Kimopolis

My kind of town.

Rock Me Tonite

Posted by kimlno on October 30, 2009

Sometimes I forget just how totally awesome the ‘80s were. Then, I stumble across something that is so indicative of the decade, so radically tubular, like…so tripendicular, it just blows my mind. Fer sure. Today, I found this little gem, and it so totally rocked my world, I just had to share it with you.

I don’t know how I missed jumping on the Billy Squier bandwagon, but it was probably because I was listening to A-ha or Wang Chung instead (like, “Dance Hall Days” was a totally bitchin’ song, dude). To prove how little I knew about Billy, I thought he was Canadian. Turns out he’s from Boston. Eh, same difference. For some reason I just lumped him in with other great Canadian rock bands (there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one) like Loverboy and Triumph.

ANYthousandsofRushfanssendingmehatemail (ARE there thousands of Rush fans?), this video for “Rock Me Tonite” is probably the worst video catastrophe since “Separate Ways” by Journey. However, this was choreographed (and I use that term VERY loosely) by Kenny Ortega (of Xanadu and Dirty Dancing fame). Um, okay…if you say so. I kinda thought he was having a seizure most of the time.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

As the video begins, Billy is in bed, rolling around on his satin sheets. Ew, gag me with a spoon.

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Next, Squier puts on a shirt. This is no ordinary shirt. In fact, it’s so extraordinary, I can’t even describe it.  It’s like sleeveless, but still manages to have one piece of a sleeve…you just have to see it to believe it.

BS1

The shirt that shall not be named.

Billy gets so pumped by his own singing that he rips off his indescribable shirt a la the Incredible Hulk. Who knew he had such upper body strength? Must be from all that “guitar” stroking. (For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Squier’s musical catalog, “The Stroke” is another one of his “hits”.)

BS2

Well, that shirt's ruined.

Because he’s actually very modest, Billy busts out shirt numero dos. This was obviously his girlfriend’s top that she left on the floor the night before, because, people, I OWNED that shirt in Junior High. No lie. But, even my shirt wasn’t as GAY as Billy’s. I mean, mine wasn’t Love’s Baby Soft Pink, for crying out loud.

BS3

Billy's shirt.

Me 80s BS

My shirt.

But, wait. If you thought the pink shirt was femme, wait until he straps on his matching guitar. What kind of MAN has a pink guitar?!?

BS5

Oh, look. He added a jaunty neckerchief to his ensemble. Cute!

Okay, I’ve avoided the subject long enough. We NEED to discuss Mr. Squier’s, ahem, “dancing”. This guy make’s Elaine from Seinfeld look like Baryshnikov. I didn’t know someone could dance so poorly who wasn’t handi-capable. It’s just so BAD. Honestly, he looks like he has a severe palsy or a twitch or something. I imagine it resembles what Michael J. Fox dancing would look like (going straight to Hell). That being said, I wonder when Dancing with the Stars is going to book Billy? Or Michael, for that matter. (Hey, it couldn’t be any worse than watching Tom DeLay, okay?) Regardless, no screen capture could possibly due justice to Squier’s moves, but this one comes close.

BS Dances

Richard Simmons, is that you?

Oh, wait. I almost forgot. The band makes an appearance at the end. Oh, dear. Talk about a motley crew. Allow me to introduce…

The Keyboard Player.

BS Keyboards

I feel like he's raping me with his eyes.

The Bass Player.

BS Bassist

I think this dude did time.

The Guitar Player.

BS aha

Obviously, this guy thinks he's in A-ha.

The Drummer.

BS Drummer

I know for a fact this doofus stole his outfit from the lead singer of Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Billy Squier and his band.

Band

Are we SURE they're not Canadian?

P.S.
He DOES shave his pits!

BS Pits

This image will stay with me forever.

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It’s A Dead Man’s Party

Posted by kimlno on October 20, 2009

It’s almost Halloween, my favorite holiday of the year. Not just because everywhere you go there’s free candy, or because it’s the one night of the year you can dress like a cheap whore and nobody cares, but because it’s the best time for spooky television. Late night viewing during the month of October is a dicey decision. There might be a movie airing that will scare you so badly that the thought of turning out the light and going to bed has you frozen with fear, curled up into the fetal position on the couch, and hoping that the power doesn’t decide to go out. How do I know this? Because that was me after finding The Omen (the original, none of that remake baloney) on some random cable channel last night. I don’t know what it is exactly about horror movies made in the ‘70s, but they totally freak me out. The Exorcist, Rosemary’s Baby, Alice, Sweet Alice…all of them frighteningly creepy in their own special way. Maybe because they all shared that eerie, evil children singing soundtrack to contrast the gruesome images. Here’s a perfect example of what I’m referring to:

Freaky, huh?

However, the only thing scarier than contrived horror is real horror. As it turns out, actual murders, and their perpetrators, are far more disturbing and twisted than anything Hollywood could ever produce. And when it comes to documentaries about murder and mayhem, nobody does it better than HBO’s Autopsy. Why? I’m so glad you asked…

Ten Reasons Why HBO’s Autopsy is the Best Documentary Series Ever Made:

  1. The Female Narrator. Marlene Sanders is like the Crypt Keeper of documentary specials. Every time I hear her voice, a chill runs down my spine, because I know she’s going to tell a spooky tale of mysterious death. She’s the best…and she haunts my dreams.
  2. Dr. Michael Baden. Although Dr. Baden was a key witness for the defense in the OJ Simpson trial, I have forgiven him because he is King of Autopsies. There is no crime he cannot solve if given access to human remains. Plus, he’s pretty scary looking. Coupled with eerie narrator lady, Autopsy will scare the bejesus out of you.

