Dog the Bounty Hunter

Ahem. After several hours' worth of rapt attention to A&E's (more E than A, these days, alas) Dog the Bounty Hunter marathon, I've come to some conclusions. Most important is that Dog is truly an American archetype. First, he lives in Hawaii, and preys on the weakness of the natives by extending them bond loans at (I'm sure) usurious terms, all the while calling them "braw" and giving them the "hang loose" hand sign. Second, while nearly every episode shows Dog and his wife at the beach preaching about the value of nature, blah, blah, blah, Dog boasts (by my count) TEN children and TWO enormous SUVs.

Further, most of Dog's clients are victims of the drug scourge, either ice or heroin. Rather than contemplating the systemic sources of ice and heroin addiction in minority communities, Dog deals with it on an episodic basis, i.e., only when they owe him duckets. For this the State of Hawaii has issued him several awards and A&E his own series. The moral appears to be that drug addiction is a result of human weakness, and can be cured only through the intervention of the Good Lord and the criminal justice system. Each episode includes the pre-shit-kicking prayer circle, the post-shit-kicking sermon, and the return of the dangerous element into the hands of the police.

Even when Dog's zaftig wife Beth isn't shrouded in stars-n-stripes tank tops, which is almighty rare, the message is clear. Dog embodies the strutting, inarticulate, ugly American in all of us. I watch Dog so I won't become him, mimicking the drug-addled Hawaiians who lived on his lot before he moved in with his 20 ugly relatives and their gas-guzzling machines while he knees them in the back and lectures them on morality.

Viking Bunny

"Hey, man, it's not a church...

It's a 'community of faith.'"

So Friday night I saw the best rock-n-roll show EVER, and for FREE. It was my friend Adam's novelty act, Facesteak, performing at the "journey community of faith," which is cleverly disguised as a gay-ass coffeehouse. The new boyfriend and I met up with dog park friends and, just when the novelty act began to wear thin (or maybe a half hour later) the owner (pastor?) cut the mics, turned on the lights and had a tantrum about amplified swearing in the cafe that God built. Of course, they'd been making pornographic references and blitzkrieging the mics with the F-bomb for over an hour by this point. Also, Adam is a Jew.

This is probably the most rock and roll moment I will ever see firsthand.

Someone made my day today.

With red roses.

XXOO

For 05IRIS

I took the O-man out for a stroll down State Street. I always hear Elvis Costello's "London's Brilliant Parade" in my head as Otto and I trot past the street kids, the hipsters, the tourists, etc. As The New Boyfriend says (this is his debut appearance here at The 'Chop) Otto fools them all-it's like he's running for office, sniffing and jumping up on the fine hunnies for pets.

On the way back I saw a Ford Expedition (blch) with a novelty plate reading "MMBUBYE." I paused for an instant 'cause I had to make sure I wasn't hallucinating a vanity plate with a ten-year-old catch phrase on some dumb bitch's mommy tank. Of course, we all know the type. I encountered them a LOT when bartending at Merchant's NYC in '99, when they would prance up to my bar and ask whether we had Cosmopolitans. (because, as you know, the drink was made known to these folks, two years after the craze hit Manhattan, through that godawful femfest "Sex and the City.") This woman is still asking her stylist to give her "The Rachel." But seriously, anyone who still thinks a Ford Expedition is an appropriate city vehicle is obviously getting all her news from Oprah anyway.

So I recovered and resumed my walk, only to spot, on the next block, a power couple (fully loaded with power kids) in a white Land Rover, the Ford Expedition of the BoBo. License plate? "LNDRVR."

Mother Fucker. Vanity Plates. The great socio-cultural equalizer. I had the tiniest aneurism and kept walking. The moral of the story, I guess, is that in Wisconsin at least, so long as you have an idiotic vanity plate, you are in with the in-crowd, regardless of cultural capital. As they say on that red-hot new show "The Sopranos," Fuggedaboudit.

Ex-boyfriend blog

So my ex-boyfriend's blog has a painting I did in MS Paint for him when we were still in the throes of new love, of a bran muffin and scrambled eggies. You can see it here.

Old favorite

Apparently this is a monthly thing... last time there was a blurb about glimpsing girls' panties when they're dancing at a club, then masturbating like you're putting out a fire. This month's, too, made me laugh. If you aren't familiar, it's Vice's Dos and Don'ts.

For all the Jay Raths out there...

This is pretty good advice. Although I still say first-date flowers never hurt.

As promised....

It's "babes of the Renaissance Fair." If this is hot to you, you are probably a middle school woodshop teacher who is also in a Moody Blues cover band.

For the Fans

So sweaty nervous guy made a special request a few posts back. Your wish is my command, you awkward, sweaty bastard. Here it is:

The BELV

(courtesy of Funny Man Steve Hyden)

Apparently I'm retarded

Because this cracked me up.

Nod to our Canadian colleagues

So, I couldn't decide whether I loved or hated this girl until I scrolled down to Paris Hilton's shaved pussy and then I realized that it was Minx + Porkchop = BFF.

Funny how Paris Hilton's shaved pussy always holds the answers.

Sex

Hey, Caitketeers. Here is something I found, which I'm pretty sure is rad.

I'm hungry and tired and at work. I am having straight-up erotic fantasies about chicken salad right now.

Otto Goes to Hollywood

Man, if Otto were in an all-boy gay leather gang he'd be set to go in his studded collar and pink leather leash. 4 parts Joe Strummer; 5 parts Freddy Mercury. Woof, O-man, you're a killer queen.

Now I'm off to Takara for sushi night. Rock.

