Category Archives: Brain Disorders

People Who Died (and those who didn’t.)

First, to explain the headline: When I was about 14, I heard Jim Carroll‘s “People Who Died” on the underground college radio station, which I picked up only on clear nights and when I held the antenna just so. I held that bad boy through countless broadcasts, finger at the ready to hit record anytime sometime cool or seemingly relevant came on the radio.

Countless volumes of badly-dubbed tapes were the result. And I still have them, catalogued and filed away in a bag. I still thank RSU radio for making me at least a teensy bit cooler.

Jim Carroll, whose life is chronicled in the book/movie “The Basketball Diaries” wrote that song, and many others (“Catholic Boy” is another gem.) But “People Who Died” is the one always in my head.

It’s good to have a list of “People Who Died.” The most recent big-name addition to the “People Who Died” list of the world is Osama Bin Laden. Hey, if you didn’t know that, you might’ve actually been in a cave, and not hanging out in palatial Abbottabad. So yeah, I’m not breaking any news on that.

I’ve been planning on blogging this since I came to the stark realization last week that — get this — GORDON LIGHTFOOT IS ALIVE. I could’ve sworn that man was dead. I don’t know why — perhaps VH1 didn’t do a “Behind The Music” on Lightfoot. Perhaps I never had reason to look him up. Perhaps I thought he died in the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. (Sorry, too easy, low-hanging fruit and all that.) I tweeted the lyrics to a GL song, jokingly saying he “went too fast.” A friend on Twitter exclaimed, “He’s dead? I hadn’t heard!” He was really upset. I had to retract that statement, or at least tweet something else quickly that I was just full of shit.

But it made me realize: There are a lot of people I thought were dead who just aren’t.

Some examples:

I want this as a handheld fan I can take to church or ballgames. ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE!

Abe Vigoda. He’s one of those people that you assume already has a memorial scholarship named for him. He was born in 1921.  Way to go, Abe! I hope I’m not jinxing you!

Shirley Temple. In my mind, she’s 137 years old (Joe Louis’ age, of course, when Rocky Marciano beat him) and has been dead for quite some time. THAT’S NOT TRUE! She was born in 1928 and is still kickin’.

Dick Van Patten. Oddly enough, he was also born in 1928. Turns out, 80 wasn’t enough. Neither is 83. Still drawing breath.

Apprently the Denver Post thought Charlotte Rae was dead too. This was in their photo archive.

Mrs. Garrett, AKA Charlotte Rhea. She was born in 1926, and apparently has all the “Facts of Life” necessary to keep herself alive for a long time. She’s even been a reference in “Family Guy” for her voluptuous bosom.

Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe marrying children keeps you young? I shan’t try. I don’t know if I believe in marriage.

Carol Alt was everywhere in 1982. Is she off hanging with Debra Winger or something?

Carol Alt. I know, random, but it seems like she was everywhere, then she disappeared. I’m used to supermodels creeping back into the spotlight every now and again, such as Isabella Rossellini or Lauren Hutton. But what happened to Carol? Come back out, Carol. The world needs more pretty people.

Some people who are dead who may surprise you: Eddie Rabbit, Falco and Michael Jackson (haha, gotcha.)

So I’m done obsessing over death, at least people who aren’t really dead. Now to turn my attention back to people who are for real dead: OBL and ODB.

1 Comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Music, Uncategorized, Women

Crazy Women 101: Your Guide to Her-Steria

I’ll be the first to admit that women can be … batshit crazy.

I’m a woman, so I can readily admit to such lunacy. But you have to understand, we are hard-wired to include many more freak-out pressure points than men. Little things that roll of a man’s back like water off a duck’s back are likely to completely cloud a woman’s thinking to the point of ax murder.

I’ve taken the liberty of revealing some of these little elixirs in the crazy cocktail. So next time you see a woman with a downright troubled, fearful look in her eye, don’t judge her by her seemingly perfect wardrobe, perfectly coiffed hair or French-manicured toenails. The problems lie much deeper. You’ll thank me, men, for letting you know. Women, I’m sorry to tell a few of our secrets. But don’t worry, it’s for the betterment of humanity. And I would never give all of them away.

Condition 1: Tuckaphobia Skirtis

Dress tucked into underwear

Well of COURSE theres a Google image for this. Yes, men, this is a womans Worst Nightmare.