    Dr. Baden will autopsy the HELL out of you.

    Dr. Baden will autopsy the HELL out of you.

  3. Real Dead Bodies. None of this fake CSI crap. These cadavers are authentic (and either unsettlingly fresh, or decrepitly old and rotten). Naked corpses? No problem. Horribly maimed and mutilated corporeal remains? Sure! Extreme close-ups of unsavory images of butchered flesh? You betcha. It’s not a show for the faint of heart, to be sure.
  4. Crimes Solved in Minutes. Each episode is about hour, and in that hour, they solve at least four or five unsolved crimes. It’s like all those prime time TV forensic crime scene shows, but pared down to the essential 10 minutes. Plus, no commercials.
  5. Free Tips on Murder. Ever wondered how to kill someone and get away with it? Autopsy is like a “How To” guide for do-it-yourself murderers. Sure, the criminals on the show got caught, but unless you live in a major US city with an awesomely dedicated and well-equipped crime lab, chances are you can get away with murder. Did you know that anti-freeze tastes sweet and delicious? Just add enough to your husband’s orange juice in the morning and he’ll be dead by lunch. (Chances are that sharing that particular information isn’t going to attract a lot of suitors. Oh, well.)
  6. The Theme Music. Just like hearing Marlene Sanders voice, the music for Autopsy is equally chilling. Personally, I can’t hear it and not think of cadavers.
  7. Actual Crime Footage. No actors need apply to be on Autopsy. Only actual victims and genuine crime scene footage is used. None of that re-enactment crap. We’re talking 100% real, unedited police interrogations, court hearings, and bona fide criminals.
  8. Blood and Gore. And lots of it.
  9. The Typewriter Titles. There’s something about the sound of a typewriter. I probably watched too many episodes of The People’s Court when I was younger, but, to me, that sound of the keys, spelling out one word at a time…it sounds like justice.
  10. Write to Dr. Baden. Have an unsolved death on your hands? No fear. Dr. Baden to the rescue. I kid you not, there’s a link on their webpage to contact the King of Autopsies should you need his services. If you’re story is good enough (and he can actually provide an explanation for the unnatural death of your loved one), it might even be featured in a segment on the actual show.  I mean, barring the fact that you might possibly be implicated in the murder of a friend or family member, how cool is that? Note: Real murders should not submit their crimes just to see how good Dr. Baden is. He will figure out how you did it and you will go to prison. Believe me, I’ve seen all 11 episodes. I know.

For more information on HBO’s Autopsy, including an episode guide, click HERE. If you cross-reference the episode guide with YouTube, pretty much every case is available for your viewing pleasure. I was going to link one to this article, but decided against it when I was reminded of how gruesome and gory most of the episodes are. Feel free to check them out for yourself, but remember…I warned you. BWAHAHAHAHA!

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I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, Too

Posted by kimlno on October 7, 2009

If you see this man, RUN.

If you see this man, RUN.

It’s been a couple of years since I read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell by the infamous cad Tucker Max, but I still remember it as being one of the funniest books I’ve ever read. For those of you who don’t have any idea who I’m talking about, allow me to fill you in. Tucker Max wrote a memoir about all of his most depraved sexual exploits and cringe-worthy asshole behavior and he makes no apologies for being brutally honest and happy to share. (Kinda like me, huh?)

Maybe at the time I read his book, I’d overdosed on Chick Lit and his unabashed misogynistic tales were just the antidote I needed to snap me out of my “Someday My Prince Will Come” fantasy land. Maybe I liked it because I’ve actually known guys that think and act like Tucker, and to read of the countless women who fell for his shtick over and over again made me feel less sorry for myself and more thankful that I’d never sunk that low. Believe me, you’ve got to have some serious issues if you actively seek out Tucker Max and actually want him to sleep with you. Because, even before he wrote the book, Tucker kept a popular blog that detailed his predatory actions and made no effort whatsoever to conceal his “devil may care” attitude about sex with strangers and some really strange strangers, at that. (One word: Midgets.)

So, it still surprises me to no end the amount of vitriol most women feel towards this guy. They not only hate him, they think he should die, and wish horrible things upon him. Why? Sure, he’s a dick, but at least he’s being truthful about who he is. It’s not like any female nowadays could possibly accidentally have sex with this guy. Personally, if you’re so uninformed as to not know who he is prior to meeting him, Tucker in real life makes no effort to hide his ultimate “King of the Asshats” status. Believe me, if you met this dude at a bar, it would be blatantly apparent that he’s a womanizer, a dick, and probably just wants to bed you so that he can have another sordid story to add to the hundreds of others. He’s a total prick who wears it on his sleeve.

Don’t get me wrong. In no way am I commending this guy for his complete disregard for human feelings. Tucker Max is just plain wrong and really has no redeeming qualities. Nonetheless, his stories are priceless. And any woman who doesn’t think so obviously has been fooled by a man just like him (if not actually him). To me, their bitterness stems from an inner self-loathing that they let themselves fall for, or at least have sex with, a complete dickhead. Hey, ladies…it happens to the best of us. Instead of blaming Tucker for society’s ills, why not thank him for giving us a window into the hearts of (some) men? He does us all a favor by detailing the tell-tale signs of what a guy like Tucker acts like, a list of probable places to find such a guy, and even how to avoid becoming “that” girl.

