Local Blogger Seriously Injured in Freak Raining Bricks Accident

When asked for an interview, "Mean Rachel," as she is known on the Internets, jumped at the chance.  "I'd always wanted to be seriously injured," she said.  "Now at least everyone who made Christopher Reeves jokes about me when I hurt my back riding will shut up."
Mean Rachel stated that this accident, while tragic, may finally thrust her into the national spotlight.  "Being a rejected bachelorette," Mean Rachel explained ruefully, "just didn't seem to do it."

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My deltoids called. They want their life back.

So for the last few days I have been basically creeping around like an old woman, unable to do daily routine things like, I dunno, wash my hair...steer a car...lift my arms beyond the horizon line.

My hiatus from boot camp was probably up there with "flying on American Airlines with a connecting flight in Dallas" and "opening the door to a magazine salesman" on my list of Stupidest Plans Ever. Since I have returned to the boot, I have essentially stopped being able to move and you would think that my four week hiatus fueled entirely by edamame and hard liquor cause every muscle in my body to subsequently shrivel up and die, while at the same time causing all of the neuropathways (or whatever the hell the things are that tell my ass to get moving) in my brain to completely reroute my muscle memory directly to the bar at The Marq.

McD has really cooked up some new misery since I was gone, including things that sound like cool movies ("The Three Hundred?") but really are just horrible extensions of what we already do. There also is a new "fitness assessment" where we try to cram all of our personal bests (i.e. I can shuffle around a mile in less than twenty minutes and then attempt to do three push ups before I start sobbing) into one morning. Great. I also have noticed that now we are expected to "jump." As if. You know the saying "women don't sweat, they perspire?" Well, now you can add to it, "women don't jump, they flip the hell out."

However I did come up with an exercise of my own today in a moment of clarity while I was staring at the sky thinking of how comfortable it would be to fall asleep on a dirty mat outside in the cold while stretching my hamstring. It's called Lean Like a Cholo Lateral Raises. Oh I think you know where I'm headed with this. Elbows up, side to side (with your five pound weights of course).

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Can you help me get out of bed? (A solicitation of funds)

My boot camp buddies/tormentors talked me into running the Race for the Cure 5K this Sunday. While I'm not sure how I feel about waking up before noon on a weekend, I do know that there's a lot we could be doing to find a cure. So at the very least, I can get out of bed.

I'm asking for anyone who has it to please donate $10.

Here are things you can get for $10 (please select the most important thing):

1) Cure for cancer
2) Double Latte + blueberry muffin at Starbucks
3) Box of Clementine oranges.
4) A shirt at Old Navy
5) Like, maybe three gallons of gas.

Click here to go to my page.

While you're at it, visit the Austin Adventure Boot Camp Team Page.

Thanks guys! Every step counts!

If you want to know what the heck I'm talking about:
I recently accepted the challenge to raise funds to support the Komen Austin Race for the Cure® on Sunday, November 4th in the fight against breast cancer. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime and the more we raise, the more the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation Austin Affilliate can give back to fund vital breast cancer education, screening and treatment programs in our own community and support the national search for a cure.

Please join me in the fight by donating to the Komen Austin Race for the Cure®. Your tax-deductible contribution will fund innovative outreach and awareness programs for medically underserved communities in our area and national breast cancer research. It is faster and easier than ever to support this great cause - you can make a donation online by simply clicking on the link at the bottom of this message. If you would prefer, you can also send your tax-deductible contribution to the address listed below. Whatever you can give will help! I truly appreciate your support and will keep you posted on my progress.

Click here to go to my page.
Mail your contribution, including my name, to:
Komen Austin
PO Box 2164
Austin, TX 78768

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The Bachelor: Episode 6

Subtitled: The Parent Crap

We start off in J*nni's homtown city of PHX. J*nni rvals sh won $50 at hr first danc comptition. Obviously this was one of those "everybody's a winner!" competitions where the first kid who doesn't fall down or start crying on stage gets a prize.
I'm personally a little amazed that J*nni didn't turn into a pageant queen, given her affinity for babydoll blouses and her mom's hair salon. But I guess that goes to show you why I never was in a beauty pageant. My mom's hair salon was a sink, a pair of scissors and bar stool in the middle of the kitchen and usually ended in a screaming match and with me resembling a Shih Tzu.


Now, for the Weirdest! Home! Visit! Ever! I can tell just by looking at the parking lot of the salon. Oh yes. Here we are in Nascar Nation.
Wait. I'm confused. Is the grandmother Bob Guiney in a fat suit? She does come up with the best, most senile line probably ever uttered outside a hot tub: "That lady ain't no walkin' baby factory." You said it, sister!
J*nni's mom decides to show that the way to a man's heart is through his...hair? We also get to witness a demoralizing moment of Brad with his head wrapped up in a blue towel. This reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where they talk about how men shouldn't just wander around naked. Now J*nni's dad interviews Alfalfa. Oh wait, that's Brad, apparently sporting the cutting-edge skid-row Phoenix hairstyle.
Uh oh! J*nni won a spot on the dance team! Now Brad has the perfect reason to ditch her. Things people over the age of 18 should not have to say when discussing long term relationships: "So, you made the team huh?" "I can imagine him at a game watching me dance!"
Ah Brad says "If it's true love, a year apart means nothing." Truer words, truer words. Unless the Phoenix Suns go on a USO tour of Baghdad, you'll be set.


Now we're in Walnut Creek, Cali, wherever the hell that is. It's only suiting that Team Sheena's folks roll up on a boat. That's how we roll. We write creepy poems, fall down stairs, accept blood diamonds as gifts, and cruise around in boats whenever possible.
Sheena's mom is selling Sheena hard, and this kind of reminds me of that song "Fancy." Now we've turned to astrological signs. That's when things get spooky. A little "Oh hey, you're a scorpio?" is okay. But when you start comparing the people's eyes...I give up. I can't even ridicule this to the full extent I'd like to because words fail me. I don't even understand what she's saying. Sheena's ready for marriage? Beverly's ready for marriage? They're both ready for marriage?
Oh thank God, Sheena cuts in. Quick, Sheena, bite it on some stairs or break out the Robert Frost. Do something before Beverly has some sort of Crossing Over moment with her deceased uncle.

Coming up: More funky-smelling houses and dominant fathers causing awkward moments.


DeAnna's got a basket of peaches and The Bachelor's got some sort of bottle of booze. I would like someone to take a straw poll out of this crowd as to who has been to the Cyclorama.
The sisters have a chat about what-ifs and DeAnna's sister plays the Debbie Downer of the crowd.

Okay! THANK GOD the crazy old people just showed up, because I thought we were going to go to commercial and I only had 3 sentences written. Crazy old Papu brings a bottle ouzo and I'm reminded of the time when my sister did shots of some alcohol that a former client of mine had brought back from Oslo and was pushing at a dinner party a few years ago. Grace, do you remember the name of that stuff? I literally had to carry you out of the place and deposit you in bed.

Anyway, even despite the introduction of ouzo, things don't get much more exciting. I find as the field narrows, I run out of people with webbed feet and Christian morals & values to write about.

Let's talk about the Sox and how the won the World Series. While we're at it, who thinks that Papelbon and I favor each other (our profiles)? Mrhe doesn't believe me.


Now we're in Washington, D.C., home of the Golddigger. Bettina, as she is known to others, apparently comes from a family that closely resembles Martha Focker's in Meet the Parents.

Bettina's dad starts to grill Brad on his lack of education and his career. Brad is being way more diplomatic than I would be in this situation. I would have pointed out by now that Bettina is a realtor. When was the last time you needed a college degree or anything other than a set of veneers to be a realtor?

Bettina and Brad talk. Brad now looks thoroughly pissed and disgusted. As well he should be. Time to offload Golddigger.



Rose time. DeAnna gets the first rose. This doesn't seem like that tight of a race. Ditch Golddigger! Even crazy Astrological Beverly isn't as bad as a crazy Judgmental Dad. Maybe The Bachelor wants to show them that he's not stringing anyone along.

Team Sheena, out. No more weird poems or falling down stairs? Now what will I write about? I certainly won't be able to root for any of the others.
Aw, I feel bad for the gal. She was doing so good with the waterworks.



Damn, what a downer of an episode. I'm still all worked up about Bettina's asshat dad. But next week are the overnight dates in Cabo. Hopefully I can find more stuff to ridicule next week. These families really ruined my Monday.

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If you're continuing on to Las Vegas from here, please stay seated.

