Having a Hard Day? Go Fug Yourself.

The nice people at Go Fug Yourself injected a much-needed dose of hilarity into my day. I do so love reading about the fashion faux pas of celebrities--though they do once in a while give props as not to wade solely in the hater pool. No one is safe from these girls' scissoring critiques, even gals I normally think look pretty damn good like Scarlett Johansson.

Lots of credit to them for extremely creative use of the word fug, as in their proclaimed "benefugtress," Chloe Sevigny. Now, I love me some Chloe, because I think she is a great actor and takes fashion risks. Risks, yes, that's a nice way to say it, but many stops before Bjork rocked the swan.

Fashion Risk Taker

Batshit crazy

My Innaugural Photo!

My curiosity got the better of me at the grocery store and I bought a container of Woodstock Water Buffalo yogurt, Vermont maple, which I ate at work this morning. First of all, it is incredibly thick, and if you don't stir it but just spoon it right up, it has an almost a grainy consistency like Italian cheesecake. A little weird. But after stirring, it became creamy and more typically yogurty and pretty damn good. Water buffalo milk is much higher in fat than cow milk, so a six ounce container of yogurt delivers a whopping 30% of daily saturated fat. Since I'm already well on my way toward Lipitoraville, I'll have to go forego this cholesterol bomb from now on but if that is not of concern, I encourage you to give it a try.



Did you know that it is the water buffalo that puts the Bufala in Mozzarella di Bufala? I really didn't. I honestly thought bufala was just some variety of mozzarrella cheese from a cow. I feel dumb for thinking that since bufala is so obviously buffalo. I'll soothe myself with this nice little picture of the cow wearing a horn helmet.

Continuing on the theme of my own shocking stupidity, until a few days ago I thought the wifi at Starbucks was free. How disturbed was I to learn that in addition to paying eight dollars for a cup of coffee, Starbucks also charges an arm and a leg to get online. I'm not kidding, it's way more than you would ever pay at home. Being the cheap bastard I am, I just went home. Disappointing. Of course the first thing I looked up was how to hack into the Starbucks wifi. I haven't found anything yet, but I feel gripped by a wave of determination ...

My Jesus Balm

I'm slightly tormented by the pot of Balm of Gilead sitting innocently on my bookshelf. I was unable to stop myself from digging further into the Twelve Tribes cult that made this product and I discovered that in addition to being generally koo-koo, the cult is anti-Semitic, homophobic and beats the snot out of their children from age two. They used to contract with Estee Lauder to make some products for the Origins line (I don't even want to know which ones, just don't let it be that nice foaming cleanser) but Lauder terminated the contract. Their products are currently available on Amazon. There is also an entire organization dedicated to providing assistance to individuals or families that have left or been kicked out of Twelve Tribes. Once I saw that, any doubt I had about TT being a cult went right out the window. Then again, getting invited to dinner by the Common Sense store so they could spread their love for God really should have sealed the deal. I've been shopping at Walgreen's for fifteen years and not once have they invited me to dinner.

After the unsettling natural food store experience, we walked toward the water and found Plymouth Rock, which turns out to be a load of crap. There is a rock in Plymouth engraved with "1620" residing in a weird fenced-in dungeon surrounded by Zen-raked sand that tourists ogle and photograph, but the signage around the rock explains that that idea of Plymouth Rock didn't surface until 140 years after the Pilgrims landed. So the rock is likely not the landing place but we sure like our symbols, even if they have no connection to reality.

On a much lighter note, if you've not yet experienced Bossy, do check her out. She's hilarious, and I suspect a touch insane. Such a winning combination. It was because of her BlogWhore spoof of BlogHer, possibly the worst name in the history of names, that I finally went over to that site, but became immediately overwhelmed and had to leave.

It's Considered a Paste

I'm back from the east coast beach vacay with tell-tale peeling skin and legions of mosquito bites. Awesome. I seem to have picked up some icky virus which I freely blame on my nephews. With their lack of handwashing and tendency to cough right in your face, who else can you look to?

