Do you know where your towel is? (Now with more Jambi!)

In honor of Douglas Adams and his most genius of genius books, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (if you haven't read it, you're just not that awesome), today is Towel Day!

And in honor of Towel Day and Douglas Adams and his most genius of genius books, here is a post about towels. But not just any post about towels. I've compiled a list of 10.9789 (which is exactly 26.140238095238093 percent of 42, in case you were wondering. And I know you were.) things you can do with your towel (besides the obvious reasons, and the reasons listed in the Guide and on the online version of the Guide, H2G2 (sorry, is my nerd showing?)) which you should have with you always because you never know when you may need a towel and because you're not some lame strag that doesn't know the real worth of a towel. No, you're a frood who knows where his towel is.

1. Lunchbox/all-purpose carrier. Why carry a lunch box and a purse or briefcase, when a towel can do it all? It'll even protect your credit cards from fraud and identity theft!*

It'll hold your lunch, wallet and important-looking books!

*Using a towel will not protect your credit cards from identity theft or fraud. In fact, it guarantees the opposite if you use the wrong towel.

2. Vomit bag for when you've had one too many Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters. And, really, one Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster is one too many.

Oh no, here it comes...

If anybody needs a good fake puker, Pat's your man!

3. High-tech rapture survival tool. Since the end of the world has been re-scheduled to October 21st, it's important to have a towel handy for all of your doomsday needs! Just put it over your head, cower under the nearest table and wait to be raptured. Guaranteed to get you into heaven in the case of an apocalypse!*

*Using a towel will not guarantee your admission into heaven in the case of an apocalypse. In fact, it guarantees the opposite if you use the wrong towel.

Alternatively, if you're afraid that October 21st might be The Day of the Raptors, you can use your trusty towel to fend off raptor attacks.

Take that, you evil raptor!

4. Stand-in for work. Now you can take longer lunch breaks without anyone even noticing you're gone!

Working hard, and so soft! I smell a promotion coming!

5. Parachute. For when you find yourself jumping from space ships without a parachute. Or for when you're jumping from the arm of your couch.

Not recommended for actually parachuting.

6. Dog bib. You'd think they'd learn some manners. I swear, she acts like an animal sometimes.

Can I eat yet?

6.5589. Crazed dude-who-really-loves,-and-I-mean-looooooves,-bacon-maybe-a-bit-too-much drooling man bib. I know you're sick of those drool stains all over your fine velvet couch whenever you cook bacon. Just wrap a towel around your man and you won't have to worry about turning the cushions over when you have company!

You drool, I drool, we all drool for bacon!

7. Driving companion. Because sometimes you'll talk to anything when you're driving.

You da towel!

..."And you said what?! HAHAHAHA, you're crazy!"

Not recommended for use in the carpool lane.

8. Babysitter. It'll even read bedtime stories! Additional story-time charges may apply.

Tonight's selection: Look Out for Pirates!

9. Interpretive dance prop. For those artsy-fartsy types.

9.42. Dance partner. For the not-so-artsy-fartsy types. When you want to go dancing but you don't have anyone to dance with and you're afraid of going alone because what if nobody wants to dance with you and then nobody will ever want to dance with you because you're not a hot commodity like that one girl Heather, but she's a bitch anyway, grab your trusty friend towel!

Let's just leave these two lovebirds alone...

10. Video game companion. You know when you play video games and you're playing so intensely...

that your hands get all sweaty and muck up the controller?

Towel to the rescue! And when you're exhausted from your afternoon of hardcore gaming,

Ta-da! Instant nap-time companion!

Thanks to Pat and Luna for showing us all how to properly use a towel. And now, for your pleasure, a picture of our friend Jambi!

"Mekka-lekka-hi, mekka-hiney-ho!"

Day of the Drunks, or West Coast Brew Fest 2011

On Saturday, Pat, Luna and I got drunk in the middle of the afternoon. At a park.

No, we weren’t like those boozehounds that keep their 40s in a paper sack because for some reason that makes it okay to drink a Mickey’s before 2 p.m. This was an officially sanctioned drinking event.