Today, Chrisy, her boyfriend Clay, my dad and I all flew up to Lake Whitney State Park. The idea was conceived -- as all fabulous ideas are -- in a bar, the Mean Eyed Cat to be exact, last week. Chrissy and I were bemoaning our existence and how we wanted to go hiking somewhere this weekend. I told her that I refused to go anywhere local since how many times can you circle around the Greenbelt commenting on the beauty of cedar trees?
I jokingly said we should go to Big Bend, and she said "Oh, okay" and I said "No, really, my dad could fly us." Apparently I never told Chrissy during our three-year friendship that my dad knows how to fly and not only that but has four planes and a flight school at his disposal.
We decided that Big Bend would take too long and originally were going to fly to Corpus Christi, since we'd been there before on a fly out and it's easy to get around on the beach without a car. But due to some scheduling conflicts we decided that even that would take too long so we finally settled on Lake Whitney State Park, which is just north east of Crawford and northwest of Waco.

My dad has a been flying for almost fifteen years now. It started off originally as a hobby but in true Farris style, he decided that he liked it so much he'd make a living out of it. He got certified as a flight instructor and then realized that he could capitalize on the local UT flying club by buying a plane and leasing it back to them, while continuing to teach his lessons in the plane. The first plane he bought was a '77 Cessna 172 with the call sign of N733CP, which we call "3CharliePapa" or just "CharliePapa." Most people don't know that Chubby Charles got her name from CharliePapa (I thought she was a boy, and I knew my dad hated cats, so I called decided to call him/her Charlie.). If it seems like I'm a little OCD about the name of the plane, it's because I figure if I personify the plane, it won't kill me in a fiery crash. CharliePapa seems like a stable, forgiving name. My dad has two other Cessnas and an Aerobat, which one of his flight instructors teaches aerobatic lessons in. But I've only ever been up in CharliePapa -- I'm not sure how it's always worked out that way but it has.

Clay, Chrisy & my dad on the tarmac.

We got out to the airport and after the men grabbed the obligatory styrofoam cup of coffee ("Here's Clay and George...drinkin' some weak coffee...bein' a man..."), we headed out to the planes for the pre-flight check. For me, the pre-flight check is stand around and admire the men who drive the fuel trucks and hope that my dad doesn't scream at me to hand him a tie-down or anything.

Chrisy, CharliePapa and me.

Clay was the co-pilot on the way up to Lake Whitney and since we didn't crash, I'd say he did a pretty stand-up job. Something was wrong with the outgoing sound on my headset so whenever I wanted to talk/scream/recap the emergency procedures, I had to grab Chrisy's mike and talk into it. It was cozy in the back.

It took us about an hour to get up to the park (we were heading into the wind) and when we got there, we landed on probably the shortest runway I have ever seen. I'm not sure I could stop my car at 100 mph in less than 2000 feet. We noticed as we landed a group of...locals, I guess, who were staring at us like we came from outer space.

Turns out it was the Whitney Area Miniature Airplane Club. I kid you not. These guys had created a serious hobby out of remote control air craft, and were teaching flying lessons on the miniature planes. They also had trailers filled with supplies and tools used for maintaining and flying their planes. At first they seemed like they were a little offended we were on their runway but then one of the men came over to check out CharliePapa.

MikeBravo and CharliePapa.

We then wandered to the park's main HQ, got the trail map and set off down the road to the hiking trail. We were all starving (aside from Chrisy's gummi bears and goldfish, we apparently all thought that state parks now have a McDonald's or something in them). Chrisy, the ultimate bird-watcher, was on the look out for the elusive painted bunting but we never saw one.

Chrisy & Clay

We headed back south this evening, and stopped in Taylor to refuel the plane and ourselves (sidenote: jet fuel is cheaper than car fuel). I started singing "Highway to the Danger Zone," since I can't look at a tarmac with planes on it at sunset without thinking I've time-warped into Top Gun.

CharliePapa & my papa

Anyway, we had a great time. A big shoutout goes to my dad for putting up with us and taking us on a busman's holiday up to Lake Whitney. Also: RED SOX ARE WORLD SERIES CHAMPS, DID YA HEAR?!

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The superior race?

Thanks Gingy for sending this.



Sox are 3-0 in the Series. I'm not allowed to talk about it other than that, due to Cashmoney's ties to the Rockies.

Speaking of Cashmoney, here's to not giving a good-goddamn: The MANTage. Like a Woody Allen New York montage on steroids.

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Still Registering

I am going to preface this entry with a statement that I haven't talked about this a lot (okay, at all) on my blog because I thought it seemed like it would be breaking whatever nonexistent relationship rules exist in our modern age. But it occurred to me today, after I sat here for twenty minutes thinking about writing and wanting to write about this, that this is my forum to write in and it's the reader's decision to read it. But this is about me. At the end of the day, he was my boyfriend and we broke up. On paper, it seems so simple.

Three hundred and seventy one days have passed since IS2 left for Iraq. This week marked the one year point, a date last October I could not get my mind around. The irony for me now is how quickly it seemed to go by.

This time last year, I was miserable. I honestly don't remember much of it. I remember him leaving, watching someone that I loved so very much walk off into the night I hated the situation with all of my soul at that moment -- the psychologically disturbing affect of having to stumble out into the chill at three in the morning to deliver someone to a ominous army base. There were no billowing American flags, no blue skies and people waving and cheering while the soldiers climbed up into giant shiny planes. There was a dark place I'd never been to and I watched long enough to see him disappear, and then I got in his car and left.

Grief often comes in the form of denial. But I don't even think that denial is the right word for what I have trained myself to do. My grief is my acceptance, an almost Stockholm syndrome of conditioning myself to accept his departure from my life for a year, and ultimately forever. I have spent my life fighting for everything I wanted, but with this, there has been no fight. There's no sadness, no day-to-day emotional rock bottom. Just a complacent realization that when I watched him walk away, I lost what was the most important thing to me.

I wrote this on Memorial Day, and at the time chose not to post it. I don't know why but at the time I didn't feel like sharing it. Now I do.



The day was dry and the air was roasting with the kind of oppressive dry heat that hits you when you emerge from air conditioning, daring you to take another step forward into the wrath of the brutal Texas sun. The day was dry and hot and it carried with it inevitability.

I had known about the picnic a month in advance, but just like everything else before he left, I denied its arrival until I found myself sitting in his car, the fingers of his right hand woven through my left hand, resting on my left knee. I stared at our hands and pleaded with myself to remember the feeling, trying to memorize the touch of something that soon would be gone. I felt the heaviness of the event before we even got to Lake Belton, where the Army owned a piece of land known as "BLORA," yet another acronym for yet another string of words. The acronyms drove me crazy, a part of the Army abused to the point of ridiculousness -- where mess halls are known as DFACs, wives belong in FRGs and mistakes are FUBARs you cannot fix.

I was losing my strength during that summer and he knew it. I cried and I fought with him like a sullen teenager. His efforts to tell me that it was, "Just a year, sweetheart" and "I'll be safe" were like a slap in the face to my sensibilities. There was no "just" about it. I replaced my strength with bitterness, and held on to my last scraps of denial. A few weeks earlier, we'd been at a "hail and farewell" in the back yard of the colonel's house. Hail and farewells are "mandatory fun" events where the new soldiers assigned to the unit are received, their wives introduced. The departing soldiers -- whether leaving for a new unit or leaving the Army entirely -- are given a farewell speech, their wives handed wilting bouquets of carnations, and the soldier is presented with his unit's colors, an ornate flag with embroidering and framed between two panes of glass. The night was a bittersweet scene, with seemingly happy people gathered at a cook out, under twinkling lights strung through trees, kids darting between the tables and hiding behind tree trunks. But the inescapable truth was there -- they were all leaving. The mood of the hail and farewell was somber almost to the point of awkward -- we all knew how many days were left and that this night was the last hail and farewell before deployment. The colonel gave a short speech, laced with patriotic statements and interrupted by the occasional swell of applause. I heard silence, a child whimper and then: "We will have casualties," the colonel said, scanning the group with wide set eyes, as if trying to search out where that person was, as if you could see the death before it happened just by looking in the unfortunate man's eyes. "We will have casualties," he said, "and men will die."

My denial crumpled, buckled like the cannon bone of a fine-bodied race horse, having trampled its last circle around the track. We will have casualties and men will die.

On the day of the picnic, there was no speckled starlit sky; just a vast, open atmosphere of clouds and sun, wind and heat. We drove the long, winding road that led into BLORA, bemoaning the inevitable heat we would soon endure and pushing aside the inevitable sadness we would later find. We didn't talk about the D word: deployment was a "don’t ask, and it won't happen" topic. His denial was fierce, whereas mine receded with every hail and every farewell.

