Something up with which Hitler would not put

Heee-larious:

Make an only slightly funny photo slightly funnier!

Be thankful I haven't been blogging lately, Internet, because self-piteous drivel is all I seem to be able to muster these days. Between my beloved desk fish Bowldemort dying yesterday, our continued downward spiral into poverty, this endless fucking winter, and various other instances of life just kicking my ass right now, the only thing I've really been inspired to write is something akin to Jack Torrance's "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" manuscript, except mine would consist of just the single word "SHIT" over and over again. And while blogging is all about navel-gazing, I have to draw the line somewhere, and I realize that my three faithful readers probably have better things to do than read my boring-ass lamentations.

SO. Rather than subject you all to my whiny, suicide-inducing stream of consciousness, I take great pleasure in announcing my first-ever SLIGHTLY FUNNY PHOTO CAPTION CONTEST! One entry per person, please, and after a week or so I'll pick a winner who will get eternal glory (read: nothing)...and like it.

So without any further ado, I present to you the following weird photo for your captioning pleasure:

(Thanks to James for being such a good sport, even though I didn't bother to consult him before posting this.)

Ten things about America's Vancouver

When I was 12 and my sister 8, my mom moved us from our rambling, century-old country farmhouse (complete with a big-ass barn and 600 acres to explore) in rural Beavercreek, Oregon, to an apartment in East Vancouver. The schools were better or something. Anyway, even back then, before I knew the first thing about urban sprawl or collapsible tax bases, I remember looking out the window as we drove down the cultural and aesthetic vacuum that is Mill Plain Blvd. and thinking, "This place sucks ass. It's nothing but strip malls and housing developments."

Well, this place still sucks ass. It's still strip malls and housing developments and big-box stores and ill-timed traffic lights and chain restaurants. It's still mind-numbingly soul-sucking in every way.

EXCEPT DOWNTOWN VANCOUVER (where we live). After years of neglect and disrepair, Downtown's experiencing a revitalization and is actually -- dare I say it? -- really, really nice. That said, I thought I'd share a few insights into life in (mostly Downtown) Vancouver. Because, well, it ain't all that bad.

Seriously.

Ten Things About America's Vancouver

1. I like to imagine Uptown Village (the area of downtown where we live) as the Hawthorne/Belmont neighborhoods of SE Portland like 15 years ago, before they were overrun by hipsters wearing skinny black jeans and aviators and acting like fucking self-important assholes when all you did was ask (for the seventeenth time) for a refill on your goddamn coffee while they're chipping their black nail polish and talking to their coworkers about how totally bored they are. With everything. Yes, Vancouver is still refreshingly unpretentious, still genuinely enthusiastic about building community and promoting sustainability and living simply. And after suffering the hostility and hauteur of SE Portland for years, it's incredibly novel.

2. Downtown practically shuts down on Sundays. Most of the good shops and restaurants are closed, or are only open for like 20 minutes. If it were a throwback to more Puritan times, I might find it quaint and kinda charming, but I suspect it's actually just laziness. Just because the Lord rested on the seventh day doesn't mean my only lunch options should be Dairy Queen, Muchas Gracias or Subway, guys.

3. In 2006, I and James and our friend Eric Johnson founded the local alternative newspaper, The Vancouver Voice, which was simultaneously one of the coolest and most idiotic things I've ever done. It's actually still alive and well today, though we don't run it anymore; we bequeathed it to a newspaper family with real money and a real staff last year so we could pursue other activities, like eating and sleeping and not wanting to kill each other all the time.

4. My favorite local character is the Sammy Davis Jr. doppelgänger who rides around on his bike washing people's cars without their permission and then guilting them into paying.

5. We have a phenomenal farmer's market, even if the resident balloon artist dude turned out to be a total pedophile.

6. One of my favorite things to do when the weather's decent (sigh) is walk the Columbia River esplanade up to Beaches or McMenamins and sit out on the patio with a drink and watch the boats go by.

7. Vancouver pre-dates Portland as a municipality by like 20 years, and maybe one of these days Portland will realize this and quit acting like such a prima donna.

8. If you live in Vancouver, you can mock/loathe Vancouver all you want (it's so easy sometimes!). But if you live in Portland, you can shut your fat face and show some respect, bitches.

9. I once heard a ruckus outside our bedroom and looked out the window to find two of the hugest raccoons I have ever seen in my life snuffling around the garage. Huge. Like, pony huge. We make 'em big in Vantucky.

10. The very first Burgerville ever is in Downtown Vancouver, and is old-school get-out-of-your-car-and-order-outside style. They have heat lamps and '80s pop playing on the overheads. It's awesome.

