Too Cool for School

Lairin and I were gchatting today (as we do) and we really hashed a lot of great stuff out. I feel like if we were in the UN, in some capacity, a lot of shit would get done. And by "shit" I mean "existential ramblings about nothing." Allow me to set the stage, Lairin is in the midst of applying to MFA programs:

Lairin: oh god UT Austin wants my "hours earned"

for college

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW

Kleine: what?

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

Lairin: use units like the rest of the civilized world!!!!!

Kleine: you should just write

"suck it, trebek"

they'd be like "WOW SUBVERSIVE, GREAT REF, SHE'S IN"

Lairin: YES

I think they mean GPA?

or units

IT IS NOT CLEAR

Kleine: would infinity be an appropriate response?

i think it could work for all of them

because

you want to continue school

so, infinite units

Lairin: FOREVER

Kleine: EXACTEMENT

OH NORTON

HOW I MISS YOUR GIRTH

(that's gross)

((didn't realize that gross double entendre till it was too late))

Lairin: I just spat coffee onto myself

Man, Bitches love Norton.

The Weekend from Hell 2: Hellier

Hi friends!

Remember my last post, when I exhausted the topic of "fly-type things" and my slaughtering of them? WEEELLLLLLLLL, guess what? I had the honor of discovering what these fly-type things are. This is what they look like:

Accurate Portrayal

If you are stupid like me, you would simply have basked in the rays of winning a battle against evil nameless bugs and would have needed to wait until you got a tenting notice for your apartment to tell you that you did not win the battle against these mighty bugs. In fact, you lost. BIG TIME. Because those are fucking termites. And if you don't know about termites, apparently, they're bad and stuff. At least, that's the word on the street, and words on the street tend to be legit (example: "crack is whack"--well known words found on the street).

I stared at the notice for a good 10 minutes. Not totally sure how this was gonna work. I have my cat, Mimi, as I'm sure you all know since I mention her in every post. And the landlord was offering to put us up in a hotel that didn't allow animals (and, subsequently, happiness). So, Mimi and I packed our bags and drove south for the border (of LA county) to be with our BFF, Lairin Paris, in Redondo Beach.

Let's just say Mimi hates car rides about as much as I hate the Twilight Series. However, Mimi's hatred manifests itself differently than mine:

Why don't you just write a paper deconstructing the subject matter to appease yourself, Mimi?

As with all car rides, in which Mimi sits in the passenger seat, I try to calm her. I soothingly remind her that I love her and I won't let anything bad happen to her. In between shifting gears, I put my hand on her carrier and attempt to pet her through the plastic. I probably should be getting in a million car accidents when I drive with her, but miraculously I don't, Ceiling Cat is obviously looking out for me.

Interior of car doesn't look this awesome.

At a certain point, I just give up with the comforting attempts. This was a long drive down to Redondo Beach. And in between the breaths of each useless cry emanating from Mimi's little mouth, echoing in my head, I realized I should never have children. I think a dog is as far as I can go on the sole responsibility-dependent spectrum. I know I'm young or whatever, BUT HOLY CRAP, THE STRESS AND THE ANGER THAT RISES FROM IT.

Because this was the longest car ride that Mimi has been on (since she's been with me), she decided to go slightly (and by "slightly" I mean "totally") ape shit. Rather than simply continue on with the pleading meows--each one a kitten dagger in my heart (worse than regular daggers)--Mimi decided that this was the appropriate moment to reenact a scene from the illustrious film, Alien.

Cat Carrier= John Hurt's belly in film

Reference for you n00bs out there.

Now, I'm not sure who showed her this film (or why she would be a fan of it) but she was reenacting the shit out of it. It was an homage of sorts, which successfully scared at least one year off my life span.

I had decided, prior to our exodus to Redondo Beach, that on my way back home I would take Mimi to the veterinarian-- just to terrorize the bejesus out of her (and also because she had some rash-type stuff going on). So, the plan was stay with Lairin for a few days, drive back up on Saturday, go to the vet, then return home to my termite-free apartment. It became abundantly clear while at Lairin's place that Mimi wasn't suffering from benign rashes, but from fleas, exacerbating the probs. And I know what those megalomaniacal assholes look like and I was not pleased to see one practicing its dance moves on Mimi. Unlike the termite debacle, I knew that I could not win this battle on my own. I didn't have a cathartic smashing of fleas like I did with the termites, at least in that situation, I felt like I showed them who was boss by punching them in the face.