Every woman who’s ever worn a skirt or dress in her life (and if you haven’t, bravo) has experienced an acute case of TS at least once. I like wearing skirts and dresses, so I experience a bout every time. Especially if the skirt/dress is lightweight or flowing.

Here’s how it goes: You run to the restroom, and unlike men, have to completely disrobe your bottom half to Take Care O’ Business. Let’s assume you’re on deadline, or trying not to be away from your desk too long because your co-workers are A) on a really long lunch and you have to man the phones; or B) time how long your gone and assume you’re pooping, or C) run to tell your boss that you’ve disappeared and they would like to go ahead and have your new job title.

These are the things that run through a peeing woman’s mind. And if she’s pooping, you’d better believe it’s the fastest poop in town. We are convinced that every person in our office is sitting there with a stopwatch, measuring the length of time we’re in there. We don’t want to be known as Work Poopers. We don’t want the other girls thinking, “Well I’m not going in there for a while.”

You guys have it so easy. You relish your poops. I imagine you show each other if a small group has formed in the bathroom. I know you don’t have doors. How uncivilized is that, really?

But back to women, yeah, we gotta hurry. And when you hurry, especially in a dress, you run the risk of pulling your panties up and tucking part of the skirt/dress into your panties, thereby walking through the newsroom/office baring your extremely pale, dimpled asscheek for everyone to see. Oh, and your neon orange ratty panties. No, it’s never happened to me. Because I run The Check. The Check is basically where you run your hand down your ass from the time you pull your panties up until you get back to your desk. You can even look in the mirror to make sure, but you still run The Check to make sure the mirrors aren’t rigged. Tuckaphobia Skirtis might be a form of OCD. If not, it should be.

Condition 2: Taganoia.

St. Michael Jordan tagless

Michael Jordan has made huge strides against Taganoia with his invention of tagless Hanes T-Shirts. Love live St. Michael Jordan!

This is the fear that your tag is hanging out of your shirt. It doesn’t sound too awful, but believe me, it is. Tags, random pieces of cloth sewn to your garment, love to just roll on out of the collar, practically screaming to the world, “She’s wearing an  XL! And It’s an off-brand! AND IT’S FAKE LINEN!” Tags hanging out of clothes make you look slovenly.

Usually, some Good Samaritan, always another Taganoic female, comes along to tuck in the tag for you, patting you on the back afterward and giving you that look of, “Don’t worry, I took care of it. I’m so sorry this happened.”

Taganoia is thankfully on the decline, thanks to the genius who decided to put stamps on the inside of shirts rather than sewn-in tags. Why didn’t we think of this sooner? It seems a lot of sweatshops would’ve been thankful that they don’t have to sew in those tiny tacky tags anymore. Somehow, this is Michael Jordan’s doing. I saw those Hanes commercials. He’s the guy who invented tagless shirts. And I wasn’t sure I could love him more… sigh.

It’s odd, though, that men’s shirts were the first, because as far as I know, men could care less about their tags hanging out, and have never suffered a moment of taganoia.

Condition 3: The KMZ.

KMZ is short for “Kill Myself Zit.” It’s basically one of those bad boys that populates your entire face. It walks in the room before you do. It makes you want to just lay down and die, or form a firing squad to take aim at it, possibly lobotomizing you, but you don’t care as long as that horrible thing is off your face. A KMZ attack makes women act really, really strange.

We’re convinced that the entire world can see it, that is shows up on Google Maps, that government agencies are planning what to do should it try to overthrow the government. It’s the kind of zit that doesn’t usually have anything in it. It’s just hostile and mean, full of pus (how DO you spell the adjective form of ‘pus’ anyway?) and refusing to go away. They’re prevalent in the summer for me, when I hate wearing scads of makeup.

But when I’m undergoing a KMZ attack, I throw on the makeup, which never matches, and it ends up melting away about 15 minutes after you apply it (Thanks, Oklahoma Summers!) So we have to pack a duffel bag full of possible fixes for the beast, and run to the restroom every 15 minutes to reapply our masks. And pee. For the love of God, if you have a KMZ, don’t wear a skirt. The stress alone could force an accidental tucking. And then the world would blow up. Note: KMZs are most common if a big day is coming up, such as your wedding, or a camera is within 15 feet of your face. And I’m of the firm belief that men don’t get zits after they turn 17.

