29 October 2008
Anyway, if you follow Navel Gazing, you've already seen this. If you don't, go follow that blog and then get back to me. I'm stealing the video she has up right now. It's GREAT.
See? GREAT. And in case you hadn't seen it (and thus didn't get some of the parody) here is the official trailer it was based upon:
23 October 2008
OK, FINE. So you're not sports fanatics. How about humor? Do you like that? One would never know since apparently you're less likely to find it here than in a Robin Williams film, but in case you do, have I got the website for you! Actually, it's a blog, but that still counts, right?
You know how my posts go on and on and on and on and on and never seem to end and you never even make it to the end of them because you're so completely exhausted by then that you pass out? Imagine a humor blog but with really short posts...as in, posts that are able to cram all that funny in one itty-bitty tiny space. Can you imagine it? I sure can! And it's the subject of this week's/month's/year's Abby's Website Pick! It is my new favorite website and/or blog that is fully worthy of my precious, precious stalking time.
So go right now to Notthatdeep.com and merrily enjoy! And subscribe! And comment! And beware the saucy language!
As for the rest of you jerks, I know you're reading! I can see you there! Well, I can't actually see you, I can just see a bunch of numbers. But I know that loads of people I can't readily identify read this friggin' blog every day and YET YOU DO NOT COMMENT. SO THE REST OF THE WORLD THINKS I'M A LOSER. DON'T THINK I DON'T HOLD THAT AGAINST YOU, YOU BLOG-LOOKING THIEVES. Just for that, I'm not going to post for a really, really long time. Which is fairly fortunate, since I couldn't think of anything else to write about anyway.
21 October 2008
The Rays played a good series this past week. They deserved the win, what with having a great team, fantastic pitching, and an opponent who chokes every chance it possibly can, but only when it's really, really important that they win. So good job, Rays/Devil Rays! You earned it!
Speaking of Boston, I got to thinking about curses the other day. Boston had theirs for certainly long enough--enough so that most of us never thought we would see a World Series win in our lifetimes. The Cubs are well known for their own curse, the only difference being everyone on earth knows they'll never win. And the Yankees have a curse of their own, believe it or not. And that curse is to be forever plagued with a fanbase made up entirely of hosers. Yankee fans are the definition of fair-weather fans. Sure, there are people who live in New York who happen to root for the Yankees because of regional pride. That's fine. But how do you explain the other 1,538,982 idiots across the United States who also consider themselves NYY fans? Have they ever lived in New York? Anywhere near it? Do their roots go back to NYC? No. They root for New York because they can't stand to root for a losing team, and because the NYY are the winningest major league team in history they feel fairly confident that they'll be in a good mood after most games. So that's bad enough. But you take a season like this one where the NYY did not perform up to their fans' ridiculously high standards and suddenly you see people jumping ship like diseased rats from the Titanic. Their loyalty to the Yankees is founded entirely in how well the team performs. What kind of fanbase is that??
Now, take a man like my father: New England roots, raised in Boston by hardcore New England/baseball fans. If my father were even a fraction less straight than he is right now he would have proposed marriage to Ted Williams years ago. Ted would have had to get a restraining order to keep my father's love at bay. He loves Teddy and the Red Sox A LOT. A LOT. REALLY. My dad is another one of those who thought he would never see Boston win in his lifetime and, no exaggeration, he broke down and cried when they won the Series in 2004. My dad loved the Red Sox in good times and in bad. Sure, he inflicted his own personal curses upon them every time they choked when faced with victory, but he never denied them his undying love and affection. And no, Sunday night was not a good night for him. But he still loves them just the same.
The Husband works with a couple of NYY fans. None of them have ever lived anywhere near NY, let alone have any other possible good reason to root for them. One of them even grew up in Boston; he and his father (the original offender here) apparently got tired of getting their hopes up and decided to take the easy route instead. These same fellows, when faced with even one game in which the Yankees have lost, curse the team to death and announce that they will no longer follow the team if they're just going to lose like that. And yet, after the very next win, they are suddenly rabid fans once again.