The appreciation picnic included the entire division - when we arrived, roughly five hundred men and women were milling around a pavilion radiating with heat. From far away, one could fool themselves and think that this was just another picnic. The mirage of happiness was there: the scent of barbecue drifted across the park and reached out into the water, where jet skis, on loan from the MWR, bounced across a choppy, warm lake. Children dug their toes into the sand and took off at a run towards the bounce houses, alive and bursting with energy. You would never look at this scene and be able to guess the tragedy that would befall these families. But that is how it is with the Army - they give their soldiers what they want, whether it's money, commendation or just a picnic offering free kegs - and hope that their soldiers don't stop to question whether they could have had more. From far away, these people were happy civilians. You wouldn't see the buzz cuts, the pregnant wife whose husband would miss their child being born. You wouldn't see the calluses and the training, the distant eyes of the veterans soon to return to combat once again. You would certainly never be able to see what these men and women had seen, nor what they were preparing to see.

In our short walk from the parking lot to the main pavilion, we encountered several men. These were his soldiers. Some fell more into the category of being boys. They were fresh-faced, like they were about to leave for college and this was their last day of summer. The heat encouraged them, excited them. The dirt and the sand were just an easy prequel of what was to come. These boys would walk toward us, grinning, carrying half-downed plastic cups of warm Coors Light. "Hello, sir," they'd say, looking at us expectantly. Introductions would be made, we would shake hands, and we'd walk on, the boy in the other direction, toward the shore. I'd pause for a minute, wiping a tear of sweat from my forehead or the nape of my neck, squint into the sun, and look up at him. "Who was that?" I'd ask. He'd take my hand and we'd walk on. He would tell me the trading card version of the soldier, maybe his age and rank, sometimes where he was from, what his occupation was. I tried to formulate these statistics and mold them into the boy we'd walked away from; tried to understand what it was that compelled him to get to where he was that day, that very spot where he was standing on the shore. What had he done in his life that had made him end up there, standing in the hot sand, staring into a glimmering lake, preparing himself for a war.

Everyone's been to a picnic, so I won't go into too much detail of the events. Everyone's been to a picnic -- everyone knows the shrieks of children, puppies in tow flopping down into puddles of melted ice cream, the cackle of a laugh reverberating across the grounds, and the triumphant cheers of a winning team in the pickup baseball game. Everyone's been to a picnic.

The inevitable always becomes reality, and the denial eventually finds its way to everyone. You can only deny so much for so long, before it's staring you in the face, sobbing, and the guns are being handed out, and the plane is taking off, and men in uniforms are saluting and you are suddenly standing in a desert and alone. The soldiers stand in a desert and those left behind stand in theirs. They fight their own wars and struggle against their own demons.

The first time I heard someone from his unit was killed, I thought of him. I thought of the person I would have become if it had been him. And I cried. I felt a pain like nothing else, but suddenly realized my pain was not for him but for her. Because there is always her, the woman who waits, and she was now waiting for a ghost. She was now waiting for something that would forever be a memory. I remembered what the colonel had said at the hail and farewell, under the sticky discomfort of an August night, the crowd around him suffocating in their denial. I wondered where she was sitting that night. Across the table? Next to me? The one with the red-headed girl asleep in her lap?

They deployed in October of 2006, a few weeks after the day we spent at BLORA. The day we spent sweating and making conversation, trying to impress the colonel and his wife, then settling for a beer and sitting down by the water, staring into a glimmering lake, preparing ourselves for a war.

Everyone's been to a picnic. Since they left to date, ninety eight men have died from their unit. In less than seven months, ninety eight men have fallen victim to crushing blows and piercing bullets. I think about that picnic now and realize I was surrounded by death. We stared into a glimmering lake and watched the light reflect off of the jet skis' wake, and tried to see into the future. But we couldn't have known then the numbers. We couldn't have known whom.

We are all staring into that lake, everyone who knows the war and has felt the war. Americans stare into that dark void and look for the glimmer of hope that there will be change. We all are feeling the heat of this war, pulsing against our backs, and we look for solutions like a lion looks for a shady respite from the sun.

But we are staring into a vast lake and all around us is the sand. We stand in our own desert, alone, and search the emptiness that surrounds us.

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Giving new meaning to Solisa's Christian morals, values & special parts.

This video reminds me of how Cashmoney and I always make a stop outside the bathroom at Prague to pray at the crosses they have on the wall. Yes, in a bar.

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Alternative Blogging

It's sort of like extreme blogging only not as dangerous.
I have two other blogs I've been working on this week, hence not a lot of time for my poor namesake blog.

But please enjoy my work blog entry (about a woman I relocated to Phnom Penh) and my most recent boot camp blog (how to get your ass out of bed). Which is rather pertinent since I got my butt kicked at boot camp today. Actually, more specifically, I got my hamstrings kicked. And my quads. And my calves. And basically every other part of the lower half of my body.

I had planned a nice, quiet night of sleeping and recovery for tonight but it's Tall Rachel's birthday. So the night will be neither quiet, nor sleepy, nor recoveryish at all.

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You want me to write about what?

So McD the boot camp trainer and Singing Banana propositioned me to contribute to the new Austin Adventure Boot Camp blog which is all part of an evil plan of luring me back to my five thirty AM exercise regime and simultaneously wiping out any semblance of "free time" I might have in the month of November. I smell a NaNo sabotage.
I also somehow got conned into running the Race for the Cure in two weeks, which is even more outrageous because I don't like to run, I don't like waking up before noon on weekends, and...well, that's basically it.

So if you want to donate to my fund raising drive (or my team's drive) it would be appreciated. You can go here to donate and see a fabulous picture of me with a bird on my head.

Now I have to go to sleep. Five AM sneaks up on you.

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Just some light bedtime reading.

Don't read this unless you feel like tossing and turning all night.

"Apocalypse Now?" (The Nation, 29 October 2007 Issue)
Stephen Holmes reviews Chalmers Johnson's new book, Nemesis: The Last Days of the American Republic.

An excerpt from the article:

In ancient Greece, Nemesis was the goddess of divine retribution for acts of hubris. Transgressions would never go unpunished; balance and proportion would inevitably be restored. The contemporary incarnation of Nemesis is "blowback," a notion apparently coined by the CIA and commonly used to explain the Iranian hostage crisis of 1979 as a form of delayed revenge for the American-orchestrated overthrow of Mohammed Mossadegh's democratically elected government in 1953...Extrapolating freely from the documented history of blowback, Johnson speculates that we have already entered the "last days" of the Republic. America's post-World War II "imperialism," he predicts, will soon put an end to self-government in the United States: "I believe that to maintain our empire abroad requires resources and commitments that will inevitably undercut our domestic democracy and in the end produce a military dictatorship or its civilian equivalent." The destruction of the American Republic may even illustrate a profound historical regularity, he implies: "Over any fairly lengthy period of time, successful imperialism requires that a domestic republic or a domestic democracy change into a domestic tyranny." He even thinks that the American military is now "ripe" for "a Julius Caesar"--that is, for "a revolutionary, military populist with little interest in republican niceties so long as some form of emperorship lies at the end of his rocky path."
...Gazing into his crystal ball, Johnson reports that "we will never again know peace, nor in all probability survive very long as a nation, unless we abolish the CIA, restore intelligence collecting to the State Department, and remove all but purely military functions from the Pentagon." The United States will be embroiled in foreign wars until it collapses, in other words.
Well, great. Now we at least have something to look forward to other than "The Bachelor."

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Shameless Self Promotion(s)

Our press release about the site redesign is up here. So all you deli.ci.ous/Diggers, please go help a sista' out and digg it if you've got a moment today. I'd like to retire soon.



And, if you're a fan of my writing (because I know you're not here for pictures of Brad Womack...right? Right?), perhaps you'd like even more to read some of my writing from when I was 12 years old. That's right. I peaked early. International reporter by age 11, published author by age 12. They issued a second edition of the original Angel Animals book that one of my stories was published in. This one is titled: Angel Animals: Divine Messengers of Miracles and is published by New World Library. It's a little more of a spirituality book than the original one (which is ironic given my spirituality, or lack thereof) but I stop at nothing and will ride even God's coattails to fame if I have to. Should you decide to purchase the book and read my enlightening story, which is featured in Chapter 2: Learning to Love Unconditionally, you will bear witness to classic gems of my twelve year old literary mind, including the following sentences: "I loved him to bits and pieces" and my personal favorite, "Somehow, I think Sundown would approve."

I'd like to thank Ann M. Martin of the Babysitters Club series for cultivating my penchant for clichés at such a young age.

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The Bachelor: Episode 5

Subtitled: Big Girls, In Fact, Do Cry

Here we are again. Is it sad that the highlight of my day was when I realized I could come home and put on pajama pants for the first time since Easter and watch this stuff?