All Lisa Loeb style

So I bought new glasses today. Have no fear - I would never wear anything leopard-spotted in public. Mine are reddish with subtle orange.

It was an impulse since my horny optometrist was having a sale. This time no special priapic old man discount, since he didn't appear to be in.

I also bought a trashy dress that makes me look like an awkward teenage mall slut.

Dylan Thomas

Let's go a little higher-brow tonight. A friend quoted Dylan Thomas on his blog ("Rage, rage against the dying of the light") so I thought I'd drop a little DT on you, too.

Unlike all the other Caitlins you know, I was named after his wife Caitlin Thomas, who was, alas, a promiscuous alcoholic who nearly set fire to dear Dylan while trying to light a cigarette in his oxygen tent. So DT was saved by her DTs, presumably.

I read her biography a few years ago and remembered this letter.

Suffolk University

So a native Sconnie referred to Suffolk University tonight as "Suh-Folk," which is entirely reasonable, when you think about it. Naturally it got my capitalist juices flowing, and I thought I could parlay this into an ad. slogan, say, for an all-Suffolk alum dating site, i.e., "We put the 'folk' back in Suffolk." Of course, given that Suffolk alumni are not clever enough to get it, it may not resonate with the target audience....

Suffolk is functionally a voc. tech. for associate positions at, like, Corwin & Corwin, so the sight of the word "folk" probably kills their yuppie-larva erections dead.

Will I get sued for this post? One can only hope. Tune in next time....

Dream Date

Okay, so I've decided that my dream date consists of a trip to the Jefferson Speedway followed by a romantic dinner at Smoky's Cafe.

Well, bloggees, I'm off to Electric Earth for a study marathon. I'm gonna takusan nihongo o benkyoshimasu. Ganbatte kudasai.

"Pedalphiles"

So I went to hang out with a neighbor and we smoked a last-day-of-classes joint, then watched this documentary about "SCAB: Skids Creating Armageddon Bikes." They would take old shitty bikes and solder parts together, but it's a part of their anarchic anti-consumer ethos. It was SO FUCKING COOL. Maybe I will fuck Sam after all.

The Hat Party

is playing at the Slipper Club on Friday and at some other rad place on the 20th. I am trying to get them to do a cover of "Goodbye Girl." So hot. I would definitely hit Target for some panties to throw.

Continued

So, bloggees, it's been a tough ride lately. I'm really fucking content, which is hard luck for a malcontent. I'm doing what I want, I really like my shitty job, I live in a beautiful place and I have good friends. Fuck.

Lately I've been buried in work, all peering out from a bunker of postmodern anthro. theory. I'm looking forward to the summer. I got a FLAS fellowship, which is rad, and I'll be studying Japanese language intensively. I will be, as usual, hella busy, but at the very least I'll get the chance to catch up on some reading. Maybe even do my dream trip, taking Badger Ferry across Lake Michigan. (Seriously. I used to be so cosmopolitan...)

Oh, right, my dire poverty. Yeah. That aspect of grad school is not a joke, nor is it an exaggeration. I'm the only one in the dept. who has a grownup job, and I'm still often living on rice and peas and telling myself it's bohemian. There's a thin line between noble ascetic PhD candidate and dirty white trash, a line I regularly toe. It's doubly tough since I have such fantastic tastes. As I explained to Hot Friend Siobhan last night (before the fog came in, so to speak) my bridewealth consists of student loans and a nice marble mortar and pestle from Crate & Barrel. Also a '95 Passat Wagon with "ONE LESS SUV" bumper sticker.

I'm overdue for a narrative

What up, chochachos? I was browsing through posts from February (you know, the classics) and realized that I used to post some wittiness here and not just links. (Remember that guy Erick who kept driving past my place after our first date? Ahh, good times, those.)

So let me fill you in, most recent first. If the sombrero and the 2-liter bottle of Diet Rite can be used as an index, the drunk fun quotient of last night was high. (Actually my dad formulated an equation while stationed at Yokusuka: "the amount of fun you had is indirectly proportionate to the number of wet, balled-up one dollar bills you find in your pockets the next morning." Oh, Dad)

We went to Pedro's (furrilla, chochachos, I tried to motivate to Milwaukee or, at the very least, La Hacienda, but Hot Friend Siobhan was a stick in the mud) where we were surrounded by drunken girls in Wet-n-Wild eyeliner, many of whom were perceptibly PREGNANT. [PS I have yet to do my Scahnnie-style "Glamour Shot" but I will, for shurrrr, post it here. I will definitely be looking over my shoulder as if caught off guard, my hair teased and my jean jacket 'bedazzled.'] Also the dude at the next table was wearing a shirt that said "Buttwiser" and had renderings of hot girl ass in the Buddweiser logo. You've seen them. I guess that's the sort of thing one reserves for the Pedro's on East Wash.

Lessee... so it was Hot Friend Siobhan, Adam, who is still trying to throw it up in HFS, me, and Hot Randall. Randall is a remarkably fine specimen of male beauty, but dumb as a brick. He has a golden retriever named "Mahalo." 'nuff said.
After the first 8 Patron Silvers, though, I was giving it some serious thought.

I was overdue for some hard vintage-Caitlin-style rocking, though. Mission accomplished, dude. I think I puked in public. ROCK.

My dream job

is to work here, in, like, quality control. There or Culver's. "You call this a butterburger? Back to the drawing board! I'm not fucking around!"

I will buy you a beer

if I catch you wearing this shirt.

That's right, kids!

It's....NOODLE HOUSE!!!

From "The New Yorker"

Paul Rudnick's "Royal Wedding Day Schedule For Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth."