My Latest Obsession

Is not, as rumour has it, Twitter but learning how to spin a pen or pencil around in my hand. You can see just how intricate it is, in this pen spinning tutorial below.

(They have a tutorial for everything on Youtube. It rocks!)



...are you intrigued enough to try?

Let me counsel you to put on a pair of glasses, a thick coat, and for God's sake, do not wear flip-flops. Also, get rid of any pets unless you don't mind blinding them either.

LOL Theory (Why Am I Always The Last To Know)

Have you ever heard of the LOL Theory? I only just came across it, and I confess, I have been laughing my head off since.

LOL Theory is explained as "the internet abbreviation lol being placed at any part in any sentence, making said sentence lose all credibilty and seriousness."

ex 1
Doctor: We need to operate on your colon lol, you have cancer.

ex 2
Jesus: Take this all of you and eat it, it is my body, lol.

ex 3
Juliet: Romeo Romeo lol wherefore art thou Romeo?

ex 4
Marx: Workers of the world lol!

ex 5
Abe Lincoln: Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth lol on this continent.

Oh God, tears are pouring down my face as I type; my mind trying to find the most pompous sentence to carve up with 'lulz'. I suspect it appeals to the (irreverential) silliness of British humour.

It is almost as good as when Ruth Anne Adams revealed the secret of adding the word "in bed" to any fortune cookie saying.

"You will find a bushel of money [in bed]"

LOL.



IN THE COMMENTS: Blake just provided me with more endless hours of LOLing.

The "in bed" thing is so old, it's inverted. Now you say, "except in bed."

"You will have a great adventure, except in bed."

Meanwhile, Ron comes up with an amazing idea.

Maybe Vic's version of this phrase could be "with Sarah Palin."

Something like...

"Smiling makes you look younger [with Sarah Palin]"

Or this "real" one.

"May you someday be carbon neutral [with Sarah Palin]"

HAH!

Rosetta Stoned

Poor old Michael Phelps. Not only has he totally let himself go (noes!), but he was recently outed as a stoner by a South Carolinian snitch who sold the photo to that guttersnipe tabloid, News of the World.



When I was a wee girlie, about 12 or so, I got it into my head that I wanted a huqqah collection.

I even dragged one back from a trip to Turkey, where my mother had performed one of her magic haggling acts at the famous Istanbul souk, to buy me a beauty in blue glass for just a few dollars. You can imagine the sight of a pre-teen girl lugging a bong from an airplane, alongside her two glamourous parents. Try that in post-9/11 airports.

In time, I think I had about 8 of them, which I lined up in my very big girlhood bedroom, next to the princess four poster bed, decked out in Hello Kitty pillows and Pratesi sheets. I had a nightlight which I turned on before sleeping, and I loved to look at the sparkly reflections they cast all over the walls, reds, greens, blues, ambers -- a carousel of iridescence.

I loved those huqqahs, which sadly I lost sight of in my many moves.

The thing of it is, like many many people in this world (far more than popular society would have you believe), I have never actually done any drugs in my life -- including that charming gateway drug, Mary Jane.

Mind you, I probably qualify as a second-hand smoker, like that first snowboarding gold medalist sheepishly claimed once, so I'm leaving myself that out.

But no, in real terms, your humble Sundries blogger is a weed-toking virgin.

This is why Phelps' photo above leaves me completely untouched with either outrage, or approbium. I look at it like others would a vintage car rally. Potentially full of fun, just not my scene.

So I went in search of bong photos which raised more emotion in me, than a gentle shrug of the shoulders. I think I found some beauts!

Let me walk them through with you.



It's the second glance that kills, because the first has you mesmerised. The contrasting textures: that dark wood, the whiteness of the sweeping calf, the matching seafoam green everywhere else just makes this photo leap out at you.

Then you notice her footsie ring (sooo Goa 1996), the pseudo-hippie paint on her feet, not to mention those hip-hugging Pucci pants, just before you ugh loudly at the blue Bic resting on her boob. I mean, at least get a Ronson.



This is what I imagine Claud Rains would look like if the Invisible Man were a stoner.



You know what I hate most about bong photos? That most of the people in these photographs are surely no strangers to the activity -- but almost without exception, they and the people around them look like they're seeing one of the great wonders of all time, for the very first frikkin' time. That look of delight mixed with amazement and near reverence should really only be given when beholding the Sphinx, or a child's smile.

Sillies.

Also, that gal's bra strap is showing. THUNDEROUS DISAPPROVAL.



This is either that girl's father, dragging the embarrassed Chloë Sevigny wannabe for a hit of the bong alongside dear old dad, or one of those school counsellors we all had in high school, who wanted nothing more than to hang around with the kids to show how cool and with-it he was.

And yes, I did take note of the Dolphins hat. Go Fish...



Sorry. I got nothing. It's just a crazily hair-dyed Oregon girl inside a messy kitchen, toking on a bong. You've seen one, you've seen the entire Pacific Northwest.