Tonight we're narrowing this down from six to four lucky ladies who get to do the family visits. Bettina gets the one-on-one, a "romantic evening on the water." Someone spies the gondola hat, and mentions that kissing will go on under bridges. You know what happens when you go under bridges around Austin? You get hit by guano from the world's most overrated, disease-riddled bats. This is somewhat reflective of my dating life.

Brad says "I know you love the water." I almost spit out my beer. We all remember the jet ski, Brad. We know she loves the water.

Surprise! Pool party is coming up next. Sheena gets the other one-on-one. Kristy looks as though she'd like to put a few acupuncture needles through Sheena's eyes.

Bettina gives the young love speech, and Brad says he wants to hug her so she'll be "okay." If by "okay" you mean "cure her of her water fetish," hug away.

Meanwhile, back at the hot tub, the girls debate the competition. Their words, not mine. I don't think you'd find a hot tub in the Olympics, ladies.

Bettina says her relationship with The Bachelor is moving slow. Slower than this bridge-free gondola ride and the mutual cheek-kissing. The ABC producers are kicking themselves for not picking someone with more morals and values than this.

Coming up: Team Sheena, in true MeanRachel style, falls down a staircase and probably does some serious long-term spinal cord damage. Sheena, if Kristy can't help you with the acupuncture, I know a great team of back doctors.
And Silly Hillary shows us that the adjective "silly" actually has a second definition which loosely means "insane."


The group daters, DeAnna, Kristy, Jenni and Silly Hillary, go to the pool party. Kristy pulls a Debbie Downer and mopes around the side of the pool. A slip-n-slide gets involved and this apparently brings out the "excitement" in Hillary. She says a string of words that ABC chose to bleep out, which I think went like this: "I am insane and I should be immediately removed from the show before I harm myself and/or others."

Bettina and Sheena are discussing her date and Bettina has the chutzpah (that's the 1/8th Jew in me) to say sanctimoniously "Sheena's just not ready for marriage." SAID THE DESERT TO THE GRAIN OF SAND, BETTINA. Were you not just bemoaning your failed marriage?

DeAnna and The Bachelor get a little chit-chatty but no kissing happens. Instead we have Jnni [sic] without an "e" (who's been relatively lo-pro this episode so far compared to the last episode -- credit goes to the careful editing magic in production) making out in a hammock while the other girls stew. This causes Phase I of Silly Hillary's How to Have A Meltdown on National Television in Three Easy Phases.


Team Sheena time! And Chad likes her too? This is good. However, she needs to lower her voice a few octaves. She sounds somewhat like Karen on Will & Grace.
Oh for God's sake. This is like Pretty Woman. Who the hell wants a dress? Thank goodness Sheena decided to toss a little reality into this reality TV by wiping out on the stairs.

Now we've got jewelry - "a little gift" of diamond earrings. Please accept these blood diamonds on behalf of ABC and the sweat shop laborers who sewed your gown.

My cohost, M and I begin debating the validity of Sheena's age. Then we quickly realize we don't care.



Back to My Fair Sheena Lady. Sheena declares she's incredibly picky. I'll say. If diamond earrings and a gown are what it takes to get this girl going, that could be a rather hard precedent to maintain.
Brad seems to give a rather genuine (did you know someone, not me, started a Facebook group called "Brad Womack is the Most Genuinely Genuine Bachelor Ever?") diatribe about what sort of girl he's looking for and what life is like in Bachelorland. Then a string quartet strikes up and dancing ensues. Swelling music and "I'm the luckiest girl in the world!" is tossed around.
Back at the house, Bettina ain't saying she's a golddigger, but she certainly seems as though she'd like her some diamonds. Right.

The teaser for the next part shows Silly Hillary weeping and Chris Harrison saying "But did Brad make a mistake?" Hell no he didn't!! Get that girl out of here. I personally think she looks like she's faking it and is hoping for an acting gig out of this, but I can't knock a girl for trying. She's sort of the acting equivalent of me going on the show and busting out a computer during every confessional and saying "Hold on, I'll post my thoughts on MeanRachel.com."


So here we are again. We're down to six girls and two of them are outta here. Hopefully Kristy and Silly Hillary.
Poetry time. Team Sheena. Creepy poems and wiping out on stairs? Sheena definitely has a little MeanRachel in her. Minus the weird dancing to no music.
DeAnna waltzes up and now we're having an awkward nervous conversation segueing into kissing. I have a hard time listening to this girl because I spend most of the time wondering about a Greek girl with a Southern accent.
Jnni without an "e" calls Bettina out on her earlier comment to Sheena. Bettina has her own awkward talk with Brad using very explicit somewhat tasteless terms ("I want your hands on me?" Is she a piece of dough?).
Phase II of Silly Hillary's How to Have A Meltdown on National Television in Three Easy Phases starts now. Brad prattles on about...something...says "Do you follow me?" and Silly Hillary says "Yeah" while the ladies of 9101 both say "Well I don't." I also don't follow how Silly Hillary can breathe when she's cinched her torso into a dress that looks like she sewed it out of her straight jacket after her escape from Shady Acres.

Local news says to get ready for the coldest night in Austin in more than six months. Hey, Mark Murray, thanks for pointing out the lonely, cold night we have to look forward to.


It's go time! And by "go time" I mean the third and final phase in Silly Hillary's How to Have A Meltdown on National Television in Three Easy Phases. Patent pending.
The ubiquitous roses. DeAnna gets the first one. Jnni without an "e" gts th scond ros. Sheena gets the third. Silly Hillary looks as though she's about to go full-swing into Phase III. Bettina gets the final rose and looks a little disappointed that it wasn't made out of platinum. Silly Hillary, commence the patented Silly Hillary Meltdown on National Television. I'm kind of amazed Hillary and and Kristy lasted this long. Kristy obviously no longer cared and is looking forward to getting back to needle pushing.
So this is one of those times when you feel like it's almost over, but you know it's just getting good. Phase III of the meltdown carries on outside. Brad decides to dash outside, in a very knight in shining tuxedo moment. Clearly, Silly Hillary figures if she stands around crying long enough, The Bachelor will take pity on her and give her a rose (please see Episode III for proof of this pattern, which just goes to show you that insane people are creatures of habit).

Silly Hillary wanted to make her dad proud. By bringing home a man? "Look, dad, I slept my way to the top!"



Parent night next week. Guaranteed to be replete with all-encompassing embarrassment and plenty of opportunities for cheap shots at floral print furniture, Stepford wife mothers and awkward baby photo albums.
That's it for me. Off to enjoy my lonely, cold night's sleep where I'll no doubt be haunted with thoughts of being squeezed into Silly Hillary's white straight jacket dress before they carry us both off to Shady Acres.

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"We are students of words."

Thanks to Two Dollars for sending this to me (albeit five days ago; I just now got a chance to watch it). This basically sums up what I wrote about in my previous post about self-education.

From the website for the study:

This video was created by...the 200 students enrolled in ANTH 200: Introduction to Cultural Anthropology at Kansas State University, Spring 2007. It began as a brainstorming exercise, thinking about how students learn, what they need to learn for their future, and how our current educational system fits in.


And by "fits in" I believe they mean "fails."

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"Kosher or not kosher?" "Not kosher."

Yesterday night was Shirioke's sister's wedding. Tali and Cliff tied the knot in traditional, time-honored wedding style of a Jewish girl marrying a non-Jewish man. I quickly found myself wishing that I was Jewish for the following reasons:

1. The dancing. A Jewish wedding is a safe-haven for someone who often is mistaken for having epileptic seizures on the dance floor. Don't know the steps? Well, how do you say "what steps?" in Hebrew? Because there are none. As far as I can tell, you just run around sideways in a circle, dragging the person along next to you, waving your hands and every once in a while shouting out something like "mazel tov!" or "kugel!" Great fun, especially when followed up by "Lean Like a [Jewish] Cholo." "Yarmulkes up, side-to-side..."

2. Did I already say the dancing? I guess that's really the most of it. When the Mayor/the Bachelor/the starting pitcher for the World Series (whoever makes the first move wins) and I get married, I will be tempted to declare the dancing portion of the wedding to be symbolic of the 1/8th Jewish blood I have in me, and Shirioke will lead us in a happy hands dance-off.

Anyway, I found myself wishing I was Jewish (or at least more than 1/8th Jewish). I think that is pretty typical of any event I go to where I am reminded that other than putting up a Christmas tree as a kid, when my mom would curse at my dad the entire time while trying to jam the trunk onto the tree stand, we really don't have any family traditions.

