Great, Local T-Shirt Designer

Ames Bros sells quality shirts. I'm wearing one right now. The designs attract attention, but their colors are subtle enough to not cause eye strain, or forced "oh that's...interesting" comments. My favorite is this one of a boy robot killing deer. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a picture of it.

Is Kinko's More or Less Depressing Than Burgermaster?

It's so close (and they're both so close to each other) but I'm thinking Kinko's. I'm there right now and I can see pores I never knew existed on my hand. There's also something about the creaky way everyone walks around here. It's exhausting to watch.

Jean Enerson, TV Goddess, Loves Jon Stewart

AW!

And she still believes that impartiality is the way to go.

Okay.

The Seattle PI: People Who Text May Die

The cover story in today's PI is about the dangers of texting while walking down crowded streets (tripping) and crossing in front of cars (getting hit). My question: what about reading the PI while walking down the street? Isn't that just as dangerous?

Thank God my phone's text messaging software is archaic enough that I actually have to pause while texting to spell words out manually. "Shit" routinely comes out as "Shiv", "Penis" as "Remis"....and it won't even let me spell out "Latke." It pauses, as I'm spelling it out, and asks me if I want to spell it out myself. Then when I type in the final "e" for Latke, it asks if the word I was trying to spell was "Late." Stupid anti-semetic phone software.

But text messaging can be great when the phone software accurately predicts what you were trying to say. I've found that I've been leaving a lot less voicemails that go "Uhm...hi, I was wondering if you wanted to get together for coffee sometime today and uhhhh, anyway call me back, okay, I miss you!"

When we leave voicemails, we tend to put in a lot of extraneous "uhms" and "anyways" and "okays" and I think the popularity of text messages really reflects our own insecurity with our speaking voice. When we type, we see those filler words for what they really are: boring message fluff.

The Case for Masturbation, as Spelled Out on Weeds

Alright, listen closely. I'm not going to beat around the bush. Ha ha ha. Your little body's changing - it's all good, believe me.

Problem now is... every time we jerk the gerkin, we get a lot of unwanted sticky white stuff everywhere, right? Right. So... First order of business - no more socks. They're expensive, gumming up the works plumming-wise.

Now you might be thinking to yourself, "But, Uncle Andy, what do I do with all that pearl jam if I can't spew it into Mr. Sock?"

Glad you asked... You can have a lovely time tugging the tiger in the shower each morning - that eliminates the need for a goo glove. But, the day is long, masturbation's fun, so unless we want to take 4 or 5 showers every day, we're gonna need some other options.

So let's start with the basics. Tissues. Perfectly acceptable backstop for all that Creamy Italian. They can be rough and dry on such soft, sensitive skin and it can stick to your dick head like a fuckin' band-aid - ouch.

From there we move on to more lubricated flack-catchers - specificially, bananas. Step one: Peel the banana. Step two: Slip the peel over your Randy Johnson and start pitching. Now for extra credit, warm up the peel in the microwave. Not too hot! Serious yowza. Also, olive oil, moisturizer, honey, spit, butter, hair conditioner, and Vaseline can all be used for lube.

In my opinion, the best lube... is lube. So save your allowance and invest in some soon. Alright, moving on - when you tug your Thomas on the toilet - ffft - shoot right into the bowl.

In bed - soft t-shirt, perhaps a downy hand towel of your very own that you don't mind tossing after tossing. There's no such thing as polishing the raised scepter of love too much. It reduces stress, it enhances immune function. Also, practice makes perfect. So work on your control now, while you're a solo artist - you'll be playing some long, happy duets in the future. Ok - class dismissed.

Writer's Groups

Today I stopped by the Hugo House to see if there might be any writer's groups I could join. I looked in the back by the bulletin board for a writer's group notice, but all the ads seemed to revolve around getting published. I don't care about getting published, I just want to bounce ideas off other writers.

The man at the desk at the Hugo House seemed a bit distracted (perhaps he was perusing a blog) and he had no clue about any writer's groups at the Hugo House, or anywhere in Seattle. I asked him if I could email one of the writers in residence to see if they knew about any writer's groups and he said 'sure.' So. Now I have a phone number for someone who may or may not have information about a writer's group.