Naturally, I trick Lairin into coming to the vet with me using my tricksy ways. I was prepared for Mimi's antics in the car ride and decided to not care, letting Lairin bear that burden:

 

We go to the vet definitely looking like a lesbian couple with their cat (see: Zuzu and Sparks). This may not have been in our favor as we happened to sit next to a forty-ish-year-old man with an awesome dog. The man in question was not super attractive, but then he started to speak... with a Scottish accent. And all of a sudden, he was silver fox stud muffin. While talking to us about how his dog liked to lick feet, Lairin sent me this text:

 

But then he went away and we were able to focus on the issue at hand. The whole debacle turned into a vet bill bigger than how much I paid for Mimi in the first place. And I was informed that I needed to give her a special allergy, flea bath. I looked at Lairin with pleading eyes (my tricksy ways weapon of choice). And she had no way out, I had the sweet ride that would drive her home and I bribed her with food (sealed the deal). 

Upon our return to my apartment (still smelling of noxious fumes), the cat bathing commenced:

 

So, en sum, that weekend was off. da. chain. It also happened to correspond with my first year anniversary with Mimi as my cat and she was seriously thinking about breaking it off, but then really thought about the consequences of that, so she's sticking with me, but only after we "had a talk." [She really just meowed at me and my eyes glazed over and I just said "mmhmm" a bunch of times--seemed to placate her].

Here's her looking surprisingly serene after the bath:

...which scene from Alien should I reenact next?

Just a Cog in the Evolution Machine

For those of you who read this (me), sorry we haven't been posting. [Yes... I just apologized to myself].

So, today was the day, in which I conquered an army of bugs. These little fuckers had wings and probably tiny machine guns...since they were an army and all, but I fought valiantly. It was like that one scene in that one movie with that one guy where he's fighting and stuff...except it was me versus a bunch of bugs, but it was just as epic.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. I came home from work today with a serious need to pee. I pause momentarily in my room (the lights were off) to cast off my heels. I book it to the bathroom, taking off my clothes [this isn't a sexy post, I swear!] to get ready to work out and pee (I like to multitask). So, I'm in the bathroom, taking my much-anticipated pee, when I feel something crawl on my leg. I look down. No biggie, just a little fly-type thing. When I tried to Google image search this creature, I found terrifying things. So, I quickly halted the search. Here's my interpretation of said fly-type thing:

Despite the resemblance in this image, fly-type thing is of no relation to Gumby or any of his crew.

David Attenborough would probably call it "slightly accurate" (and by "slightly accurate" I mean "that's the worst fucking thing ever made, Kleine, stop emailing me this image asking what kind of fly it is. I don't have time for this, I'm a big deal.") Basically, fly-type thing was completely harmless, maybe half an inch long, brownish-black, with slight wings (that seemed to serve only as decoration).

Anywho, I simply flick fly-type thing off of my ankle and move on with my life. I get back to my room and turn on the light. But, on my way to my bedroom, I became increasingly focused on my fingernails. You see, I decided on Saturday that I needed to get them painted. I suppose I was trying to do this whole "feminine" thing, but soon enough the paint started to chip ever so slightly, despite my best efforts. So, I sit down on the bed, my skirt halfway off, and I am gleefully picking the polish off my nails...it's a cathartic pleasure.

As I am gathering flakes of pink polish off my nails, I notice one fly-type thing crawling on my bed. Again, no biggie. Just flick him off. I resume my nail cleansing using my teeth because I am classy and continue to get undressed to work out. I then notice another one and then my eyes magically learned how to work and shit. got. real.

My hair looks like that.

I abandon my animalistic removal of nail polish and frantically flick off fly-type things. With a surprising lack of forethought, I was astonished to see a shit ton of fly-type things on the floor of my bedroom.