Tucker Max, I just want to thank you. For making me laugh. For making me see how silly and narrow-minded certain women can be. But most of all, for giving me the tools to never fall prey to an A-Class Tool, such as you. Keep up the good work.

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Stupid Cupid

Posted by kimlno on October 3, 2009

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I’ve signed up at OkCupid.com to subject myself to completely unsubstantiated criticism by a whole host of men I’ll probably never meet. I know, I know. I’ve tried the whole internet dating thing before, and it didn’t end well (see: Worst. Date. Ever.). So, what makes me think this time will be any different? Um, desperation? Loneliness? Boredom? Heck, I don’t know. But things haven’t changed much. Are people still afraid to reveal themselves accurately on their profiles? Yes. Are the majority of the guys not even worth a quick skimming of their profile? Yes. Do I really think I can find a worthy adversary on the internet? Maybe. Perhaps there’s the male equivalent of myself out there who’s thinking all the same things, and by luck, he happens to like the way I look and can at least appreciate the way I think. Well, it could happen! Point being, I won’t know unless I try.

So, I figured no sense in pussyfooting around, might as well jump in with both feet and not only did I fill out my profile AND post pictures, I sent out a couple of messages to test the waters. Know what? Those bastards didn’t even have the courtesy to write me back. You know you’re not going to hear from someone when you emailed them 6 hours ago and yet their status says, “I’m online now!” Yeah, you’re online now and you’re blatantly ignoring the fact that I took the time to compose a witty and interesting message specifically written for you. You DICK. See? This is why I’m no good at the internet thing…I need more concrete feedback than just you’re online now and you’ve not responded to my note so you must not be interested. I hate assuming (it makes an ass out of you and me, don’t you know?). My imagination is FAR too active to be left to its own devices.

And then, as I was writing this, I received the following email from OkCupid:

KimLNo: hello, good news.

Your login name:

 KimLNo

Your personality:

 really great

How bad OkCupid guys want you:

 so bad

Your profile, as of 8 milliseconds ago:

 approved!

What now?


 Since you’re single and female, we think you’ll like our matching system. There’s no pressure and it’s like one massive game of Q & A with millions of strangers at once. Try it!
Half-Cocked

Half-Cocked

By the way, the fact that you scored Half-Cocked on the OkCupid Test has caused a certain amount of automated commotion in our software. Nicely done.

–OkCupid

GREAT. Apparently they only JUST approved my profile, so all this conjecture was for not. Up until a few moments ago, no one could even SEE my profile. So, disregard everything I wrote above (most especially if I called you a bastard). I’m going to give it a few more days and see if things change for the better. However, if nothing else, the OkCupid software thinks I’m hot. Yeah, so I’ve got that going for me. Too bad I don’t want to date a COMPUTER.*

*Speaking of dating a computer, do you remember that ‘80s movie Electric Dreams with Virginia Madsen? Well, in the film, a computer falls in love with her after hearing her play beautiful music on her cello. I know, totally farfetched, especially for the early ‘80s when computers weren’t much more than glorified typewriters. But still, that’s the first thing that popped into my head when I read that a piece of software thinks I’m a good catch. Here’s the original trailer for the film which sums it up quite well. Enjoy!

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Money Makes the World Go Around

Posted by kimlno on September 26, 2009

A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound, it makes the world go 'round.

A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound, it makes the world go 'round.

As much as some people may claim to abhor social networks and deem them the end of civilization and precursor to the apocalypse, sometimes they can be a useful forum in which to discuss relevant topics such as politics, environmental issues, and (not surprisingly) social affairs. True, the majority the time I spend on Facebook is dedicated to the discussion of the subtle nuances of the season finale of True Blood, or leveling up in Mafia Wars. However, on occasion, important issues are debated.

Such an instance took place shortly after I changed my status to read: “Kimberly Nordlinger is pretty sure money can buy you happiness. If you’re rich and sad, you’re doing it wrong.” I hardly thought my only semi-serious opinion would cause such a lively discussion amongst my friends, but then, you never really know what’s going to spark off the next great Facebook debate. These heated tete-a-tetes usually involve two of my more opinionated acquaintances who rarely, if ever, agree with one another.  However, being that they are both highly intelligent and insightful, their individual arguments, either pro or con, are always well thought out and quite indefensible.

One of them agreed with my status statement, and the other did not. Since I am always right, the one that shared my view, that more money would lead to more happiness, isn’t the one I took issue with, of course. The friend that immediately quoted real facts and figures regarding the correlation of wealth and happiness (a completely unfair tactic, if you ask me) is the one I felt the need to explain myself to. He claimed that studies have shown that people with less money are, in fact, happier than those with excess. Poppycock, I say. He continued to point out that money simply afforded the wealthy more freedom. Well, duh. He even went so far as to create an equation to clarify his point of view:

Freedom = Time = Whatever You Choose To Do = The Ability To Find Happiness

My other friend (and I) begged to disagree with his over simplistic explanation of the correlation between money and happiness. She went on to give specific examples of the things she would be able to do if she had unlimited funds, and how they would, without a doubt, increase her happiness quotient. Because I respect her privacy, I won’t share her wish list, however I will instead substitute mine. If I had access to large sums of money, I would make immediate changes to my current status. Most importantly, I would either attempt to have, or adopt, a child. Of course, I’d like to buy my own home, a new car, and give everyone of my friends and family whatever their hearts desired…but mostly, I’d just like to be a mom. Without the proper financial resources, it would be socially irresponsible of me, and possibly detrimental to the development of a healthy, happy child, to do so.

