, grasping the pole while thumbing our smart phones pleading with you for one thing… Eat when you get off the train!! I do not mean to harass those famished or claiming hypoglycemia. Snack on some quiet fruit. Feel free to nosh on a granola bar. Close your teeth round yon trans fatty chocolate candy yum-yum. These are all non-invasive food types and we bestow them upon you. What we ask for is simple. We think you would enjoy these morsels all the more if you were not traveling in an enclosed tube with some 400 people hovering around you. So actually, we are doing you a favor by requesting that No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese should be eaten while on the subway. Chant with me, fellow Straphangers! Chant so that we might get the message through!
No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese!
No eggs, No McDonalds and No take out Chinese!
And if you can’t stop yourself from eating said food on the train, for fuck’s sake, close your mouth when you chew.
Xoxo- Katharine “your Chinese take out smells like diarrhea” Houston, Brooklyn, NY
Fuck you. Sorry, that came out wrong. Fuh-huk You. That is all.
Xoxo- Katharine “raise the fair price again and I’ll cut you” Houschmitzermen, Bronxlyn, NY
There you are in your friend’s backyard on a beautiful summer day. There are balloons and streamers as far as your eye can see. Presents wrapped in cartoon-clad paper lay in a pile on the picnic table, full of mystery and expectation. Your face is sticky from the ice cream cake melted by the sun. You watch your friend standing proud knowing that this is her special day. It is Her birthday! You see the adults laughing with each other as they refill their red party cups. You see the birthday girl watching all the other kids having fun running around and playing with each other in their sugar high hysteria. You are a bit concerned as you see her face start to melt into a self-righteous grimace. You witness her transform into a tiny volcano with steam coming from her ears and eyes as she stares at her guests not paying enough attention to her. You see her tiny hands clench into balls of fury as she starts to shake and grab at the hem of her new birthday dress, slowly revealing her sacred Wonder Woman Underoos. You start to search for the safest place to ‘duck and cover’. But it’s too late. The scream lets out. Mount St. Helens has now erupted for the second time that summer. “It is MY Birthday and You will do what I SAY,” screams the five year old birthday Nazi. It is all very awkward to say the least. Especially since I was the birthday girl.
As a kid, I believed that on my birthday all things should stop and focus on me. I was always a bit miffed when people would deign to discuss anything other than me during this day of mine. No one else was as important as me. Not even other people born on the same day, if they even existed. Of course, as I got older, the tantrums stopped. My mother informing me that I would not have any friends if I continued on that path certainly helped. I would take each turning year in stride with or without party and presents. However, with each birthday I would still feel a tad bitter and sad if people did not acknowledge me. Then came the day when I was in my early twenties and my sister forgot my birthday. The following year, my parents forgot. Not even a phone call came my way. I was starting to realize that people don’t really give a shit about other people’s birthday because to them, it is just another day. This is not to say that I have not had parties thrown for me by my best friends and husband. These were amazing times. But hell, we would celebrate a good BM if it means getting together and having a few good drinks!
So, a day came when I decided to stop my self-pitying birthday thoughts. As a way to acknowledge successfully making it through another year of life without being killed or killing myself, I started to take my birthdays into my own hands. How do I want to spend the day? Do I want to be with or without anyone else? If it is an important day for me, then I need to be my best audience and make sure I’m having a good time even if it is just watching Star Wars for the fifty billionth time.
First things first, I always take the day off from work if my birthday falls within the work week. My office has a ‘floating holiday’ and I feel that the anniversary of my birth is as good a holiday to use that on as anything.
Second, if I feel like an adventure that particular year, I see if my friends are available to come with. If they are not, I go along and have the adventure by myself. Alone is always good, because there is no one to yell at if I’m not paying attention to myself.