At this point, I knew I needed to get it together and take care of business, or bidness, if you will. The thing is these fly-type things knew what they were doing. I'm sure this was a pre-planned attack. They probably all met together today, complaining about the heat (especially since they had to carry heavy, tiny machine guns... they are a fly-type army after all), and then they heard the beautiful A/C in my apartment blowing and assumed a military formation and just marched right on in. But, why me, of all the apartments with A/C in my building?

These fly-type things probably knew that I was a vegetarian for moral reasons and made the sadly mistaken assumption that I wouldn't fucking crush them. Let it be known to the animal kingdom that I do not care AT ALL, not one iota, about bugs, spiders, or any of that shit. SUPPOSEDLY, they all have an evolutionary purpose, but we are all rotting with global warming, so evolution isn't even working right anymore and more importantly they all look creepy. [That, right there, is a rock-solid argument. Richard Dawkins, I challenge you.]

I'll be honest, I didn't get it together immediately. There was a lot of flicking of fly-type things off of my bed and half-assed use of dry paper-towels. But, do not fear readers, Kleine got her shit together and got kind of sadistic with these fly-type things:

 
At a certain point, probably after seeing the source of the fly-type things coming from my window, I knew I needed to fully disrobe out of my work clothes, so I could get real surrious. So, I put on some low-quality clothing, knowing that this could get messy, as I was single handedly performing a mini-massacre. I put my hair in a tight bun (see above image) and planned my attack. It started out slow and sloppy. I grabbed some Clorox wipes and just wiped em out (bonus: my windows are slightly cleaner!). However, I did not have enough Clorox wipes to account for the population of fly-type things. I then began to use the left over Clorox juice (it's not juice) in the container and papertowels. But, alas, that could only last so long. And then I remembered about an old ass can of Raid I had in my evil possession. And I opened up that old ass can of Raid (AKA whoop-ass):

I grew a unibrow at this moment.

I killed every last one. At a certain point, I just started picking them up and throwing them in a trashbag that was filled with noxious fumes. I knew I needed to remove my sheets and duvet cover from the bed since fly-type things were rubbing all up on it. Removing my sheets from the bed is the equivalent of a fucking three-act play production, hence my unwillingness to do it more than once every month (and by "month," I mean "2 months," and by "2 months," I mean "never"). I then emptied out my room and wet-jet swiffered it, which I hadn't done in forever. I was goaded into it by all the dead fly-type bodies littered on my floor, they were mocking me and my unwillingness to clean. At this point, I felt slightly bad for the act I had just committed:

But, after cleaning it all up, I quickly forgot all about mourning my new found violent leanings and the annihilation of a species of fly-type things and instead, snuggled my cat:

Oh California, I love you.

Summer in a nutshell

Back to school, sigh.

Nothing like a poet getting a huge body tattoo of another poet.

Ramadan-a-ling

Today at work.

Coworker #1: Let's get lunch together! We haven't done that in a long time.
Coworker #2: I can't. I'm doing Ramadan.
Coworker #1: What is that?
Coworker #2: Hey Kleine! He doesn't know what Ramadan is!!!
Kleine: You don't know what Ramadan is? What's wrong with you?
Coworker #1: I'm sorry... I don't listen to hip hop.

Serious laughter ensued.

Updated to include conversation from later that day:
Kleine: Were you referencing the South Park movie earlier?
Coworker #1: Yeah, I was. Nice catch! I was just joking around... I totally know what Rosh Hashanah is.
Kleine: It's Ramadan!

Song of the CENTURY

Over the past weekend, Dodo made me watch this music video:



At the time, I just stared at the screen--wide-eyed--not really sure what to make of it. Once Monday rolled around, I decided I needed to watch it again. After watching it a second time, I felt it necessary to do some research, to understand what was going on. Let me tell you that this music video has snowballed into an obsession. I've watched it at least a dozen times. I can't stop laughing when I watch it and every time I do, I catch something new and more ridiculous about it.

So, please allow me to deconstruct this masterpiece.