The Israeli Contingent

There's so much about the Jewish culture that is much more artistically creative, too. The chuppah, which is a sort of canopy that the couple stands under during their vows, symbolizing their new home together, was handmade by Shirioke's mom and it was beautiful. The general theme of the wedding seemed to be a pair of birds. This seemed especially appropriate to me after my week from hell at work where I had a bird get stuck in Frankfurt for three days en route to Singapore (evidently Germans take their avian influenza seriously).

Roommates, past and present.
And yes, we put Shirioke up on a chair.
And yes, that is champagne in my hand.

After the wedding (the bride and groom were whisked off to an undisclosed location via horse and carriage -- one groomsman said "Where are they taking that? San Antonio?"), Shirioke, her cousin Ofer and myself headed downtown. Her cousin had come in from Israel, along with a large contingent of Israeli aunts, uncles and friends of the bridal party.

The small problem was that Ofer didn't have his passport with him to prove he was over 21. So we decided that Firehouse would be a good place to start. I offered up my ID immediately and walked in, while Shiri and Ofer lagged behind. Shiri was talking on the phone so I came back out, looking frustrated, and dragged Ofer away from where he was admiring a motorcycle. I basically then just pulled him into the bar behind me and walked past the bouncer. When we got inside I said "That is what we in America refer to as the 'assumptive close.'"

Firehouse was pretty empty even though it was about 1 AM so I suggested we go somewhere I knew would be loud and packed: The Marq. Shiri asked Ofer if he knew the show The Bachelor, which he had actually heard of and watched before. I told him that we would go show him the biggest celebrity Austin currently has, aside from me of course. So we walked to The Marq, while I prepped him for how he would get through the door without ID. When we got there, there were two lines stretching around the corner, with hordes of people loitering around in the street. I hadn't seen it as packed as it was last night.

RED SOX WIN!!!!!!!!! UNBELIEVABLE CATCH BY COCO CRISP AND NOW HE'S LIMPING BUT IT WAS AMAZING!!!! CASHMONEY, YOU BETTER WATCH OUT! WE'RE COMING AFTER YOUR ROCKIES ON WEDNESDAY!!!!!

Okay. Got to calm down. But that's going to be a crazy World Series!!

Anyway, long story short is this: Poor Ofer did not get to see The Bachelor but he did see The Bachelor's brother Chad ("The identical brother, he is not so bad himself, eh?") which he seemed pretty stoked about. That could also be because Chad was kind enough to come to the door at my request and let Ofer in without his ID.

Perhaps the funniest part (aside from when Shiri dumped the entire contents of her purse on the packed dance floor at The Marq, causing a mad dash scramble amongst stiletto heels and loafers to pick everything up) was that this morning, I woke up and stumbled out on my balcony at 9 AM and fell asleep in my lounge chair outside. Then I came back in thirty minutes later to where Shiri was sleeping on the couch and she said "Just ten more minutes." So I sat down in the infamous green chair in the living room and somehow fell asleep again for about half an hour in the chair. I woke up and Shiri said, "I can't believe I have flowers in my hair," as she pulled out her hair style from the night before. I said "I can't believe I fell asleep in two different chairs before noon."

"Ofer, in English this is known as the 'walk of shame.'"
Ofer tries on my old riding helmet and checks out some pictures.

Big week coming up. Actually I have a lot of stuff coming up the next two weeks, mainly work-related. Oh, and I'm going to go ahead and give up my great Halloween costume idea because I have to go to Houston for work on Halloween and November 1st. Someone here in Austin needs to dress up as rejected bachelorette in a cocktail dress stained with wine and carry around a wilted rose.

Josh Beckett, MVP in the playoffs, you are amazing. I'm so glad Ben "I Have No Myspace" slapped some sense into you in high school.

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Posted Without Comment

(but maybe a snicker.)

Bush Declares That He Remains Relevant.

Some WashPost headline writer had a field day with that one.

As an aside, could it be any more gorgeous in Austin right now? Seriously!

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It's almost NaNo time. Yay! I mean, damnit.

Who's doing NaNoWriMo this year? After "winning" in 2005 and then failing to even get 1,000 words down in 2006, I'm kind of on the fence as to whether I should try again this year. I have no idea what I would write about, but then again, that's what NaNo's all about.

While we think about it, let's debate some more as to whether it's good for you or bad for you. Or if you're like me, it just makes you consume a lot of EmergenC drinks.

Also, please keep in mind that my decision hinges on the availability of Lemony Toshiba, since I lack the ability to write by hand. My mind can only think when it's producing something on a computer. The rest of the time it seems to function at a level found somewhere between that of a miniature dachshund and a Capuchin monkey.

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Server Snafu Haiku

(Taking a page from Mrhe's sad Sox poetry going on in Boston...)

Our website relaunch
Caused two days without email.
Please pass the Andre.

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Murder He Wrote

So I don't know if you guys have been keeping up with this Blackwater
business, but I am going to attempt to do it justice while blogging from
my phone.

Last Christmas Eve, (you know, a few days before we hanged Sadaam via
podcast) a Blackwater contractor had a little too much eggnog and
allegedly killed one of the bodyguards of the Iraqi vice president. The
contractor was immediately pulled off his assignment, fined, fired and
then sent home. "Home" being the operative word here, guys.

I suppose when you outsource your homeland security (because you can't
afford to bribe the actual US military to reenlist), there are some
uncharted waters regarding what is defined as "okay" and what is defined
as "maybe not okay." Code of conduct laws obviously are not a huge item
on the Let's Farm Out Our Military punch list for the US government who
cooked up the terrible plan. However I imagine if you are a bodyguard
to the Iraqi veep, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, it is
a bit more of an important item (that is, until you're actually killed
in which case it ceases to be of importance to pretty much everyone
around you, liberal bloggers notwithstanding).

Fortunately, the youthful mastermind behind Blackwater, Erik Prince
(right-wing homophobic Christians are amazingly good at justifying
things such as murder), was able to summarize the killing simply as "a
guy who put himself in a bad situation" and "something very tragic
happened." Sadly, it is unclear whether he is referring to the drunken
alleged murderer he sent back to his family on a C130 or the deceased
bodyguard.

The State Department advised Blackwater to pay the bodyguard's family
$250,000 in what essentially amounted to hush "we're sorry but Iraqi
prisons are really substandard" money. However due to concerns over
other Iraqis trying to get killed so their families could receive the
money --wait. Read that sentence again. Again. Okay. Just want to
make sure you're with me on this -- they decided instead to lower the
amount to $15,000 (I guess they figured even Iraqis aren't miserable
enough to get killed over $15 grand and if they are, then hell, they
must be REALLY miserable).

Sometimes I wish I could talk in symbols, like in cartoons when someone
hits their head on a coconut and this pops out of their speech bubble:
#$^%@!

Because I would like to yell a bunch of percent symbols and pound signs
lately. How is everyone so %#%#! clueless!? Since when is it a
fineable offense to kill someone? Why the hell is that contractor at
home with his wife and kids when he should be in jail, awaiting trial?

And to those of you who want to entertain the notion that this guy is
innocent, I would like to make a guess: It was Colonel Contractor, in
the Green Zone, with the Glock.

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The Bachelor: Episode 4

Subtitled: Brad, Call Me.

So the drink of choice tonight is Woodchuck Draft Cider because...well, because that's what was in the fridge. I am blogging via Gingy's G4, and she is sitting here bending my ear about cooking and gardening -- as if I do either. I occasionally glance over and say, "Oh, really? The gardenia?" and then "Oh, you've been doing home improvements? A dimmer switch?" I have to stop myself here and say that we have really come a long way from boot camp -- from starjumpers and eight count body builders to massive amounts of soy beans (yes, edamame is on the menu tonight) and staring at Brad's deltoids wondering how many Deltoid Alphabets he had to do to get them.
Okay! Cue the walk down Congress Avenue in jeans. Last time I saw someone this hot stroll down Congress it was Mayor Wynn.
Chris Harrison announces there are "just nine of you left." Jenni without an "e" but apparently a very good "EEEEEE!!!!!!" scream gets the date. A little toy helicopter is pulled out of the a briefcase. If you showed me a helicopter I would immediately assume that I would die that day in a terrible helicopter crash. "Brad, you go on ahead." Of course, my dad the pilot would tell you that you have better odds of dying in a car crash but I'd rather just smash into a wall or something than plummet to the earth in a firey blaze.

I've gotten distracted. Crying Silly Hillary (I think that was her? I dunno...I just assume when I see a blonde girl crying that it's homegirl Hillary) is bemoaning Jenni without an "e's" sexualness. She obviously doesn't know that the other girls are hoping that they are as sexual as Jenni. Although if Jenni is Jenni withou an "e," doesn't that make her sxual?

