nikkee b

As someone who has always had a staunch indifference to any form of politics, I now find myself attempting to write a five-page paper on the titillating views of Mr. Karl Marx. Would you take seriously the thoughts of a man whose profile pic looks like this?

(You see, I like to imagine that the Karl Marx Wikipedia page is kind of like the most boring and convoluted Facebook profile ever). So that is how I’ve ended up here, attempting to waffle about about class struggle and ideology for five full pages, with what I can only assume is part of my brain leaking out of my right ear.

In any case, I just thought I’d take a break for a quick blog ramble so I don’t give myself a Marx-induced brain aneurysm, and so you don’t (I’m assuming there is a ‘you’…correct?) think I’ve thrown in the blog-towel. For in two days time, I will be going here:

to do this:

with these chicks:

before a quick jaunt down to here:

after which I think I’ll be feeling much more inspired to put pen to paper here. Or..fingers to macbook, as the case may be.
SPRING BREAK, WOO!

Lindsay: Is that a shot at me?
GOB: Probably.
Lindsay: Because, for your information, I have a job.
Michael: Really? What kind of job?
Lindsay: Beads!
GOB: Bees!?
Lindsay: Beads.
GOB: Beads?!
Michael: GOB’s not on board.
Lindsay: Beads are very big right now. Anklets, bracelets, you name it.
GOB: Bracelets!

Is this picture not the most brilliant thing you’ve ever seen? It’s by this guy called Bill Mudron (the image is the link to his portfolio) and he’s incredibly talented.

While we’re on the topic, what is your favourite Arrested Development line/moment? I planned on just posting the image above with my favourite line, but then after hours of deliberating over which line was the best, I found myself crying in a ball on the floor. I really don’t think I could say which line or scene is my favourite, as 90% of the series is so hysterical that I end up in a state of laughter-induced hyperventilation whenever I watch it.

This offers a pretty comprehensive list of the greatest moments ever, but I’d like to know your thoughts.

If, for some inexplicable reason you felt the urge to read some of my drivel in the last week, you would already know that my blog was “hacked” not long ago. Yes, a hacking “gang”, it would seem, thought I needed to be taught a lesson and changed my passwords and deleted all of the posts I had written. The gang has a badass name and calling card, which they post on the websites they have overrun, informing people that they ‘cannot be stopped!!!’

Anyway, once I got my site back under control, I decided to rejig the whole thing as it had been looking a bit sad. The good news is, I can once again ramble freely across the internet. I managed to rescue six or seven orphaned posts from Google cache, but my post directory is still looking a bit sad, missing the fifty or so posts that were deleted.

But, onward and upward. The important thing is that I’m awesome, and that they are probably sitting in their moms’ basements because they got grounded for stealing their younger siblings’ pocket money.

In the immortal words of Liz Lemon, SUCK IT, NERDS!

The alarm clock startles Stan Jones,
a man whose belly’s too big for his pants,
and whose bed is too big for him.
The bed thought Stan should buy another
that’s more fitting for a solo dreamer—
it had always thought Stan was more of
a mattress-in-a-race-car kind of guy.
The alarm clock resented
being thumped every morning
when it knew Stan had nowhere to be.

Stan’s comb imagined the badly-toupéd
news anchor he could have easily been
with a name like Stan Jones.
But it obliged as Stan redundantly used it
to smooth down his six remaining hairs.
The comb would have been grateful for a challenge.

Stan fancies himself an inventor
since combining one and a half types of cereal,
though the bowl from which he ate it
fancied him little more than a jackass.
His spoon agreed.

Astonishingly devoid of any sense of irony,
Stan proudly displays his collection of all
but eight Guinness Books of World Records.
Stan feels his anthology is worthy of bragging
rights, which he uses with much abandon—
the kind of fervent one-upmanship
Stan’s bookshelf has come to expect from him.

But, when the doorbell rang,
Stan’s effects ate their words.
Or the words they’d have said if they could.
In terror, they watched as the novelty
oversized check was marched towards Stan.
They knew with his good luck that theirs
had run out, and there’d be replacements in every room.



Since diving headfirst into the writing portion of my degree, I seem to have unintentionally begun a reading regime which could easily be described as excessive (luckily, to ward off atrophied muscles, time for high-intensity gym visits has increased with time spent on ass reading). When I was younger, I never had particularly favoured authors outside Ann M. Martin, but there are a few people who, these days, just give me wowsers in my trousers. Happily, the rise of these heroes does not affect 2010’s mantra of ‘Be Your Own Hero’, as I believe you can never have too many of them. Heroes, that is.