Of course my opponent was quick to point out that many people have children who can’t afford to. In addition, having a child isn’t a guarantee of future happiness, and, although they may be loathe to admit it, being a parent is a choice some even regret. Indeed we all agreed on this point in particular. Still, given the opportunity, I’d like the chance to find out for myself.

I am not so naive to think that money can solve any problem. I’d even be willing to admit that, for some, money can lead to a world of misery and sorrow. However, no amount of money could possibly buy me more time. I have all the time in the world. And, believe me, I am NOT complaining. I love that I have the freedom to do whatever I want. It’s my personal financial constraints that keep me inexorably tied to the reality of my situation. So, and I am only speaking for myself, the money-happiness equation looks more like this:

My Life + More Money = More Opportunities for Increased Happiness

Who knows? Perhaps if I had billions of dollars, I’d feel just the same way as I do about my life now. It’s possible that more money would just lead to more problems. Some would say that I don’t have a husband, or children, because that’s actually the way I want it to be (the inescapable influence of a self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps?). Those same people would probably assert that even if I were filthy rich, my life would still have followed the exact same course. Maybe they’re right. All I’m saying is, I’d love to have the opportunity to experience being wealthy first-hand, and then draw my own conclusions.

Donations are now being accepted at http://kimopolis.com.

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My Mom

Posted by kimlno on September 22, 2009

My mom and me.

My mom and me.

To celebrate turning 39 for the 27th time (you do the math), today’s post is dedicated to the one woman who can proudly (cough) call me her daughter, my mom (everybody say, “aw”). Yes, I’ve decided to share all the wonderful ways my mom is super special with you, my audience (which I am pretty sure consists solely of my friends and relatives, who, and this is a big bonus, are already acquainted with my mom). Behold the list of all things that makes her uniquely extraordinary, and all the reasons I love her as much as I do. Happy birthday, Mom.

