I am screaming and punching myself

Happy (hateful) Halloween

Yeah, I said I was going to stop blogging. But, like dressing the cats, it's a hard habit to quit cold turkey. So here's a little valentine of feline hatred for your Halloween. Many happy, spooky, glucose-laden returns of the day!

I can scarcely think of a better match of costume and wearer.

Here, Mojo is supposed to be Emily's familiar in a spider costume. You can kind of see the extra legs on the side and the googly eyes atop his head. But the best part, to me, is the "why are you doing this?" look of stoic suffering on his little face.

"You too, huh?" "Yup." "They'll pay for this, won't they?" "Oh, yes."

Happy Halloween, y'all.

Slinking off into the ether

Ah, man. I'm so sorry. You guys are going to kill me. I know I just restarted blogging a few weeks ago, but I think I'm going to have to stop for good. I'd been planning to stop blogging at the end of the year, since I'll most likely be entering a part-time MBA program while holding down my full-time job. But then several events occurred in short succession that led me to think that the universe itself wants me to stop blogging right this minute.

I had planned to recap the premiere of I Love New York 2 this weekend (I actually like her this time around; I guess that's what exposure to the perma-sleaze of Bret Michaels will do to you). But then J and I spent most of our time on a massive landscape project, and honestly, after wrestling with 15-year-old monster shrubs, you don't have much creative energy left. Then I decided to blog about it last night. After taking the GMAT that morning, I was pretty sure I had shot my intellectual wad, but I was determined to get the new recap up before the second episode aired.

No such luck. I was 80% of the way through the recap when I opened another tab in my browser and suddenly, everything froze up and I lost my post in the restart. Then I was going to try again gamely this morning, but I received notification from Dailymotion that two of the four videos I uploaded had been taken down for copyright violations, and it finally occurred to me: someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something. And I think that something is "give it up, sister."

So I'd like to thank you all for giving me a second chance, and apologize for squandering it. You've been an awesome audience, and I'm grateful for all the comments and emails. Now go find a blogger who won't let you down!

Love always,
C.

9-4: Hair today, gone to--ow!

Okay, okay, I was asking for it with that line. But unlike previous weave-happy seasons, this year's crop of models lost a lot of hair in the makeover episode. Some were delighted, some not so much, but just about everybody looked better with less hair. And I think that's a vote of confidence in the actual beauty of the contestants this time around. Whether they realize it or not, most of these girls have faces that don't need any special framing to look fantastic.

Oh, and of course there's the requisite "ice-blond" makeover where the resulting hair looks like fried ass. It's almost a tradition on this show.

Reunion: Don't threaten me with a -- oh, you're not

Who could have imagined that a show that began with such a skanktacious bang would go out with -- well, nothing so melodious as a whimper; Rock of Love went out with something like the first cough of the morning from a four-pack-a-day smoker.

Hack, wheeze, horrrrrk.

9-3: Hanging by a thin thread

Sometimes a show drops all pretense of metaphor and makes the subtext the text. So it was in this week's ANTM, when the traditional "learning how to walk" episode went on ahead and put the girls in straitjackets.

See? It's crazy fun! Or... something.

Finale: Open up and say .... "diabeetis"!

The most interesting part of this whole episode, to me, wasn't that Bret picked Jes as the "winner," 'cause we all knew that anyway. It's that he pronounces the name of his medical condition the same way Wilford Brimley does. And that condition -- the diabetes, not the Brimley resemblance -- comes into play and, we are led to believe, even influences Bret's choice of Temporary Ladyfriend Who Doesn't Actually Want to Touch Him.

I know, I know, how could she not have won?!

9-2: Smoke gets all up in your grill

(My apologies for being so late with this recap. On the plus side, though, not only will it be late, it'll be short! Yeaaa!)

The first couple episodes of any season of ANTM are all about thinning out the herd, getting rid of girls who probably shouldn't have made it into the house in the first place. But even as we're weeding out what doesn't belong on the show, we're introducing all kinds of new crap that doesn't belong on this show either. Tyra, God help us all, has apparently put her social conscience on steroids. This is going to be one message-heavy season, folks.

"I know, I know, it's stupid. Just keep telling yourselves that you might get a contract for ads nobody will ever see. And you might want to take this nicotine patch. Huh? Oh... no reason."

Mission accomplished?

Well, it's taken almost a year and more than four easy steps, but Britney Spears has indeed lost custody of her children. And let's reflect on the fact that when we heard K-Fed was getting custody for the indeterminate future, we all breathed a sigh of relief, didn't we?

I know I've been profoundly lax in covering the Britney news, but there's been so much to keep up with! The VMAs, the Chris Crocker, the driving around without a license but with her kids in the car, the hit-and-run charges, the leaving the house without pants, the subpoenas and affidavits, and throughout it all, the horrible outfits, styling and accessories. It's rather impressive, when you think about it; she's managed to violate just about every standard possible: legal, ethical, parental, professional, and aesthetic.

Bionic banality

Out of curiosity, I watched the premiere of Bionic Woman last night. I love the whole concept of cyborgs; I vaguely remember how cool I thought the original was; I recognized Michelle Ryan from the surprisingly involving Jekyll on BBC America this summer. Sure, what the hell, I thought. Let's give it a shot.

