Sunday, November 22, 2009
Break's over
This past weekend, my friend TAFKAMA gave me a talking-to about how much dust this little blog of mine has been gathering.
"I'm on sabbatical," I told him. "My heart's just not into it. I needed a break."
This is all true. Over the last couple months, every time I'd try to write something, I'd feel uninspired and bored by my efforts. I felt that if I was bored thinking about what I was going to write, certainly others would be too. I'd rather write nothing than write a bunch of forced, banal shit, so I wrote nothing.
The reason I was so uninspired was that I did need a break. I was tired of having to write something all the time. I realized that if I was thinking of the blog as a horrible chore on par with vacuuming or folding my clothes, it was probably time to step away from it for awhile. I wanted to focus on my job, and my life in general off the internets. As an added bonus, I figured that taking a break for awhile might drive away some of the gross Razzyphiles who think I'm going to fuck them or strip for them or in some other way perform sexual favors for them just because they read this blog. For the record, those kind of expectations annoy me and creep me out, and basically guarantee that I won't even speak to you if I meet you in person, much less fuck your socially challenged ass.
That said, all the desperate pleading from many of my other loyal, non-creepy, and genuinely awesome Razzyphiles has not gone unnoticed. TAFKAMA said on Friday that he would help me, not only as a contributor, but in terms of revamping the layout of the site sometime in the near future. I think a makeover would suit it well, and some assistance would suit me well in terms of motivation. So, put your suicide implements away, because I'm back. Fuck yes.
Labels: excuses, Razzification, TAFKAMA
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Look at this fucking Seattle asshole
This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.
For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.
Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.
Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.
Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!
And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.
"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."
Axl Rose, is that you?
All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.
Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.
It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.
And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.
Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.
These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.
Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.
This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"
"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."
TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.
I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."
Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.
Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.
A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.
Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.
This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.
Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."
"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."
This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.
Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.
Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!
I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.
I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.
In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.
Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!
I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.
And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.
When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.
Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.
What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.
Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.
"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."
"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."
Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.
When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."
And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.
I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.
Labels: assholes, goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, TAFKAMA
Monday, June 23, 2008
Still waiting
According to Apple's service center, my computer is fixed and return is "pending." However, I still don't have my precious computer back in my hot little hands because those so-called Geniuses at Apple are apparently too good to give me a UPS tracking number that will allow me to stalk it en route, so I'm not sure if I'll get to writing the "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: U.S. Women's Gymnastics especially Nastia Liukin and Alicia Sacramone" post I told LL Cool Jew I'd cobble together last night during the Olympic trials.
In the meantime, you can see my new contributor TAFKAMA (that stands for "The Artist Formerly Known as Mullah AntoniHo") bitching about how stupid Apple is. The other day he Gchatted me to announce that "i want to be a contributor on your blog. i hate amy winehouse, she is a dirty cunt rag whore." I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have someone discussing that, since I feel the same way, so I hooked him up with author privileges. While he has yet to finish his post discussing Amy Winehouse's many transgressions, his ire was temporarily rerouted to Mac users in a post he finished this weekend. Go read it and leave him some comments. However, be warned: TAFKAMA is a total hater, so if he deems any of your comments to be stupid (which he probably will), rest assured that he will probably tell you so.
Hopefully I'll be installing OS X on my computer by tonight, and will return to my usual prolific level of output in the next couple days.
Labels: Apple sucks, excuses, TAFKAMA
Saturday, June 21, 2008
(TAFKAMA's) Daily Douchebag: Apple / Mac computer users
Name: Razzy, Tom Hanks, Madonna, Jeff Goldblum, Tim Allen, John Tesh, Bono, Courtney Love...
DOB: Various
Occupation: (Singing the praises of) and (ruing the day they ever decided to purchase) their overpriced impossible to repair computer
Hometown: All sorts
Current residence: Probably in line with Razzy at the Genius Bar store or their local equivalent
Put down your NPR coffee mug (and your crack pipe) and come to your senses! While PCs may glitch out from time to time, the entire business world has somehow decided that PCs are the computer of choice due to the initial cost savings, ease of repair, and ability to customize the machine to suit the exact needs of the end user. Razzy's recent computer woes are proof positive that unless you want to wade through a bureaucracy more convoluted than the North Korean government you are far better off with a boring old PC. While they may not be as aerodynamic and come with far fewer celebrity endorsements, I have never had to ship my PC across the country to have it repaired nor have I been forced to go to an approved Mac repair facility in lieu of choosing from one of the numerous repair shops that are far closer to my home. Have fun driving 30 miles to the only Mac store in your county and standing in line with the squadrons of graphic designer wannabes!
You know the Mac commercials with the PC nerd and the Mac hipster standing side by side? The commercial that they should make would show PC and Mac after a night of hard partying. PC wakes up with a slight hangover and is still able to make it through the work day while Mac has a PCP fueled nervous breakdown and has to fly to the Betty Ford clinic for a week to get his shit back together.
Apple should hedge its bets and stick to the iPod and iPhone. Leave the serious business to the PC manufacturers and the legions of geeks that have made the PC the alpha and the omega of the modern computer age. There is no feasible reason for someone to purchase a Mac computer (unless of course you consider having a two thousand dollar 8 1/2" x 11" paper weight a valid reason). Wake up people! Just say no to Mac.
