In my lameness at not joining my comrades, I trolled down Seamus O’blogroll to catch up, and if y’all aren’t reading Skot from Izzle Pfaff!, a pox on you because he’s freakin’ BRILLIANT. Immerse yourself in the beauty of his prose, will ya?

Some months ago, Budweiser had the astonishingly shitty idea of teaming up with Clamato to release this . . . beverage that they called “Chelada,” a perversion of a perfectly fine Southwest/Mexican drink tradition of leavening shitty lager with tomato juice, lime and salt in order to create a refreshing summer drink (I swear this is true). And when it came out, J. managed to sneak a can of it into my fridge as a joke; when I discovered the offending thing, I swore to him that I would make him drink it.

This was the night. I pulled out the giant can--24 deathless ounces--and squinted apprehensively at the label, which, yes, was still trumpeting the good sense of this collison of Budweiser and Clamato. With a coroner’s clinical eye, I examined the “nutritional information” boxlet, and encountered this terrifying fragment: “Contains shellfish/clams.” I clouted J. about the head and torso and wept at our fate.

I poured the stuff into a couple of glasses; pinkish and wan, it looked like poorly oxygenated blood, or perhaps a pleural effusion. It bore virtually no head whatsoever, the carbonation presumably overcome by the angry, imprisoned shellfish/clam zombies. Even pouring it was dispiriting, like watching suicides falling from tall buildings. We smelled our samples and were not encouraged: it was a hellishly chemical lime nose that seemed to grouchily throw punches at the only other olfactory note, which was a sickly tomatoesque sweetness. Finally, we took a sip.

This was possibly as close to the American tradition of St. Patrick’s Day that we got that evening. For one brief horrifying moment, J. and I drank an alcoholic beverage that was, for all intents and purposes, like drinking pure, unadulterated malignity. For a mere moment, we were as one with all of those douchebags out there in all of those Stygian Irish bars, drinking the undrinkable.

I ask you: Is there anything better than Journey’s “Escape?” Ok, don’t answer that unless you could totally see yourself getting past the cheese factor and hitting Steve Perry’s upper range like I am this very second. Scott Malchus featured it on his “Mix 6” of songs with great drummers last week, and it’s like I’m right back in 6th grade, when I bought the same-named album for “Stone in Love.” ("Open Arms?” Pssssshhhht. That was for pussies. I was a hardass in middle school.) Good stuff.

I wish, though, that these guys wouldn’t mix their choices all together in one giant mp3; with just 857.1 megs left on my new iPod, I’m loathe to throw huge files on it. Does anyone know how to break up a giant mp3, perhaps?

All you Neanderpundit people sneaking over here without saying anything. What’s up with the lurking? I mean, I KNOW y’all ain’t shy ...

My Pinoy Name is Ma Estrella Olinda Jun-Jun Quilong-quilong.
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Check this out: I’ve been invited as a permanent poster over at Cat Raggedy, joining the ranks of Cat Rags and col, another hot piece of ass. Got my own log-in and everything. So now, I can lay on the couch and think about all the things I should be writing about for two blogs instead of one. Excellent.

Seriously, go over, if for nothing else than to see the sexy design mel whipped up for her over the weekend. Bitch gots an eye, no question.

I’ve added another pretend celebrity boyfriend to my menagerie, and his name is Liam. Observe:

Muffins

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Discover more about him @ here.

As if on cue to brighten my existential despair, the mail delivered my mix CD from my pretend Innernet boyfriend today. Gotta say, it’s much mellower than I pictured coming from the dude who endured ghost-writing Paris Hilton’s dog’s biography, but really, really good. (I, too, love Yello now.) Below, I give you the lyrics to “Make It Rain,” by Tom Waits—not as a peek into the window of my utterly defeated, foul mood, but because man, have you heard this dude’s voice? I mean, I know everyone has, but seriously. I forgot how ... odd it is. Seriously. Good song, though.

Now I got Weird Al’s “White and Nerdy” stuck in my head. And I never even heard “Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty” before that.

Took the day off to take part in a market research study for Vox (another thing Zoot digs, so it’s all about Zoot today, it seems) and then took Mother to her post-op appointment for her second cataract surgery (which is fine, she’s fine, etc.). Gorged ourselves on faux Mexican, and then I came home to await my small brother’s arrival with the DVD player I bought off him. (Check it OUT, Tara! I’ve made it to the LATE ‘90s in terms of my viewing technology now. Woooooo!) He’s fine, if a little bummed right now because someone he considered a friend is being an asshole. It’s not like he’s losing tons of sleep over it, but still, it’s annoying. And he burned me his latest mix CD—he’s quite the mixer, much more talented with music than I ever was—so I need to pop that in the ol’ playa and see what he mixed up this time.

Since I’ve been shamelessly ripping offinspired by topics Heather’s recently covered, I thought I might bring another one over here to perhaps draw out the lurkers (because those stats I see in my cPanel everyday canNOT be all pr0n spammers). Last week when she was pimping out her friend’s book on good blog topics, she asked her readers what they consider dating dealbreakers. So I pose the question to you: What qualities/habits are so offensive to you in another person that you would run from the room screaming, figuratively or literally?

[UPDATED TO ADD: For our purposes, cheaters and beaters are going to be classified as “understood,” since they should be, anyway, and I know few people who would be like, “Yeah! I WANT my man/woman to cheat on/beat on me!"]

thanks to mac the knitting goddess: sweater_de_la_sprog.jpg

You know, because little ladies need to think about appearances and shtuff. Besides, with all the stuff she got at her mom’s baby shower, it looks like Pink barfed in her closet.

Amalah (The Queen of Everything) has a really good discussion on depression going on over at her crib today: Lookit. Especially good is that no trolls have come by to piss up the rope, though now that I’ve said something, betcha someone will be a dumbass. At any rate, it’s worth a look.

so I direct you over to New York comic Banterist, who takes a cheeky stab at the latest journalism fuck-up: Lookit.

The Zionists laughing at Gallagher is my favie.