Rubber Gloves and Eyebrow Tweezers

Really, could you think of a better segway from a Tranny Taco Fight...?

Anyway, just in case you were in danger of believing my life to be glamorous, let me share this with you:

Any ideas? 

Well, let me put you out of your misery, and tell you this:  it's the interior of a dishwasher filter that has inadvertently copulated with a washing up sponge.  It's what you get for having small fingers that can poke into holes.  (Self-censorship, always a plus...)  And, I see you are all on the edge of your seats, pray tell why is it so?  Well, as if I didn't have enough to do before crash-landing out of here (let's be honest, it ain't going to be smooth) it seems that when you are moving house (let alone continent, career, life...) everything that can break or be broken will indeed do just that, hence the dishwasher filter requiring key-hole surgery this afternoon.

To add insult to injury, I have no phone, TV, or internet - merci Bouygues Telecom, and every stage of the process to get them fixed is more painful and time consuming than the last.  My personal favourite was when somebody in customer services finally broke down and told me that she simply didn't have time to talk to me anymore; those of you that know me, permission to smirk, and those of you that have not had the pleasure...

Ok, so coming back to the task in hand, how does one liberate a washing-up sponge from the jaws of a dishwasher filter?  Well, first you have to keep poking the sponge as you try to pincer it in-between two very small fingers only to find that this technique actually rams the sponge further into the tube.  Then, as a side order, you accidentally rip the fingers off the rubber gloves that are allegedly protecting your nails (why bother?), and finally you strike on this:

Yes, ladies, those are eyebrow tweezers. 

Anyway, following that experience, I am now trying to rewrite the Mad Men episode that's due er, tomorrow.  And as a result of drafting scenes of domestic violence involving Betty Draper, it's  dawned on me that I am getting very creative in the use of household implements as weapons.  Question is, do you think it's only women that see the kitchen as an armory?  (See Mr and Mrs Smith for the common stereotype, Brad bien sur, keeps his guns in the shed...)

Either way, somewhere out there in my imagination there is a technician from Bouygues Telecom hung with a pair of nylons then drawn and quartered with a stiletto heel (everyday household objects chez the Euro).  It's what Braveheart would have looked like if directed by Anna Wintour...

Open Post: Hosted By A Tranny Taco Fight

Another gem from the gods at Dlisted.  Quote:  "Lesson learned. Don't ever tell a San Diego drag queen you've got a better body than she does, because wigs will fly, dick-tucking panties will rip and everyone will hit the floor together (you know they choreographed that move). This is what backstage at a Destiny's Child reunion would look like."

And this one took place in San Diego, CA. Now those 3000 miles and a barrage of red necks between me and maple syrup loving bitch slappers is looking like a fine fine thing...

A Sonoric Soupcon of a Night That Was

Hopa:  it's the Air Guitar 101 you need.  Sure, I promise to sway to the music...

 

See more of the same at Le Caveau des oubliettes

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Eat like nobody's watching...

"Eat like nobody's watching; drive like you've never been hurt.  Pray like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth."

A Cynic

 

 

The Tallest Man on Earth Sings

You need this live recording from KEXP. 

All credit to the Americano for putting me onto his tunes.  Dude's support act with Mumford & Sons in Santa Barbara is sold out.  But there's one bitch who has tickets to Coachella; she had better report back.

The Tallest Man on Earth

Fulfilling the Wall-E Prophecy

Paris and I are having a love-in right now, and I'm behaving like a woman on cultural death row.  

In the last 24 hours I have become acutely aware of the fact that I have a mere 7 days left on French soil before it will be gone from under my feet for good, for perhaps a year, and this idea terrifies the hell out of me.  What happens if I loose the essential life skills - feigning queuing ignorance convincingly, debating vegetables like a Jewish diamond dealer, red lipstick - that I have accumulated over the past 3 years?  Hot Stuff Handsome (HSH) had better live up to his promise to keep it réel and French-stylee up on Sunset otherwise I am going to be at a loss.

Tonight was our bi-annual meeting of apartment owners, a chance to come and bitch about your neighbours to their face in an open forum with a referee rather than discreetly under their window by the bins when you think they are at work (I know who you are...).  Of course for such exploits one needs appropriate back-up and so Forza Napoli - lives in my building, not a bin-bitcher, we take it in turns to be the fall guy for rowdy parties - came along to play.  We arrived, and they served beer, which is always a plus if you are going to discuss matters that don't always concern you ad infinitum for a good 4 hours.  On the agenda:  a stairway carpet, a flood, a faulty light in a lift, still-going-strong-despite-being-illegal lead piping, and an ongoing dispute over one old man's will of iron concerning his cellar.  Efficiency:  not today.  

On previous occasions I would have bitched under my breath about the futility of it all to Forza and quietly stewed in the corner until supper, but today I loved it, because I may never get to gesticulate wildly and connect with other human beings when making a point in a meeting and be considered normal for many months to come.  Or at least, I will get to gesticulate wildly and be considered normal but only when in the safe confines of my own vehicle, where nobody can hear me scream.

Which brings me to my point about the Wall-E prophecy:

This is the vision of LA I currently have in my mind, and it ain't good.  Only time and my ass will tell...