  1. Dinner. What we are going to have for dinner, whether she cooks it or not, is of utmost importance to my mom. Above almost all other things, the dinner question must be answered in a timely fashion and WELL before the dining hour (second only to, “where’s the bathroom?”). Usually the dinner question makes its first appearance after lunch. Which is logical, because, lunch comes before dinner. However, and I don’t know about you but, after lunch I am FULL. The farthest thing from my mind is thinking about eating more food. Often, my mom has even solicited dinner suggestions as she heads off to bed the night BEFORE. Apparently, it’s all about dinner.
  2. Bathrooms. As previously mentioned, the definitive knowledge of every location of each bathroom within a 5 mile radius of our home is a given. This includes temporary bathroom structures, otherwise known as Port-A-Potties, ingeniously placed in residential areas where access to public bathroom facilities may be limited. I don’t know what my mom would do if people stopped remodeling their homes. Perhaps she’d have to resort to wearing Depends, but let’s hope it doesn’t get to that stage any time soon.
  3. Grammatical Errors. Bearing in mind that my mom taught high school English for 42 years (yes, 42 YEARS), the proper usage, spelling, and punctuation of absolutely everything in the entire universe is under scrutiny. Signs, billboards, books, magazines, anything that relies on the 26 letters of the alphabet is fair game. And, my mom wants to correct it ALL. Of course, that would be impossible, but she still tries.
  4. Walking. My mom has walked 3 miles every day for the past 4,627 days IN A ROW. Take a moment and try to think of something you have done every single day since January 21, 1997. Bodily functions don’t count. I got nothin’, and you? Just for fun, I decided to calculate exactly how far my mom has walked. That’s 13,881 miles. That’s almost TWO TIMES the circumference of the Earth. The EARTH, people! Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor dead of night can keep my mom from taking her walk. Before she retired, there were many days she would wake up at 4:00 in the morning to take her walk, because she knew she would be too tired when she got home from work. To most people, this seems commendable, an example of true dedication. To me, it seems insane.
  5. Crossword Puzzles. Each day, my mom completes at least three crossword puzzles: The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times online crossword, and The Los Angeles Times Crossword that comes in the morning paper. Don’t ask me why there are two different L.A. crosswords. I have no idea. And, when vacationing in Hawaii, she adds two more crossword puzzles to the daily tally, The Honolulu Advertiser and The Honolulu Star Bulletin. She’d do more, if there were more available. Seriously. I kid you not.
  6. Indomania. According to Wikipedia, “Indomania, or Indophilia, refers to the special interest India, or the Indian subcontinent, that has generated in the Western world.” That being said, my mom’s enthusiasm for Indian culture, books, music, and movies has turned her into an INDOMANIAC. She hasn’t gone as far as wearing a sari and a bindi, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
  7. Cats. If there is one creature in this world my mom hates more than any other living thing on Earth, it’s cats. In her opinion, cats are as revolting as cockroaches. I honestly believe, if she were forced to choose, she’d rather live in a house full of cockroaches, than a house full of cats. And don’t even mention purring.
  8. Dark Chocolate. Although she loves dark chocolate more than life itself, my mom is allergic to it. Not one of those serious “one-bite-and-you-will-die” allergies, but an allergy nonetheless. Eating chocolate makes my mom sneeze. Oh, and not just one sneeze, we are talkin’ major double digits and no less than 5 tissues. One would think that all that sneezing would put her off chocolate altogether. One would be incorrect. For future reference, dark chocolate ganache is her absolute favorite.
  9. Choking. My mom is the only person alive who can practically choke to death on a single grain of rice. Sometimes, she chokes on air. Again, I have no explanation to share with you, it’s just a fact.
  10. Freshness. Perhaps it’s because for the past 30 years she has lived within 50 feet of Gelson’s, because my mom is obsessed with how fresh food is. She will rifle through every single loaf of bread to find the one with the best “sell by” date.  And it’s not just bread. It’s everything. Absolutely anything that can possibly expire including, but not limited to: deli meats, cheese, eggs, bacon, chicken, and chips. If it’s not fresh, she won’t eat it.
  11. Food Temperature. If her food is one degree less than scalding, my mom won’t eat it. At home, she heats up the dinner plates in the oven so the food won’t catch a chill by being placed on a room temperature plate. And it’s not like the kitchen is another wing of the house or anything. If I had to estimate, I’d say the oven is approximately 5 feet from the dining room table, maybe less. You think I am kidding, don’t you? Come over some time, and you can see for yourself.  God forbid we should ever eat in a restaurant where she can see the food waiting under the heat lamps to be served. Every ounce of restraint is needed for her not to go and pick up the plates herself. Most especially if French fries are involved.
  12. French fries. There is no other food my mom loves more than French fries. If she could have fries with every meal for the rest of her life, she would die a happy woman. Fries are to be served plain. No ketchup. Not too much salt. Possibly a side of Ranch, but not entirely necessary. But they’d better be HOT, or you will hear about it.
  13. Mary J. Blige. For some unexplainable reason, my mom cannot accept that Mary J. Blige pronounces her last name as B-L-I-G-E and not B-I-L-G-E (as in pump). She always says it incorrectly and she doesn’t care anymore. As far as she’s concerned, the woman’s name is Mary J. Bilge (sorry, Mary).
  14. Drugs. One does not venture forth from the house without a wide selection of medications to treat one’s ills, especially not my mother. I’m not saying she’s a drug addict or anything like that, it’s just that my mom has quite a few prescriptions for a number of different complaints. Got a headache? Here’s a Darvon. Feeling stressed? Take a Xanax. Tummy upset? Pick your poison: Nexium, Ranitadine, Immodium, Advantix?  I’m probably missing one, but you get the idea. My mom’s motto is to be prepared, lest you be in pain.
  15. Ready for Anything. As I just mentioned, my mom believes heartily in being prepared. This means that at any moment my mom is equipped with the proper tools to get the job done. If you find yourself without a pen, just ask my mom. Scissors? Paper? Nail file? Bottle opener? Measuring tape? My mom has it. She’s not unlike a walking Swiss Army Knife, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a magnifying glass or a saw from her bag. She is absolutely prepared for anything and everything. Bring it on.
  16. Chablis. You can keep your fancy schmancy Chardonnay, my mom prefers a nice, chilled Chablis. On occasion, she might have a glass of Pinot Grigio or Merlot, but for her, Chablis is where it’s at. Oh, and toss a few ice cubes in her glass while you’re at it because as much as she likes her fries hot, she demands that her wine be cold.
  17. Cleanliness. Nothing can be too clean when it comes to my mom’s standards, and you can bet your bottom dollar that if there’s even the tiniest spot or smudge or stain, she will zero in on that sucker like a hawk. She has a full arsenal of cleaning potions and solutions to rid the world of its filth, and she uses them liberally. Dirt has no place in my mother’s world.
  18. Organization. Aside from dirt and cats, nothing bothers my mom more than clutter. Disorganization is the eighth deadly sin as far as she’s concerned, and everything under her management is color-coded, labeled, and alphabetically arranged.  I’d say she has OCD, but she’d rearrange it as CDO.

And you people wonder why I’m insane. Now, you know. (Kidding, Mom…kidding.)

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One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure

Posted by kimlno on September 15, 2009

"Dirty White Trash (with Gulls)" by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

"Dirty White Trash (with Gulls)" by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

Have you seen Hoarders? It’s GNARLY. I literally had to pop a Xanax (okay, TWO) to finish watching last night’s episode. Somewhere around the second commercial break, I realized I was clenching my jaw and sitting on my hands (I don’t know why I sit on my hands when I’m feeling stressed, I just do…so, get over it). If you haven’t seen the show, you’re probably asking yourself what could this reality program be about that is so totally disturbing that Kim would have to self-medicate in order to watch? Well, I’m going to tell you.

Hoarders, on A&E, is about people who never throw anything away. And when I say never, I mean NEVER. These certifiably insane men and women have so much crap that they couldn’t possibly even imagine having to part with, it’s taken over their lives. Their houses are filled to the brim with everything you can imagine: books, bottles, boxes, and a whole boatload of junk that doesn’t necessarily start with the letter B. Most of this clutter is simply garbage, foul rubbish these freaks can’t separate themselves from because each tiny scrap of paper or empty to-go cup from Wendy’s MEANS something to them. Like a keepsake, or a souvenir. It’s not only incredibly disconcerting the way these people cherish their trash, it’s disgusting.