Thirdly, I am a whore for massages. I always say that if I become rich, the one luxurious thing I would buy myself is a daily massage. Yes, daily. I did not stutter. But until that day comes, I will always have my birthday massages. It makes my husband’s job of gift giving so much easier. I find the spa and he pays the bill. Presto change-o instant happiness! And let me tell you, there is something very special about the birthday massage. I can’t recommend it enough. If you go to a good spa, they will treat you like a Queen. You get a robe, relaxing music, sometimes a cocktail and snacks. Then you give your birthday the best acknowledgement since the day it first happened, by celebrating it like you did that first time. You physically put yourself in a position not unlike that very beginning day of your life. Your body is pushed and pulled into submission by a stranger, all while your face is peeking through a cushioned hole. And I love every minute of it.
So my dear friends, I hope you get to enjoy your birthdays as much as I do. Not like when I was a child demanding everyone’s attention, but by paying a person to worship me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to us all!
I didn’t grow up in a house with video games. After a tense game of Chutes and Ladders which ended with my father flipping the board yelling, “Stupid chutes!” we barely had board games. The first video game console that entered our house belonged to a boy my sister dated. She dumped him before we could get to a second level of any game. Goodbye Nintendo, you had such potential.
So in result, I don’t play video games. I enjoy watching them be played because it’s like watching a choose-your-own adventure movie. However, whenever I grab the controller and try to play, I seize up. I seem to be ocular-pollically impaired; my brain has problems coordinating actions between my eyes and thumbs. I hold the controller in my sweaty palms, eyes big on my confused bobble-head wondering where I’m supposed to look at the TV, while my thumbs move my avatar like it has Parkinson’s disease.
My husband Jeremy, being a gamer, would love for me to get involved with his passion. Every time a new game comes out with “cooperative playing”, he tries to pique my interest. “We both can play this one together,” he would say. “It will be like date night!” I tried playing the game Halo with him and spent fifteen minutes trying to find my way out of a corner. Playing Sims was frustrating, to say the least. This is the game where you create a life that is better than yours and have your wee person live it and succeed more than you ever will. Jeremy and I thought it would be fun creating our own living situation within the virtual world. While he left the house, got a job and partied with the neighbors, I died of starvation because I couldn’t stop sleeping in front of the toilet.
No matter if you are playing a cooperative video game in the same room as your partner or over a headset with some 8 year old kid in Tallahassee calling you a dipshit, the way to succeed in your team mission is with communication. You have to talk through moves and help each other complete tasks. Just like real life! I feel that the gaming corporations have really missed the boat on a prime marketing demographic for these games: married couples. Then again, no dude would ever buy a game that is supposed to evaluate your relationship. Perhaps marriage counselors?
One of Jeremy’s favorite games came out with a cooperative play option and I had to try. Portal 2 is a puzzle game where you have a gun that…ah…shoots a portal that gets you…let me just have Wikipedia explain. “The game consists primarily of a series of puzzles that must be solved by teleporting the player’s character and simple objects using the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device (dubbed the “portal gun”), a device that can create inter-spatial portals between flat planes.” With the co-op play option, you and your partner figure out puzzles together in order for you to continue through the game together. There is a lot of, “you put your portal there and I’ll put mine here. Put your other one there and I’ll jump through to land there…etc, etc.” What I found playing this game with Jeremy was that is totally tested our communication skills. I would ask him to explain to me in words where he wanted me to put my portal (that does sounds dirty) and he would have to practice patience as I constantly fell and died. It was a lot of fun! When we solved a puzzle, we knew we did it as a team and no one died or got divorced.
The first game I was able to really get my head around and fully enjoy was Rock Band. It bridged the gap between playing a game and my strong desire to be Joan Jett. Jeremy would play drums on the hardest level, while I would be fingering salty licks (pressing buttons) on the guitar on medium mode. So I wouldn’t get too frustrated, we would play with a “no fail” option applied. In a regular game, if a song is hard and you are not playing exact enough, the game will kill you off. You can continue to live if the other players hit certain chords or sequences of beats giving you back life. With the “no fail” option, you can suck to high heaven and still keep playing not having to rely on anyone else. My type of game!