Labels: Apple sucks, computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, TAFKAMA
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: TAFKAMA
DOB: May 19, 1978
Occupation: computer badass at Amazon.com
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm a total creep and a bad friend because I forgot that yesterday was TAFKAMA's big 3-0. Okay, I didn't forget so much as I rely on my online social networks to remind me when people's birthdays are, I hardly ever go on MySpace anymore, and I sometimes neglect Facebook too, so I didn't know until he reminded me.
TAFKAMA: chat is gayOf course TAFKAMA is spending his birthday hating. TAFKAMA is always grouchy, even when he's having fun. Hell, he's grouchy even when he's having sex! (I know because we did it a few times when we were drunk, although in fairness TAFKAMA and I had an unspoken agreement to keep it pretty vanilla, because above all else we're old buddies and getting too freaky might make things weird, so maybe I mistook his attempts at keeping it casual for crabbiness). He's probably also hating because he's always breaking his ribs when he goes snowboarding, and that makes it hard to breathe, laugh, or eat without pain. When I went out for lunch with him the last time I was in the P-N-Dub, he looked positively miserable and had enough Vicodin on hand to trank an African elephant.
Razzy: no it's not!
Razzy: it's a great way to waste time
TAFKAMA: it is my b-day
TAFKAMA: 30
Razzy: omg, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Razzy: what are you doing to celebrate???
TAFKAMA: hating
In the hopes that I might be able to get TAFKAMA to crack one of his little begrudging smiles as a belated birthday present, I'm just going to reflect on some of the highlights of our friendship over the years. I met TAFKAMA my freshman year of high school, so we've known each other for almost 20 years. Even more apropos is that TAFKAMA's mom and my mom were friends in high school. They double dated to prom or something like that. Anyway, some of my favorite TAFKAMA moments are as follows:
- We drove through the streets of north Tacoma sometime in 1994 with a flaming copy of The Blue Hawk, this pulp sci-fi novel our sophomore honors world history teacher, Brother Paul, had assigned us as part of his long list of $0.10 paperbacks having something to do with technology and its impact on civilization. As TAFKAMA drove his beat-up old Dodge truck, AKA "Zog" around with burning pages flying off in our wake, he was sucking on a Djarum clove cigarette and saying, "Burning books is against everything I'm about, Razzy...BUT IT'S AWESOME!"
- Also sometime in 1994, while studying for some test, TAFKAMA wrote "Angie Sucks" on one of my Adidas Superstars in bright orange marker (I don't know why he had to fuck up my good shoes when there was a perfectly good pair of ugly lesbotic Birkenstock clogs hanging around). When I finally threw those shoes away with a heavy heart last year, the one TAFKAMA defaced still had a huge orange stain on it.
- TAFKAMA mastered the internets early, and via Prodigy managed to find pictures of some woman performing fellatio on a Clydesdale at some usenet group called "horselove.alt" or something like that. At one impromptu party at his house, I remember witnessing this picture with around 20 other horrified teenagers.
- In high school, TAFKAMA was the only boy who joined my feminist club "the Society for Women's Advancement" (DON'T LAUGH! Okay, you can laugh). So what if he only joined to get access to my signs so he could draw devil pictures on them and otherwise deface them with irreverent anti-feminist graffiti; at least he joined and went to at least one meeting (which I'm sure we spent sitting outside Cafe Wa smoking cloves rather than discussing new strategies for "women's advancement").
- TAFKAMA loved his piece of shit truck Zog so much that last year he bought an identical piece of truck off Craigslist and is currently "fixing it up," which I assume means making it marginally roadworthy.
- The first time TAFKAMA and I had sex, we were at my house in Tacoma sometime around 2002 or so, and we had just gotten home after a night of whiskey drinking on the town. How did TAFKAMA seal the deal, you ask? "Hey Razzy, let's make out," he said. When I asked why and suggested that our friendship was such that it might be weird, he said, "So? Making out is fun. Just shut up and make out. We'll just say we were drunk if it's weird." I couldn't argue with that logic, so I just went one step further and fucked him.
- TAFKAMA's hobby is making jam. One time he gave me a jar to give my parents. Now, every time I hang out with TAFKAMA, my dad asks where his jam is.
- One time TAFKAMA beat a guy up to defend my honor. Okay, not so much "my" honor as "his sister's" honor, since his sister and I both slept with the same cheating d-bag. Oh, okay, and TAFKAMA didn't even beat him up about our honor as much as because this guy was overall just a total d-bag for many reasons and TAFKAMA finally got fed up with it. But he kicked his ass nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA taught me about the useful little piece of html called target="_blank". This opens links in new windows. I realize this is like the html equivalent of 1+1=2, but I'm a computer moron, and I appreciate TAFKAMA's assistance nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA drinks bourbon and scores mad Seattle pussy. Wait, I'm not sure that latter attribute is something to be so proud of, because Seattle is full of dumb, annoying skanks. But still.
- TAFKAMA is just awesome and I'm so glad we're still friends after all these years. I hope that the birthday fairy left some hot, sort-of hippie-looking snowboarder chick with an encyclopedic knowledge of Philip K. Dick (or whatever...I know you're an even bigger nerd than me, TAFKAMA) novels on his doorstep to welcome the third decade of his life with a bang.
Hopefully TAFKAMA can stop hating for a few minutes to appreciate the fact that he rules. Ideally he appreciated that, then drained a few Vitamin R's (Rainier Beer, elixir of the P-N-Dub), and scored some hot chick. Happy birthday, TAFKAMA!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub, Razzification, TAFKAMA
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