As if it couldn't get any worse, idiots much like the fans just described have taken to suddenly being Boston Red Sox fans. It's amazing how no one liked them prior to October 2004, and yet starting in November every third car on the road suddenly began sporting some allegiance to the team. 2007's season ender didn't help this trend. But I'm sure they have nothing to fear since as soon as they start losing again and these temporary fans start seeing what it was like being a Boston fan before 2004, they'll flit away to the next highly successful team. It's just a matter of waiting for them to grab their Mojitos and their Abercrombie & Fitch fleece pants and getting lost.
I've also noted a strange propensity for people to root for the Cubs with little or no reason. It has become popular to root for them simply because they consistently lose (man, they nearly screwed that one up a couple years in a row, huh? Coulda lost half their fanbase over that pennant win. Phew!). The Martyr Complex of these foul-weather fans has extended to sports, apparently. Sure, rooting for the underdog can give a person warm fuzzies for, wow...hours even. But continuously rooting for a losing team simply out of pity? What? Why? That's like marrying someone because they're ugly and can't get anyone else. Why would you do that to yourself? You can't stick a brown bag over the head of the Cubs, you know what I mean? You marry them, you're stuck with them. At least with the Red Sox we always knew they would eventually win a World Series again; it was simply a matter of time and waiting it out until the Curse weakened enough for the Sox to overcome it. That, and the Sox's money buying enough good players to properly purchase a Series Yankee-style. But the Cubs? Never. Sorry. Get all the tears out now sweethearts 'cause it just ain't never gonna happen.
And now for a bit of classic hilarity that always made my and the Husband's day.
Nomar! You're nuts! For the love of Ban Johnson, get a shrink you fruitcake.
18 October 2008
For all of you who are wringing your little hands waiting for me to post something, I have family in town this week and they keep wanting me to pay attention to them for some reason so I won't be posting as often for a little while. DRY YOUR EYES, MY SWEETS. However, I saw this tidbit last night and decided I couldn't let it get away.
I was reading an online ad yesterday (yes, I was that bored; come entertain me) and saw an ad for a realtor named Ed something-or-other. However, according to his ad, he apparantly prefers to go by "'Special' Ed" (quotation marks are his). What? OK. First let us examine this. If the man in question were actually mentally disabled in some manner, do you think he would honestly go by this nickname? Or that anyone would actually have the guts to call him that? No. OK, so we've established that he does not have a mental disability. So it then begs the question: why in the name of all that's holy would you voluntarily nickname yourself this and suggest others know you by the same? And not just your friends, but potential business clientele? What could possibly be going through this man's head? According to his website, "I am known as "Special" Ed because of the "Special" treatment you receive when you work with me and my team." Huh. Still unbelievable.
I really can't wrap my mind around this and have nothing further to offer except, what? No seriously, what? What?
16 October 2008
So here is my mushy post about my undying love for Maine. There's nothing funny here at all I'm sorry to say. There was nothing funny in the last one either, but at least I tried with that one. (Amazing how my thoughts are so much more hilarious to me at 2am.) If the Simpsons have taught me anything it is "You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is: never try." For those of you who already read it in the last post, you can go ahead and skip this. In fact, I highly doubt the rest of this post would be of interest to anyone else but me, so consider yourselves duly warned (and how often do I do that for you?). So go read Here in Idaho instead. It's funny as always. Go.
Since I just deleted the whole portion of the last blog I'll give you the gist of what was there. My ancestors have been in Maine since they moved there from Massachusetts in the 1600s, right on up through my grandfather and his family. Evidence of my family's presence is scattered across the entire town where our cottage is. My dad and his sibling visited every summer to a cottage there on the shore, a cottage up the street from where his father vacationed in the summer and down the street from the cottage we visit in the summer now, all three having been on property that has been in the family for four generations. I have gone there since I was a small kid and I have always loved it there. It's been a part of my heritage, my family, and it's seared into my blood. I long for it and I feel a strong connection to the state, but more to the area we visit. I feel like I'm supposed to belong there. And yet I am an outsider.