The morning of January 1, 2009, Jeremy and I decided to start the New Year with a challenge. Rock Band has a level called The Endless Setlist where you can play every song the game has in its collection, a total of 84 songs. The difficulty of play increases with each song and you can’t play with “no fail” so if you die, the game is over, you have failed and brought shame upon your family. We said fuck it and decided to start the year as rock stars.
The day was long and our hands were cramped, but we were “performing” well. We could taste the victory of completion. We had been playing for almost 10 hours straight, had one pee break and were surrounded by cracker wrappers and any food you could stuff in your mouth with one hand between songs. Then the last three songs came to view.
These last songs were not only the hardest level, but they were songs neither of us knew, had no logical tune and no consistent rhythm. The bands and their song titles were Abnormality – “Visions“, Dream Theater – “Panic Attack” and last but not least, Judas Priest – “Painkiller“. These “songs” are total “batshit”. Until this point neither of us had come close to “dying” or had to “save” the other. When the last three songs hit, we were toast. Sweat was flying off of Jeremy’s arms as he flailed around trying to get the nonexistent beat on the drums. I was audibly grunting and begging my ears to pick out a playable tune. Panic crept in at the thought that we might start the New Year as failures and not the fake rock gods we were meant to be. We had to get through this together. These were the phrases that were yelled out by one or both of us at different times:
“I’m going to die!”
“No you are not!”
“I’m working on it!”
“We should just quit.”
“We will never quit! Not after all we have been through!”
When we completed the last of 84 songs, stillness filled the room. All you could hear was our heaving breaths and the applause of our adoring Rock Band fans on the TV. Jeremy and I looked at each other and dropped our fake instruments. “Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.” And then we went to separate rooms and did not speak to each other for the rest of the day.
*Please pick up your petticoats and skip away if you are scandalized by human biology.*
First things first, humans fart. Men, women and children all pass wind. Some of us are just more blessed than others. I happen to come from a long lineage of gas hording humanoids. Just ask my couch. The sounds of the toot, the squeak, the foghorn, the ah-OOOO-gah often wafts through my home. It’s nature, get over it.
Because I am used to farts, I realize that there are several layers to them. There are the wondrous sounds, the surprising smells and sometimes the unfortunate tastes. I only really mind the taste aspect. If I taste a fart, it means that someone has to shit and I just ate their poo. Not appreciated. Besides that (and being hot-boxed in a crowded subway car), I care not if you fart. This does not give people license to lift a leg and announce their presence willy-nilly near me. It is possible to hold gas in. Uncomfortable yes, but possible. We all must have manners. But, I prefer you release air rather than blow up. Just make sure you say excuse me and go to the bathroom if you actually have to poo.
It has gotten to the point where I seldom react to the sounds of compressed air leaving the body. When silence is broken by a strange fwep or a sneeze is punctuated with a pa-toot, I smile, but do not belly laugh like I once did as a grade school child. I believe that my auditory function has become somewhat numb to humans and their bodily functions.
I do have a fascination with dogs farting however.
Growing up, I was not aware that dogs could fart. When I was a child, I had a dog named Tidbit. “Tidbit from Tibet,” as my father would say. He was actually from New Jersey, but who’s taking notes. Tidbit was the sweetest Shih Tzu and I loved him to bits. Yes, he would eat used sanitary napkins, but he had the best of intentions. And I never heard him fart.
I heard stories of dogs passing gas. But, I still had not heard it in person. I’m not talking smell here, I’m talking sound. Because I have certainly smelled the room clearing scents that are released by the bowels of a hound. Yeah, I’m calling you out Lily! I have two tiny, 4lb. yorkie-poo (ha ha poo) sisters (Lily and Lola) and I think their assholes are too small to release any sounds. Or at least, sound audible to the human ear. However, Lily could go by the name “Silent but Deadly” especially since she is all ninja black.