That’s right folks, it was the something-th annual West Coast Brew Fest! This was the first year that we got to go because we weren’t depressingly broke or committed to the insane asylum do other things.

We arrived about an hour and half beforehand to wait in line to get in. Because we’re just that committed to drinking. I don’t have any pictures of us waiting in line because, honestly, when has waiting in line ever been fun or exciting? Except for that one time when we were waiting in line at Disneyland for the Indiana Jones ride and these aliens landed right in front of us and started performing circus acts. But we told them to go to the back of the line because if they thought we were going to let them cut in line just because they were wearing those big red squeaky clown noses, then they were poorly mistaken.

Then we were let in and, for a second, I thought we might have been raptured. Was this beer heaven? Tons and tons of breweries under tents waiting to give us a little taste of their delicious craft brew goodness.

It wasn't exactly heaven. You know why? We couldn’t drink straight from the tap. We had to use these little plastic cups. 

Fill me, please!

But that’s okay. It was all-you-can-drink and, I assure you, we were determined to get our $30 worth of beer.

Do you know what we did as soon as we got in? We went to the nearest tent and stood in a short line (surprisingly, unlike SactoMoFo (the mobile food fest in Sacramento), the lines were super short and easy to get through. I think that tells you that Sacramento values their food more than their beer.) and then we drank….

A limited edition Spring cider from Two Rivers...nom!

And drank…

A delicious stout from some brewery that I can't remember the name of.

And drank….

Another cider. From Crispin Cider.

We went to about three tents in a row. Tipsy-ness was already starting to set in. So we ate….

My lovely fiance knows that jalapeños are the key to my heart.

And then you know what we did? No, we didn’t finish off our lunch by eating pretzel necklaces off some strange dudes.

Good planning, dudes!

We drank!

And another stout! From...

Bison Brewing! I only know that because I took this picture. Planning ahead, people!

And drank….

Scottish ale from Lockdown Brewing...I think

And Luna got love…

I don't have any pictures of Luna getting attention, so...you get this.

And she drank…

Wait a second...that's mine! Give it back, you boozehound!

And…I think you get the idea, but I have a few more pictures and I took the time out of my drinking to take them so, goddammit, you’re going to see them!

At this point, I stopped keeping track of what I was drinking...

...all I know is that it was beer and it was tasty. (Dig the artsy shot!)

I got this one from some guy that looked like Santa. When I came up to his booth, he yelled out "I like redheads!" I didn't have the heart to tell him I'm not a natural redhead. 

Luna had a bit too much, and started to get silly.

Go Ags! 

So we gave her a peanut-butter filled Kong and told her she needed to sober up because she was starting to embarrass us and she was our designated driver, anyway.

Nom nom nom!

Sadly, there wasn’t much drunk-watching to do. Everybody was fairly well-behaved, except for a couple of dogs who were mean drunks. And then there was this guy,

The dude to the left of the cop is the dude in question. 

Who slipped in this mud puddle near our base camp,

I was too lazy to get up and take a better picture.

And crashed into Luna’s water dish and my beer, spilling the contents of both on me.

I gave him a stern “Dude!”, he apologized profusely, the police gave him a talking-to, and he went on his merry way to drink some more.

If you’re reading this, dude-who-slipped-in-the-mud-and-spilled-dog-water-and-beer-on-me, I hope the po-pos didn’t scare all of the drunk out of you.

A couple of people puked, too, but I didn’t take pictures of those because I thought I’d be nice to you and not make you upchuck while you’re eating or pooping or doing whatever you do when you read this blog. But I will tell you this—one guy sitting on a bench near us spewed and there was beer-snot running out of his nose and mouth. Like touching the ground all slimey-like and I’m pretty sure Luna would’ve helped him clean himself up if we let her, but we only let her do that when one of us spews. We don’t know where that guy’s puke had been.

And, of course, Luna was too drunk to drive us home (that dog doesn't know when to stop…I think we may have to have an intervention soon), but we had a Plan B and Pat’s dad came to drive our drunk asses home. It felt like we were a couple of kids being picked up from the carnival or something because we were both talking at once about how much we drank and what this one guy did and what that other guy did and OMGitwassoawesome!

