LOOK!!

i have a new website!

my blog will now be located at www.namegameblog.com

it's totally pretty and classy.
i'm still in the midst of the transfer, but if you continue to post comments here, i think that they will continue to be perpetually floating in cyberspace. because they've certainly disappeared.

thanks for reading!
see you over there.

movin' on up

i'm working on my new site!

there are still lots of little things i need to take care of, but if you want to check it out, cruise on over to namegameblog

i'll let you know when it's official.

sooooo exciting.

a long post about my weekend as a yuppie

i'm about to tell you that i went on a day trip to a little island off the coast of Connecticut. well, it's really part of New York, but whatever. but before i tell you this story, you must know that taking day trips on an airplane to ritzy islands does not make me a yuppie. i assure you. in fact, the details of my story will likely reassure you if you don't believe me.

so, yes. my friend Jon can fly planes so he invited me to see Fisher's Island with him. i was totally nervous about being in one of those little tiny planes (even smaller than the ones you may affectionately refer to as "puddle jumpers"), but it was a trip to the beach--on an island--and we were flying there. of course i'm coming!



while he flew, i took up some light reading.



once we landed, i took loads of pictures, but pictures can be boring unless they have people in them. so, my story is going to be about the people we encountered on this ritzy island. the island that has only two (i'm not exaggerating) fucking public restrooms from end to end. that's 7 miles.

in fact, the absence of restrooms was certain to be my demise as we walked to the "town" from the airport--whose bathrooms were unfortunately out of commission. there was even a sign directing me around back with cruel lack of compassion.

when we got to town, an area of the island that was host to the place's only cafe, i was met with more of the same. "No public restrooms! Sorry!" yeah, sorry my ass. whatever, i was hardcore, right? we went inside and got something to drink. regardless of my bladder situation, i was thirsty. we had been walking in the heat on an island in the sun. replenishing our liquids was essential. so, i ordered an iced coffee.

we grab our drinks from the foreign girls working the counter and sit outside to rest up before our long hike back. this is where i met the first group of people of this little story. there were about four or five of them and they were all dressed head-to-toe from J Crew's mid-summer catalogue. seersucker shorts with purple polo shirts and dragonfly flip-flops. or the summer-weight capris with the oxford style shell and ballet flats. at first i commended their style. but then i heard them speak. having sat outside in the midst of their conversation, Jon and I only heard the punchline.

"the strongest force in the world is COMPOUND INTEREST!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! she said COMPOUND INTEREST! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"yes! it may run a CLOSE second to gravity, but that's it!"

more laughter.

ok. maybe i'm just ornery because i have had to pee for about two hours and i'm now drinking more coffee to test fate, but i could not find a single way for that dialogue to be amusing. i even spent a few moments thinking of the way the joke could have began. was someone hospitalized with compound interest vertigo? had their crony recently been urged to marry based on this threat of compound interest? was their plane delayed en route to Fiji because of the strong compound interest stream?

it didn't make sense. this was not funny and these people were some rare island species that i had been certain only existed in comedy sitcoms.



after snapping their photo, the one in the purple asked me (i'm sure with condesention) if i'd like him to take Jon and I's picture. "oh, no thanks." i'll just put you on the internet and make fun of you instead.

we walked over to the post office to see if they had a restroom. the lady smiled and said that there were only two on the island. one at the yacht club and one at the ferry. i wanted to burst in and proclaim i'd simply use hers, but she was old and nice, so i just said "ok", smiled weakly, and started back toward the airport hoping to find the ferry.

well, we did find the ferry and i peed. and i took more pictures and saw a jelly fish and made fun of the island people some more when i came across the fifth one of these signs:



now it was beach time. ahhhh.

we went to the beach and i took craploads of pictures of the water and pretty rocks that looked like sunbathing seals. then a little doggie came to visit us. Jon went off to find some revolutionary war bunkers he'd read about and i trekked down the beach with my new friend, the dog.

the dog sniffed out the few sunbathers as we walked, and one couple were not happy with the doggie's visit. in fact, the man of the couple rolled up his magazine and tried to hit the dog! so i took their picture:



please make fun of the fat man to yourselves.

i found some smelly things and took more pictures and then met back up with Jon, who claimed to have stumbled upon the lady from the postoffice--sunbathing topless. so, i promptly put my shoes back on and off we went to find her.

sure enough, i saw her postoffice vehicle parked at the edge of the island.



while Jon described her rockin bod, i reminded him that she was at least forty years old. then i told him that he should have asked her for her digits. apparently Jon has yet to master the art of aking topless women for their phone number. instead, i took some tasteful photos of her--for his sake, of course.

i'm sure the other people, including the fishermen and boaters, had prime viewing real estate. but i'd had enough, so we marched back to our spot near the dog.

i read Jon the Jennifer Anniston interview from Vanity Fair, and we packed up our stuff and headed back home.

on our tiny-ass airplane. (and YES! they do have keys!)