Anyway, I'm much more interested in her espresso maker in the back. Paging Chickenlittle!



No, it's not Nana McCain. I checked.



I Dream of Jeannie with the long bong hit.

She looks like she's in some kind of trance [edit: oh yeah, it's called "getting high"], and I actually love this photo because it only shows you half of her face. If she were about 20 lbs chubbier, we could assign her Odalisque status, minus the hovering black Sudanese mammy, and the bleeding dove, obviously.

Also, me like the colour of her duvet, though I am saddened to see no hint of Hello Kitty anywhere.



Stop the presses!! This is THE BONG PIC to end all bong pics. There is just so much there.

Okay, I'll go first. Impressed that he has a photo on his wall of Al Capone, and not the requisite one of Che Guevara. But that's about it as far as thumbs uppage goes.

If it's not the boom box with the Jack In The Box antenna fob (don't let Jack die!), it's the Schlitz bottle shading the root beer next to it, not to mention the tawdry awfulness of his graffiti-laden couch. You gotta know they must practise their drawings on it first.

Poor guy, he must live in a studio apartment with at least two other guys who think taking another bong hit will make the rat nest sounds go away.

...there but for the grace of God goes Michael Phelps though. He looks bloody awful in that photo above.

Message to Mike: When you start looking like Ben Roethlisberger even without the bong, it's time to sort yourself out, mate.

Emmenez-Moi

Forget the lizard lounge jacket, ignore the excessively French bad-boy stance, and the fluttering gestures. Just listen.

Why don't we have talent like Charles Aznavour anymore? Where did this kind of talent GO TO? Sigh.



I regret not catching him in concert a few years ago, at the Jackie Gleason, just a few blocks away from where I live. At least I saw Frankie...

Related

Dear P!nk

Out Of The Blue Giggle

Still looking for a Haitian bumper sticker I came across once, but no joy so far. I did find this at a Haitian Opinion forum (jokes category). Made me laugh. We all need a laugh.

Fifty-one years ago, Herman James, a North Carolina mountain man, was drafted by the Army.

On his first day in basic training, the Army issued him a comb. That afternoon the Army barber sheared off all his hair.

On his second day, the Army issued Herman a toothbrush. That afternoon the Army dentist yanked seven of his teeth.

On the third day, the Army issued him a jock strap. The Army has been looking for Herman for 51 years.

How Tall Is Palin?

Wait, so okay. How tall is Sarah Palin?

I've actually stood next to Henry Kissinger, seen here at the Republican National Convention, conversing with Governor Palin. He was only slightly taller than I was, and I'm slightly above average for a woman.

But she seems to be towering over him in this photo.

Now, according to IMBD and other sites, Senator John McCain tops the height charts at 5'7". It's not unusual for a pilot to be smaller than your average male. Not sure if you know this, but almost all pilots are on the small side. The tallest Mercury 7 astronaut was 5'11. The average was 5'7.

I've poured over many photos like this one of the two Republican nominees standing side-by-side.



From the photos, I'd have put Sarah Palin at a generous 5'5 or even 5'4.

Her hairdresser recently said that she wears her hair in a bun to give herself an illusion of height, perhaps a holdover from her basketball playing days.

Given her penchant for wearing 3.5" Naughty Monkey heels, and court shoes, perhaps we could assign 5'8", as her shod height.

Just a curiosity, but it would be interesting if anyone has the correct info. Maybe a High School yearbook entry?

ADDED: Some more comparison shots. The first shows Cindy McCain (who is a tall woman) next to her two sons, Jimmy and Jack, who inherited their fathers' shorter genes.



Then Senators McCain and Obama greeting each other. Senator Obama stands at a very lanky 6'3, and though it's noticeable, I would've imagined the difference would've been more pronounced.

Given all this info, I conclude that Senator McCain's height is incorrectly listed. He must be closer to 5'8-5'9.

Things I Like About Palin

...I like how she didn't buy a new black dress for her Dayton presentation.

...I like how she speaks extemporaneously without teleprompter, or looks like she does.

...I like her long, elongated Midwestern vowels, especially when she says "still" for steel.

...I like that her childhood nickname was barracuda. So was mine.

...I like that she's from Alaska, and Obama is from Hawaii, the two last States in the Union.

...I like the way her husband looks proud as all get out of her.

...I like that she and her dad used to hunt moose when she was a kid.

...I like how she prefers to be referred to as a commercial fisherman, and not Beauty Pageant queen.

...I like that no one in Washington knows what to do with her.

...I like how she drives liberals crazy.

...I like how McCain made me feel when he picked her, after crying on Thursday night.

...I like her son Track serving in Iraq. God bless him.

And, I confess.

...I like that she's a woman.

What Were They Thinking

How in God's name does one go out in the street dressed not realising how badly one looks? Especially regarding that most womanly of traits -- the cleavage.

Take Rumer Willis (Henny Youngman pause), please.



