I saw this today on Traces of Texas, and it was too cool not to share.
Trail Driver 1939
Category: Culture
That Really Chaps My Hide
I’m not mincing words today. If you have dropped your phone in a toilet, you are a dolt.
Times I have taken a phone into a public bathroom: ZERO
Why are any of you doing this? Who feels compelled to chat whilst voiding? (Don’t you hate that term when the doctor asks how often you void? Yeesh.) Women, aren’t your phones in your purse? Men, perhaps your phone is too big if it’s falling out of your small pockets. It’s not that smart if it keeps diving into a toilet bowl, is it?
Times I have dropped said phone in a toilet: ZERO
ZERO! Don’t get me wrong; I love multi-tasking, but this is not the time for it. Slow down, peeps. Don’t tinkle and text.
The truth is numbers one and two have really been getting some screen time lately in this country. I don’t think the nation has been so excited about elimination since Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo.
I don’t need to “enjoy the go.” I get in and get out. I have never taken reading material into a bathroom to spend time in there. Many folks have. More power to you. Maybe that’s really enjoying the go. I enjoy getting out. And by the way, I don’t need a cheeky British woman to talk to me about my bum. I don’t need an intervention to discuss the Cottonelle Care Routine.
But I do need a decent roll of tissue because dammit, this is America. Public restrooms are the worst. I realize they have to keep costs down, but don’t they realize if they only offer one-ply (I usually refer to it as “half-ply”) tissue, we’re just going to spend twice as long, spinning/yanking/tugging it down in three inch increments, like a nipped-out cat–until it falls to the floor like a cascading waterfall. I know you’ve heard people in adjacent stalls, struggling to liberate the paper from its receptacle. It sounds like the dryer when he-who-shall-not-be-named leaves his Leatherman in his blue jeans pockets. Don’t they realize less than a foot can take of care of business if it’s a decent quality tissue?
Perhaps you’ve heard about the conditions in Sochi. Evidently, some journalists found signs in their bathrooms saying: “Please do not flush toilet paper down the toilet! Put it in the bin provided.” No no no no! The toilet is a receptacle for waste. That includes paper. If your poo can go down it, so can paper. If not, you need to get another toilet. Because that is the toilet’s job. It takes the bad things away.
If you are a lady, you have no doubt squeezed into a public bathroom stall and no sooner hung your purse up on the hook (if there is a hook, God willing), when a sign screams at you, “No feminine products in the toilet!” And then an apologetic thesis paper follows on their pathetic septic system. Sorry, no dice. Items once in the body do NOT need to accumulate in tin bins or trash cans. That is nasty. N-A-S-T-Y. Public restrooms are a festering cesspool enough without the stench of rotting deer carcass hitting you in the face when all you wanted was to wash the gasoline off your hands. I am not down with septic tanks, people. Get with the city sewer system. Now that’s alliteration!
So why am I on my soapbox about this? Glad you asked. Well, last week I purchased a package of Charmin, and when I got it home and put it the RIGHT way (with the tissue OVER instead of under), I realized it was a transparent, scratchy Third World excuse for tissue. We subsequently checked all the rolls, and they were all like that. I made a call to Proctor & Gamble tout suite, as the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and my CSR sent a coupon to replace the purposefully cheapskate damaged product. So yesterday, I’m at the store, and after directing an elderly woman to the fabric softener (aisle 14), I realize I have a choice betwixt ultra-strong or ultra-soft.
I don’t know about you, but I have never in my life felt that I needed stronger tissue, that perhaps it was lacking in strength. A rough tissue is not what I need. Plush, perhaps. Not strong. And what exactly makes the difference? What do they add to one that they don’t add to the other? Why not marry the two? Sweet AND sour. Black AND tan. Why can’t it be both things? Sorry if this has been offensive, but I have to add this as yet another thing I DON’T GET.
Poetry In Motion
Oh, my goodness. This is too much for a Monday. It’s like West Side Story meets yoga meets Lionel Richie’s ballerina girl meets Mr. Roboto.
I do not like her rigid pose
I do not like her see-through clothes
I do not like her pointed feet
I really think that girl should eat
May I suggest some lean red meat?
With green eggs, it is quite a treat
Would you like them in Oklahoma?