One very early Sunday morning, everything changed. My ears were opened and my mind was blown. I was sleepily staring at the computer screen wondering what other video I could find that would slightly amuse me until I got enough energy to start making the coffee. I found myself mindlessly typing into the YouTube search box “dog fart”. I found the mother-lode.
There were dogs farting, dogs reacting to human farts and dogs reacting to their own farts. Dogs reacting to other dog’s farts and cats being farted on by dogs. Tail moving farts, feet twitching farts and grimacing faces from smelly farts. I was in dog fart heaven.
Humans spend so much time pretending they weren’t the ones who farted in public. I think if we could, people would throw post-poot smoke pellets and run away in shame. But dogs? Man-oh-man… They don’t know embarrassment. How could they? They greet each other by smelling asses. And they are cute and fuzzy and when silly noises come from them unexpectedly, their reactions make me want to squeeze them and hug them and throw confetti all over the floor like a prancing Rip Taylor!
I still haven’t heard a dog fart in person, but good old YouTube has certainly satiated my curiosity for now. So, from my heart to you, please enjoy these few favorite Dog vs. Fart videos. And one flatulent rabbit…
My husband can imitate this dog perfectly. In fact, I often ask him to “do the dog face”.
This is not a dog, but a bunny. My love for farting bunnies almost matches my love for gassy pups.
“You’re going to love my nuts” was the phrase that almost got me to buy a Slap Chop off the TV. I didn’t need a Slap Chop, as I had knives and never cooked; but the spokesman Vince said “you’re going to be in a great mood all day, because you’re going to be slapping your troubles away with the Slap Chop” and I wanted to believe him. But as I reached for my phone, I paused. Something started brewing in my mind and it felt like a warning.
This wasn’t my first adventure with telephone shopping. By this point I was an old pro at calling within the next three minutes in order to get my free gift with purchase. I kept a pad of paper and pencil next to my couch for easy access when a toll free, ten digit number flashed on my TV screen. I had developed a theory that if I saw a commercial more than once and I still really wanted the thing they were pitching, it was meant to be and I should call. I was destined to own this or that bric-a-brac made in Taiwan.
When I was six, my mother opened my eyes to the world of television shopping. I don’t remember the name of the object she bought, but I do recall that it was made of four red, plastic bungees that attached to a door handle and you were suppose to be able to do a full body workout with it. You may recall a similar product written into the Larry Sanders Show called “The Hankerciser 200”. “Too good to be true” should have been the lesson I learned from my mother’s purchase. Especially after I watched her give an assertive tug to one of the bungees, only to have it slip off the door handle and smack her in the face. Unfortunately, the lesson I mistakenly learned was that with a little piece of plastic, you could order anything over the phone and have it delivered to you like a present from God in only seven days.
When it was my turn to start making the calls, I was the perfect demographic for television shopping. I was just out of college, lived alone in a studio apartment and had my first credit card. I was going from one “romantic” three month relationship to the next and rarely saw my friends due to an odd-hours job in retail. Good times. I also might have been slightly depressed.
So there I would sit, futon facing the TV and take out on the table. Zoning out and barely watching the show I had flipped to, I would be jarred awake with a flashing light and booming voice. “You NEED to BUY this!” yelled the commercials. You are a cigarette smoking, morbidly obese, stressed out, old and ugly, overly busy person who needs a quick fix! You will be so happy with the results you see with this plastic metal machine miracle video and/or dvd!
I knew these commercials were lying. I knew that what they were selling would most likely not work. But I wanted to buy into the hype. I was unfulfilled and needed something to fill that void. And it worked, for a while. I got presents that occasionally did what they advertised they’d do. I would say 1 out of 5 items worked, as long as I used them as directed. The other 4 were pieces of shit and only good as a pre-paid “surprise” in the mail.