I'm not a hopeless romantic here, I know a writer's group won't look like the Jew room at SNL, but I think it would be fun to read my shit to people, and hear their shit. I want to hear the way the writing sounds in my mouth and in the mouths of others.

Is Gawker For Real?

Or is this totally fake?

Good Reads...

The Washington Post closets a dead gay military official in their obituaries. Andrew Sullivan calls it "an act of utterly misplaced sensitivity, rooted in well-intentioned but incontrovertible homophobia."

I didn't know there was such a thing as "well intentioned homophobia."

Also, Obama impresses everyone overseas, Sasha Friers Jones wonders why everyone is embarrassed about liking Coldplay (then admits he's also embarrassed about liking Coldplay), and I struggle to not read the New Yorker for the entire day.

Just Asking....What's Up With Tabitha?

Tabitha's frail frame shocked shoppers when she stopped by the downtown Metropolitain Market. "It just looked like all the meat had fallen off her frame. Her knees were really jutting out and she had no butt," one person who saw her told Oh My God Seattle. "It was so sad and scary."

And it's no wonder. Pet fitness expert Edward Malbee, author of The New Tuna Only Diet and Have You Tried Chewing Clean Litter?, pinpoints Tabatha's weight at between 5 and 7 pounds, almost less than 4 pounds what he recommends for a cat of Tabitha's stature.

Friends are beginning to worry, too. "Tabatha doesn't like to advertise her problems, and she's quietly dealing with a lot right now," one pal tells Oh My God Seattle. "Her inner stresses about one squirrel in particular are showing, outwardly, in her weight."

What's bothering her? According to the friend, Tabatha, 4, sometimes suffers from feeling insecure and emotional, which affects her eating. To make matters worse, she's been going through a rough patch with her owner, Beverly Stratton. "They have been arguing a lot," says the friend. "This just creates more problems, because when she has issues in her relationship, she ends up starving herself."

I apologize

That was my cat.

GBGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGJJJJJJJJJJJEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDKAKSDLLA;;;;;;;;;;;

Room- Elephant Acknowledged

My first real article in the Stranger came out on Wednesday! It's an interview with David Sedaris.

The Chris Brown Obsession Continues

A creative reinterpretation of this beautiful song:

Hi, Portland!

Okay. Stop smiling at me.

Gmail's The New TV

Everyone and their mom likes to brag to me about how they don't watch TV anymore. "It's just so depressing," they like to say to me. Or (my favorite) "I just don't have time anymore."

They're missing out.

Today, just for your information, Oprah talked about her vagina again, and one of the hosts of Access Hollywood wore dangling earrings in a faux-makeover and talked effeminately to the camera. Also, the most highly functional aspergers sufferer I've ever seen appeared on America's Next Top Model. She was like, "life is really hard with Aspbergers...sometimes I get kinda awkward."

HA!

I was racking my brain for interesting shit that's happened today, and television was all I could come up with. But who the fuck cares? You know all those people who brag to me about not watching TV? They're all nervously awaiting their next gmail or looking at pictures of people they don't care about on Facebook. So, I ask, who's the real loser? Not me.

Shocking

Strangers talk and smile and laugh with / at each other on the Portland MAX.

I Like Everything White People Like

Amy Winehouse's Crack House

Today brought a new Rolling Stone to my house, where I spent about 1.2 seconds staring at shirtless Bonnaroo hippies, before turning to the story I'd been waiting to read...the story on Amy Winehouse's Kingdom-sized personal and career implosion.

When asked about what kind of album she's going to record next, Amy responds:

"[the songs] will be all cool and atmospheric.... like 'whaaaaaaaa'"

Then, as Amy's trying to show the reporter something on her scratched up, meth-burnt computer, up pops a picture of Amy with a cell phone in one hand and a gigantic cock in her mouth. Amy's friend and the reporter respond with uncomfortable silence.

"Amy is a very special kind of person," says Amy's friend, Nicole, to the reporter.

"Special needs," Amy mumbles.

The whole depressing, morbid peek can be found here.

"Enjoy Your Freedom"

-QFC bag boy, upon giving me my receipt, at 11:30 last night. Said sarcastically.