Here we are on top of a building. Jenni will either get a rose or take a swan dive off the roof when she doesn't get a rose. I should start dating via rooftop.

Okay during the commercial my staff (Gingy) and I (me) decided that whenever I talk about Jenni without an "e," I am going to eliminate the "e" from every word. If an "e" ain't good enough for Jenni, it ain't good enough for me.
The Bachlor has nvr bn (this is going to B hard) in a stting lik this b4. Did you know that you can't write the word "Phoenix" without utilizing the letter "e?" You also cannot write the word "dancer." You also cannot write the word "hoochie."
The hoochi's back at the hizzous are talking some serious crap about the other girls. If I cared what McNewt and the rest of these ladies said, I might be paying attention. It's becoming somewhat obvious that DeAnna with an "e" is ruffling some feathers. No doubt the other girls are jealous.
Okay, so Jenni and Brad are sitting on a couch. Brad is drunk. Looks at his hand for hlp. Thy'r both slurring 'vry word.

Jenni, are you starting to see why the letter "e" is actually quite useful to the english language?

Okay back on the rooftop. Brad is drunker than my last three nights at The Marq put together. Gingy weighs in: The embarrassment of first dates should never be televised. Jenni confesses she's been saving all of her roses. That's sort of what I do when I start dating a guy, except I save every kleenex I blow my nose with after the first three terrible dates that leave me sobbing and pondering a swift move to Switzerland.

Coming up: It's "Whose Slut Is It Anyway?" More cowbell!

I would like to hear The Bachelor say "Beautiful women" like, seven more times. Because he has a very strange way of saying it. Stefy's face looks like she got some sort of chemical peel. Bettina drops the "Brad, I love you!" bomb. That's what she did say. She should have said "Brad, I fell in love with you on a waverunner!" That would have been reality for ya.
Silly Hillary is loving this. At last, something where she doesn't get to cry the whole time.

Wait a minute, wait a minute. All this is is a casting call. An ABC casting call. Kristy will be an extra on Desperate Housewives someday, Silly Hillary has secured her role on Friday Night Lights as the whorish yet changeable Christian cheerleader.
Coming up, DeAnna and Jade (both with "e's") get pitted against each other on a one-rose date. Hopefully it's set on a rooftop and the loser gets to leap off at the end. A little Fear Factor-meets-Bachelor-meets-Oh Crap, A Reality Star Died twist.
Here we are, Brad's narrowing down the field. Culling the herd. The Bachelor tosses out "How do you feel about moving to Austin?"
I would only allow these girls to move to Austin if they signed an agreement stating that they would not be bringing a car with them and if they did, they would promise to never get on Mopac going north or south. I also would make them promise to never drive in the rain or park anywhere downtown.
Brad continues to read his hands for words like "confident" and "beautiful," while DeAnna peers through the bushes and stares at them creepily.
Back at the ranch, Bettina announces to the girls that she was married before. Silly Hillary needs to be punched. Whoever says "When you know, you just know" has obviously never been in a relationship that lasted longer than the cab ride home from the bars.
Here we are back on the roof and Jade gets the boot. The Bachelor uses the word "genuine" again. Next week we're keeping a genuine account. Jade bawls and puts her waterproof mascara to work.
The girls sit around and wonder when Creepy Suitcase Guy will show up to take the loser's suitcases away. Creepy Suitcase Guy? Who is this? A twist in the plot.
Creepy suitcase guy is hot!! What's wrong with these girls?!?! If things don't work out for me and Brad, or me and Chris Harrison, or me and Josh Beckett, or me and Will Wynn, I'm making my move on Creepy Suitcase Guy. Then we would be Mr.andMrs.CreepyMeanSuitcaseGuyandGal.com. Bookmark it now.
Okay I got sidetracked thinking about my marriage to Creepy Suitcaswe Guy but the hot tub shot has now roped me back into things. Keep in mind, this is the first official hot tub scene I have seen since I missed Episode 2 when I was in San Francisco. So please, just let me enjoy this.

Well that was entirely too short.
Here we are before the rose ceremony. The Bachelor says to Christy, "What if I am not as refined of a gentleman as you want to be with?" This translates in Texas English to: "What if I want to sit around on a Saturday, play Madden, and scratch my balls?"
Sheena lets me down with her emotional blubbering. I might be jumping off of Sheena's team and back onto the "These girls are all lame" team.
The Bachelor announces that his first kiss was with Jenni. Jenni is instantly deemed slutty by the other girls because "slutty" is the only adjective that can be used to describe Jenni without using the letter "e." However, we can describe the rest of these girls as "jealous" while using the letter "e." Bettina starts accusing Jenni of thinking of it as a game (wait, isn't it a reality show game?), and Jenni comes back with a good one. "I don't need to worry about anyone else but me and him." I'm confused either way. What did Jenni do wrong? Joined a professional dance team? Dropped the "e" off the end of her name?
McNewt decides to make her McMove on McBrad, who is McSmitten with McJenni and he apparently could McCare less about what McNewt is blabbering on about, so he gives her a very classic McBlankStare.

McWe'll be back.
The Bachelor tries to explain the positive sides of the show. They are:
1) He's trying to find a wife.
2) Mean Rachel will be catapulted into fame.
Christy and Sheena get roses. We are confused here at the Mean Rachel Watch Party of 2, because we have no idea who the girl is that isn't McNewt. Obviously she hasn't been campaigning very well because I've never seen her before in my life. Whoever it is, she seems to be holding it together pretty well. The same cannot be said for McNewt. She's McHeartbroken. Join the McFuckingClub.

P.S. Brad, call me. I'm McStable, I swear.

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Overheard Re: Austin

"Have you heard that new song called Heaven or Austin by Doug
Moreland?"
"No, how does it go?"
"Like, 'I'm tryin' to decide between heaven or Austin...'"
"Oh. Well, if heaven has allergies anything like Austin, I think I'd
rather go to hell."

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Awesome, Texas

There is no better time to be an Austinite than during the months of September, October and November. The weather is absolutely incredible: dry, shockingly perfect temperatures; sunny skies which fade into nostalgic golden evenings; breezy nights twittering with crickets and live music. It's always hard for me not to want to point out to everyone around me how gorgeous it is outside, like a proud parent showing off their newly-walking toddler. "Can you feel that breeze? Is this not perfect?"
Rather than retreating to a dim, cool room all weekend, I feel compelled to go and soak up as much of the free air conditioning I can. I toss open windows at night, burrowing in my bed, wallowing in the 65 degree nighttime lows. Even my sheets feel crisper. Today I finally was able to go stroll through the new Lady Bird Park (that's the unofficial name) and watch the kids jumping around in the fountains. The park itself is compromised of a few dozen berms surrounded by park benches, offering great panoramas of the Austin skyline.

Lady Bird Lake Park

There's a lot about Austin that has changed lately -- the congestion, the traffic, heck, even the skyline. But there's so much about it that has stayed the same over the twenty three years I've lived here -- the same hippie mom wearing a rainbow beanie with her two naked kids making everyone else feel uncomfortable, the old train tracks crossing over Lady Bird Lake, and the general feel of Austin in the fall.

So no matter what they're calling it these days - Lady Bird or Town Lake - or how many skyscrapers they manage to raise out of the ground, at the end of the day there's always going to be that same cool breeze and sweeping sunlight that makes this city my home.

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Predicativeness

A series of texts pretty much sums up my disappearance from the internet:

Them: when do u get ur computer back?
MeanRachel: two weeks maybe
Them: that is a long time
MeanRachel: especially for a bachelor clogger

Yes, it's hard being a bachelor clogger without a computer.
This is almost as great as the text I sent Mrhe a month or so ago that read "I wish man left me." (Missing some key punctuation and various consonants in there)

Don't you love predicative text messages?

So I leave you with this: GO SOX!

Have a great weekend, y'alls.

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Computerless and The City

Since I am being forced to mobile blog, I realized it's much easier to
make lists. Let me tell you what I have been doing since Brad Womack
caught my laptop on fire (that sounds way more scandalous than it
actually was):

1. Practicing the piano
Yes, I still suck however I find that without the internet, I am not
able to obsess over YouTube videos instructing how to play pop songs and
so I actually practice the songs I'm supposed to be learning. Right now
I'm working on classics such as "When The Saints Go Marching In," "Liza
Jane," and the always favorite "I Have No Life Waltz."

2. Watching TV.
I never realized how many wonderful movie channels there are. You mean
there's life outside 30-second Colbert Report clips? The other night I
watched Field of Dreams for the first time ever, after watching the
original version (who knew?) of Bad News Bears. So those two movies I
can cross off my long, long list of Movies I Have Never Seen Because As
A Kid I Preferred Listening To Dr. Laura On Newsradio List. If this
computer fiasco goes on long enough I might get to check off Footloose,
Startrek/wars, Saturday Night Fever and maybe even the Lord of the Rings
trilogy (although I plan on blogging from Best Buy if I have to before I
get to that point).

