sunday

I first saw these at … Z Gallerie, but I just saw them again at Urban Outfitters. I’m talking about sticky note pads that say either “Deal With This” or “Complaint” followed by clever multi-choice check boxes and space for writing notes. The company Knock Knock also makes clever pads for grocery shopping, packing list, shit list, and even a comeback list, you know, just in case you think of a comeback hours after the taunt. Other oddities include a dating kit that serves as a dossier file for all the dates you’ve been on and even the ones you want to forget. If you’re terrible at writing thank-you notes or haven’t brushed up on your manners, there’s even the perfect solution for that: a Multiple Choice Correspondence kit. Why write longhand when there’s a multiple-choice letter to suit every life occasion? From breakups to noisy neighbors to nuptials, this kit is at turns hilarious, poignant, and downright utilitarian. I’m sure there’s something in there for everyone.

Blake Ross, one of the founders of Firefox, writes on his blog that he has a problem with Google’s policy of promoting their own products over competitors’ in search results. His main gripe is that the tips (e.g. “Tip: Want to share pictures? Try Google’s Picasa Web Albums”) result in an inability for other products to compete for the top slot on Google.

Things I’ll miss about Cali…

11. People drive fast (stupid DCists)
10. Great service in restaurants
9. Jack in the Box
8. In-and-Out Burger
7. Togo’s
6. Authentic chinese food (and dim sum!)
5. Monday, my 325i
4. The beach
3. The warm weather in December
2. Shopping in San Francisco
1. It’s Cali, what else?

Oh yeah, there’s no smoking in bars/restaurants/clubs.

Lately I’ve been pretty easily aggravated by the little things. I’m not if it’s the holiday season that’s stressing me out or what, but I’m pretty much a bitch.

Yesterday was possibly the worst flight I’ve ever had. And that’s not saying much, because I know a lot of people have gone through worse. But my two-hour flight delay due to getting the lagging baggage onto the plane and then computer breakdown in Chicago, didn’t really make me feel any better. The screaming baby sitting in front of me didn’t really help either, but good thing I had my iPod and no sleep.

Hrmm, for some reason when I thought about blogging this yesterday, I had a lot more to complain about.

Columnist James Lee documents his hour-long session with gamer Xena. The professional gamer, Bonnie, is one of nine instructors at the internet-based franchise called Gaming Lessons. You can order half-hour, one-hour, or teamwork lessons from a bunch of high school kids ranging from $15 to $35 per hour (I think the lessons are strictly for Halo 2). You can even check out the instructors’ profiles and all the tournaments (and non-first place awards) they’ve attended. A pretty hefty resume, for some. Yes, some of the instructors have “sold-out” lessons…are they really that good or are people really that desperate? Surprisingly, or maybe not, Bonnie isn’t as bad looking as I had expected.

I’m all for the occasional (and the routine) get-together-for-some-massive-kills in Halo 2. But making a career out of professional gaming? I think we’ve gone a little too far. But I guess America isn’t called the “land of opportunity” for nothing.

This is the first time living on my own and (almost) completely financially independent. I’ve come to realize that the big city and the real world is not all chalked up as we thought when we were little. Back then, we had these big fancy dreams of becoming a doctor, a lawyer, an actress, the star athlete, and the occasional serial murderer. But then we went to high school, got serious about SATs and APs and consumed ourselves with more acronyms and numbers. In college, we found our niches (well, some of us did…some are still waiting for that dare-to-be-great situation) and all we think about is the day when we don’t have to do homework for the rest of our lives and start getting paid and have money to spend on lavish goods.

I never quite reached that last part. All I knew was that I wanted to relive those four years over and over again. Sort of like the movie “Groundhog Day”; if I had to repeat one day for the rest of my life, it could still be the worst day I had in college and I’d take it.

But back to what this post is really about. Entering the real world made me realize there are a lot of fucking morons out there, and not everyone you meet has the best intention for you. You’ve definitely got to look out for yourself more, and if you’re lucky, your geographically proximal friends will too. But if you’re like me and have geographically challenged friends and family, you’re pretty much on your own, only left with the internet and your cell phone for means of communication to the past.

These days, you’re so worried about paying the bills, impressing that cute admin at work, not losing your cool with the old lady who insists on turning on the fluorescent lights in your office, and just general adulthood. I’ve gotten so caught up with everything around me that I’ve forgotten about me. I’ve forgotten how funny I can be (I do occasionally still make myself crack up, as sad as that is), how long my legs are, how thin I really am, yet not as skinny as I’d like to be, how self-sufficient I am, how pouty and red my lips are, how intelligent I am, my humility (ironic), how blind I’m becoming without my glasses, how dry my skin is, how I wish my teeth were straighter, how sexy I can be, how independent and confident I was, how beautiful my soul was and most importantly, who I was. I say “was” because of the changes I’ve underwent since graduating; I’ve become a different person and had basically lost all self-confidence. My first (albeit, slightly illegitimate) job out of college definitely made me something I was not. I had to be perky, outgoing, social, and effectually presumptuous–all of which I forced myself to be for the job. And somehow, after I left that workplace, I kept all those things and left me…somewhere.

