nude highway driving

The only problem with seeing Eddie Izzard in concert is that you really can’t share the show with your friends afterward. He doesn’t really have jokes, per se … just seemingly way-off-course stories that eventually all beautifully weave together with brilliant lines here and there. To try to relate an Eddie Izzard joke from the evening would take an hour and a damn good memory. Moments after last night’s show ended I went back up to the office to grab my bag and the night editor asked me how the show was. I said “Oh, it was awesome,” then tried to think of a joke to show her it was awesome. But what do I say? “Well, umm, he said transvestites are like superheroes, then went into this whole Greek mythology thing, which somehow led to driving a Buick to Mars and a great impression of the monsters from the ‘Alien’ movies …”

So, after a pensive pause I just said “Man, he’s got a great rack!”

The show was hilarious and Eddie was sparklingly dashing. And he does have a great rack. A rack so great that hip blogging chicks want to make out with him. I had a blast and was disappointed to read this morning that Eddie also was hanging out at the Old Ebbitt. He would so rock to share a pint with.

I admit I didn’t know much about him, but I’m always in need of a good laugh. The good laugh last night prepared me for today’s “day of suck,” which involved a large paper, me feeling two steps behind the entire day and AP pissing me off. And why can’t I run stories like this? The saving grace of the workday was the new This Modern World strip. Tom Tomorrow cracks me up despite scaring the crap out of me with his dead-on rightness.

This post is truly going nowhere, I just felt the need to write something since I’ve been too distracted to type anything lately. Hopefully my brain will begin working properly again soon.

Are we headed down the same road as the dinosaurs?


Inside a dinosaur skull on display in Indianapolis is a fossilized brain tumor, scientists say, one that gave the Gorgosaurus “a very bad headache.”

What the scientists failed to report is the giant cell phone found buried in rock next to the skull. We all know the dinosaurs were avid users of technology, especially cell phones. They were very social animals, and often would call each other up to organize hunts, set schedules for seasonal migration or just share skin moisturizing secrets. Archaeologists say the dinosaurs used their cell phones constantly, often running into each other on the plains because they were so busy yapping and not watching where they were walking.

Scientific teams have even found evidence of 20-Lambeosaurus pile-ups where Kansas is now.

Some mammals warned the dinosaurs that constant exposure to cell phones might cause brain tumors, but they never listened. They didn’t want to give up their cute ringtones and easy escape from face-to-face interaction. We’re only now discovering the true cause of their extinction - not the laughable “killer asteroid” theory written by Drs. Samuel J. Qualcomm and Victor B. Nokia.

But our race does not have to be destroyed. Save yourselves! Stop calling your friends to tell them all about the movie you’re watching two rows behind me. Stop calling loved ones to rave about the concert still going on as you stand right next tome. Get off the phone … especially when you’re driving in front of me.

Humanity needs you.

Up-and-coming North Korean fashion designer Kim Jong-Il - known in Paris circles as “the king of sassy” - shares a laugh with some of his runway models this week during the annual Pyongyang Spring Fashion Collective. Kim said he was taking aim at Western fashion houses with the launch of his new “DPRK Drab” label, claiming that his greenish-brown-vomit look is “the new black.” Kim has rocketed to the top of the fashion world in the past year, and says he won’t rest until “the heartless, imperialist designers succumb to the awesome power” of his “merciless, stylish blows.” That shouldn’t be long, as Kim reportedly is in negotiations with Wal-Mart to launch a line of low-budget, easy-to-match kids’ clothes called “Tyranimals.”

Kim brushes off recent criticism for spending so much money on fashion while many in his country go hungy. “Hey, if I’m going to send Seoul all the way to Hell and turn the peninsula into a sea of fire, I’ve got to do it in style,” Kim quipped while teasing his top general’s hair. “The main difference between me and other Stalinist dictators is I make the threads of the proletariat look good.”

Fark had one of their best Photoshop adventures ever today - illustrate a band’s name with an image. Sometimes I wish I had mad (or any) Photoshop skills.

Go check it out and see how many you can guess. Many of them have the answer in the filename. I was in tears.

This is by far my favorite submission:

I don’t have an “about me” page.

It’s not on purpose or anything - I don’t think I’m trying to hide. I just never got inspired to make one. Sometimes I think it’s cool to be a little mysterious, but I also think it’s cool when I can read about people whose blogs I frequent. Then again, I hope that I write in such a way as you learn about me from what I say and how I say it.

I haven’t been in the mood to do a “100 things” or “50 questions” thing, but I am in the mood to share. I figure a great way for you to get a little slice of me is to see what’s inside my beloved backpack - something I haul around almost every single day.

Let’s see:

… The latest issue of Wired.

… The October issue of Backpacker. Mmmmm, Tetons.

… A college-ruled, 70-sheet spiral Mead notebook for random drivel or morning pages that I haven’t written in since Sept. 23.

… A very worn copy of the poem “The Language of Stones,” by Aimee Grunberger. She died in 1998 of cancer, and wrote the poem sometime after finding out she was terminal. I never knew her. The paper I worked at in Boulder did a nice obit on her - she lived there and was involved at Naropa. I have carried the poem with me ever since as a reminder of how short and temporary Life is in the hopes it will propel me to make the most of it. Someday, when I have mass amounts of time, I’ll reprint it here. My favorite part still hangs on my bedroom wall:

     how do you know when you're ready
     you don't
     you're never ready
     just take butch cassidy's hand
     get a running start
     and yell Shit
     as the ground falls away beneath

… A Mead Five Star college-ruled composition book for more journal-like writing that I haven’t written in since May 28. In it I found this photo taken of me and a couple flat-mates in Amsterdam 12 years ago. Raaar!

… A sheet of round stickers, mostly freaky little faces. I can’t remember where I got this.

… “A House White With Sorrow,” a novel written by my friend Jennifer Heath (another Boulder person) in 1996 about Afghanistan.

… A pocket-sized Moleskine ruled notebook for random inspirations.

… A way-cool cell phone I use mostly on trips.

… An older Palm that does its best to keep me organized.

… A groovy little digital camera I found on super sale at Wal-Mart a couple years ago.

… My only fancy pen ever - a Montblanc with my name on it, given to me by a good friend (who worked at one of their stores) for being an usher at her wedding. I never thought I’d like anything other than rubber-grip Paper Mates and Pilots, but now I use it all the time.

… A stack of business cards (my self-made personal ones - no boring-ass work ones); my scary-ass press pass; two backup pens; glasses (for things far away); sunglasses; ChapStick; Burt’s Bees hand salve; spare AAA batteries; latex-free bandages and sterile pads; a little drink umbrella; good-luck frog for traveling; business card of an acquaintance I met at a coworker’s “meet my boyfriend” get-together; a travel-size tube of toothpaste; tiny-ass Jelly Belly beans I’ll never eat; my car key; my “pee key” for work; one blue bandana; good-luck totem from Alaska; forgotten ticket stub from my most recent Amtrak ride to New York; forgotten ticket stub from my spring flight to Tokyo; a small flashlight; camping knife; forgotten receipt from the Guinness I enjoyed St. Pat’s Day on the cruise; one faux carabiner.

… The all-important umbrella.