Luckily for me (and my wallet), my life started to change and the hold that ‘As Seen On TV’ had on me started to fade. One evening, two of my closest friends who had been actively working on getting me out of my self-inflicted seclusion came over to my studio for a visit. After getting really, very high and watching embarrassing childhood videos, I decided to up the ante by showing them one of the items I had purchased off the TV. Not only were they surprised that I had outed myself as an infomercial junkie, but they could not believe what I had paid actual money for: “Facial Magic”
“Want to reverse sagging facial muscles, and maintain your youthful appearance-without surgery? Then you must try Facial Magic! It tightens and firms double chins, jowls, sagging lids, droopy necks and more.” I was 23. I didn’t know what a jowl was. But I haaad to buy ‘Facial Magic’! I mean, it has the word magic in its name and it comes with white freakin’ cotton gloves! Basically, you stick your fingers in your mouth and make faces as you tighten your face muscles. Please enjoy a demo of the Facial Magic technique by clicking “MAGIC”.
It didn’t matter if I was high as balls or not, the faces the women were making in the instruction video were mesmerizing. My friends asked me if I bought stuff off TV often. I shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Nah.” But then they asked me to list what I had purchased. The list kept growing and growing and I got more embarrassed and ashamed. That’s when I started to realize I needed to get a grip on my purchasing habit, put the phone down and lock up my credit card. Four years later, memories of our laughter kept me from buying that Slap Chop.
Let me just say, I feel for the people who are still trapped in infomercial hell. Those packages that appear on your doorstep (even though you paid for them) sure do make you feel special. But it is a false happiness. What’s really special is experiencing life outside of the television. The good news for me is that I can laugh at myself now! God damn, I bought some stupid shit. So, for my personal development and for your entertainment, here is a list of some of the crap I bought through infomercials in no particular order. Enjoy!
- A ‘stop smoking’ device that punctured holes into a cigarette’s filter. -The theory was that less smoke would reach your lungs because it would go out the hole in the filter. However, if you cover the hole with your lips, you get the full drag and the plastic piece of crap you bought is a waste of money.
- Facial Magic -I pulled a cheek muscle and stopped using it.
- ProActiv acne treatment -I got it so long ago, Judith Light from “Who’s the Boss” was the spokeswoman.
- A “magnetic reflexology” shoe insert made of plastic. -A piece of plastic with sharp magnets glued to it. It was bumpy and hurt to walk on.
- Tony Little’s Gazelle “You can do it!” -I didn’t actually get this off of the television, but I wanted to. I got it for $150 cheaper on Craig’s List.
- 8 Min. Abs and Buns VHS video -Turns out 8 minutes were too long for my lazy ass.
- Winsor “Gotta keep both cheeks even” Pilates -The plastic band that came with the dvd snapped in half and hit my face. (like mother, like daughter…)
- Billy Blanks Tae-Bo VHS -Lots of fun, but one must continue to use it for results to happen. I chose pizza.
- Q-Ray -I have pain, I thought it could help. It didn’t. It also made my wrist green.
- Smooth Away: removes hair instantly and pain free -Who really thought sandpaper was a good way to remove hair?
- Abtronic Electronic Fitness System: Tones and tighten your muscles with gentle electronic stimulation! -Yes, I tried to shock the fat off my stomach. However, this was the last thing I bought off the television. My future husband’s finger pointing and laughter was shame enough for me to never do it again.
I have one finger on Record and one finger on Play. For the past hour I have been pressing Pause, Record, Play, Stop every three to four minutes. Any guess as to what I’m doing? If you were born after 1985, you have no idea what I’m talking about. You never felt the panic of running to your boom box after hearing your local DJ introduce your new favorite song on the radio, just to miss the first few seconds of the song as you slide over your Teen Beat magazines and feebly press down on Record/Play. You will never have to work at rewinding to the beginning of your “breakup song” for the fifteenth time. *whirl of tape* Stop. Went too far *whirl of tape* Stop. Different song *whirl of tape* Stop. *whirl* *whirl* Play “…out from the inside, In your Eyes, the light the heat, In your eyes, I am complete…” close enough.