thanks, but no thanks

well, my kiddly-winks.

it's poll day once again.

i must say that i'm a bit disappointed in the results of last week's poll. too many think i have a "pretty face" and that i should model it, along with my fat body. also, the differential between about 4 or 5 of the other options was just too close for me to listen to you. it's like that polling-the-audience option on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, but when basically the crowd is full of morons.



thanks anyway.

be sure to vote in this week's election. let's get serious, folks.

lay off the sweets

once again inspired, but this time by alex blagg over at blaggblogg. after reading his piss-your-pants post, come back over here so i can lead your laughter cool down with my additional thoughts on Starbucks.

the other day i was in the Barnes & Noble Starbuck's Cafe. i was sipping my small vanilla latte and eating my sugar shortbread cookie, my greasy fingers probably lubricating the pages of the magazine i certainly wouldn't be buying.

little did i know that, moments later, i would be pondering one of modern society's greatest mysteries.

while i was sitting in the corner, i peered up to spot a somewhat attractive boy placing his order at the counter. i quickly tried to slide my cookie out of sight, because we all know that such a quick move takes pounds off your figure--sometimes even moving the weight to your breasts.

i adjusted my glasses and kept a coy eye on his place in line. nice clothes. decent figure. stylish hair. no wretched birth defects visible. things were looking good.

but then Starbucks stepped in.

my boy was ordering his beverage along with a "Double Chocolate Chunk-N-Nut Cookie, please."

sonofabitch!

Starbucks, you bitchy little wench! how on EARTH is a man supposed to retain his dignity after ordering such an atrociously-named sweet? CHUNK? no wait, DOUBLE chunk? and did he just say he wants to eat a NUT?

no one can come out of that situation looking cool. i don't care who you are. this dude may as well have been wearing high heels and carrying a bag from Louis Vuitton.

seriously. think about it. Jonny Depp ordering a Gooey Fudgy Peanut Butter Bar? *shudder*
Jude Law ordering a Sticky Bun? ick.
how about Trent Reznor or Sid Vicious asking for the Triple Moist Mocha Layer Cake? even they would look like complete assclowns.

don't think so? well, now let's call it a Kremey Karamel Krispy Kookie.


yeah, that's what i thought.

let's get logical, logical

a recent entry of justin's over at dude.man.phat. left me initially feeling virginous, and then feeling perplexed.

seriously. who makes up these things? no really. who?

for the sake of discussion, let's take the dirty sanchez. (if you don't know what it is, drop justin a line and he'll redirect your call.)

but for those who can participate, let's be adults for a moment. surely we can apply logic to an odd sexual act! of course we can.

the format of this round-table discussion will be that of me asking questions, me talking about my theories, and then you answering them. preferably with humor. or complete distaste. make sure you see the sign-in sheet. it's floating around there somewhere.

good. so, back to the ol' Dirty Sanchez.

first and foremost, is there anyone out there who has actually been one consentual half of this, um, technique? does it simply exist in porn?

maybe this is why i'm sexually deprived, but i can't see this happening in most beds, or any bed, of anyone i know, have seen, or could imagine. if one even wanted to try such a thing with their lover, how is the topic approached? do you take her out for some Mexican food first to allow for a little transition? are there instruction manuals? i'm sure that some kind of poorly judged move could lead to some painful bruising, at the very least. i think the horrors of having to explain your predicament to the ER nurse would be deterrent enough. heh. i wonder if Richard Gere has tried this out...

also, do such conceived activities exist for those who need such fetishes? if so, must there be a corresponding act for each weird thing? one maybe where the man is strangled with the strap of an espidrille before the woman finishes him off? it doesn't always have to be the female being exposed to the vile parts of such fantasies, i'm sure. because that would just be sexist. and i don't have to take that.

and lastly, let's talk about the fact that these techniques are all named by what was either an immature email-forwarder or a pornstar producer seeking to increase it's popularity with thehungry, mexican, or youthful viewer market.

actually, let's not talk about that.

in fact, this meeting is adjourned.

let's never speak of this again.

i don't look like lisa loeb: my proof in 5 steps

i know i'm hot. let's just get that out of the way.

this post is in no way to be construed as an attempt to recieve praises and compliments from strangers. in fact, i hate compliments. unless they are coming from myself. (see first sentence.)

now, having established my hoTTT factor, i do have to carry around a specific burden throughout my everyday life. in fact, you just may be experiencing the same burden if you meet the following criteria:

1. you wear plastic-framed glasses.
2. you are a female.
3. you have brownish hair.

i would wager a large amount of money, drugs, or sexual favors that if you, in fact, satisfy those three prerequisites, you have likely encountered my grief.

