Blue Thumb

Rahlia-approved!

Oh hai thar! I was just dusting off my collection of interesting collectables. Yes, they were getting quite dusty, thank you for noticing. Of course, I don't actually have dusty collectables, but this reminds me of some oldish movie where the person is busy doing something and then turns around and says, "Oh, I didn't see you there! I was just busy drinking some tea/reading a book/plotting to murder the president! Please do come in!"

I do realize that the above is rather irrelevant, but I found it interesting. Then again, I find most things interesting. One of the numerous things I find interesting is making people read useless text to get to the crux of the matter, or in this case, the crux of da BLOG O' DOOM.

What's the crux, you may ask? WHY, MY BLUE THUMB, O' COURSE!

I've never been known for having a green thumb. My thumb is usually nice and flesh-colored, thank you very much. I just don't deal with that sort of colorful unnaturalness. UNTIL TODAY, when I had the brilliant idea of painting my thumb blue. Then again, while painting a wall in my room that shade of blue, I had MANY brilliant ideas. Among them: painting my sink blue, trying to get a blue pawprint outta my cat and calling it "Blue's clues," and the completely MANDATORY hand stamps that happen whenever there's a wall to be painted.

I mean, REALLY.







But, as everyone who has ever seen a home-decorating program knows, painting is SRS BSNS. I'm not a particularly skilled painter, and I managed to splatter paint on my carpet and my bedsheets, but I DID IT. After a while, I was really annoyed and wanted the paint to dry so I could move my bed back to its usual spot and remove the ladder from my room. But the white spots WOULD NOT LEAVE. I taught them a thing or two, however.

I SHOWED THEM SPOTS WHO IS BOSS, SON.

Final product? A lovely blue wall. And I didn't fall from the ladder ONCE.



Meanwhile, my cat hid in her homemade cloth cave. She did it to protect herself from the elements, which are fierce as the Alaskan winter (not that I've ever experienced such a thing, but WHATEVER).

Effing Ninja. DO NOT DOUBT.

Frollo's Bad Assery

This. Gives. Me. Goosebumps. Every single time I hear it.

It's dark. It's priestly. It's right up my goddamn alley.

Someone, a few months ago, told me they'd be performing Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame on Broadway. I'm telling you now, somebody better buy me a fricken ticket. If not, then I've added that Broadway production to my list of MUST SEE things in life.

I NEED TO SEE FROLLO SING THIS SHIZ LIVE. NEED TO. Like bulimic people need to vomit.



Oh Disney. I want some dark badassery. I want it bad.

Since Wednesday...

What's happened since you last chanced upon this little corner of the internet, you may wonder? Not much, 's matter o' fact. Summarization? WHY THE HELL NOT.

• I may have yelled at my father. I can't recall, nor can you make me.
• I ordered pizza. It's currently on its way to my home.
• I decided to move my bed, night-table, lamp, and paper things from the back end of my room in preparation for its MAKEOVER.
• I wrinkled my nose at liver tostadas.
  
• I watched Ratatouille. I HAD FUN WHILE DOING IT.
• I cut my hair. I now sport bangs that are already too long because the lady did NOT LISTEN TO MY WISHES/EXPLICIT DEMANDS.
• I bought paint. The color is called WIPEOUT. Let's hope I do none of that while atop the ladder of paintage...
• I became increasingly edgy about the fact that I'm not on schedule with my summer assignments. Ah, that familiar summer curse that I impose upon myself every year, putting things off when it'd be so much easier to just DO THE DAMN THING and enjoy the end of my summer without the threat of FAILURE hanging over my head!
• Read several Unfortunate Events books. I forgot how witty Mr. Snicket was; thank god I've been reminded.
• I didn't swim, but I did witness a few games of pool, crazy-ass dogs barking at each other, and a giant sunflower all dried and ready for eating. WOOPDAWOOP!

And now you know.

USA vs Mexico

That's the logo on my shirt. RESPECT.

While reading today's FUP post, I realized that the aye-aye looks kinda what I'd imagine Voldemort/Dobby/Voldemort's Soul Piece at Dead Kings Cross Station/Mandrake/The Burrow's garden gnome might look.

Though I can't make up my mind what EXACTLY it looks like, I do know that JK Rowling must of had an entire aye-aye wall in her writing quarters to use as inspiration. It just wouldn't make any sense otherwise.