Let's start with the basics.
Who: The video stars a young blogger/ model from Harajuku named Kyary Pamyu Pamyu (apparently also known as Carrie).
What: This is Kyary's first single called PONPONPON from her debut album entitled "Moshi Moshi Harajuku." This is produced by Time Warner Music Japan by some hot shot Japanese music artist. And if you want the lyrics, which are hysterical, you can find them at the bottom of this page.
Where: Harajuku. Which, for those who don't know, is a very fashionably transgressive part of Japan. It's a city where fashions get started and many designers look to the area for inspiration, as youths come out with different, albeit wacky, ideas for fashion and dress accordingly. Kyary was one of these youths and (from what I can tell) was a fashionista blogger.
When: This video came out about 2 weeks ago... so despite the seemingly weak graphics, THIS IS BRAND SPANKIN' NEW.
How: I'm not totally sure, but what I can tell you, is that this video is really not at all over-the-top for Harajuku. This is just how art is done, it's all pretty much fashion-based. Just cray cray for us.   
Why: Because the world was down on its knees, begging for it.

Now, let's get down to business.* In a probably vain attempt to make sense of this video, I will point some things out with visual aids.

We have two girls in the video. One dancing with pigtails (shall now be simply known as Pigtails), one with a pink face (Pink). My first theory is that Pink is somehow controlling what's going on with Pigtails... perhaps Pink is her brain causing these hallucinations? Or is just a manifestation of a child's mind (and by child, I mean, person tripping ballz)?

Evidence:

Birds: Flyin' out her mouf.

BAM: Birds comin' through the window.

Eyeballs: Rollin' out her mouf.

BOOM: She's hanging out with eyeballs!

Next theory: Pigtails represents the erratic and often changeable moods of children. Sometimes she's having a grand ole' time--making faces and dancing--other times she's taking herself a little too seriously with weird hand gestures (teenager perhaps?).

Evidence:

All surrious.

Wacky faces. What a crazy kid!

Oh shit. Time for serious bidness. You can tell by the hand--it looks serious.

Farting Art, happier times.

Here's an interesting combo: serious hand gesture, yet she's slyly picking her nose--what a jokester!

Srsly guyz. SRSLY.

Final Theory: Clearly inspired by the 90s... childhood of the generation now entering adulthood? People making this video grew up in the 90s? Childhood, adulthood, manifestation, monomania, discombobulation, and other academically-weighty words?

Evidence:

Mac and Cheese reigned supreme in the 90s. And you see that little box of Golden Grahams? WHO EATS THAT ANYMORE? (Answer: Nobody).

That skull is totally reminiscent of the designs on the coolest Pogs.

Holy shit! LISA FRANK.

Last, but not least, I need to list off what Pink is wearing on her head.

Nurse Barbie, Plastic Bird, Grapes, Strawberry, Banana

Bone, Bird Wing, Butterfly, as well as the above.

Plastic Panther, Giant Flower, along with above.

The one part of the video that I sincerely cannot even imagine what it "symbolizes" is this:

Clap for bread.

Other interpretations are more than welcome (as mine were utter and complete bullshit). LET'S DECONSTRUCT THIS TOGETHER. But, I think the best theory is that people are just batshit cray cray and like to experiment with psychedelic drugs and then make videos of what they see to share with humanity.

Regardless of what it all means, this song has made it onto my youtube work playlist.
Basically, I listen to it.
Daily.

*Note: Only cool people, after reading that sentence, would start singing the song from Mulan in their heads.

This is Love

Lairin and I often gchat. And by often, I mean, always. We are basically a married couple, but it's long distance. She's near the beach and I'm still in LA. Weekends are our only times together. Thus, we resort to gchat. We discuss the events of our day, even as they are happening.

Last night, I was telling Lairin of someone's disappointing behavior towards me. Her response:

I am...
not pleased.
knee caps
gonna get all broken up
in this joint. *

Now, THAT is poetry!

*Each line represents the content of each separate instant message.

No one can snoot it up like the Brits

This silly bit on BBC News is so damn snooty. I love it.


There are 1300 comments that follow with even more gripes about "Americanisms". My favorite response comment (which begins quoting number 27 on the list) is:

Ha! Out-snooted.