"You know who you look like?! You look like LISA LOEB!"

now, this, in and of itself, does not have to be an insult. in fact, Lisa Loeb is quite striking (or so i've been told by several men). my problem does not lie with being compared to a somewhat attractive pop-folk-bubblegum singer/songwriter that will forever launch the lyrics youuuu saayyyy into my head at her very metion.

my problem is that i actually look nothing like this woman. don't believe me? please refer to diagram #1:


Diagram #1: Kristine



please note the following marked points:
A. smile/mouth
B. nose
C. forehead
D. glasses
E. chin

Diagram #2: Lisa



again, note the same marked points:
A. smile/mouth
B. nose
C. forehead
D. glasses
E. chin

in the spirit of simplicity, we'll go in alphabetical order.

A--notice how my mouth curves slightly upward when smiling. now notice how lisa is more of a straight-smiler. we also have different teeth. apparently she was privileged enough to experience an orthodontist's office as a child.

B--again, lisa's nose is somehwhat wider than mine. in fact, mine is down-right beak-like in comparison! one would be clearly blind to suggest they are in any way similar! perposterous!

C--now, this section is difficult because lisa has bangs and i do not. however, i would wager that behind those wispy strands is the home of a much smaller forehead, unlike my expansive one.

D--THE GLASSES. now, this is where people tend to reassure me that i do, in fact, look like lisa loeb. "but you have the glasses!" well, my friend, as you can see here, our glasses are quite different. so, you're wrong. you have a poor visual memory and you should rely on other cognitive devices to recall important information.

E--this is probably the most subtle of our differences, but it does round off the inequity. lisa's chin is slightly more square, whereas mine is a bit more rounded. it's true! take a closer look! see?

so, there we have it. i actually don't look like lisa loeb. so please stop suggesting that i do. it's only making you appear very dumb.

in fact, according to a very scientific celebrity-look-alike computer software, i look more similar to the likes of Anna Kornikova, Amelia Vega, and Sophie Marceau

my sad place: the county fair

i'm about to make a strange request of all of you, but bear (bare?) with me.

there are people of the world that will tell you, in jest, to think of your "happy place." this typically occurs when the two of you are having a conversation. you are annoyed with something to a degree that is entirely socially and psychologically acceptable, when your friend takes the opportunity to make you feel foolish by suggesting you're completely off your rocker. the only way to put you back on your rocker is for you to imagine your "happy place." likely some secluded beach on a tropical island with lots of sunshine and shade and barely dressed men that are holding palms to fan you as you sip on a tropical drink and soak in the sea air....

but i digress.

my request is for you to push all these happy thoughts aside for a moment and think of your "sad place."

that's right. go ahead.

...

...

what have you got?

maybe that time that your pet parakeet was feet-up at the bottom of the cage?
the day you didn't make the JV cut for the basketball team?
when Sam dumped you for that other chick/guy who was SO not fucking hot?

ok. all excellent sad places.

you want to know what i've got?

i've got the county fair.

the county fair, almost universally across this great nation, has got to be one of the most depressing places. having attended one the other night for my summer job, i realized that county fairs indeed make me sad.

where else can you witness a morbidly obese woman wearing spandex and selling deep-fried twinkies for $5?
or how about the booth operator who will flirt with every member of the family, including the infant you're pushing in a stroller, or the dog you've brought along to aid your feeble grandpa, in an effort to get you over and pop some balloons with a dull dart?
where else is it expected that parents will lose their children--guaranteed!--that there is a booth established for reclaiming such ill-babysat toddlers? toddlers who are then turned over to the awful parents without so much as a warning or repremand for ever breeding in the first place?
where else do you see people dumb enough to still be intrigued by the lady with a snake's body? where else can you find people on this planet who are willing to part with their own money to witness something that , if you've managed to complete at least a 5th grade level of education, is irrefutably a poorly-masked con?
where else do you see old men trying to sell some cookware or garden hose to a group of equally old-ish county fair attendees with more vigor and passion than can be found on most daytime soap operas?
where else to you find individuals, again paying money, to get on a ride that is visibly rusted and rickety, tossing all care to the wind, to completely trust some greasy-haired toothless freak that they won't be hurled into the sky when that cable finally breaks?
where else is it ultimately clear that America has, indeed, jumped the fucking shark?

only at the county fair--a place that is still envisioned as a time for family fun and excitement.

and that makes me incredibly sad.

who is the hottt-est of them all?

and the winner iiiisssss....


...TDDLLDLTTTLTLLDLDDLTTLD...(that's a drumroll)




PAULY D!



(sorry guys. next time i'll hook it up so these bigheads can't vote more than once.)

second place goes to BILVOX!



and last, BUT HOTTEST, is my fucking cute-ass mutt, ANGIE! (she doesn't have a website, folks. she's a goddamn DOG.)



and Paul, you know i love you, but your GRAND PRIZE has become null and void because you broke a TRIPLE-DOG DARE.

so, now, we're just even.

LOOK AT THIS WEEK'S FUN NEW POLL!!

(and if you actually vote for me to take on the world of plus-size models, just know that i'm a good stalker. OH, and for the "smart" people, the last vote option is like a write-in ballot. to chose this option, you have to WRITE IN your suggestion.)

ok, GO.