Someone is going to win the Nobel Prize in genetics when they figure out how a reasonably good-looking man like Bruce Willis and Sundries woman crush (it's the voice, rrrr), Demi Moore, produced this lass.

(Anyone know where Jay Leno was when Rumer was conceived?)

Yes, looks can be improved, thankfully even mine, but I tell you I would never go out dressed like she is. She looks like the Gloucester Fisherman.

Where we can forgive Rumer for a youthful emo indiscretion, what can one say about Lauren Bacall?

Bogey's widow and Loehmann's spokesperson is hardly new to the red carpet do's and don'ts, and her look below should have her banned from it for life.

Ouch, eek. My God.



Yes, I have Mikimoto pearls I want to show off too, but I also have a sense of appropriateness. When I hit 70, the boobage, unless absolutely perky, will be covered. 80+ and they won't see the light of day.

(Anyone know where Kathleen Turner was when Bacall was conceived?)

Yurts And Frescas

Would you consider being no more than 15-feet from your spouse, all the time?

A couple who live in a yurt in Arizona, do it out of Buddhist conviction.



But this journalist duo did it as a stunt. Watch the 8 minute piece, and get back to me with your thoughts.



Would you and your spouse do it? What did you gleen about their relationship, however briefly it was presented? I'll share my views in the comments section, so as not to tip my hand.

P.S.: No. I had no idea what a yurt was either -- but I knew it sounded uncomfortable. Definitely won't be checking into the Yurt Motel 8 anytime soon.

Colour Me Blue

As a born writer, I have a natural eye for detail. It can actually be a little overwhelming, as details are often trivial in nature -- and therefore, exasperating to most people.

Take for example, the fact that I've noticed President George W. Bush has a go-to colour for important events.

If someone were to tell us its his talisman, I wouldn't at all be surprised. You know how superstitious baseball players and fans can be; I know I am (one day, I'll show you my 1997 World Series Florida Marlins t-shirt. I look like a hobo wearing it, it's so ripped).

But the guy has a thing for blue ties for the most important occasions of his Presidency. It's uncanny.

Here he is at his first inauguration, on 20 January, 2001.



Two years later, during the 2003 State of the Union, the now famous "Axis of Evil" speech, another strong coloured blue tie made its appearance.



For his other inauguration, on 20 January, 2005, a slightly paler blue tie with black speckles was on show.



And though this is the best photo I could take of the event, that very same tie graced his neck for his last State of the Union speech, just this year.



I just knew then, that when his daughter Jenna got married this weekend to Henry Hager, that we'd see a repeat of the pattern.

After all, something borrowed, something blue, right?



But I do believe the President finally succumbed and bought a spanking new satin silver tie for his little girl's wedding.

Good show. Doing his bit by infusing money into the sluggish economy.

Here's wishing the President's daughter, her new husband, and the President's new tie, well.

(Really)

More Photos Here:

Hello Delaware!

I think Sundries has a new fan. From my Site Metre stats:

- Time of Visit

Mar 4 2007 11:46:37 pm

- Last Page View

Mar 5 2007 1:57:41 am

- Visit Length

2 hours 11 minutes 4 seconds

- Page Views

29

- Visitor's Time Mar 4 2007 11:46:37 pm
- Visit Number 100,746

(Thanks to Andrew Sullivan linking to my mobile sperm bank post, I was able to crack the 100,000th visitor mark on Site Metre, much quicker than usual)

Blimey. 2 hours and counting. 29 pages, whew.

Still, thanks, Rehoboth Beach, Delaware visitor! Hope your visit was pleasurable.

The Answer!

To the mystery post below, Guess What This Is Pt 3. See, that wasn't so hard?

Guess What This Is Pt. 3

What it is?!

The last time I posted something similar, everyone guessed immediately what it was. I have rather the same sensation, will be the case now -- but oh, well.

At least it is vaguely dark and sinister.

Like the photo, in Part 1.

Ya Digg

You might have noticed that I have taken away my recent "Digg" add-on, before the week was out.

It just wasn't working with Blogger, since I believe I would have to switch to New Blogger's more updated templates which use JSON, to have it work properly (maybe, I'm not sure even then).

I have kept the Digg newsfeed to the right of my Sundries sidebar, though, just to keep abreast of the more popular stories out there, which sometimes escape my attention.

Like this story, about the poshest gas station in Los Angeles.

By the way. --

Since when do Americans drop the word "posh" just like that? It sounds affected when not followed by "petrol station".

And yes, I know, it's probably to do with Victoria Beckham's David now being an LA Galactico. Cool Britannia has hit Rodeo Drive.





Good. Better. Best.

There, finally, someone had the audacity to call a spade a spade, instead of "Regular. Premium. Super Premium", which sounds too PC for words.

Reminds me of that godawful, but still rather enjoyable film with Tom Arnold called "Soul Plane" -- a black-run airlines featuring different classes of seating available.

High Class, where the cool white people are at. Business Class, with flight attendant strippers. And of course, Low Class.

...with bus hang-straps and a profusion of do-rags.

You get what you pay for!