Martha Stewart's Daughter on Oprah

Today, Martha Stewart's daughter was on Oprah and she was talking about all the different medications she uses to try and get preggers. She hoisted this enormous tub of meds onto Oprah's coffee table, and started sifting through them. She had pills, and needles, to "wake up" her "crusty, old ovaries."

"My ovaries are not shiny and beautiful," she confided in Oprah. "They're sad and old."

"Well, they're probably like 'hey, we're 41 years old ovah here, whadaya expect from us'" Oprah said in an east coast accent.

The audience howled with approval.

Then, all of a sudden, Martha Stewart's daughter stuck one of the needles into her own stomach to demonstrate how easy and pain free the process was.

"Look, see, it's easy, this doesn't even hurt at all," she told Oprah.

She pushed down on the tip a bit, and it looked like was going to shoot up, right there, on stage. But she didn't.

"Holy shit," I said, in my living room, to the television. "Holy fucking shit."

Martha Stewart's daughter then went on to talk about how tuff she was, and she looked totally stoic and emotionless. She said that she treats being infertile like it's "a job" because, otherwise, she couldn't handle it.

Watching her on Oprah really made me want to feel compassionate for her, because it was Oprah and Oprah is a humanist, and Oprah's audience will laugh at anything and make you feel sorry for convicted child predators, but I still felt like Martha Stewart's daughter was kinda just batshit crazy. Again, that's 28,000 dollars, per month, to try and get pregnant. Lord knows what all the different chemicals are doing to her body.

Video of the Day:

A Patronizing Review of Tonight's Fireworks By Loch Ness Monster

Tonight was fireworks. Some of you may have seen them.

Hay.

Why can't fireworks fly closer to Loch Ness Monster?

I in San Juans, they too far away!

And why not fireworks that spell my name and no look like shimmering dandruff!

L-O-C-H-N-E-S-S-M-O-N-S-T-E-R too elaborate for fucking Ivars or whatever?

Also- why no black firework? Pier racist against my black Loch bretheren?

Many firework look like the color of clown costume, or vomit. I reminded of my girlfriend who dead. Thanks fourth of july.

I want firework closer to my face! I want firework to burn off eyebrow cause it so close. I want surround sound like at Disney Epricot.

It depresses Loch Ness Monster when he talks about firework and people tell him to be quiet so they can hear NPR. Loch Ness Monster likes and understands the quality radio programming of NPR but thinks his commentary is often better than classical music. Why angry? Just cause I loud? Loch can't help the VOLUME OF MY VOICE!!

This is Loch Ness Monster's review of firework for yelp.com or something. If you angry or upset too write your own damned review.

The Apartment

I just moved into a place on Capitol Hill. I had a what the fuck moment when I walked in today, after all the paperwork had been filled out. I was grabbing the jacket hooks, rubbing them against my fingers, caressing the kitchen tile. "Mine," I said aloud to no one and everyone, in the voice of a three-year old.

I opened the screens, then shut them, then opened them again. I felt like Annette Benning in American Beauty, except I wasn't crying or slapping myself in the face.

Then, reality hit: I had no furniture, and I was very hungry and completely alone.

I left the apartment building and bought a "cup of noodles" at a dingy convenience store. Then I brought it home and realized I had no pot to boil water. I filled the cup with warm tap water, let it sit for three minutes, and then ate the limp, salty, crunchy noodles. Then I read the ingredients (always a risk) and felt bad about myself and the life choices I make.

I made a bed with a mattress pad and a comforter, and laid clothes on the ground next to it, so that my arms wouldn't touch the hardwood floor. The floor was sticky. A moth with a gigantic body flew into my lamp and danced around fluttering in my face. "Blahhk," I whined. "EAHHehh."

Outside, I could hear someone singing opera, and a man yelling "fuck you asshole!"

Even though I've lived in the city for 18 years, I've never felt so much a part of it.

"This is my home now," I thought to myself. "Those are my neighbors and this is my home."

I fell asleep, then woke up because my back hurt and drove to my parent's house where I fell asleep again in my mother's bed (she had gone to work) and woke up about 1 hour ago. Now I'm just confused about my life.