I happen to have in my possession a magical machine that turns tape cassette recordings into digital files on my computer. That’s right! That tape that’s the copy of a copy of that band that was so hip at one time can now be listened to again. Those mix tapes from boys of days past can now be played on my iPod!
Dang man, getting a mix tape really meant something back in the day. You knew the person really liked you when you got that tape in your hand. The hours spent syncing the blank tape with the song recordings. Making sure each song flowed well with each other. Possibly taping your own voice in a message of adoration. Making sure your mother was not recorded yelling “Dinner!” God help you if you didn’t have a dual cassette boom box. Mastering the Pause/Stop technique of ending a song, so that there were no harsh mechanical sounds corroding the mood. Handwriting each artist and song title in different colors in marker on each line of the liner note cards for visual stimuli. Making a mix tape should have earned some college credit. I spent more time making tapes than studying anyhow.
So now I’m turning the tapes of my youth into digital files. My angst-ridden, walk-down-memory-lane mix tapes from the 90’s will shortly be uploaded onto my iPod. ‘Shortly’ is a relative word since this is taking… shit, stop. STOP!
(five minutes later)
Sorry, the song ended and I had to press stop on the tape machine. With four songs recorded and eight more to go, soon one of my 12 tapes will be done! *Sigh* This is not an instant gratification process because the transferring happens in real time. The machine plays the tape while the computer program records it. Once the song ends, I press stop on both the machine and my computer. I could keep the tape playing, but that would create one 45 minute track rather than individual songs. The next step is to edit the newly dubbed digital song so there’s not too much dead air play before and after the song ends. You have to then export the song into MP3 format. And, of course, always press Save. Yeah, man… good times. Totally brings me back… Craaap…
(five minutes later)
Terrible news… Seems some of my tapes are dying. In the middle of the song the tape suddenly gets slower and the sounds of Satan take over. Then the tape picks up steam and the song is back in tune. So, my MP3 recording now has a message from the Netherworld embedded in it. Well, might as well keep at this…
This is kind of fun. Remembering my high school years…
Huh, now that I’m reading the liner notes, I’m finding that a lot of my mix tapes have the same songs on them. Not so creative after all. I also uploaded most of the albums these songs were from onto my computer a few years ago. Why am I recording these songs again? I don’t need duped songs with shitty tape sound quality! I can just make a playlist off the liner notes. And dudes, some of the songs on these mixes are making me hate the 15 year old me. Get over yourself! Pain?! You don’t know pain. Wait until your 20’s!
You know, recording in real time is getting old. I mean, I’m trying to enjoy the nostalgia of recording tapes, but come on, I got shit to do. I’m no kid procrastinating from homework. I have real responsibilities now. Freakin’ NCIS is on in ten minutes! This is no one-click, “Create CD” wham bam thank you ma’am, there is your mix deal. It’s seriously record, play, listen to the entire song, pause, stop, next song.
And now I see the downfall of this magical tape to digital machine. I just found one of the albums I was dubbing online for sale! I think my time is worth $9.99. BUY! Woot, one click and I gots me music! Sorry mix tapes. You are losing my favor. You’re still a good set list, but you’re becoming just another faded memory for me.
These are new, instant gratification days my friends. Why struggle to make a mix? Especially if it is a gift! It is the thought that counts. Right?! Dragging and clicking doesn’t necessarily change the intention. I care! I just care in less time. Perhaps I don’t want to push my music taste on you? Yeah! And tapes sound like shit. Also, writing on the tiny liner notes makes my arthritis act up. I would much rather just print out the song names off the internet. And now I have time to watch my shows. You wouldn’t want me to miss my shows, would you?