I was afraid my new self has overtaken the old me, and I was afraid I couldn’t get the old me back. But I took some time out tonight and looked myself in the mirror. I didn’t just glance and notice the remaining acne on my forehead and the love handles hanging over my sweats, I examined myself in the mirror as if I were seeing myself for the very first time. Call me vain, self-absorbed, egotistical, but it was therapeutic to take a good look and see myself as I used to see me back in high school. I want to remember my jutting collarbone, the squareness of my shoulders, the curving line in my back. I don’t lose sight of myself again.

You may tire of me as our December sun is setting
Cause I’m not who I used to be
No longer easy on the eyes but these wrinkles masterfully disguise
The youthful boy below
Who turned your way and saw
Something he was not looking for
Both a beginning and an end
But now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
When he catches his reflection on accident

On the back of a motor bike
With your arms outstretched trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind
But even at our swiftest speed we couldn’t break from the concrete
In the city where we still resigned.
And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea-light navy men
Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed

—”Brothers on a Hotel Bed”, Death Cab for Cutie

SOUTH BEND, IND. — Thieves are stealing oven doors, repackaging them in Wal-Mart boxes and selling them on the street as flat screen TVs. The asking price — which includes a power cord and remote control — is $500, although the crooks can reportedly be haggled down to $250. “If you’re going to buy something from someone, make sure you open it up first,” advised Leann Day, whose boyfriend brought home an oven door for the living room. “Especially if you’re not buying it from the store.”

Thanks Leann, let’s just hope the rest of the human population isn’t as dumb as your boyfriend.

For decades Japan’s love hotels have provided a place for couples to enjoy anonymous, uninterrupted sex. Politician and secretary, teacher and student, husband and hooker — all are welcome, as long as they pay in cash and leave when the time limit is up. But 2006 spawned a new type of love hotel. Decorated with theme park interiors and equipped with game consoles, karaoke boxes and sex machines — these establishments provide kinky fun for all types, from fetishists and sadomasochists to the ordinary couple seeking sexual adventure.

In her new book, Love Hotels, American photographer Misty Keasler portrays some of the newest, most creative love hotels in Japan.

I think bondage and S&M are complete turn offs; it’s kinda creepy, sick, and it’s just…too excessive. What ever happened to good old missionary sex? Are you that bad in bed that you need props to create excitement? Or maybe it’s just a personality thing. And most ironic of all, these “love hotels” are found in a country where its people are stereotyped to be quiet and polite. Anyways, here’s one of the rooms. Isn’t that just…disturbing?

You can’t fondle a child riding a pony at a real carnival, but in the Carousel Room, anything goes. Pedophiles can live out their fantasies in this private chamber without the fear of arrest or being accosted. And if they can’t coax a real child into some merry-go-round fun, they can just stare at the images of the gleeful toddlers on the wall while they masturbate.

The good burghers of the Swedish village of Fjuckby have decided they’ve had enough of being the butt of fjuck jokes and are demanding a rebrand, The Local reports.

The Fjuckers finger globalisation as the principal cause of their woes, which “has led to rude English-language associations that the villagers could do without”. To add insult to injury, Fjuckby also contains the Swedish word juck, meaning “fuck” in the local lingo.

Accordingly, Katriina Flensburg wrote a heartfelt letter to the National Heritage Board on behalf of her fellow Fjuckers. It read: “There should not be any doubt at all that, as a result of relatively new associations, the pronunciation and spelling of the place name ‘Fjuckby’ today arouses ridicule, teasing, and hilarity in the general public.

“This regrettable fact engenders feelings of weariness, embarrassment and conditioned shame among villagers, who are often forced against their will to take a tiresome ‘defensive stance’ with regard to the name of their home town.”

The solution to the problem is, the locals reckon, a reinstatement of the name Fjukeby which “as late as the 1930s this was the accepted spelling”.

We don’t think this news will be well received in the Austrian village of Fucking (see an excerpt below). In 2004, the residents voted defiantly to keep their name, despite carloads of sniggering Brits nicking their roadsigns.

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Hauppl explained: “We had a vote last year on whether to rename the town, but decided to keep it as it is. After all, Fucking has existed for 800 years, probably when a Mr Fuck or the Fuck family moved into the area. The ‘ing’ was added as a word for settlement.”

We reckon that Fucking has been around a lot longer than 800 years, otherwise there wouldn’t have been any Fucks to lend their name to the village in the first place, would there?

One of my favorite shows, but too bad it’s on so late at night that I’m already passed out by then.

Here’s my favorite episode–Monster Edition on Sinkers and Floaters. The poor Japanese souls, as if landing on the right rock without falling into the water isn’t a challenge in itself, they have to do it in some ridiculous costume that barely even allows them to move. Check out Mr. Totem Pole and his attempt to fly to freedom before he goes down hard (the Impact Replay shows him frantically flapping his wings). Or the guy after him, who is I guess some sort of blob, gasping for air and swimming for his life because his costume nearly drowned him. And then there’s the green ball with a door slit for eyes who couldn’t even make it over the hill to the starting position. Well, you get the point, just watch the video :)