It was Santarchy, I tell you!

10 Comments read Makeup

Two Saturdays ago, I convinced my friends to join me in the booze-riddled, fur-covered, red tidal wave nightmare known as Santacon. Last year, I went by myself and had a smashing time. I also had a fantastic time this year, but it suffered a little from lack of organization, and the weather also blew, which made hanging outside the bars socializing with strangers, caroling, elf-tossing, etc, less appealing. If spending all day in a velvet suit with itchy fur is uncomfortable, spending all day in a sodden velvet suit is exponentially worse. Last year as a single Santa, it was easy for me to squeeze into the bars and do my thing–when you have to find spots for 4-6 other people, it gets a little more difficult. I’m not complaining, merely explaining why we ended up breaking off from the Santa horde and forging our own path, filled with slapfights and pizza slices the size of a toddler and handsy elves and shoving plastic penguins down strangers’ pants. Emily took some funny videos, but sadly, I cannot figure how to get those from facebook to embed here.

Everyone met at the Fremont Troll, where one of the organizers reminded everyone of the Four Fucks of Santacon: Santa does not fuck with cops, Santa does not fuck with children, Santa does not fuck with security, and Santa does not fuck with Santa (unless it’s consensual). After the Four Fucks were established, everyone made their way to the first bar, the Dubliner. Already, there were far too many Santas for everyone to get inside, so we hung around outside, passing out gifts, receiving condoms and pornography and swigs from random flasks and party invitations and clove cigarette drags and awkward kisses, all while dancing to such fine tunes as “Baby Got Back” by the inimitable Sir Mix-a-Lot.

 

Here comes a santa, there goes a santa, yet another santa

Early Cthulhumas

32 Comments read Movies, Reviews

Last week Wednesday, Jason and I celebrated Cthulhumas early, as he was flying to visit his family for the holidays. We did it up in proper style–I took him out to dinner, he took me out for drinks, and then we went home, opened gifts, and watched Sharktopus, because my man knows what I like. No one cried, so it wasn’t technically a holiday, but it was lovely nonetheless.

At first glance, Sharktopus appears to be about a half-shark, half octopus hybrid, which for some undiscernable reason has both whiskers on its face and bayonets on the tips of its tentacles, neither of which are found on either species in nature. Upon further reflection, I have decided that existence of Sharktopus is proof that Syfy loathes its target audience. The cancellation of Stargate Universe, the mere existence of Caprica–these things were evidence that Syfy kind of disliked the people to whom they cater, but Sharktopus is hard proof, a bayonetted-tentacle slap across the face that screams “OH GOD WE HATE YOU FUCKING NERDS SO FUCKING MUCH AND THIS IS HOW WE’RE GOING TO HURT YOU.”

Bad movies can be wonderfully fun, and given my intense love for trash culture, I enjoy a wide range of B movies, from the earnest-yet-inept to the self-aware. Sharktopus falls squarely into the self-aware category, however, the entire thing is done with a wink and a nod in a sort-of insulting way. “I bet you retards would like to see some dudes get yanked off the side of a boat while eating sandwiches. *WINK* Here ya go, assholes!” “Let’s see, I bet you shitstains would laugh if a stacked girl in a bikini found a gold coin on the beach and was so excited she started jumping up and down, jumbling her jubbly jiggly bits, and then BAM, sharktopus, all while some creepy dude watches and doesn’t help and then takes the coin she found. *WINK* There it is! We just gave you jerkoffs jackoff material for a month. By the way, the creepy dude and the pimpled teenager who shouts ‘AWESOME’ when he sees Sharktopus attack are both allegorical to what we think of you, our audience. Fucksticks.” Look, Syfy–if *I* can see what you’re really saying, it’s obvious. Maybe tone the hatred of your audience down a little? Or turn the production of your made-for-tv crapsterpieces over to someone who isn’t so bitterly resentful that he’s directing this instead of something like Black Swan that he infuses it with all of his loathing? Just a thought.

As far as the gift-giving went, Jason either genuinely liked all of the things I got for him, or he’s a far better actor than anyone in Sharktopus. I had done some snooping around on the internet and found his Amazon wishlist of two items, only one of which would make a suitable gift. He said that one was a genuine suprise, unlike the piles and piles of socks–athletic socks and support socks and squishy socks and fuzzy socks and moisture-wicking socks and god knows what other superpowers dude socks have. This is the thing about dude socks: I am used to purchasing lady socks, which are sold according to the laws of cuteness and softness–there really is no other standard that I have seen. Dude socks are all sold on the basis of performance enhancement, a concept with which I am unfamiliar in terms of socks. Arch support socks, cushion socks, odor-resistant socks, moisture-wicking socks, penis-enlarging socks, 50-yard-dash speed socks, bear-fighting socks, socks that will sneak out of the house at night and slay your enemies while you slumber peacefully…the list goes on and on. How am I supposed to know what sort of sock is the ideal sock? The World’s Greatest Sock? “To hell with it,” I muttered (truly, an embodiment of the holiday spirit), and bought some of each. Maybe we’ll need to hold some sort of sock endurance test, with graphs and charts.