David Sedaris

David Sedaris is known for his autobiographical essays which often touch on his family life, growing up, homosexuality, and his status as an ex-drug user, ex-furniture removalist, ex-cleaner, among other things. Books he’s written are Barrel Fever, Naked, Holidays on Ice, Me Talk Pretty One Day, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, and When You Are Engulfed in Flames.

I always found his writing so entertaining, but had never seen him read anything until not long ago. To see David read, you realise that, not only is he incredibly intelligent and hilarious, but he is endearing and charismatic as well. I almost said ‘to boot’ here, but then I remembered how much I hate that phrase. Curse you, floozy magazine writers who have infiltrated my vocabulary with such tripe! Anyway, David Sedaris is SO hysterically funny, and inescapably lovable, that you shall have no qualms with accepting him as one of your heroes, too.

C.D. Payne

Wikipedia tells me that Payne is a writer of ‘absurdist fiction’ – I must say, whatever that actually means, I like him all the better for having learned this. I am considering re-reading Youth in Revolt with a highlighter so I can pick out all the attractively large words he uses and add them to my emaciated vocabulary- much like one would collect Pokemon, I assume.

Whenever a series of books is involved, I invariably find myself forming what seems to me like an unhealthy bond with the characters. Yes, I’m fully aware they are not actually people, and developing amicable feelings toward an intangible nothingness should not be encouraged, but I need to know what happens next! Nick, you ridiculous man, why can’t you see that manipulative Sheeni for the trifling hoe that she is? I sincerely hope I’m not the only one this happens to. If I am, please disregard everything I have just said.
I am yet to read anything he has written outside of the Nick Twisp series, But I do intend to change that. Stat.

Marieke Hardy

Author of the now-defunct gem Reasons You Will Hate Me, Marieke is one of the reasons I first fell in love with frankie magazine. Mia Timpano is another one of my very favourite writers. She is such a smart arse, which I like in any context.

We Are Scientists

There is just so much quality writing on the We Are Scientists website (about nine years’ worth, to be pacific), so it would be impossible for me to tell you all the highlights. But, the link in the W.A.S. heading will take you to their most recent posts about actor/gymnast Harrison Ford, and Equine Upholstery, which should keep you going for a short while. Do take a look at their advice column, too, because as you would expect, it is quite good.

She agreed her home was beautiful,
though she would scarcely
admit so before she left.
But as she sat now— perfectly still,
for fear the cold would catch her—
an icy wind bore into her
that she had taken its beauty for granted.

With hands that felt like a lake iced over,
she touched her pocket as if to feel
the summer she imagined radiating
from the photograph within it.
And, through closed eyes,
she saw herself there.

Her inward summer was a dance recital
she had seen many times before.
It waltzed for her,
though only for a moment,
in that moment she began to thaw.

The sun turned clouds to torches
before reaching down to kiss her face.
The day enveloped her shoulders
as if it were warm honey.
An ocean hummed its own cool rhythm—
a rhythm she knew by rote,
her reverie a jacket
that kept the cold at bay.

A sudden gust interrupted,
cutting her promenade short.
Her eyelids flickered,
lashes catching snowflakes,
as the winter continued its assault.

I am hyperbole.
Living is larger-than-life,
taking to the cosmos with a fine-toothed comb;
poring over everyday mise en scène.

Everything is exaggerated;
everything is illuminated
when you live in 3D.
I see in surround sound.

Inside each single second is om;
contained in every moment
is hardcore romanticism,
If you let it.

And you should.

Written January 2010

I have a new take on New Years Resolutions this year – I’ve decided on an ongoing, ever-changing goal. I’m going to do all the things that scare me. I really want to kick my own ass this year. I want to challenge my perception of who I am and what I can do. There are a few things I’ve already thought of that come under the umbrella of terrifying me, but I think a lot of things will pop up throughout the year that I didn’t even realise I found disconcerting. I’m going to add the Little List of Ass-Kickery in a menu on the right and blog about the hilarity, hysteria, hideousness and/or hostility that ensues.

You know The Things I’m talking about. You have The Things. The Things which intrigue you so, and niggle at a corner of your mind for weeks, months, or years at a time. But alas, it’s such a big leap/foreign notion/uncharted territory that you don’t know what to expect, and subsequently never act on it. Yep, those are The Things I’m going to be doing this year.
I’ve thought about it, and it turned into one of those funny yes/no answer flow charts inside my brain.