And that’s all I’m going to reveal at this point. I can’t just throw all women’s secrets out there, because it might mean men would never touch them again, women would never get laid and that’s a bad thing. The craziness would multiply ten — no, hundredfold — it would be like having longhaired vampiric wildebeests roaming the city streets. We don’t need that. Not again.

I’ll reveal more, but I have to eke it out so the fragile male brain can absorb some, make peace, then move on. Or poop it out, in a room full of other guys.

2 Comments

Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Women

Garish Confessions, embarrassing or otherwise: The Spanx Chronicles (and beyond)

These are my confessions, brought to you today by Usher.

I haven’t blogged in two weeks. That’s not a confession, just a fact I thought I’d bring up as to clear the elephants out of the room. Damn things are always getting caught under my couch.

So yes, on to the confessions.  Some are Girl Style confessions, and thus, the harder ones to admit. But in case any of you didn’t know this yet, I don’t really care about embarrassing myself. It’s freeing, really.

So here goes.

Spanx

Like youd wear them if you looked like this anyway.

1.   Spanx make me look fatter. I’m convinced. Last week, I bought this cute little shift dress at Ross’s dress sale. I loved the way it looked in the store dressing room, when I was Spanx-less. I thought, Spanx could only make it better! Monday morning, I got all dolled up, put on the ol’ Spanx and high heels and headed to work. During Job 1, I ran to the bathroom, and while toddling in on the high heels I’m going to finally remove from my closet, got a side view of myself. I’m not a thin girl. I know this. Right now, juggling two stressful jobs, I’m probably not losing any weight, either. But still, the side view of me was very unpleasant. I went to the stall, then came back out with my Spanx down around my legs. I liked the look much better. The Spanx basically pushed all my flawed areas (read: fat) to the front, instead of keeping them in their natural place. Alas, there is no miracle. I took my Spanx off, tucked them under my arm, walked past a tour group, and then put them in my purse. No more Spanx for me. I also took the high heels off and replaced them with the flip-flops I had in my purse. Unless important people walked by. I kept the heels at the ready all day in case I need to walk by a big boss’s office. Fashion sucks

I'm just waiting for this moment to happen. Is that Kate Moss in the picture?

Im just waiting for this moment to happen. Is that Kate Moss in the picture?

2.   I cut my own bangs. I’ve had really long hair since eighth grade, after the picture fiasco. I have naturally curly hair, and in my seventh grade school picture, a piece of my then-short hair decided to stand up and say hi to the photographer. My mother loved the picture and wouldn’t let me get retakes. (Love you and miss you mom, but REALLY?) So I had long hair forever afterward, and I have good hair, I don’t mind saying, so length was always important to me. Until last year. I had a Delilah moment and cut off all my own power. ALL my hair was gone. It was cute, but I regretted it as soon as I did it. In fact, everyone who said, “Your hair is so cute!” got this in return: “Thanks, I’m growing it out.” And I have been. Now, it’s at least below my ears. Nearly ponytail length. And I haven’t been to see Brooke the Magnificent (my hairdresser) since November. It’s nearly May. So my bangs have been trimmed a few times by me, sometimes well, sometimes shakily, as I normally trim them in the morning before being fully awake. Fortunately I have thick hair that can cover a variety of sins. But Lord help me if I accidentally take off a whole chunk. That’ll be seventh grade all over again.

3. I have some of the same clothes I had in junior high. I am not a hoarder, but clothes are different for me. If it still fits, has its original color, and might come back into fashion, I don’t see why I can’t save it. I have this black turtleneck my sister Natalie bought me for Christmas in 1987 that I still wear. I realize now that the shirt is older than most of our summer interns who’ll be coming to the paper this year. But it’s warm and still very dark black, so it passes the test. And it’s a turtleneck. You only wear those when you’re extremely cold anyway, right? And under something, right? Oklahoma was privy to its share of extreme cold this year, thus came out the turtleneck. And the flower-print Doc Martens from my hippie days. If I was Renae, one of main homegirls, I’d have thrown that shit out years ago. She throws away everything. It’s who she is, and I’ve come to accept it. Once she threw out my spare housekey I gave her in case I died and needed her to feed Leon. She threw it out because “she didn’t know whose it was.” Thanks. Now I know Leon will starve. But yes, I keep clothes longer than I should. And since I’ve basically been the same size/shape since 1987, it’s OK.

I still love him.