And that's it. I should mention, too, that as much as I'd love to take credit for thinking up this post topic all by myself, I actually got the idea from another blogger. I liked it so much I copied it. I'll also shamelessly copy the way she ended hers, by asking: What sets your city apart?

Satire and one stoned kid

I am so in love with The Lonely Island right now. First, it was "Jizz in my Pants." Now? Now they've given us "I'm on a Boat" featuring T-Pain, and I'm just not sure it gets any better. Here's the video for those of you who haven't yet seen it (or for those of you who have and can't get enough of Akiva in a captain's outfit...me-OW):

(Earmuffs on the kiddies...it's awesomely explicit.)

Then there's David After the Dentist (kid-safe, though it might make older kids suddenly want to go to the dentist):

Real post coming soon. No really.

And what did YOU do today?

For all those cynics and naysayers who said nothing of any substance would change on day one of Obama's presidency, here's just a *short* list of executive orders and memoranda inked first thing yesterday/today:

1. Hours after taking office, Obama's office requested a continuance (a 120-day suspension) of the military commission trials slated to go down this week at Gitmo. All of the military judges involved approved the request, and now Obama's administration has put together a special prosecution team (including David Iglesias, the former US Attorney fired by the Bush administration for not prosecuting politically-motivated cases aggressively enough) to review all of the cases and determine how best to proceed with them...CONSTITUTIONALLY.

Iglesias said, "We want to make sure that those terrorists that did commit acts will be brought to justice -- and those that did not will be released."

I'm sorry, what? That sounded reasonable and humane. Oh, it was meant to be? Oh. Well then. Welcome back, habeas corpus. Welcome back.

2. He drafted an order that would close Gitmo within a year. (And tonight Cheney cries wrenching, snarled sobs into his favorite pillow, stuffed with the bones of innocent babes and the rotting flesh of endangered animals.)

3. He froze pay levels for White House senior staff making above $100k at their current levels for as long as the law allows. "Families are tightening their belts, and so should Washington," said President Obama.

4. In the Executive Order on Ethics Commitments by Executive Branch Personnel, the President decreed that A) no member of his administration may accept gifts from lobbyists, B) government officials may not move to and from private sector jobs in ways that give that sector undue influence over government, and C) hires will be made based on qualifications, competence and experience...not political connections/affiliations. (Wonder if they'll go after Gonzales, Miers, Sampson, et al for the US Attorney firings?)

Part and parcel with the lobbying rules, he banned members of his administration who were once lobbyists from working on matters for which they once lobbied, and aides who leave his administration are banned from lobbying the administration in the future.

5. He issued a Memorandum on Transparency instructing three senior officials to "produce an Open Government Directive within 120 days directing specific actions to implement the principles in the Memorandum. And the Memorandum on FOIA (The Freedom of Information Act) instructs the Attorney General to, in that same time period, issue new guidelines to the government implementing those same principles of openness and transparency in the FOIA context."

In English, this means the Obama administration isn't just talking the talk about being open and transparent, but they're walking the walk, too.

6. Along those lines, and saving the best for last...he rescinded the executive order that would've allowed Bush's heirs (the twins!? shudder) to continue to claim executive privilege and withhold his records from the public. (Cheney's too...double shudder).

Hell of a first day. Oh, and he also called a few Middle Eastern heads of state, you know, to try to get that whole peace thing going.

At the end of the day, I can't help but wonder what McCain/Palin's first day might have been like. Relocating Homeland Security to Wasilla, where they could better keep an eye on Putin's rearing head? Paving over the Everglades and putting up the nation's largest Hooters? Instituting a commemorative one-day 5% discount on rape kits? (Ooh, crossed the line on that one, didn't I?)

Thankfully, that's left to our imaginations (or 2012...triple shudder).

America, F**K YEAH!

PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA.

Holy crap.

I have a Pavlovian response every time I hear or say it, but instead of drooling (well, okay, maybe just a little), a great big shit-eating grin spreads across my face. Finally. FINALLY. A president I can believe in and stand behind. Someone who represents and is dedicated to the ideals I believe in; humanity, equity, integrity, intelligence, unity, progress, peace.

A couple of my favorite passages from his speech:

"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus - and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace."

"And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more. [...] To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West - know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist."

Yes. HELL YES. Finally, a president who GETS IT. His speech was incredible. Inspirational. And the Rev. Dr. Joseph Lowery? What a stud. His benediction was genuine, heartfelt, and inclusive of ALL (as opposed to Rick Warren's tribal ode to hypocrisy...bleh).

But forget Warren. He doesn't matter. Obama! President Obama! *drool, grin*

I've never said this before (and make of that what you will, I don't care): I am proud to be an American.