Cheers!

To see a video version of our awesome fun, click on the picture of Pat and his camera! 

Whoa, am I going to be in the vlog?!

Have you ever seen the Lorax's feet? Crazy hairy!

So today, I thought we'd look at...wait, what is that thing?

The fur--the madness!

What..is...that?!

Oh, thank God. It's just a dog...I think. 

Have no fear, I'll take care of this hairy beast! 

It's time to vanquish that Lorax hair!  

 See, the trick to grooming your dog at home is to do it slowly, planning each snip and carefully trimming the massive amounts of fur piece by piece.

You can't just grab your fiance's razor and attack like you have a personal vendetta against your dog's paw hair. You'll make her look dorky, like that kid in elementary school whose mom would give him a half-assed bowl cut every month. 

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I did....

...Sorry, Luna. First the whole being leashed in the backyard thing, now this. You're sure to be the laughingstock of the dog park. Well, if that stupid poodle teases you one more time, just go ahead and tell her that her stupid poodle haircut makes her ass look fat. That'll teach her. 

With that, I leave you with a semi-artsy-fartsy shot of a pile of dog hair. Enjoy. 

An open letter to the cats in our neighborhood

Dear cats,

Look, I used to be a cat person. Really. I had a cat for as long as I can remember, a big, fluffy cuddly cat named Domino. He'd follow me around and cuddle with me at night and he was the greatest cat in the world. He liked to eat dryer sheets, hang out in the dryer and howled so tortuously when we gave him a bath that one time that it sounded like he was screeching "OWWWWWW!"

But Domino died, sadly. And there will never be a cat as cool as him. Sure, there was that one cat that used to hang out on our front porch when Pat and I first moved in together. We affectionately called him Porchy and would feed him and pet him and treat him like he was our own. Except our roommate already had a cat (who may or may not be evil, but that's another story) and she didn't like Porchy very much, so he wasn't allowed inside. And one day, he disappeared.

So I don't know. Maybe Porchy told you of this wonderful house where they feed you and pet you and treat you as their porch-dwelling cat, but things have changed, cats. We can't keep this up.

See, we have a dog now. A wonderful dog that we love very much, despite the fact that she can be a jerk sometimes. And despite the fact that she likes to eat cat poop.

I'm sure you can see where this is going, cats. Look, I think you're cool and all, especially when you see me come home from work and run over for some attention. When I sit down to pet you, you climb into my lap and purr. But then it gets kinda creepy, you see. I try to pull you off my lap, but you immediately climb back up before I even have a chance to get up. This will go on for a while, and I'm almost positive you think it's a game to see how long you can keep me sitting down before I finally have to pee so badly that I have no choice but to be stern with you.

And then can you guess what happens? I'm sure you can because this is a part of your game. I'm on to you, cat. I try to open the door and you rush between me and the door, trying desperately to get inside. I have to shut the door in your face. Then I feel bad about it and my guilt causes me to pet you some more. This is becoming a vicious cycle, cat, and it can't go on.

You see, my heart belongs to another. My puppy is large and has never had a real face-to-face encounter with a cat. I'm sure you don't want to be her first. I know you've met her before as you calmly chill on our front lawn while she practically tears down the house barking, whining and trying to get through that blasted piece of glass stopping her from chasing you all the way to Norway. This was funny at first, cat. I admired your ballsy-ness and laughed at my poor dog's desperate roo-ing. And then she started to break things when you came around. It's not funny anymore.

And then there's the poop issue. Really, cats? Really?! You just have to poop in our backyard, don't you? You leave your little presents where we can't find them, no matter how hard we look. But Luna can. I'm not sure what you've been eating, but whatever it must have been soooo delicious that it's apparently still good after it comes out of your ass. And let me tell you, you jerk on four legs, smelling cat poop dog breath is not a pleasant experience. I'm not amused, cats. Now we have to take our poor dog out on a leash in her own backyard so she doesn't find any more of your illusive, but apparently irresistible, droppings.