4. I still cheer for Tiger Woods. He’s this generation’s Bill Clinton, for whom I still cheer. Sorry, they’re both beyond great. I realize Tiger is a lousy husband. I realize Tiger is kind of weird and awkward. But he’s still Tiger Effing Woods, and he’s still amazing in nearly every way except his personal life. Remember when we didn’t care what athletes did in their spare time? Or actors, or anyone else? Remember when we focused on our own lives or maybe those in our community? I say we take that approach again. Joe Namath is an alcoholic, and he’s still a living legend. We forgive the older generations their faux pas because TMZ wasn’t following them around exacerbating them. So yes, I still love Tiger. Good luck this year, mate. Fuck ‘em if they can’t let your private life be private.

This idiot, Rick Sanchez, is one of the main reasons I quit watching 24-hour news.

This idiot, Rick Sanchez, is one of the main reasons I quit watching 24-hour news.

5. I quit watching 24-hour news in 2004. I realize I’m a newsperson and I should probably keep up. But working for a newspaper makes you realize a lot of truths about the industry: TV people are actors, who have a very small staff that trolls for news. Usually good-looking staffers. Newspapers are large-staffed, moderate-looking people who don’t worry about camera time. We’re the ones actually pounding the pavement and breaking stories. And with websites and an actual understanding of how they work, we’re proving it over and over again. I don’t watch the nightly news, or have the ticker on. Ever. And it’s freeing. If I want to read something, I seek it out myself. And since I work for a newspaper, it’s pretty easy to find! I suggest everyone give up the 24-hour news cycle, even ESPN. See if you really miss it.

I hope you enjoyed the Garish Chicken’s confessions. I guarantee you there will be more, since I am clearly the most ridiculous person alive.

Leave a comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Haters, Love, Newspapers, Sports, Tulsa

How to Dismantle Your Cat’s Meth Lab

Really, how do you do it? I’ve never dismantled a meth lab, so when I finally find the one that Percy’s been keeping in business in my garage, I’ll need to know how to do it. It’s not a Google search I look forward to — and now I’ll just find my own blog entry. This is backfiring. At least I’ve seen lots of “Breaking Bad.” Surely that will help.

Percy Leonard Katt

Here's Percy. Doesn't he look crazy, like he's a notorious methmaker?

Let me back up a bit: When my brother lived with me, Percy, my mammoth-esque tuxedo cat, fell head-over-heels in love with Nick. Percy could take or leave me, but Nick, hoo boy, he’s a champion in Percy’s eyes. Mostly because Nick catered to his every whim, first and foremost being let out into the garage. I should also tell you that Percy can open doors with his thumbless paws, which is more terrifying than you could ever imagine. He will be holding hostages before the year is out.

So Nick comes up with a theory. I should probably warn you that Nick is weird like me. But Nick’s theory is that Percy is either building a bomb or a meth lab in the garage, and that’s why he wants to go out so often. And since Percy meows with ferocious intensity to be let outside, he cabbaged onto the idea that yes, it was a meth lab, and Percy is very concerned about getting the chemistry correct.

He’s good at keeping it secret. But randomly, when Percy’s out there by himself, we’d hear a tool drop to the floor, then a scuttling, and once he opened the garage door. I don’t know how, I just know that he was gone for a minute, then on the front porch meowling to be let in.

Percy goes in an out of the garage about 17 times a night. I don’t know what he does out there, because if I open the door, he either hides as quickly as possible or runs inside. Or yells at me. Seriously, he looks at me and yells. Like, “MOM!!! CLOSE THE DOOR AND LEAVE ME ALONE! I’M DISTILLING CRANK IN HERE!”

I apologize to him, quickly grab the laundry out of the dryer and move on. I don’t want to be caught in between my cat and his methmaking.

Sometimes, I leave my windows open in my car and find Percy in the driver’s seat. He’s going to steal my keys and drive to Cranktown, I just know it. I don’t know where Cranktown is, but I bet Percy does. I bet he’s the Foursquare Mayor of Cranktown.

And I’ve mentioned this before, but during the blizzard, there were sets of kitty tracks going back and forth to the garage. And Percy still went in the garage, even when it was -13 and my car remained frozen even parked in there. I think he was dealing to the neighbor cats. I also think that maybe he’s got a deal with the ghetto birds, the choppers that circle my house from time to time. Perhaps they’re landing in my back yard and collecting the new batches for sale. My questions are: What does Percy do with all the cash? Why won’t he share? Does him bringing it in the house make me an accessory to the fact? Is cat meth different than people meth? Does he sell cat meth to humans? Do they then become cats?