Do you act on one of these such Things?
No: You wonder about how things might be different if you ever got up the courage to (blank) whilst you sit among your myriad cats and inwardly curse the people living your dream.
Yes:
Was it a positive experience?
No: You wasted your time and maybe got a bit of an adrenaline high, but as least you won’t have to wonder ‘what if’ for the rest of your days.
Yes: You achieved something that had you doubting yourself, proving that A. you are awesome, and B. you can do anything that you decide to. You might discover an unknown passion, or a possible new career path. You automatically have a new thing to brag about at parties. People will like you, or at least be jealous of you, and that’s the main thing, right?

Whilst we’re on topic, what are your resolutions, y’all?  Do you even bother making them anymore?
The ‘What is your New Years Resolution?’ board in my building is primarily filled with ‘Eat more healthily’ (original, right?), except for my personal favourite: “Try to loose (sic) wait (sic) so I can be healthyer (sic) and be less gasey (sic).” And isn’t being less gasey what it’s all about?

Written September 2009

You need to put yourself out there if you want to invite the Universe in. Be open to new notions, accept invitations, go somewhere different with someone you’ve just met.

Make yourself available to the Universe. It can’t bring you amazing things if you don’t let It.

(written August 2009)

Rensselaer, Indiana

I was lying in bed this morning thinking about this one particular day in America, and I thought that it was just so absurd I should blog about it so that a) everyone could laugh at my misfortune, and b) I wouldn’t forget any of the details. You should know, this story is 1000% true – I’m not making up, or even exaggerating a single thing. Which is unusual for me, right?

So, let’s set the scene. It’s my last week in America. We’ve already been to Los Angeles, Anaheim, Las Vegas, Cincinnati and we’re about to hit the last place on the ‘to do’ list – Chicago. It’s a Sunday. Oh – and it’s Steve’s birthday. We made the three-hour drive from Cincinnati to Purdue the night before, and stayed in Steve’s apartment, so we could drive the two hours to Chicago in the morning. We paid for a room in this sweet hotel in downtown Chicago, so we were all set!

We begin our journey by getting McGriddles, as we did most days that month, then we start to head north. We drive for about an hour, when –CLUNK- something loud happens in the enginal-region, and the car stops moving. On the highway. In the middle of Indiana. We roll to the edge of the highway, and get out of the car. Steve calls his Dad. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry – I think I did a bit of both. We have to call a tow truck, but we have no idea where we are (apparently ‘on the side of a highway in Indiana’ doesn’t cut it). There is a road sign about 50 metres behind us, so we start to walk back to it.

We’re wading through grass that reaches halfway up our shins, when we hear a faint squeaking sound. I freeze, shooting Steve a look that says, Holy shit did you hear that what the hell was that noise?! Steve replies, “mice,” as if it’s totally normal for mice to just hang out in long grass on the side of the road. Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m wearing flimsy ballet flats, and I can somehow feel every blade of grass rubbing on my bare ankles. I start walking quicker, lifting my feet very high out of the grass, hoping that less contact with the ground will equate to less mice running up my legs and eating me alive. We reach the giant sign that both taunts us that Chicago is still an hour away, and informs us that we are, in fact, in Rensselaer, Indiana.

Where the fuck is Rensselaer, Indiana?

After sprinting back to the car, I launch myself into the passenger seat from 3 metres away. Steve tells me you’re not meant to sit in a car on the side of the highway, in case some drunk guy is swerving around and clips your car at 100 miles an hour. I’m torn between annihilation by a drunk guy’s car, and grass mice. I choose mice.

Cut to one hour later, and we’re sitting in Paul’s tow truck. He says he can take us to the mechanic recommended by Steve’s insurance people, but they probably won’t be open because it’s Sunday. Paul is right. He is also a mechanic, which works out well for us, so he takes us back to his shop. I think his shop must has been in the city centre, because it was across the road from a CVS Pharmacy, and next door to a decrepit JCPenney’s. We sit inside his mechanic shop, keeping ourselves entertained by reading ‘A Place Prepared For You’, a booklet about heaven that Paul has a big stack of. I start to feel uncomfortable. Paul says that the car’s timing belt broke, and that he can fix it, but it could take a week. Also it may cost $2000. He advises us to go to Plan B.