Mainers are a private people. They don't like outsiders with loads of money taking their state away from them (we're outsiders with no money at all, does that make it better?). If a Mainer perceives you as one of his own you are treated as an old friend. If a Mainer sees you as an outsider, you get the cold shoulder. I've known this since I was small and I've tried to fit in the best I can when I'm there, trying to avoid typical touristy behavior, if nothing else to avoid the chilly reception. Some people don't perceive it as much, like the Husband (a relative newcomer to the state), who suggested he could get away with laying his own lobster traps off shore expecting to catch his own lobsters. While I couldn't expect him to know otherwise, the thought make me snicker and I had to tell him the best that could possibly come from that situation would be to have his line cut by the other lobstermen. The worst would be, well, much worse. "Oh. So not like crabbing then." "Not at all." I still laugh at the image of him trying to get away with that without getting killed.
Back to the outsider thing. I've explained where I'm coming from. I love it there and I feel the familial and lifelong connection. But I never feel like I belong. Even walking around I feel like I'm wearing a sandwich board advertising I'm a tourist on vacation and it would be in your best interests to shun me. And egg my car if you have time. I don't expect Mainers to accept someone like me, especially knowing their attitude towards people just like me. But I can't help feeling a part of it nonetheless. It's like I'm in some sort of limbo. I love them and their state and they hate me and can't wait for me to leave. It's an awkward feeling to say the least. I have never been one for needing to fit in anywhere--marching to the beat of my own drummer you know--but I want to belong there. And I don't. And I never will, either. It reminds me of a question that was submitted to Yankee Magazine several years ago. A couple had moved to Boston and their children had been born there. They asked if that then meant their children were Bostonians. Yankee's answer was, "If my cat had kittens in the oven, would that make them biscuits?" That's pretty much the attitude in Maine, only more so. And I'd never do something as stupid as try to fake a Maine accent or start saying "wicked" after every third word just to try to fit in or anything. I would just like to be regular, normal me, but minus the fricking sandwich board. Not to be.
And now I will go cry into my little pillow until I feel better. STOP LOOKING AT ME. Go watch Youtube. Hey! Remember, Celtic Thunder is always good for a laugh! Now go.
15 October 2008
For those who didn't know, which is most of you since I avoid human contact, we were off to Maine for a week's vacation this past week. And no Abby Vacation would be complete without incomprehensible levels of Utter Stupidity! Hooray! Earlier last week we went out to Marshall Point Lighthouse, which is known to the rest of you as the Forrest Gump lighthouse. It is gorgeous there. It's impossible to take a bad photo of Marshall Point and I took LOADS of fabulous photos there. We also went to Port Clyde, which for those who have not been, is the quintessential Maine coast town. "Picturesque" is the best word for it. It is also completely impossible to take a bad photo of Port Clyde. You could swing your camera in a circle and fling it into the water and you'd still somehow wind up with several photos suitable for framing. That town is the very definition of perfection. I took another load of marvelous photos (photos I even tried to make look good, which made them even better) and I was so happy with them I could have cried. And then at the end of the week I managed to erase EVERY SINGLE PICTURE. Yes, it's a new digital camera and no, I shouldn't have been screwing around with it going, "Oo! What's this do? Oo! And what's this do?" (FYI, do not reformat your camera while photos are in it or you will lose them all. Every. Last. One.) So it's not even the fact that I lost all of those beautiful photos, but the fact that my own stupidity was what caused it. I would hit myself over the head with a crowbar, but I think it would hurt too much. And probably make me stupider.
And the second bit of stupidity: after leaving the state one of Peanut's toys fell out and under the car. I bent down to pick it up and burned my hand on something on the car underneath. I think they heard me scream in New York. Fortunately, we had stopped at a hotel for the evening so I ran it under cool water every hour and I think it's turned out nicely. And then yesterday it tore. Felt like angels kissing a summer breeze! What you see on the right is pre-tear. I showed Stephanie the tear last night and she started to heave so I figured I'd save you all that pleasure. You're welcome.