No, I prefer them in a coma
I do not like their warrior stance
I do not like their modern dance
I do not want to have to watch
I think we should Febreze her crotch
I do not like that high slit skirt
I do not like boys’ groins that hurt
I do not like that turtleneck
I do not like it for a sec
I do not like them, Sam-I-am
I’d rather eat a can of Spam
And pour it in a cereal bowl
That precooked gelatinous pork bumhole
I do not like them here or there
I do not like them anywhere
The Year David Schwimmer Was Born
Honestly, I don’t care when he was born, but bless his heart, I doubt he’s seen his name in print in nigh on a decade, so this is just a charity shout out. And he was indeed born in 1966, which we’ll be criticizing in about a minute.
Look, it’s true the temperature has increased twenty degrees since yesterday, it’s sunny, and I even got an overpriced game of bowling in, but mercy, I’m Old Man Grumpus today! I’m off soda and wine this weekend, so all I can think to perk myself up is to mock others’ hair. So take a seat on the shallow and petty bus, and here we go.
First off, the 80s get a bad rap as the “big hair” decade, but can we talk about this structure for a sec? That is a seriously strong neck, y’all.
I know, I know: the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus. But this is a stairway to heaven, friends. This rivals even the most Florence Jean Castleberries of the world. I didn’t know you could have several SETS of bangs. Bangs upon bangs, like the cedar shingles on the treehouse built on last night’s Treehouse Masters, a show on Animal Planet that has absolutely nothing to do with animals, and lots to do with an attention-deficit host named Pete. Oops, I got a case of the ADD myself there. Deep breath.
Linda’s bangs are tall as well, but bleached and ratty, complimented by eyeliner that says, “Yes, I will sneak out at night to drink Boone’s with you.” You know now that I think about it, I think she’s that blonde girl in the B52’s. I’m gonna have to google that.
Now this one here is working some kind of Coalminer’s Daughter thing with the whole Loretta Lynn/Kentucky Waterfall hairdo. She’s cute as a button but that is some strange styling.
I left this person’s name purposely off because…Well, because…that’s just manners. Moving on to this fellow…
I know, right? Wow. Like the elusive jackalope or the Giant Crocostempy, this is a rare find: the male double part. And don’t argue with him. He is Who is Who, and that is that, my friends.
Enjoy this Double Creature Feature. Evidently a lot of effort was put into these looks. Hair was pulled and prodded and flipped and cursed in the name of the Almighty, but where is the joy, ladies? Suzanne looks like she’s got a switchblade behind her back, and Frances just caught a whiff of polecat cologne but she’s too polite to gossip about it.
Here is the big winner:
With black eyebrows and her post-Marilyn Monroe combover, dainty features, and slim neck, there is no denying that Connie Jo is the bee’s knees.
You know what, y’all? I feel a ton better now. I really do. I just needed to get that out of my system.
Can I Get A Carry-Out?
I call this one the poor man’s “Donald” shot, since it reminds me of the street photography he takes.
One Week And Counting
One More For The Road
It doesn’t seem like it’s been 22 years since I watched Bette Midler sing adieu to Johnny Carson. It still chokes me up each time. Carson was 66 years old then, and appeared very much an old man to me. Leno is only three years younger than that, and yet seems much younger, still on his A game, going out on top–not that it was his choice to make. It doesn’t make sense to leave us wanting more, but it’s better than waiting for the show to jump the shark.
Jay Leno was 42 (just three years older than Jimmy Fallon will be when he takes the reigns) when he began hosting The Tonight Show. His first show included Billy Crystal, who will be on tonight as well, bringing some levity to the show. I imagine Garth Brooks will later bring a tear to our eyes, as Midler did on Carson’s farewell show.
After the stresses of the day, I look forward to watching Leno’s jovial monologue, to hearing timely jokes that are relevant today, in this moment. I don’t DVR or TIVO or record any shows; I enjoy the feeling of experiencing them in the now. That’s why I enjoy late night television. I like to feel a part of what is happening now. Not yesterday. Not a week ago. I don’t Netflix, I don’t watch entire seasons of shows back-to-back. I am a fan of real time.