What I’m afraid of is that the DEA will converge on my house and blame me for all that meth. And really, do you think they’ll believe me that Percy built it? Let this blog serve as my testament: I DO NOT have a meth lab. It’s my cat’s. Really.

I don’t think I’d believe me. And I also think maybe Nick and I watch too much television.

1 Comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, General Nonsense, Pets

What if Nikki Sixx and Jim Morrison were both my husbands?

I miss my wild teenage imagination. I had all these fantasies in private reverie, this rich tapestry of a make-believe life in which I was rich and famous and romantically involved with all of the people I’d ever deemed attractive.

I won’t go into detail here, as most of it is embarrassing and involves making out with pillows. I was 13 or so and lived in the country, miles away from real people, so I did what I had to between rounds of hating my life and writing in my journal. Fantastical fun commenced.

Nikki Sixx

Nikki Sixx, the man I wanted to be married to in 1987.

In my fantasy world, anything was possible, and though I was just learning about sex, I sure seemed to be having a lot of it up there. In this fantasy world, Nikki Sixx was my steady. The bassist from Motley Crue was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life, and I imagined him bewitching, kind, super-intelligent and dramatic. I didn’t even factor in the whole “heroin-addict” thing. But in this vivid imagination, Nikki was gone a lot, spawning my many affairs with other hot rock stars, including (but not limited to) Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, Jani Lane from Warrant, Bret Michaels, Warren DeMartini and Stephen Pearcy from Ratt, Kelly Nickels from LA. Guns and a brief fling with Axl Rose. In this world of mine, Gene Simmons was a mentor of sorts, a father figure. And Jim Morrison was alive, and also a part-time fling. But since I’d read “No One Here Gets Out Alive” when I was 12 or so, I knew Jim was a space cadet and incapable of real love. So he was just part-time, though I remember thinking, “Man, I wish you could get it together, Jim, you’re so hot and so awesome.”

The imagination game didn’t ever extend to TV people. They didn’t seem real to me. But my music idols, they were the real deal, and I had this intimate relationship with them in my head. I was always so amazed at how far my mind would travel with these fantasies, and how I’d snap out of it, go to school and never lapse into being Mrs. Sixx while studying algebra.

I don’t have time for such daydreams nowadays, and I sort of miss them. They’d probably be a lot more exotic now than they used to be — maybe I should write a book based on that fantasy life? “Teenage Whore,” something like that?

All that daydreaming probably had a good effect on me. It certainly made me picky, and not willing to have sex with just anyone: “Why would I do this with you, when I’ve got a perfectly good rich husband in my head that’s waiting for me to get home?”  In fact, I was a pretty good lil’ girl.

I think it did kind of give me a bad-people mentality though. I’ve always been attracted to those who live dangerously, and it’s been to my detriment. Over the past years, I’ve realized that being a rebel doesn’t necessarily mean you’re more fun or a better friend.

But if Nikki Sixx sashayed into my room tonight, I’d probably go for it. In my mind, he’s still wearing that vertical-striped suit from “Smokin’ In the Boys Room” and wearing black stripes under this eyes. Sigh.

5 Comments

Filed under Brain Disorders, General Nonsense, Music

Charlie Sheen, the true Wizard of Id

I’ve never had a Charlie Sheen moment. It’s disgraceful.

Charlie Sheen in Ferris Bueller

My favorite Charlie moment: As a stoner in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"

But really, I’ve never been so full of confidence, so monumentally convinced of my perfection, and it’s just sad. If Tiger Blood was really what’s doing it, I’d say “Let’s go get some,” but I love tigers and don’t want to see their blood being savagely removed from their bodies. Of course, they’d probably rip our faces off if we came within 20 yards of them with a syringe.

Now THAT would be a funny sitcom moment.

While part of me thinks this whole Sheen fiasco is an act, I also see a man running totally on Id, or as About.com defines, “The personality component made up of unconscious psychic energy that works to satisfy basic urges, needs, and desires. The id operates based on the pleasure principle, which demands immediate gratification of needs.”

Sounds about right, eh?