3. Challenging Chubby Charles to arm wrestle.
She has not been impressed.

It just occurred to me...if I smoked, I would basically be living the
life of an 80 year old dowager.

Perhaps this has something to do with why 50% of Austin says I'm not
their type?

If I ever get my laptop back, I intend to file this under "cat lady
status" and "Toshiba sucks."

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So this is what hell is like

I am writing this using my phone, and I have decided that the world is
very cruel. Why? Let's review:

1) I now know what it's like not to be able to type fast, since I'm
using my thumbs and probably averaging 13 wpm. Or less. I feel like
I'm in that Everlast song: "Then you really might know what it's like
to hunt and peck..."

2) The day voting starts for the one and only online contest I have ever
been thrust into, my laptop caught on fire. I know you guys thought I
was joking, but it really did! While I was watching The Bachelor do
tequila shots off of Sister Solisa Teresa. My laptop is not even a year
old. What the heck. Brad, your abs owe me a laptop!! And now I can't
even sit at home and vote for myself in this bachelorette contest.
Seriously, this timing sucks. I'm going to lose to Blossom. And then
I'm going to sue Toshiba.

Anyway, that's about all my thumbs can handle. Despite the fact that I
will likely lose the bachelorette contest (I think even Two Dollars gave
up--that's a bad sign), I still wanted to reach out to my many, many
fans.

Dedication: it's not just for identical twins.

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The Bachelor: Episode 3

Subtitled: Every Rose Has A (T)horny Psycho Recipient

Here we go. I'll see how long it takes me to toss this computer out the window.
Accordingly we're drinking Coors tonight in honor of the Rockies for winning the NLDS. Game 3, I might add, we were able to watch the end of thanks to Brad Womack himself on Saturday night in a very suave "If I turn on this game for you will you leave me alone to BS with the rest of my bar's patrons?" move.


Okay we're going to a circus. Apparently webbed feet aren't freaky enough, we have to toss clowns into the mix. Brad says there will be surprises. He wants to see lions, tigers, boobs--oh my! Did I just say that?
DeAnna proclaims that the elephant is big. There are enough phallic references in this thirty second clip to shake an elephant trunk at. "I want to pet the elephant." "Really has a good grip on it."
Some balls are in play now. And jugglers. This looks like a bad episode of Blind Date. Where are the pop ups? "Someone breaks their neck in...three...two..." Damn.
Jenni without an "e" get into it. Tries to convince Brad that Phoenix is a more appealing city than Austin. Uses the phrase "fall in love with." And so it was born "The IN LOVE DRINKING GAME." Because single people love to ridicule lovebirds. So, you know the drill. Every time someone references falling in love, we're drinking. And I don't mean just a sip. Chug whatever's left. Get all over it.
Jenni has been single for five years. This also means "I have been whoring it up for five years with the Phoenix football team." Or whatever team it is an "executive assistant/dancer" dances for.
McCarten looks like a newt. Don't believe me? Go Google image that skritt.
I think I'm in love. With this beer. Chug.


This isn't any typical day at the circus, Brad announces. "We're not only watching the circus but we're also going to see Morgan use her webbed feet to suction herself to a small West Highland Terrier."
I want to know whose terrible idea this circus was. Seriously. First of all...the lighting? Really? The strange darkened audience members? What? Fire that production manager. The Bachelor announces he felt like he was the King of the World. Here's how it's going to go down, guys. When I think Brad is making crap up, I'm going to refer to him as The Bachelor.
The Bachelor announces how much thought he has to put into the rose ceremony. Sits down with McNewt who is giving of "a friendly newt vibe." Brad says "Are you that confident of a woman?" Oh! McNewt comes through in the clutch with a circus simile! That's right! Someone paid attention in Language Arts. "Dating Brad is like a tightrope walk. Sometimes you're the webbed feet, sometimes you're the broken face."
Silly Hillary gets whatever it is that gets you a date. Does The Bachelor hand select these people for the one-on-one dates or does the same person who picked this circus bit pick these ladies? I need to study up on the politics of Bachelorettedom.
Rose time. There's Something About Mary's Dad hands Brad the rose and The Bachelor hands it to Stephy. When did her name become Stephy? How about you come back to me when you can actually say her name which I believe is/was/might have been at some point "Estefania."
Lots of 'in love' is coming up guys. I can feel it. Marriages, tears, Chad's cameo...pop a top.

And hey, McAlcoholics, how about you vote for me for Austin's Hottest Bachelorette so I can get a little fame out of this deal? Please? Cat food is expensive. No, seriously. So are the cab rides carting my drunken, single ass home every weekend.


Silly Hillary's here to fall in love! Du-rink up, depressed women and ambiguously gay male readers! Someone apparently told Hillary that she looked hot wrapped in a Hefty trash bag. The Bachelor says he's at a loss for words. How about "Glad you bought Glad?" DeAnna's jealous that all of that jewelry went to waste. Pun intended.
Brad's taking her to SFO. Sweet. I recommend Inner Sunset for discovering your alter-ego. (Shout out just for you AtotheZ!)
Uh oh. Silly Hillary offers to give up the trash bag on her back to be "in love." I started drinking but then I choked because Hillary started crying. Crying! Isn't this like, the third episode? She obviously doesn't know that you're supposed to cry after the third date, not while you're on it. The Bachelor says he likes the serious side.

Awkward.

The Bachelor feels bad. Or maybe so does Brad, merely based on awkwardness. God. This reminds me of my most recent first date when I showed him my business card collection after he spilled ice tea all over me. And by most recent I mean 2005. Did I mention I'm in the running for Austin's Hottest Bachelorette?
Silly Hillary is still crying. What. The. Hell. Okay, who gave her the white wine? That'll do it every time. That and a trash bag cinched around you will make any girl start sobbing uncontrollably.
DeAnna doesn't think Hillary's coming back. There is some debate as to whether she'll come back or not. I'm not sure what they mean by "come back." Can you get eliminated on a date? Did I miss something? If so, no wonder this chick is STILL CRYING.
The Bachelor gives her the sympathy rose. If I get pulled over for speeding, I want Brad to be the cop. Waterworks will get it done. Make a note.
Silly Hillary is looking as if Morgan ran over her face with her webbed feet. And broke it.

Someone better get out a bottle of tequila soon. I like the promise of Solisa "coming up." Christian morals & values are good for ratings, did you know?


Here we go. Brad looks hot in a sailor's hat. Or maybe I'm just relieved we're not at a snooze-fest circus or watching SillyCrybabyHillary drowning The Bachelor in her tears.
Yes. This is definitely better. Acupuncturist Kristy sort of looks like Ursula in the final wedding scene of The Little Mermaid. "I can get used to this," she says, holding the wheel of the boat. Freeze frame that, Brad! Freeze frame it! That's a gold digger look she has in her eyes! The Bachelor says it's like "talking to a friend" that he's attracted to. Dude, I know a good acupuncturist. Let me refer you to her. Free healthcare isn't worth it, trust me.
Solisa announces on national TV that "the only thing she knows how to do" is shake her butt. I bet her parents are proud, that is if they're not still stuck in traffic on I-35 on their commute home to Georgetown.
Bettina fell in love on a waverunner! Yes, this drinking game has promise when you factor in these desperate women. She's desperate, windblown and in love and The Bachelor likes it. She has everything he's looking for in a 2 month, jacuzzi-based relationship. Minus that pesky marriage and divorce thing. Brad immediately inquires about children, since it's awfully hard to do the Cupid Shuffle with a three year old in tow. He looks stunned. "Excuse me?" He doesn't know what to say. In fact, this is the most Brad we've gotten in the last 30 minutes. I like his response: "'Kay." And by "'kay" he means "Holy shit."
Bettina, your chances were definitely ruined. Acupuncturist Kristy gets the rose, which isn't too surprising since...well, since it was either her or the ass-shaking talents of St. Mary Katherine Solisa.


It's the twin brother Chad. Who I might mention looks absolutely nothing like Brad. My sister looks more like me. Hell, Solisa looks more like me. I want to know how drunk you have to get to confuse these guys, because I have seen them both under the influence of alcohol and was not fooled. Granted I have an uncanny sensory perception for young handsome men who are searching for their blogger soulmates, so that could have something to do with it. But I digress. The brothers are having a heart-to-heart. They discuss the love word. I say we drink. Cheers to Chad for hypothesizing a situation for our drinking game.
Coming up: Cyrano De Bachelor meets the ladies. In the meantime, vote for me. I don't have a twin sister but we can't all be Brad, now can we?