I like Leno. I like his kindness, his joy, the way he respects his guests. And no matter what the media wants us to believe, these past few weeks of celebrity testimony to his kindness reveals more than any rag mag headline. I’ll take him any day to Letterman, who may not be the grumpy old man he once once, but still seems confused and less than alert half of the time.
Speaking of relics, did you catch Mickey Rooney in the Leno audience last night? He’s 93 years old, folks. Wow.
Anyway, I’m sure Leno will find a way to spend his free time; on one hobby in particular.
Yep, the omnipresent denim. Evidently, it’s a not a recent predilection. He’s liked denim for years.
Yes, it’s the end of another Tonight Show era. People will cite the Hugh Grant episode as the go-to nostalgia moment, in the way that they always cite the Drew Barrymore episode on Letterman, flashing her pre-pregnancy boobs. But I remember watching the drunken cast of Cheers after their final show. Now that was a memorable night.
So goodbye to Headlines, to Jaywalking, to those awesome convenience store magician skits, to the witty lady in the photo booth, to every visit by animal expert Jarod Miller and his endless stream of animals, none of which ever frightened or intimidated Leno. (I like you, Fallon, but mercy, you are a wuss when it comes to animals…) I can’t count how many times I’ve watched Leno stroke a baby tiger or lion into submission.
Tonight we say farewell to the grace and charm of an unforgettable host. Best of luck in your new endeavors, Mr. Leno. And thanks for all the laughs.
I Still Hear Your Seawaves Crashing
Pastel-painted condos in coastal towns make for some solace when the winter sky is overcast and the weather is dreary. Galveston is no exception.
You can rent a beach house, condo, or hotel room for your stay. Some are swanky and grand, like this one.
But I imagine the bedspread is still unwashed, and the sheets are covered with pubic hair and glitter, as I have found in even the most expensive of hotels. Which is why I HATE hotels. And motels? Eek. Motels are simply something you accrue in Monopoly so that you can later buy hotels. Although I guess if you are a criminal on the lam, then motels are just your style. Or perhaps this leaning tower of Victorian latticework.
Galveston is home to the Pleasure Pier, which has never been pleasurable for us, as it is only open on weekends, and we cannot afford weekend rates anywhere but our own home. Nonetheless, it is a colorful sight against the bleak backdrop of a sunless sky. (Honestly, is this what London feels like? Seattle? Lack of sunlight is a serious buzzkill.)
It is a quirky city, decorated in green, gold, and purple in anticipation of Mardi Gras.
So quirky that the dentist is housed adjacent to the Ben & Jerry’s. Take note: Ron Burgundy’s Scotchy Scotch was there.
So quirky that this home showcased a plant-haired tiki idol, lording over all of Crystal Beach.
And when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds for all of eleven minutes…
…it made for a lovely little shot of Americana.
I Still Hear Your Seawinds Blowing
I’ve been away from WordPress for several days, visiting Galveston. Yes, the very same one about which Glen Campbell sang. February is probably not the choicest month for much of anything, and visiting the coast is no exception. It was miserably cold (not Yankee minus-temperature cold), rainy, and so windy that it shook the walls of the rental condo all night long. I could easily see how being caught in a hurricane would be terrifying. We’ve visited Galveston before, but this time we were witness to much more dilapidation. Beach towns will always be in various stages of construction, as is the nature of weatherworn homes, but it was particulary disheartening to see homes that surely once knew glory, left to slowly decay.
Galveston already has a history of ghosts, but with the constant fog and drizzle surrounding Victorian-era houses, it was even more apparent.
Bright colors can’t mask the ramshackle state of this home.
Some homes were probably not much to begin with.
But among the poverty, were words of hope.
Rodney Likes What He Sees
Molecular (Not G.Q.) Models
I’d Tap That
You know, I was gonna make a crack about Justin Bieber’s dad in the pedophile mustache, but then I remembered that the Bieber is STILL A TEENAGER. Yes, he is. And Papa Bieber is barely old enough to be president. Yes, Jeremy (spoke in class today) Bieber would have been learning what sound farm animals make and how not to wet the bed when this picture was taken. So maybe it’s Bieber’s granddad. Or fun uncle. Or Drunk Uncle.
Either way, it appears they’ve drained the bottle. And nobody likes an empty bottle.
I Don't Get It 