Within seconds I had a whole new reason to watch: Katee Sackhoff! Starbuck! Yeaaaa, I thought, now that she won't have that whole Apollo soap opera to drag her down, she can bring that wild-eyed, smart-ass feral energy like nobody else! But even though Sackhoff isn't shackled to a turgid infidelity plot in this show, she still has to overcome a show that seems determined not to let her shine the way she can.

Catching up with the idiot box

I've checked my referral stats, and just about everyone who's been to the site in the past couple months has come from Google, where they've searched for "rock of love winner." (To the person who searched for "how long does it take to come out of a medically induced coma" -- buddy, whatever you're planning and whomever you're planning it for, don't do it.) So now that it's down to the final two, I guess I can spill the beans. Bear in mind, this is just something I've read on the Web, which means there's no guarantee whatsoever to its veracity.

I'm just relieved that Mia, Sam and Brandi M. were released from the compound unharmed.

Sundry updates, or How I spent my summer vacation

Hey!

First, let me say that I'm beyond touched at all the sweet comments left at the "taking time off" post. You guys are the best. The past few weeks have proven therapeutic and I'm ready to revisit the land of Blogostan. Thanks so much for your kindness and patience.

Okay, I tried to participate in Talk Like a Pirate Day, but I've discovered that I can't maintain an accent to save my life. I'd start off with "Arrrrrgh, th' cat's taken a dump on th' stairrrrhs!" but within two sentences, I'd migrate to a bad Scottish accent and bust out with "Ooch, Mojo, ye're staippin' in it!" Similarly, whenever I do my impression of my best friend's Mexican-American dad, it's a matter of seconds before I'm in my Father Guido Sarducci voice. On the other hand, I can do the bad Scottish and Father Guido voices indefinitely. Invite me to your next party!

J and I took our little party on the road a couple weeks ago, visiting the Eastern Shore town of Chincoteague. The town itself is charming and cute, but we totally fell in love with the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge. This national park area has everything you need for the perfect day of outdoor fun: beautifully maintained bike trails, lovely vistas of marshland and seaside, and a fantastic Atlantic beach. (It also has mosquitos. Bring spray. And don't use your teeth to unclog the sprayer if sand gets in it, the way I did. Your mouth will be foul-tasting and oddly numb, and your boyfriend will threaten to take you to the hospital.) Since it's close enough to make a day trip, we'll undoubtedly be back next summer.

Speaking of which, now that my nemesis is on the wane, it's time to venture back outside. J and I have big plans for the yard. We've hired a landscape designer to come up with a plan for our little half-acre of paradise and we're hoping to do most, if not all, of the labor ourselves. What makes this disturbing is that I'm totally into it. I had a blast helping J take down the chain-link portion of the fence last week and I am positively stoked that we're renting a post puller tomorrow. Seriously. I've got a little chant about it and everything: "It's Post Puller Day, heee-eeey!" If you had told me 10 years ago that I would one day greet the rental of garden equipment with the same delight that I greeted the boozefests of my youth, I'd probably have asked to be put out of my misery right then and there. But there's no denying it: what dodgy ecstasy was to my 20s, power tools are to my 30s. Oddly, the chance of accidental disfigurement is about the same.

On vacation/hiatus/sabbatical/medically-induced coma

I'm sorry to do this to you guys halfway through Rock of Love, but I've just got to take a break. I'll be taking the next month or so off to try to get my juju back. I've been blogging for a little over a year, and it's starting to feel like a second job, with all the fun and delight implied by that phrase. I worry that it's started to show in my writing, and as readers, you deserve better than that.

I'm not sure what I'll do after the break; I might jump back into this blog with renewed vigor. I might change the format or cut back on my posting frequency. I might see if I can join another site so I won't be the only party responsible for content. I really can't say right now, but as soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know.

Feel free to poke around in the archives or visit the awesome sites on the right-hand bar there. I hope all 12 of you are doing well and I look forward to writing for you again... when I can look forward to writing. If that makes sense. Thanks for your patronage and patience.

C.

1-4: Your mama don't dance (or sing, or write good songs)

As with the Flavor of Love franchise, the nominal "prize" of a VH1 dating show may think he's the star, but he is soon eclipsed by the women vying for him. (Only New York was able to keep the focus on her during I Love New York, and I kind of have to respect her for that, a little, tiny, begrudging bit.) This week, a couple of contestants stood out, for rather different reasons. One for her inexplicable belief in the possibility of finding love with a middle-aged dude in eyeliner and extensions, the other for her continued commitment to weirdness (tm Rich).

 

Like you didn't know who I was talking about.

Reality TV is not what it used to be

I've heard something recently that bummed me out to a surprising degree. An online buddy of mine tells me that the winner of Rock of Love was told by the producers in the first few days of filming that she was going to win, and advised to act nice so viewers would like her. Reading that made me feel like an all-day sucker, 'cause I'd already fallen for it.

I mean, come on, even Bret Michaels isn't allowed to pick his next three-week relationship?! 

Skeeve-a Las Vegas

This is the wall outside the top-flight restaurants at Mandalay Bay Resort in Las Vegas.

Yes, those are disembodied breasts, butts and torsos. (And, I just now realized, all the breasts look like implants rather than organic hooters.) I can think of no better representation of Las Vegas.