Here we go. This is bizarre, mainly because I'm having a hard time believing that McNewt isn't immediately wondering where The Bachelor went and what this random man is doing talking to her. I forgot all about this Midwesterner with the nose job. Where has she been? Brad looks sad that no one has leaped up and said "Who the hell are you?" Yup. He says it'll break his heart. Who is this girl? I forget. She looks confused. She picks up on the voice difference. Brad looks so much happier. I like this girl. Whoever the hell she is. The Acupuncturist picks up on it. Some other girl gets it figured out. Okay apparently the only two idiots were the ones at the beginning. Uh oh. Sarah's being set up. This was the girl from the beach who fried my AC adapter last episode! Down with Sarah. Oh, Sarah's from O'Fallon. Well that explains everything. People in O'Fallon are a little off. I warned you from the start, guys.
Ha! This is great. I hope he kicks off all of those idiots who didn't figure it out. Down with all of them. Obviously they also won't be able to do other things like pick up the right kid at school, write down a grocery list, or other various acts that require brain cells.
Oh the girl I decided I liked is Sheena. An "ee" sound in her name and yet I like her. A first. I just checked my list from the first week of whom he should eliminate immediately and she's not on it. So let's keep He-Man's jilted lover around.


Ah there's my man. No, no, not The Bachelor -- Chris Harrison. When is he coming to Austin? Only Chris would say something like, "Lindsey didn't ever...really...put it...together." A very Chris Harrison way of saying "LINDSEY IS AN IDIOT." I like all of these ways of politely implying these people are dumb as stumps. "It seemed like she...kind of thought...something might be..." By "kind of thought" Chris Harrison means "if she could think, she might have thought."
Now it's time for C to the Rad to go back to Texas. And then there was one. And twelve creepy photos of "these ladies" whom The Bachelor cares about.
Question: When did this show become soley about marrying a millionaire? In my reality TV show memory, I thought they created The Bachelor as a response to the terribly received, controversial "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?" Wasn't The Bachelor supposed to be about people just potentially getting engaged? Anyway, I'm not buying it. This should be "Who Wants to Shake Their Ass in a Millionaire's Face and Watch It Six Months Later, Still Single and Alone."



The rose ceremony. They better wrap this up. Wait, is that Chad? I kid, I kid. I think Lindsey is still confused and trying to figure out who's who.
Sheena makes it. Sweet. I'm on team Sheena! And by Team Sheena I mean I will root for her until the final episode when The Bachelor announces he feels his Texas roots calling to him and that he has to go back to Austin to find a blogger. McNewt and Jenni the dancer get roses. Jade gets a rose. DeAnna does too. Solisa commences shaking her ass in one last attempt to not be sent back to the depths of hell in Georgetown. Bettina gets the final rose and looks creepy and weird and gasps a lot.
"That twin thing just threw me off." Um...okay, Sarah. No biggie. They're just TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PEOPLE.
Solisa announces she wears her "Special parts on the outside!" !!!! Oh I'm sorry. I'm laughing too hard to even make a comment on that. Brad says "Good to know you." And your special parts.



Drama ensues next week. McNewt gets it, I can tell. The girls get creative with their own little Mc names. They should take up blogging. It's highly rewarding.

Well, that was a bit anticlimactic. The only thing I learned tonight is that television will in fact rot your brain and that Solisa's milkshake is better than ours, but does not apparently bring all the boys to the yard after all.

Thank God for local news. Mayor Will Wynn is on. This is like a double-header of hottness. I'm in love with the Mayor. There, I said it. Now finish your beers.

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What makes Austin's (alleged) hottest bachelorette hot?

Standing in the Express lane at the HEB, thinking "hurry hurry hurry" as you check out a bag of catfood and a 6-pack of beer.
"Would you like a bag for your uh...beer, ma'am?"
"If by 'bag' you mean 'box of kleenex,' then yes."

At least I wasn't the lady behind me buying 2 packages of break and bake chocolate chip cookies. Those babies will never even make it to the oven.

Tonight I'll be liveblogging from a foreign computer at an undisclosed North Austin location, since yesterday when I was watching The Bachelor on ABC.com my AC adapter caught on fire. Yes, caught on fire. As in, flames. As in, I burned my finger. Apparently The Hottest Bachelor Ever is too sexy for my AC adapter. The irony was not lost on me.

I suppose there are only so many tequila shots and obliques one AC adapter can tolerate.

And don't forget to vote for me. Currently I'm at 61% hot, which really should read "Two Dollars spent 61% of his Monday voting for me, 38% crying over the Cubs loss."

God, how the hell do you copy/paste on an Apple?

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Shameless Self-Promotion

Voting started today for Austin's Bachelor/Bachelorette! I'm not thrilled about the Hot/Or Not format of the contest, but hey. Such is life.
Hopefully they allow international voting because just this morning I had an email from one of my agents in Amsterdam asking me for the link so they could vote for me. I love AMS!

Vote Vote Vote

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Painful.

As most of you know, I have been avoiding touching on political subjects for approximately six months now. My decision was twofold: I decided that it was unhealthy to come home every night and absorb three hours of news commentary and because no one actually reads my political entries anyway (trust me, I know). I decided my time could be better spent actively helping with the political system and drinking heavily. Which is why I have been volunteering for a congressional campaign -- this may surprise some of you since I haven't talked about my involvement on here. I also have been drinking a lot, which will surprise approximately...none of you.

But there has been a lot going on I have wanted to comment on. From the easy cheap shot of Larry "Wide Stance" Craig to the SCHIP votes, it's a good time to be a poliblogger in America (but not such a good time to be a poor child without access to healthcare, it seems).

My mom sent me an email asking me why I haven't written about former attorney-general Alberto Gonzales's approval of the use of torture on the detainees in Cuba. I kind of bristle when people ask me to write something specific because, hey, get your own blog. But I will try to explain why I frankly no longer care to write about the Bush regime.

If you have been living under a rock, or just a veil of ignorant bliss granted to you by the liberties of the United States, you may have missed the drama surrounding the blatant unethical choices made by Alberto Gonzales. He randomly "dismissed" eight US attorneys, mainly because they were not loyal enough to the Republican party's agenda. Fine. Most of those are now working in high-powered corporate careers, likely making triple what they were as federal employees. I just read about one woman last week during my trip to Silicon Valley who was serving as an interim attorney for Qualcomm. So I felt little sympathy for these guys -- outrage over the unethical practice on Gonzales's part, but the attorneys will continue on and live cushy, comfortable lives.

So then there was the statistic that during Gonzales's term, Americans were violated under the long arm of the Patriot Act. Well, no kidding. This is the problem with the Patriot Act. Maybe Gonzales should have done something about it but the problem exists in the government that allowed this legislation to pass. And to that regard, the problem exists in the people of America who elected this government (not once but twice!) and continue to allow them to run rampant on their civil rights.

Which is why, when it comes to the authorization of torture in Guantanamo, I have a hard time separating the impact of this incident from any other. To me, the US government failed long ago and Gonzales is one tiny thread in the unraveling blanket of respect that has always been tossed over America. I can pinpoint the exact moment when I felt absolutely ashamed of where we stood on a global scale: New Year's weekend when I was sick as a dog and watched the news pour in about Saddam's execution. I put this quote up then, and I'll repeat it now:

"The test of a government's commitment to human rights is measured by the way it treats its worst offenders."
Richard Dicker - Human Rights Watch International Coordinator

People are suffering as a direct cause of our government all over the world: from 400,000 people dying in Darfur to an impoverished family of four barely scraping by in East Austin -- we cause these injustices every day. It is our privilege to vote (or not vote) and to act (or not act).

Ranting about Gonzales does me no good.

Until something good happens within the government, there is always baseball. Go Sox.

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If wishes were horses.

Todd Minkus & Pavoratti

How much would you pay for the horse pictured above? A few grand? $10,000? $50,000? $100,000? Half a million?

Try $850,000. That's how much Bruce Springsteen (yes, The Bruce Springsteen) was willing to pay originally for this horse so his daughter Jessica could have him. Jessica has been around the show circuit for quite a while.

Now Springsteen's being sued for reneging on his "deal" with Todd Minkus, the owner of the horse. I am surprised that they were planning on trading -- rarely do people actually trade horses these days.

It just goes to further prove why beggars cannot in fact ride horses. At least not competitively on the hunter/jumper/equitation circuit. The bottom has yet to fall out on the market and as long as there are rich parents, spoiled kids and imported horses, there will be horse sales.

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MADE IT 2 TOKYO AN SAYIN KTHXBYE 2 MAH FANZ



ILL MIS U.

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