Some of the rooms in the hoarder’s house are completely inaccessible due to the giant piles of stuff covering the floors, tables, chairs, and shelves. Most have managed to fashion themselves a footpath that grants them access to the essentials: the bed, the bathroom, the front door. However, some of these folks can’t even FIND the bathroom or the bed anymore. Many just carve a small spot out of the giant heaps of garbage where they manage to live, eat, and sleep…if you can even call that living. It’s some serious Grey Gardens shit.

When I was younger, members of society who preferred to live in such squalor were referred to as “pack rats” or just plain, old “slobs”. I’d be willing to bet that many of you have known someone who fits the description. Heck, you’re probably even related to one or two of them. I am. My great-grandparents fit the general depiction of hoarders, and I loathed visiting them because of it. Thankfully, they’re dead now (oh, I’m already going to Hell so why not excel at it?). But when they were alive, my grandma would bribe me with a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the condition that I would save it to eat while she had a short visit with her in-laws. I’m still unconvinced this was a fair trade-off.

Usually, I wasn’t permitted to explore any other parts of their house other than the front room, but I do remember going out to the backyard once or twice. It wasn’t so much a yard as it was a make-shift swap meet. The garage was separate from the house itself and my great-grandparents had strung up a large, green tarp to cover the outside area. Obviously, they didn’t want their precious refuse to be exposed to the elements. Duh. They had extraneous furniture that couldn’t fit in the house anymore placed outside so they could heap more crap on top of it. Sure the junk was relatively organized into various identifiable stacks (e.g., newspapers, magazines, shoe boxes, etc.), but garbage is still garbage even if you arrange it neatly.

I remember being worried that one of the giant pillars of newspapers might come crashing down on top of great-grandma or great-grandpa, trapping them until the other one found a phone to call for help. I seriously considered buying them a Life-Alert system with my allowance money (“Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!). Once, I tried to eat a piece of candy from the candy dish they kept on the table in the front room, but my grandma nearly smacked it out of my hand before I could unwrap it and put it in my mouth. I faintly remember her telling me not to eat anything I found in my great-grandparents house, and to stick to the food I’d brought with me. You know that’s some sketchy shit if McDonald’s is a healthier alternative. But that was cool by me because I’d seen some pretty scary looking jars full of unidentifiable substances in their kitchen. You don’t have to tell me twice. But now, looking back, I realize they were definitely hoarders albeit tidy ones. My grandma explained to me they kept all that junk because they’d survived the Great Depression and learned to never throw anything away. I just thought they were crazy.

And that’s the thing about these people on Hoarders. Are they really crazy? Or are they just LAZY? I think it’s a little of both. I mean, you’ve got to be slightly touched in the head to keep drawers full of empty wine bottles for safe keeping. Right? Plus, these people have obvious visceral reactions to having the trash taken out of their home. The producers of the program send along a psychiatrist (absolutely necessary) and what can only be described as a “special forces” garbage collecting crew to rid these homes of their vile and potentially dangerous contents. Each and every scrap of paper, empty can, and broken floor tile piece has to be “Okayed” before it’s tossed. As you can imagine, this is a long and arduous process that takes DAYS to complete. I think they should just douse the place with gasoline and light a match to those pig sties, but apparently there’s some sort of healing process or something the hoarder has to deal with so he or she doesn’t end up in this same situation a few months down the road. Whatever. You KNOW they’re going to do it again.

Personally, I just don’t get it. I’m not OCD organized, but there’s no way in HELL I’d let filth fester in my home. If I make a mess, I clean it up. Put it away. Toss it. Just get it out of my house. Otherwise, you could end up like the cat lady hoarder. I won’t even discuss with you what they found in her stacks of shit. The very thought of it makes me want to go take another shower. *shiver*

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Real Fake Leg

Posted by kimlno on September 15, 2009

I never had the honor of meeting Patrick Swayze, but I did meet his brother once and it’s a funny casting story, so I’m going to share it with you. I hope you like it.

Casting for The X-Files was always an adventure. Invariably, we’d have to find actors with unusual abilities or attributes. Sideshow freaks, magicians, snake charmers…the list goes on and on but, I can tell you this, it was NEVER boring.

So, it’s late in 1998, and everyone is looking forward to the holiday hiatus when a script comes out that calls for a one- legged man. Always with the missing limbs, those kooky writers. Oy vey (why I just became Jewish, I have no idea…maybe it’s because Yentl was on this afternoon and…sorry, TANGENT…let’s get back to the story). Just because a script calls for a man with one leg, that in no way meant we were expected to actually cast a man with one leg. They are actors. They know how to pretend like they don’t have a leg. It’s their job. Although, if the producers could’ve had their way, they’d probably opt for the authentically handicapped (handicapabale?), rather than having to fake it. Perhaps some of you remember the totally true tale of casting a man with no legs at all? If not, click here.

ANY24/7freakshow, the casting session begins and I’m sitting in a room with the writer (Jeff Bell) and the director (Kim Manners*) when in comes Don Swayze. He’s the spitting image of his brother so, at first, it’s a little off-putting. I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts that’s why he didn’t book many leading roles. For better or for worse, Don just looked too much like his older, and much more famous, brother.

So, he’s reading his lines, and doing an excellent job of it, and then, when he gets to the part of the sides where he’s prompted to acknowledge his fake leg, Don swings his leg onto the table we’re all sitting at, and raps on it (no, not “bust a move” rap, rap like knocking on a door, rap). The sound his knuckles make when they hit his shin is pretty realistic, and I figured he had knocked on the underside of the table or the chair with his other hand where we wouldn’t see it to create the desired effect. My second thought was that he also could’ve slipped a shin guard up his pants leg to bring real authenticity to the scene (actors will do almost ANYTHING when it comes to getting a role, trust me).

