This is his best yet, although it is entirely lacking in that trademark zany WTF-ness we’ve come to know and love (?). If you’ve ever wondered what was the point of Brian Atene, grab a bottle of Coppola Rosso and watch this. And not just because he namechecked me!
Ah, he took it down AGAIN: embedding disabled by request. Oh, fine, BE that way. Here’s the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0R93KZPM7U
Did I mention I’m rather overloaded at the moment? I believe I may have made a passing reference to that situation in the recent past. And overload is antithetical to blogging. Antithetical? That so totally can’t be right.
Stupid spelchekar!
Well, add to that the fact that my bank card apparently won’t work, even though for once there is money in the account and which usually means VISA is mad at me for some reason although I DID make the payment this month but, let’s face it, Mister Visa is an evil, evil man.
And people are now stopping me in the street asking me how to post on their blogs when FearlessCity is down, which it has been for something well over one and possibly approaching two weeks, so I take a few hours out of my day, meet them at Job Shop, and set them up on WordPress.com of course instead. We’ll copy/paste later, although by that time they might be spoiled for Drupal blogging, who knows?
And, oh yes, having spent some of today trying on clothes I realize that making time to exercise is No. Longer. Optional. Frankly, I’m lucky my ass fits in a jeep, never mind jeans.
Also, I’ve consumed basically nothing but bacon-maple donuts, fries, dim sum, cake, and alcohol since Friday afternoon, for which I have to take my friends’s word, as I do not actually recall. Not that this is unusual for me…
So, blog posts are coming. In the meantime, have a nice summer song:
B-52’s Roam
I hear a wind
whistling air
whispering
in my ear
Boy mercury shootin through every degree
oh girl dancin down those DIRTY and DUSTY trails
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
around the world the trip begins with a kiss
roam if you want to
roam around the world
roam if you want to
without anything but the love we feel
skip the air-strip to the sunset yeah
ride the arrow to the target
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
around the world the trip begins with a kiss
roam if you want to
roam around the world
roam if you want to
without anything but the love we feel
fly the great big sky see the great big sea
kick through continents bustin bounaries
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
around the world the trip begins with a kiss
roam if you want to
roam around the world
roam if you want to
without wings, without wheels
roam if you want to
roam around the world
roam if you want to
without anything but the love we feel
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness
Well, I’ve never been one to dip a toe in when I could plunge over the cliff taking an entire bus with me instead.
So…Facebook.
MistressCowfish suggested I start a group, because after Friending people, Grouping is teh hawtness on Facebook, which sounds to my elderly ears like a rave gotten completely out of control, but whatever.
I have Grouped.
If you’re on Facebook, you’ll find me at The Deadbeat Club (cue Metro‘s bitter humour…).
Inspired by glorious deadbeats throughout history such as the authors of Frugal Indulgents, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde, Quentin Crisp, Vincent Van Gogh, and that guy … you know … that guy whose name I can’t remember, who destroyed his priceless collections and then killed himself rather than let the collection fall into Ceasar’s hands. See, if Boris would join the group he could tell us who that was.
Yes, surely in a Deadbeat Club there’s some room for rich, sore losers. Especially if they’re buying.
Ladies, Gentlemen, and the Undecided, please raise your glasses, mugs, or sippy cups to our anthem:
The Deadbeat Club by The B 52’s
I was good, I could talk A mile a minute, On this caffeine buzz I was on We were really hummin' We would talk every day for hours We belong to the deadbeat club Anyway we can, We're gonna find something We'll dance in the garden In torn sheets in the rain We're the deadbeat club We're the deadbeat club Going down to Allen's for A twenty-five cent beer And the jukebox playing real loud, "Ninety-six tears" We're wild girls walkin' down the street Wild girls and boys going out for a big time Let's go crash that party down In Normaltown tonight Then we'll go skinny-dippin' In the moonlight We're wild girls walkin' down the street Wild girls and boys going out for a big time Anyway we can We're gonna find something We'll dance in the garden In torn sheets in the rain Chorus Oh no! Here they come The members of the deadbeat club
To tell the truth, I’m horrified at the idea of flavoured Martinis in the first place. Oh sure, it was a kick ten years ago at Delilahs (I never DID get all the way through the Martini menu, at least, not that I recall…) but when one is a grownup one should not order Bartender’s Rootbeer and the ilk except on Eighties Night. And one most certainly should not call it a Martini.
Nonetheless, this is one scary-accurate quiz. Oogatz! It knows me as well as my best friends (you can tell they’re my best friends because I let them pick up the tab).
You Are a Chocolate Martini |
|
A bit of a cheapskate, you’re likely to mooch ten dollar drinks off both friends and strangers. You should never: Drink and dash. You’re gonna get caught leaving someone with the tab! Your ideal party: A posh celebrity party you crash, with an open bar. Your drinking soulmates: those with a Classic Martini personality Your drinking rivals: those with a Blueberry Martini personality |
Good Idea: rollerblading down to the office to pay your dues to the Federation of BC Writers for which you are the new Lower Mainland rep. Gets your dues paid and your workout done at the same time, plus bonus tanning time you don’t have to feel guilty about because you were, hello? productive.
Bad Idea: having two honey lagers at White Spot before attempting to rollerblade home.
Nuff said.
raincoaster 