I know this is going to surprise some of you, but prepare yourselves: The Garish Chicken isn’t as pure as dewy children’s tears. I’ve seen my share of train wrecks, and been a partial one a few times. I’ve had close friends whose lives have spiraled out of control, one in particular. She abused drugs for years, and when she got “clean” (I use quotes because I’ll never know if she really truly was clean) she became erratic and unbelievably Id-dy. It was all about her. She’s always had a mean streak, but it got meaner and more prevalent. She became a nuisance. She was out of control. She eventually started using drugs again, maybe not to the level she had, and she was intolerable. We are no longer friends.

Charlie Sheen will lose a lot of friends over his Id addiction, and if he is truly clean, I suspect he’s going through what this former friend went through.

I really do hope he doesn’t completely lose custody of his children, and I hope a great majority of this behavior is just a cry for attention or need for publicity. Maybe it’s a talented agent’s ploy to get his client in the spotlight. Maybe it’s a Joaquin Phoenix-esque plot for a documentary. Who knows?

All I know is, I am ready to hear about somebody else, someone who’s fully using all three parts of their personality.  And really, if you’re going to use an animal-based product, shouldn’t it always be Sex Panther?

Leave a comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense

I suggest “Tony-Danza-ing.”

I don’t usually comment on celebritards, but who can resist all this Sheeny stuff going on?

Play the game. It’s fun. You will LOVE IT. And I do suggest “Tony Danza-ing” for “sexual gerund.”

Enjoy.

Stark-Raving Mad Libs: vanityfair.com.

Leave a comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!

Total recall, or Sarah and the Jingle Bits

Since I have a known mental defect: my brain is a constant jukebox of sound clips, commercials and annoying songs, I sometimes don’t even slow down enough to notice that it’s happening. It’s like a tic, really, and I often say that it’s probably Tourette’s or OCD and nothing I can control. The above video is a clip from Nickelodeon that I often get embedded in my skull. I also constantly hum other old commercials, cartoon intros, Wham! songs and that effing Miley Cyrus song “Party in the USA.”

I like this tic, though, and hope it never goes away. I do wish I remembered regular stuff, like math, but I guess it’s cool to have total recall of every commercial jingle ever made and also every pop song since 1964. I guess it’s cool that I listen to really cool music like Social Distortion or the Modern Lovers in the morning and have the theme from “Gummi Bears” in my head instead. I guess that’s just AWESOME.

It does get kind of old remembering stuff that no one else does. So when I find someone who remembers some useless little bit of an old commercial or something, I latch onto that person and constantly hound them about it. “Hey, remember that Toyota commercial from 1986? Isn’t that funny that we both remember that! Ha! Hahaha, even!”

And then that person either laughs with me (like a true friend) or looks at me with sadness in their eyes and a fake smile curling up their lips. I know then that that person isn’t special like me. Or that that person has a life, which I don’t have.

Case in point: My old roommate, the gay husband, remembered every jingle from his childhood growing up in Indiana, as well as a bevy of national favorites. I thought this was fantastic, and we would spend long, drunken hours singing them at the top of our lungs to no one in particular. No wonder it took him such a long time to find a man to marry; he was always hanging out with his crazy friendgirls who sang Mazda commercials with him.

Texans, especially Dallas-area Texans, have a firm hold of the commercials of the 1980s, mostly because they were incredibly annoying and catchy: Westway Ford, Trophy Nissan, Dalworth carpeting… I spent my summers in Tarrant County since I was 6, so I know Texas commercials. My youngest sister, The Saint, often sends me texts containing only jingle bits. (Note: I want to name a band “Sarah and the Jingle Bits,” and maybe we’ll perform all these old commercials. That is more rad than Tad. OOOH, now I want to name a band “More Rad than Tad”! I’m on a roll!)

I recently learned that some of my interesting little quirks might be considered “psychologically abnormal,” thanks to Allie Brosh’s blog here about synesthesia from my favorite blog of all time, Hyperbole and a Half. For instance, my feeling sorry for the unmated sock might not be normal. Like, all of you don’t feel sorry for the sock with no mate or the bleach-stained shirt that never got to go to the party it was destined for.

That blog entry (and the blog itself) has changed my life, and made me realize that maybe I can get on disability and never have to work again! HOORAY!

But probably not, since I’m also a workaholic and need lots of money to buy cable so more commercials will lodge themselves in my brain. It’s a twisted life. I love it.

1 Comment

Filed under Brain Disorders, Childhood, General Nonsense, Music