And then there were those few times when she actually saw you in our backyard. Before I even knew what was going on, she dashed toward you, practically pulling my fragile little arm out of its socket (because, as I'd hate to admit, and would hate even more to tell her, my dog is much stronger than I) and giving me rope burn from the leash. And ever since then, she strains against the leash to check out the last place you were spotted.

Listen, cats, I'm not amused. You're making our life physically and mentally painful. We've tried our best to accomodate you because we don't know what else to do, but this can't keep up. Do you know what happens when our dog tells the other dogs at the park that she has to go potty in her own backyard on a leash?! Why, she's the laughingstock of the whole dog park! Now, I don't want my dog to be shunned because of our little problem here, cats, and if those dogs start bullying her because of it...well, we may have to do something drastic.

So here's the deal: You can hang out in our backyard, front yard, porch...where ever you feel like sleeping. But just stop the crap (literally) in our yard and make yourself scarce before our pup comes out for her bathroom breaks. If you do this, I will let you taunt her in the front yard all you want...I won't even scare you anymore by letting her out into our gated front porch and ending your cruel game. I'll stop and pet you when I see you, but just please, I'm begging of you cat, do these things for me. I just want us all to get along.

Sincerely,

The girl whose backyard you use as a bed and a litter box

A short history of blogging*

A really long time ago, blogs were written on paper. But they weren't called blogs, they were called journals. And they usually weren't shared with anybody else, except sneaky little brothers or nosy parents. Sometimes, really famous people would write really long blogs about themselves and publish them. I think they were called memoirs.

Then computers came along. People started typing their journals in their computer's word processor for no reason other than the fact that things always look more professional when they're typed.

Then Al Gore invented the internet. Online journals started becoming popular. People really seemed to like the idea of sharing their innermost thoughts, desires, embarrassments and break-ups with the rest of the world because people are weird like that. Though nobody really liked reading them because they were sort of depressing.

Somewhere around this time, Live Journal came about. Remember that? You had to have somebody invite you before you could sign up. It was like this exclusive club of sharing. People that had an account thought they were hot shit.

And then somehow the word blog came along. I don't know when, how, where, or why, because I can't be bothered with insignificant details like that. But it did. And then there was Blogger, which is owned by Google, and like most things from Google, widely popular. And people found out that they can post whatever they want--recipes, family secrets, their credit card numbers (though this wasn't necessarily recommended), funny stuff...whatever they felt like, they wrote about. And, surprisingly, people actually liked reading them. And they would comment and be all like, "you're super awesome and I love you. Will you have my puppies?"

And then these bloggers found out they could get paid for it. So they quit their jobs, took their dogs for a walk, and wrote blogs all day.

The end.

*By "history," I really mean "randomly made up crap sprinkled with true things that have absolutely no relevance to the history of blogging." So the title should really read "A short history of randomly made up crap sprinkled with true things that have absolutely no relevance to the history of blogging of blogging." But that title doesn't sound as cool. Please don't use this post as a source in your research paper about the history of blogging. I'd feel really bad for you getting an "F". But if you want to use this as a source in your research paper about awesomeness, go right ahead.

I'm a bad blogger.

I have to give kudos to those who can really do this stuff more than twice a year. It's harder than it looks. I find it wholly unbelievable that people actually get paid to blog. I mean, I've been getting paid as a freelance writer for about 6 months now and I'm still baffled every time I receive a payment.

I think I should hire my own personal editor. Just somebody who can e-mail me at least once a week to say, "I'm going to need that dog hair story by 5 p.m. No later." (I know, huh? You're totally dying for the dog hair story now. It's a gem.) What do you think? I could even pay you in dog hair if it means that much to you.

So the next time you see me in person (or somewhere on this wide world of interwebs), say, "hey, you crazy bitch, you need to post another blog entry because it's been too long and I need more of your awesome wordage." But only if you really mean it. Because I'd hate to have you say such things to me if you're only going to sit behind your computer screen and laugh at every horrible blog post I write. And sooner or later, I'll find out that you're some evil mastermind set out to ruin my promising career in blogging.

Come to think of it, I really like "awesome wordage." New blog title? Yes!