Don Swayze finishes the scene and before he leaves, Kim Manners pipes up, and asks him how he made his leg sound hollow, like a real fake leg. And, with a smile as wide as Texas, he said, “I lost my leg jumping out of an airplane once.” And we all started laughing, like, “Good one, Swayze!” or “Boy, you sure had us going there for a minute!” Then, the next thing I know he’s pulled up his jeans to his knee and revealed to us his genuine prosthetic leg. Well, shit. How could we have possibly known, or even anticipated, that? It wasn’t like it is nowadays where you can look anybody up on the internet and find out their life story. His agent hadn’t told me anything about him being an amputee when I’d set up his appointment, it certainly wasn’t on his resume, and neither I nor anyone else in the room that day could’ve guessed the dude really didn’t have a leg. I mean, what are the odds?

Needless to say, we needed more than a minute to compose ourselves before bringing in the next actor. It wasn’t the first time I’d been shocked silly in a casting session, and it was most definitely not the last, either. However, it ranks pretty high up there with some of the most memorable.

The best part about the entire audition was the whole time Don had this shit-eating grin on his face, as if he couldn’t believe his luck that a script was actually written in which the character had the same unique, however unfortunate, legless situation. Don was just tickled pink that he got the opportunity to surprise us with his real fake leg, regardless of whether he booked the job or not. It was his good-natured smile that told me he was from a big, happy family that liked to poke fun at each other lovingly, and often. Just like mine.

Unfortunately, the producers chose a different actor for the role. The guy we ended up hiring had both of his legs, and he did a great job as the one-legged rainmaker, but Don Swayze’s audition was much more special and something I know I’ll never forget. All my love goes out to the Swayze family tonight, and to Kim Manners’ as well. I am eternally grateful to have been lucky enough to know you.

*Sadly, Kim passed away a few months ago. He was awesome. I miss him.

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Raisins Ruin Everything

Posted by kimlno on September 11, 2009

Raisin

Raisin

Why is it that everything that has cinnamon in it ALWAYS has raisins in it too? Is there some unwritten epicurean law that I am unaware of that mandates the coupling of these two ingredients? For once, I’d like to bite into a cinnamon roll and NOT have my unsuspecting taste buds assaulted by withered fruit. Raisins ruin everything. Don’t get me wrong, I like raisins. Just don’t go hiding them in my food. Raisins are fine all by themselves. They’re sweet and tasty and make the perfect snack, but if you insist on adding them to salads (BLEECH!) or jello (“But, Lane, you love raisins.”) I am going to have to call a Food Foul.

As long as we’re discussing salads, do you know what else is NOT okay to put in a salad? NUTS. Just keep your slivered almonds and pesky pistachios OUT of my lettuce. That goes double for sunflower seeds. An uninformed diner could choke to death on one of those tiny food assassins, and they’re too damn small to pick out every single one. Nuts and seeds are fine on their own, I’ll even go as far as allowing nuts, seeds, and raisins to co-exist together in a nice hearty trail mix, but they are meant to be enjoyed separately. They are not a garnish, they are a snack food. If I find them in my salad, I’m gonna be pissed.

Another food that’s fine on its own, but should NEVER be coupled with anything else besides carrots in a simple cru d’ete, is celery. Celery does not belong in TUNA. At no point should tuna be CRUNCHY! That’s disgusting. Want to ruin a perfectly good stuffing? Put celery in it. You might as well add some nuts and raisins while you’re at it, because I’m not going to eat it. Not every food needs to have “texture”! This isn’t Top Chef! Michael Ciccarello is not judging you on your creativity and none of the above ingredients are part of a “Quick Fire Challenge”.

While we’re on the subject, the only proper way to serve onions is deep fried. Don’t go sneaking any onions into my tuna, either. But, most importantly, do NOT put onions in my enchilada. When enjoying a cheesy, gooey enchilada, smothered in red sauce, the last thing I want is to crunch down on a hard, raw piece of onion. Are you happy, now, because you just ruined my dinner?!? If you insist on adding onions to something, they should be cooked well enough as to be unrecognizable to the human eye. Translucent, small, and indistinguishable from the food in which it has been added to. Any other method of onion adding is just plain WRONG.

Furthermore, as a general rule, don’t put cold, wet things on my sandwich. Maybe you haven’t noticed but bread is not good when it’s soggy. Just save the lettuce and tomato to make a nice side salad. Oh, and all you grill masters out there? Don’t even consider putting that ice cold vegetable crap on my hot juicy burger. I will cut you.

(Can you tell I’m on a diet?)

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Dr. Littleoldman VS Dr. ManI’mtooskinny

Posted by kimlno on September 6, 2009

Dr. Littleoldman as a garden gnome.

Dr. Littleoldman as a garden gnome.

I went to see Dr. Littleoldman (aka Dr. Field, the alchemist) yesterday, and, as always, it was an adventure. He was quite pleased that my back problems have been completely alleviated, and that I’d dropped a few pounds to boot. Personally, I think it’s been all the sweating I’ve been doing this past week because of the damned heat. I am so OVER this hot thing. Bring back my marine layer already!