Best Traffic Ever

So, in an earlier post Dodo mentioned the crazy shit that was going down this weekend. This sent many into a tizzy, fiendishly buying tickets to out of area places, or simply using this impending traffic delay as an excuse to squander all their money in Vegas. I anticipated being in a lockdown situation in my own apartment, which would probably involve me lounging in undie-roos with Mimi. However, yesterday morning, I decided to check out what the traffic situation was like using good ol' Google Maps. And here is what I found:

The magical powers of fear

So, I hazarded taking my car onto the freeway. And what I found were empty roads, now perhaps a Zombie Apocalypse happened to occur on this same weekend and that explains the eerily empty roads, but whatever the reason: the traffic has never been better!

Watchout

Even BBC is talking about it! We've finally made the big time, LA traffic.

Song of the Week

I am a little bit obsessed with MNDR. Just a little bit. Don't be scared by the video still, guys, this song is great.





xoxo
zuzu

Loti

Anyone remember the awesome lotus cluster in Echo Park lake that was the largest in the world? And cute old men would go and do watercolors of it on a nice fall afternoon? No? Just me then.

It's been a tough day

Sorry I suck and haven't done a proper post in...ever. But hopefully the blog muse will inspire me soon.

Patriot Rot

Guys, look what I just read: Fourth of July Parades make you grow up Republican!

Am I the only one who suddenly feels like America has every right to waterboard the shit out of people?

And here's a shocker: Now I never want to even let my hypothetical kids anywhere near a parade lest they grow up all Gingrich-y. 

Sorry, Newt, but I'm pretty sure even your mom kind of hates your face.

I mean, I actually love the United States a lot. When I am not in the country, I am constantly reminded how great it is that I was born here, how wonderful it is to have the rights I have, and how awesome it is that I get to write a blog where I get to tell conservative assclowns to check before they wreck. (I usually only have these feelings while I am abroad, because I spend most of my time in the country thinking about how I have no rights because I'm a lesbian, and nobody reads my blog). Clearly, however, I don't think that appreciating my nation of origin requires me to regard the Constitution as anything but a living document, or vote the straight Republican ticket. So how come parades make you grow up Republican? Is it all parades? Or do different Parades result in different outcomes? If, for example, you go to the Thanksgiving Day Parade will you grow up to have a balloon fetish?

Can all this be explained by a close encounter with the giant Snoopy balloon?

I have never been to a parade (if you exclude parades that involve drag queens, and girls with faux-hawks and lip piercings). And now I am wondering if I had gone to a Fourth of July Parade, would my entire life be different? Would I own a bunch of sweater-sets and enjoy the company of small dogs that fit into my purse? Would I tell people that global warming is a liberal ghost-story, and would I listen to Bill O'Reilly more intently than I listen to my pastor? (In this scenario, I also go to church, apparently). 

I don't know, friends. I just don't know. But I'm glad I don't have to find out.

xoxo

zuzu

Song of the Week

This week's song of the week was recommended by a good friend, and, boy, do I love this guy. Well...back to twiddling my thumbs.







xoxo
zuzu

Song of the Week

So lately Hall and Oates has made a subtle reentry into my life. Every time I hear them I have distinct memories or sitting in the backseat of my mom's mazda compact and singing that someone's kiss was on my list...and not knowing what that meant.

A few months ago I realized that one of the bands that I like (The Bird and The Bee) had made an entire tribute album to the magical musical stylings of Hall and Oates. I downloaded the whole thing, and I love it so much. But for me the best tribute song is "Rich Girl." So that is my song of the week.

xoxo
zuzu

Facebook Ads Strike Back: Return of the Weird Pictures

So, I must confess I have a Facebook. This is trufax. I went on a very high horse for a while and deleted my account, but I started to chafe riding on that high horse, so I came back down to the land of cretins and started up again. I like to think that my Facebook usage is totally healthy. It's a super private account and I am only friends with people I interact with. However, I often go through my Facebook friends every month or so and delete all the people I no longer consort with. It's a political move, I know, and I'm sure I seem like a total douchebag, but fact is: If I don't see you in real life or talk to you on a fairly regular basis, it just makes me feel like a stalker to view your status updates talking about you laying a deuce or WHATEVER it is that people use the status update for. Thus, you are eliminated.