Later in the week I insisted we stop in at an art gallery I've driven past for years but never been in. Called "The Art of the Sea," it's made up entirely of maritime-themed artwork and it's great. But the best part of the museum is the restoration workroom. The gallery has you go up one set of steps, tour the upstairs, down the other set of steps, and down into the workroom and back out the front door. I'm not certain if they intended the workroom as part of a "tour feature" of sorts, but it worked out that way just the same. The gallery owners saw me dragging Peawhistle and Peanut and suggested I skip the first set of steep stairs and just go straight back through the workroom; I spent almost the entire time there.
You would absolutely not believe this place. Actually, you probably would. What you wouldn't believe is the man who works there, Jerome Morris. He is a professional ship restorer and he repairs and restores old and damaged model boats and ships (along with other odd requests that he is also capable of fulfilling). The boats range from small toy models to six-foot-long schooners you race on the water. One model clippership he got in the mail from someone asking for its repair had experienced "one or two bumps along the way" according to Mr. Morris. He said this because nearly every single piece of the ship was lying at the bottom of its glass case when he got it. Not only did he clean and restore it to what it was supposed to look like (wooden sails, ship's crew, and all), but he had to take the glass case apart to do it, a glass case that had been built and glued around the ship and had bowed glass--and then he had to put the case back together around the ship without punching the bowed glass in and squashing the ship after he'd fixed it. And that was just one ship of numerous ones he'd done so far. I questioned him to death about the ships and what he does to fix them and he was very kind about answering my questions.
I am especially impressed that he didn't kill Peawhistle, either. The second he saw me drag her into his shop I watched his expression and fully expected him to grab his chest and collapse, but he held it together very well and never said anything. She, of course, was thrilled to see so many boats and naturally wanted to touch every single one. And that's when I leaned down and whispered as lovingly as I could, "DON'T. TOUCH. ANYTHING. YOUR LITTLE LIFE DEPENDS ON IT." I held her hand in a death-grip--everytime she moved he flinched. In a distracted moment she got free of my hand and made a dash for some of the huge sailboats, all while the restorer and I stared in complete horror, but she instead chose to sit in a chair, saving everyone from an embarrassing conversation with the police and paramedics. It is especially fortunate that Mr. Morris did not know of Peawhistle's love of chewing on everything she sees, particularly wood products. I had visions of her tucking a napkin under her chin, declairing "Bottoms up, mate! 100 hours' of work down the hatch!" as he watches one of his restored schooners be devoured by an insane four-year-old.
It was his obvious and extremely warranted discomfort around Peawhistle, combined with a few subtle hints from him ("I'll have to wait to paint the detail on that one until I have no distractions....like customers coming through.") that made me push on to the rest of the gallery, but I was certainly loath to leave. I had approximately 53 more questions I would have thrown at him, were he not completely preoccupied with rescuing his livelihood from my offspring and actually wanting to get any work done. I think if he ever lets me in the door again he will insist on padding me down for small children. Poor man.
I also wish I had actually had the brains to look for some of the model ships he built from scratch himself in the gallery, but I was too busy looking at the ships themselves to notice the names attached to them. Before I went to the gallery I had been eyeing a small tugboat in a shop window in town. I thought it was awesome. I thought, "Man! That is one fabulous tugboat!" After seeing what craftsmanship Mr. Morris is capable of doing, I look at the boat now and think, "Man! That is one crappy tugboat!" I still like it, but holy cow, the difference in ability and detail is like night and day. I wish I had a photo of that clippership he restored so your jaw could hang open, too. I will instead offer my best rendition of the artist and his product:
Clearly, a true genius. Now you know who to go to if you drop-kick your 19th century model riverboat. If you have the chance to visit be sure and stop in and by all means keep him from his work to see what he's done lately. You absolutely won't regret it. But leave the kids at home; his job seems stressful enough as it is.