The biggest loser

Next time anyone hears me commenting on how it might be nice to have a personal trainer, slap me with a 2x4, because honestly? The pain would be fleeting and sweet in comparison to the hell I am suffering right now below my waist.

I recently joined L.A. Fitness in order to be able to play racquetball with my family without paying a ridiculous fee each time (seriously, $15 to wall myself into a 20x10 space and run around willy-nilly to avoid being laid out by an erratic, speeding rubber ball?). As part of their generous "welcome" package, I was invited to experience a 30-minute session with one of their personal trainers (or "sadists"). 

Now, I haven't worked out since like 2003 or something like that. I think I watched an episode of The Daily Show while strolling on a treadmill once last year, and I went tanning a couple of times at a 24 Hour Fitness, but that's the closest I've come to anything remotely resembling exercise since returning from Costa Rica in 2005, where at one point I actually turned and asked James, "Do you think I'm getting TOO buff?" (What. We spent four months surfing and swimming and sweating all day. I looked good.)

So when I met with my trainer, I made sure to emphasize the fact that I am a soft, weak creature quite possibly allergic to my own sweat, and certainly not there training for the Iron Man triathlon. I just wanted to tone up a bit. I know he saw my mouth moving -- he even nodded a few times -- but I think what he actually heard was, "Look, I'm training to run to the moon, and I need you to help me build muscles in my legs that will defy physics. Today. If you do this, I will give you head for nine straight weeks." Because what happened next was in no way an ease-into-it workout designed for a fleshy wine-swilling, chocolate-loving, web geek like myself.

We started with lunges. Have you ever done lunges? I bet if I looked up "lunges" in the encyclopedia, it would show pictures of the Romans torturing early Christians by making them lunge across the length of the Colisseum with 8-pound weight balls repeatedly. This is what the sadist made me do (only twice, but COME ON, DUDE). After the first set, my legs were shaking. I mentioned this. He was all, "Yeah, we gotta strengthen those quads!" It was then I realized I had descended into the seventh layer of hell. There was no inferno, no gnashing of teeth, no wailing...just shaky legs, an embarrassing lack of balance, and a douchebag in slacks and loafers walking beside me casually talking about selling his motorcyle on Craigslist while I tried desperately not to fall over with each step.

After the lunges, I hoped it was over. Great workout! Smell ya later! But no. He grabbed some dumbbells and situated me on a machine I will never again be able to look at without fearing that I might wet myself at the memory. It basically simulated wall-sits, but with weight pressing down from above. I squatted and curled and tried not to cry. (I'm not kidding.) Then we did real wall-sits and different arm exercises with the weights. I wondered if it was normal to feel the need to poop oneself during this exercise, and thanked myself for not having another cup of coffee before coming.

Then it happened: I started to see flashes of light. I felt like I was going to faint. I was nauseous. I told the sadist that I didn't feel well. He told me to rest (as if I were inclined to keep going). I must've looked awful, because a few seconds later, he actually asked me if I needed to run to the bathroom. I nodded, ran as fast as my weak-ass, wobbly legs would carry me to the locker room, and THREW UP. In hindsight, I suppose not eating for 16 hours prior to pushing my body to its pathetic limits had a lot to do with it, but I prefer to think it was all due to his merciless circus of pain.

I returned a few minutes later, admitted to having painted the handicap stall in the bathroom a lovely shade of death, and -- I can only attribute this to a lack of oxygen to my brain -- continued the workout. For one minute. Until I realized my body was probably trying to tell me something, and that that something was "STOP FUCKING DOING THAT."

So we stopped. I went home sore and humiliated and worked up a nice migraine to complement the brutal destruction of my leg muscles. I missed out on an epic party (and dance-off!) that night because of my condition, and have been hobbling around like a 90-year-old woman ever since. You have not witnessed pure physical comedy until you have seen me try to lower myself onto the toilet (or rise from it) these past two days. No amount of potassium can save me now; there aren't enough bananas in the world. My legs are lost to me.

On Sunday, the gym rep who signed me up called my parents (I was added onto their family plan) to express their condolences at having raised a total pussy, and offered to give me another session free of charge to make up for it.

And just as soon as I can walk again without looking like someone removed my legs, filled them with Jell-O and reattached them (backwards), I'm marching right in there to tell them where they can shove their lunges. Right up their perfectly toned asses.

(I dedicate this entry to Carrie, who has witnessed firsthand my physical inability to exercise (the 1/8-mile marathon, my 15-minute circuit training) over the years and who came up with the title. How I miss our post-workout skinnies and corndogs.)