But, enough about my personal, tumultuous relationship with Facebook. I know that the topic of how well the ads on Facebook know you has probably already been discussed. But, I often find that the photos that accompany said ads are quite absurd. Check out this one I delightfully stumbled upon the other day:

Here's the thing: I actually seriously do want to go to graduate school for English and for cereals want a grant to do so. HOWEVER, I find this advertisement mildly offensive if it is insinuating that all English major-y type women look like pixelated sorority bums. I will have you know that I am only slightly pixelated and look like a poor, wannabe hipster. Basically, get your facts straight Facebook. Yes, I do want to go to grad school for English (and the fact that you know this is disturbing), however, I do not want to do so at the expense of my personal, physical identity. I won't go full pixel for a grant. I WON'T.

Free Credit Report Your Mom

I know that I haven't written on here in a while, and I am really sorry about that. I guess I just felt uninspired. My temp job ended, my part time job is done for a few weeks, and I haven't even been reading any good books lately. I've just been sitting around in my underwear with a fan pointed directly at me thinking about the world and shit. Nothing that I felt like people would really care to hear about.

Although I did kick some ass at the first annual beer olympics.

Anyway, all this sitting around thinking about how I can justify my existence to the universe as something more than merely a tap on resources since I am apparently unable to participate in the workforce was interrupted yesterday by one of those janky freecreditreport.com commercials. I have blocked most of the commercial out of my brain, but it seemed to involve a golf caddy asking a man "at the top" for advice. And this man at the apex of the wealth food chain replies with a series of helpful word association phrases so that the poor little golf caddy will someday become a successful privileged douchenozzle who is able to hang with the best of them.

And once he has made it to the top, he will presumably play music
from his golf bag stereo, and pretend his arm is broken when he is losing.
I have no idea what rich white men do, but I am pretty sure Caddyshack is fairly accurate.

Here's what irks me about the commercial: Everything. From the fact that they have been making these crap ads for as long as my addled brain can remember, to the fact that the song is essentially a bizarro version of Dispatch's The General. I just hate it.

Almost as much as I hate that this twit is a cultural phenomenon

It's moments like this I wish I had little more power. Not like a lot of power. I don't want to change the course of world events or anything. Just enough power to call someone up and say "no more of this, please." In this case, I would make that phone call, and ask that that whoever created these commercials be "required" to watch them over and over for 24 hours, and then given the choice about whether they should continue being made.

Hopefully he will see things my way.

Anyway, I will try to post more regularly. Sorry that my first post back in a few weeks was a tangent about a commercial.

xoxo
zuzu

The Highlights

I tried to amass a list of great mom interactions I had while in Croatia and staying with her in upstate New York for a few days. Somehow, they have all escaped me.

Save for one -- during dinner I chuckled when a certain song by Ace of Base came on. My mother inquired about the song and I began to explain it to her, and realized about half-way through that my comprehension was significantly checked by my age when the song came out, and I had yet to update it. This conversation culminated in my mother yelling, "WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO GIVE BIRTH TO ANOTHER BABY??"

Rabbits in France

Since being in Paris, there is a sign on the metro doors that always fascinates me when I see it:

As the image illustrates, there is a rabbit, wearing what can only be described as a nice set of yellow pajamas, without shoes, and getting its hands (paws?) caught in the door. Now, the purpose of this illustration is to alert passengers of the dangers of putting your hand in the door when the door is closing.

However, I find that the message and image don't totally coalesce. Honestly, I'm more concerned with the fact that there is a rabbit on the metro in the first place. Second of all, who gave this rabbit clothes and taught it how to walk? It looks like some sort of escape victim, as it was obviously in too much of a hurry to put on shoes, but somehow managed to have enough time to wear a matching outfit. It looks all discombobulated. I mean, getting its hand stuck in the doors of the metro is really the least of its problems.