ALSO: Something from Pan's Labyrinth. And maybe Star Wars. And probably Lord of the Rings.

Weird animals aside, my day has been quite the interesting thing. After much tense/excited anticipation (try the last week or so), the Mexico VS USA game was finally here. HO JESUS CHRIST. In preparation for this momentous event, me and my moms ventured into a soccer supply store to purchase USA and Mexico team shirts. Lemme tell ya, the man at the counter wasn't too happy with my choice; I could tell he questioned my upbringing.

He raised an eyebrow and muttered "My children were born here too, but they still support Mexico."

OH YEAH BUDDY? WHATEVER. YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU SPEAK.

Obviously, it would be SUICIDE to argue with this man and, since I said nothing, he eventually warmed up to us. Or maybe it was just the fact that we were purchasing two highly overpriced t-shirts and a pair of goalie gloves, thereby funding his betting pool. Whatever the reason, he was soon smiling and saying, "I support my team, I really do, through thick and thin but... well, when it comes to matters of money, I have to bet on the rival.

Jerk. At least I don't hide the fact that I support the winning team. I DECLARE IT. That's almost as traitorous OR WORSE than what I'm doing, betch.

Meh, he was still pretty cool. "I really hope we win this one. We have to go the World Cup!" He sounded truly worried about the prospect of not reaching South Africa, the NEW new frontier. Not that Mexico would win, per se, but the fact that your country got in makes you feel better than, I dunno, some other random country that didn't make it in. I mean, if Trinidad Y Tobago makes it and we don't... that's pretty effed, I ain't gonna lie.

So there I was, outfitted in my Men's Small USA official Nike soccer jersey, trying to look as soccery as possible. My mother, meanwhile, donned her long-sleeved white, red, and green one, her face dropping more and more as she realized that all the Mexican newscasters were wearing the traditional and ultimately more vibrant green. The game began, with the playing of national anthems. I sang mine in its entirety, and the few snatches I remembered from the Mexican national anthem, which is rather longer and has a better, more memorable beat as far as I'm concerned.

GAME GAME GAME. SHIZ WAS FIERCE from minute one. Not ten minutes in, we already had a goal. I was feeling good. I was stinging like a butterfly, swimming like Michael Phelps at the Beijing Olympics, and peeing like a bee. I was so nervous I was actually biting my nails, and twiddling my thumbs, and slapping my siblings across their respective visages.

Eventually we did lose, but I never truly expected us to win. The team was surrounded by a whole lot of people praising not Allah or Brahman or even Jesus Christ, but the almighty Giovanni Dos Santos, who is as saintly to Mexican soccer fanatics as the combination of TWO saints, which is obviously better than one, and obviously makes sense considering that's what his effed up last name means. Whether he made in any goals ain't the point. Gio's the fucking shit right now; I'd even go as far as to say he's the Mexican Viktor Krum.

(The point of that paragraph was to illustrate how it's really hard to win when the entire stadium is supporting the other team. I mean, look at Bulgaria vs Ireland in the Quidditch World Cup final! [Yeah, I know that was a total digression, but an important one nonetheless.])

Harry Potter references aside, I still enjoyed it. I love watching the USA team play - they play very cleanly, quite neatly, and it's seriously a joy to watch Howard, the goalie, stop the ball. He's a giant, for one, and he likes breaking up potential fights, like when one broke out when some Mexico player grabbed a fallen US player round the head for apparently no reason.

I kinda wanted to see a fight. It's ok, I'm good with it.

ALSO: Donovan. Love him. Cool guy. He's just plain cool, and it sucks that people in the stadium have to be RETARDED AS HELL and throw bottles at him. HE'S THE SHIZ, Mexico! Of all the players on the USA team, he's the one you should respect. I mean, he makes an effort to speak in Spanish at YOUR press conference and speaks it damn well, better than ME or even some of your own children.

For Costa Rica, go ahead, I don't mind, they were playin' dirty anyway.

Now my dad's rubbing it in my face. And I'm strangely ok with it. After all, it wouldn't be any fun watching the World Cup sans Mexico, even if they don't win.

The Dubious Potato

Natalia Rahlia was lounging around her bedroom, reading one of the thirteen novels that comprise the Series of Unfortunate Events. It was a lazy Sunday, the type that makes a person wish they were elsewhere, perhaps wrangling goats or feeding tigers in some faraway exotic land. Unfortunately, Natalia Rahlia was trapped in desert suburbia without even a mini-vacation in the previous months to make up for such boredom. As she read, some part of her brain worked on the issue gnawing at her conscience.