Okay, we say, we’ll catch the train to Chicago.
Sorry, Amtrak tells us, there is only one train through Rensselaer every three days, and you missed it.
We also learned that the Greyhound doesn’t run on Sundays. And the Amtrak doesn’t even go back to Cincinnati from there. And that there is one hire car company in Rensselaer – something like Johnny’s Top Notch Car Hire, not even a legitimate company like Budget or whatever. But being a Sunday, of course they’re closed.

Apparently our only option is to stay in Rensselaer for the night, and figure out something in the morning. There is one hotel in Rensselaer – a Holiday Inn, next to Elmer’s Old Farm (seriously). It’s also next to McDonalds and Arby’s – arguably the most happening part of town. We check ourselves in and, in between trying to get a refund for our hotel in Chicago, research every possible way to get the hell out of Rensselaer. By this time it’s about 9:30am, so we head over to Mcdonald’s for Steve’s Birthday Breakfast, which requires us to walk through head-height grass. I turn into a quivering mess as I relive all the horrible memories of the Highway Mice. I see a furry thing and freak the fuck out, only to realize that it’s just a bunny, and is actually really cute.

There are paddocks of this six-feet-long grass, broken up by gigantic cornfields, as far as the eye could see. The sky is menacing, full of big, fat, grey clouds that are threatening to open up at any moment. This was the closest I have ever felt to being in the movie Twister. It was kind of fun pretending, as long as I didn’t actually have to take refuge in a terrifying barn, or be Helen Hunt. We play in the parking lot of the Arbys, skimming stones in puddles left by a storm the night before, then go back to hang out in our room at the Hotel-Motel-Holiday Inn – but not before a stinky drunk woman in the elevator screeches at us to “stop having so much fun!!!!!”

Hours later, we decide to drown our sorrows with some Arby’s milkshakes (if reconstituted “dairy” products can’t cheer one up, what can?). Arby’s tell us their milkshake machine is broken. I could have cried at this point. We settle for some Jalapeno Poppers, and have a brain wave – maybe there’s a train that goes back to the apartment in Lafayette, and we can get a hire car to drive back to Cincinnati in the morning. We haul ass through the Twister grass, back to the room to get on the Amtrak website. Result! There was a train going to Lafayette in two hours, but the Amtrak station was more than two miles away. And of course there is no cab service in Rensselaer – why would they have a taxi service in a town with a population of 8? So, we have to walk, carrying all the luggage we had brought for our four-day stay in Chicago. We cross our fingers that our Twister jokes don’t come true for the next two hours, and head down to reception.

Steve stops. “The keys are in the car.”
“What?”
“The keys to my apartment, they’re on my car keys. Paul has them.”
Shit.
Luckily for us Paul was the nicest guy ever, and not some crazy murderer. He got the keys, came and picked us up, and dropped us at the train station.
“You two aren’t having much luck today,” he points out observantly.
“It’s Steve’s birthday,” I tell him. He laughs ruefully and wishes Steve a happy birthday. Steve laughs. It really is lucky that we were able to laugh at the whole situation, or we probably would have killed ourselves that day.

It’s about 6:00pm, and we sit at the Amtrak station, which is a train track with a 1.5m x 2m shack next to it. Inside the shack is a sign with the Mayor of Rensselaer’s phone number, asking people to call the Mayor and tell him if they use the Amtrak service from there. Presumably this is because no one has come to, or left Rensselaer in 500 years, so people utilizing their rail system is a big success for the town. We wait for about 25 minutes, musing that after this day there was no way the train was going to show up, and that we would likely be kidnapped before we ever got back to Cincinnati. We hear a faint rumbling, and see a light approaching in the distance. Cue our cheering and clapping and high-fiving each other, as if we had accomplished some really great feat. The conductor tells us we weren’t on her manifest since we booked our tickets so late, and they almost didn’t stop for us. I could have kissed her.

Ninety minutes later, we roll into West Lafayette. Steve had packed a dress shirt and tie for the fancy pants dinner we planned and, not wanting to forfeit this rare opportunity to wear nice clothes, he fished them out of his suitcase and put them on outside the train station. It was a Sunday night in a college town on summer break, so everything was closed except for a cheap Chinese takeaway place. We order our fancy ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ dinner, which is presented to us on a tray, accompanied by a fortune cookie for each of us. Steve picked up his tray, and to his delight, his fortune cookie packet contained not one, but two cookies. It must have been his lucky day.