ANYifIlikedtheheatI’dliveintheValley, because Dr. Littleoldman is actually an old man, he told me a few of the same stories I heard the last time I was in the office. Let me give you a quick rundown of the tales I was treated to, m’kay?

The Lumberjacks of the Northwest Story:

In the 1900s, or there abouts (I’m not good with dates) big men cut down big trees with saws and whatnot and they worked up a mighty appetite. I picture Paul Bunyan at this point, if that helps you. Before heading out to work in the morning, the men would power down an astronomical amount of calories, somewhere in the 4000-6000 range (I am also not good with numbers, apparently). Then, ‘round lunchtime, they’d show up in the mess hall once again and eat another big ass meal. When they were through, more chopping. Eat. Chop. Repeat.

Well, eventually the wood-chopping season came to an end (I assume in winter, when the trees were too wet or too frozen to harvested), and the cooks in the mess hall knew this. So, for breakfast on that first wintery day they served only soup and a few sandwiches. The lumberjacks ate it, and didn’t complain. Lunch and dinner were similarly small in comparison to their usual feasts.

Here’s where Dr. Littleoldman decides to quiz me. I can only imagine he wants to test my powers of deduction or garner if I was even paying attention, but little does he know, he already told me this tale, so I already knew the answer. Ha. Ha. So, how could the lumberjacks survive from eating tens of thousands of calories a day, to only eating a few hundred? (Insert Jeopardy! theme music here.) Because they weren’t chopping down any trees! They didn’t NEED all those calories, and, the point being, their bodies learned to adapt.

Calories in = Calories out.

Now, it’s time for the Auschwitz saga. Again, I know this because Dr. Littleoldman told me practically the same story last time.

Survivors of the Nazi Concentration Camps:

How come some concentration camp survivors lived, while others died and both only consumed about 200 calories per day? Easy. The “Starvation Gene”. Essentially, when calorie intake is below 600 per day, those of us lucky souls who still have this ancient remnant gene, well, our bodies simply refuse to burn those last few calories and store them as fat. So, in the off chance we don’t eat for a few days, we can “live off the fat off the land”, as it were. Oh, happy day. The others who aren’t lucky enough to have this gene (and probably have a high metabolism and can eat whatever they want without gaining an ounce)? Well, they died.

“Starvation Gene” = Fat Storage

Since Dr. Littleoldman is Jewish and has close relatives who survived the camps, he is actual living proof of the “Starvation Gene” in action. He only eats 600 a day. Every day. And he’s at least 80-years-old and in better shape than you or I. Oh, and get this, he HATES exercise. So, he doesn’t. Now, as he would be the first to point out, every individual body is different. This is simply a diet that works for him. And you know what? He’s happy. Always. I have never seen the man without a smile on his sweet, Santa Claus/Garden Gnome face.

Dr. ManI'mtooskinny is actually thinner and meaner than Dr. Cristina Yang (pictured here).

Dr. ManI'mtooskinny is actually thinner and meaner than Dr. Cristina Yang (pictured here).

Do you know who rarely smiles? My previous doctor, Dr. ManI’mtooskinny. Dr. ManI’mtooskinny (aka Dr. Ma) is a very slight, waifishly thin Asian woman in her late 30s (or so I’d guess). She works out and eats healthy, but she’s never in a good mood. Envision Dr. Cristina Yang on “Grey’s Anatomy” and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what Dr. ManI’mtooskinny is like. She and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of subjects, mostly my weight. She believes, and many would say she is also correct, that all of my problems are directly related to the extra baggage I tote with me everywhere I go. My back hurts, it’s because I’m fat. I have a headache, it’s because I’m fat. I’m depressed, it’s because I’m fat. She’s like a broken record. One of the reasons I stopped seeing her is because I already knew what her diagnosis would be. I mean, why bother? It’s not her fault, though, it’s just the kind of doctor she was trained to be (a UCLA HMO drone with a penchant for prescribing Vicodin).

Dr. Littleoldman, on the other hand, is quick to point out that my weight isn’t keeping me from living the life I want to live. In fact, I’m healthy as an ox. I don’t have high blood pressure. I don’t have diabetes. I don’t have heart disease. For all intents and purposes, I am in the pink. Now, that being said, there’s no guarantee that I won’t develop some, or all, of those health problems in the future, and being overweight is a contributing factor to each and every one. However, every body is different. Different enough to laugh in the face of physics and millions of scientific studies?  Well, yes. Dr. Littleoldman had one more tale to tell to help illustrate this very point, and it was surprisingly one I hadn’t heard before (thank god).

Swimming the Catalina Channel:

In 1927, Mr. Wrigley (of chewing gum fame) sponsored a channel swim, from San Pedro to Catalina Island, with various large sums of money to go to the winner and runners-up. One of the swimmers was a woman (whose name escapes me…yes, I am not good with names, either) who made it almost all the way to Catalina, but stopped short with only one mile to go. As it turns out, during her swim she’d lost over 30 pounds in a little over one day. When she reached her stopping point, her body had simply run out of fuel. So, sometime later she decided to try again. Before she went this time, she packed on 40 pounds to sustain her on her long journey. And that time, she made it. She also lost the extra 40 pounds in the time it took her to complete the swim.

Fat = Fuel.

So, what have we learned today class?

  1. Calories in = Calories out
  2. “Starvation Gene” = Stored Fat
  3. Fat = Fuel

But what does that MEAN, Kim? It means anyway you look at it, I’m SCREWED.

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