It appeared to Natalia Rahlia that she'd spent her summer doing a whole lot of nothing besides the things that were immediately urgent. Some of those immediately urgent things included summer school, emptying her backpack of all the rubbish that had accumulated in its dark and dusty depths over the course of an academic year, feeding the cat - who appeared to not have been fed since the previous August -, cleaning her shower, and buying an aluminum water bottle. Needless to say, summer assignments were handled with care as well, and Natalia Rahlia was now busy at work on her second assignment. She was not too worried; by her estimation, she could have this particular assignment completed within the span of two long weeks, and that would be if she was lazy.

But when she looked back at this summer, what would she remember? What great change had she made to benefit mankind? What mark had the heat-filled and heady months of summer left upon her living quarters?

The smell of Brazilian Carnival, certainly, courtesy of the folks at the Febreze factory. A few more inexpensive sheets of paper that were passable as decor, perhaps, and at least two new pairs of shoes.

It didn't seem like enough.

Natalia Rahlia frowned down at The Penultimate Peril, deciding that, in these penultimate weeks of summer, something must be done. Drastic measures should be taken. Things should be painted, laundered, and shaken of their cobwebs if the Earth were to continue spinning on its axis, if winter were to come, if Natalia Rahlia wanted to feel accomplished in anything besides painting her toe nails yellow.

And with that, it was decided. It was decided that Natalia Rahlia was a sort of idle dwarf and that no steps would be taken to change her status as lazy short person. She didn't even care that she was getting her kicks from taking photographs of dubious potatoes - changing things was too much effort, even if she was uncomfortable with her own status as dubious potato.

THE END.

Compay Segundo

Do you know Compay Segundo?



He's a Cuban dandy. He wore an immaculate suit every day. He smoked cigars for the majority of his life - and died of kidney failure.

About a month ago, I decided if I was ever a man, I'd like to be a dandy, just like Compay Segundo. I'd smoke myself silly and be generally AWESOME for all my years of life. That's the type of man I would be. AND NOW YOU KNOW.

While day-dreaming about being a Cuban dandy like dearest Compay, I came across an article on writing - specifically, why is it that most every athlete/rock star is allowed to gloat, boast, and have huge levels of arrogance, while writers are not?

Needless to say, I was most intrigued.

And I agree with the writer. Writer's should be allowed to gloat like billy goats over their achievements and shoot for the stars. IT'D BE FREAKIN' AWESOME. To quote the article:

So come on. Where's our literary Muhammad Ali telling us that he and Rushdie are going to get it on, cos they don't get along? Where's our Mr T yelling from the podium of the Booker stage: "I pity the fool who reads Naipaul! I pity the fool who reads Updike!" Where's Noel Gallagher's natural literary heir casually stating that they've done more for English-language fiction in the last five years than Bellow and Roth in the last 50?

YEAH. Where is some random wannabe writer somewhere stating, with obvious bravado, "The Catcher in the Rye? PUH-LEEZE. Catch-22? WHATEVER. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? DON'T EVEN TRY, BUDDY. My new novel will blow all of those out of the water. It will be the book that defines a generation, NAY, A CENTURY. It's the best thing since THE BIBLE."

I think it'd be funny, you know? Also sort of annoying, because part of what makes writers so interesting is the fact that they tend not to act like their shiz is the shiz.

Losing A Bet

Guess who got this little fucker to read a book?

THAT'S RIGHT. ME.

I know, it's astounding. My younger brother, notorious non-reader, actually reading? It's like the earth just split in half. It's like Mexico won the World Cup. It's like my hair's turned blonde. It's like pigs have flown. It's as if America has ceased to be the beautiful.

ALL THINGS THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN.

But he really is reading. I'm quite clever, see. I made a little bet, and this kid is money hungry. Remember how I said my family would do anything for money? It's obviously true. I bet $15 that he could not read HP&Sorceror'sStone and The Westing Game in the month of August. He begs to differ. And, though I'm obviously going to lose $15 (kid's actually quite determined), I'm ecstatic. Finally, I get him to read a book!

It's like Christmas. Excuse me while I go wipe the happy tears from my eyes.