He also said he’d like a t-shirt, maybe a matching t-shirt with me, which is not something I’m super-comfortable with because, hey, I’ve spent a long time building this obnoxious identity and it’s not going to go down without a fight. But I did find something that would make us both happy–the coordinating but not matching glow-in-the-dark Tron shirts at Threadless. I also got him some shower stuff that smells like apple pie, as he mentioned that apple pie is one of his favorite-ever smells–the best part about philosophy shower stuff (in my opinion) is that it smells amazing in the shower or while you’re taking a bath, but the scent doesn’t linger beyond the shower, so you don’t have to smell like apple pie or pumpkin spice muffin or gingerbread or peppermint bark or whatever for the rest of the day.

He got me a boxed copy of “Yo! Noid!” for the NES, a game (surprisingly) made by Capcom that’s essentially a big advertisement for Dominos pizza that I have a lot of nostalgia for that disappeared in the Great Game-Selling of Nineteen Ninety-Something, when my brother decided that the family NES was now his NES so he could pawn it for pennies to Funcoland and get a SNES. I’m not bitter or mad about this at all. Noooooo sir. Maybe a little. Anyhow, when I started working at Gamestop, I began to recollect these NES games, and I got my hands on most all of the titles that I remember playing as a drooling brace-faced child–pretty well all of them save “Yo! Noid!” which never showed up as a trade-in at the store. I had mentioned how bad games hold a special place in my collection and my heart to him in one of our earliest communications, and how it was missing “Yo! Noid!”…and he remembered, and it’s no longer missing.

He also got me this monstrosity:

166684_481144388939_3613372_n

Look at how huge it is compared to what I was using before (which was also a gift so I’m kind of loathe to get rid of it, though I have absolutely no idea what I’d use it for)! I hardly know what to do with so much screen real estate. Using Photoshop is going to be awesome now–no more toolbars piled upon toolbars which are piled upon yet more toolbars!

Best non-holiday ever.

Got my hurrs did

41 Comments read Uncategorized

As of yesterday, it had been a year and a half since my last haircut, and, in the immortal words of Popeye, I’d had all I can stands and I can’t stands no more! It was a million and three different lengths, the ends were scraggly and dry and gross and no amount of conditioner, savage beatings with a hot iron, or prayer could make them look presentable. It was getting to the point where I would catch my hand inching toward my head whenever I was holding scissors, and to save myself a Britney Spears moment AND to celebrate hitting a rather significant weight loss target, I found myself in the cheap-o salon next to the great wall mall, which advertised men’s haircuts for $8, women’s for $11+.

Mine ended up being $13, which was a pretty damn good deal, given that I’m pleased enough with the cut even though the stylist and I could hardly understand one another save for the interrogation about what’s wrong with me that my hair is so thin. Yes, I know. I’m fat where people want to be thin and thin where people would prefer volume. I’m a walking, talking, breathing, shitting contradiction, and no, I have NO IDEA why my hair is so thin and neither does the battery of doctors I’ve visited, but it IS an excellent way to make me cry if you’re looking for a way to get in a dig. Just tell me I’m looking a little bald and that maybe Donald Trump could give me a tip or two. I’ll cry like a bitch.

Hey look, I don’t have scraggly ends hanging off my balding head down to my saggy boobs anymore!

When I started typing this post, I realized a picture would probably come in handy to illustrate my point so, hey, bathroom-cam! I couldn’t get a nonblurry one as my body is currently riddled with so much caffeine that it’s difficult to even type. Euphoria without the unsightly track marks!

Yesterday I finished up all of my Christmas gift-wrapping–Jason and I are having our own Pre-Christmas today as he flies out tomorrow to spend the holiday with family. I am hoping he likes what I’ve picked out, but if not, we’ll take it all back and buy him his body weight in socks.

I braved the mall on Monday in order to pick out some final gifts, and while I was absolutely in the foulest of foul moods when I left work, I took it out on NO ONE (I especially strive to be extra-nice to retail staff as I know how soul-crushing this time of year can be, with angry, entitled people screaming at you because you had the audacity to sell out of the product they’d come to buy and don’t you know they’ll DIE without it?!) and was actually jollied considerably. A woman at the post office complimented my santa suit manicure (pics to come) and thought it was professionally done, which is really the best sort of compliment. An employee at one store I visited exclaimed that she could not believe how polite I was and that she wished all of her customers could be like me. That’s right. I can be polite. I know it comes into question sometimes.

Of course, just before I left the mall, an employee came rushing into the store I was in and announced “Oh god, there’s another fight going on. Security has been called but you might want to wait in here for a while.” Nice, people. Way to be quality humans, fighting at a mall. For fuck’s sake!