I will talk about the trip later but first I wanted to follow up on the toiletry concern I expressed in my last post. I was pleased that my personal items passed muster but on the way back my bag of plane snacks was whisked off the conveyor belt and hustled off for the extra-special security treatment. What was causing all the concern? A 2.7 ounce tube of hummus. I bought this from a hippy trippy food store in Plymouth, just blocks away from Pilgrim Rock, because I was intrigued by the packaging. It's like how soy milk comes in those little foil lined boxes that don't need to be refrigerated, but it was like a tube of Crest except you would put it on crackers. Anyway, that hummus got their dander up, boy! That tube of hummus, I was told, is considered a paste, which I guess somehow thrusts it from the innocent realm of food into a potential terrorist tool. The TSA lady, who obviously knew it was ridiculous but had to do her job, wiped down the tube of hummus with one of those Clearasil pad things that I guess detects explosive residue. I don't even know. TSA Lady declared the hummus good to go, and so we went. I just tasted it by the way. It's not bad, but also not that good, either.

One last thing I wanted to mention about the market, Common Sense. There is also a farm called Common Sense where all these groovy body and bath products are made. I bought some of the Balm of Gilead, which sounded so soothing. Despite the multitude of herby sounding ingredients it really smells like nothing more than olive oil, but I wanted to buy something and I knew it couldn't be a freaking liquid or a gel. Well, it could, if it was 3 oz or smaller but their bottles were 3.4 oz and how irritated would I have been to have to ditch a never-opened product?

While I was paying, I saw a display of cards next to the cash register inviting the reader to drop by for dinner. I opened the card and saw that the intended hosts were obviously members of a Jesus freak cult looking for new recruits. Though I did not see it actually written anywhere on the invitation, at that moment I strongly suspected that Common Sense was a huge cult to which I had just given $18.02 of my hard-earned heathen cash.

Sure enough, a Google search of "Common Sense"+"Plymouth"+"cult" reveals indeedy, the cult is called Twelve Tribes and some guy named Rick Ross has written a lot about them. They also have their own web site so you can decide for yourself if you want to buy their products.

Let My Toiletries Go

I fly out tomorrow to meet the fam for some sun and sand on the east coast, where you can actually get in the water without fear of hypothermia, riptides and great white sharks. Naturally, I'll battle other neuroses while afloat, trying not to imagine terrifying giant squid, man-eating crocodiles and genetically anamolous aggressive dolphins lurking in the depths below my floaty.

But what I'm really worried about is what the ever-vigilant luggage screeners will find to hassle me about as I strip down and shuffle meekly through security. Last time I flew I had to mail home my moisturizer because it was 3.5 ounces (1/2 ounce too big) and my tightly rolled-up size-of-a-matchbox-car tube of toothpaste because the container was originally 6 ounces. I'm sure the whole flight breathed a sigh of relief that Professional Critic was not going to moisturize them against their will and that they were safe from dangerous toothpaste vapors.

We Don't Comment on Our Client's Personal Lives

Today has been a red letter day for engaged couples everywhere! If you've been feeling leery of the dryness of a judge officiated City Hall wedding (not to be confused with a fabulous mass gay wedding at City Hall, Gavin Newsom style) yet equally repelled by a traditional religious ceremony where some guy in a dress (who is NOT cross dressing thank you very much) tells you to obey and all that crap, you may be pleased to hear that Tori Spelling has been ordained as a minister so she could marry two men at the B&B she runs with her husband. No doubt it's great publicity for the reality show about their B&B life, but she could have come up with something less controversial, so I have to assume that she's heartfelt.

After being divorced for seven long months, Charlie Sheen is finally engaged to some woman I've never heard of, Brooke something. Denise wishes them both all the best. Professional Critic is sure this marriage will be the keeper.

Still no sign of a wedding photo for Eva and Tony. They sold rights to OK mag for a zillions dollars, forcing guests to abandon their cameras and cell phones before entering the reception. If they don't donate proceeds to charity after pulling that shit with people who flew across the globe to see them get married, then they are the biggest losers imaginable.

After being made into a live musical, Footloose is now being remade for the big screen so a new generation of kids can rebel against the fun-hating Rev and jerk spasmodically in the barn. Yikes, that sounded creepy.

Finally, Posh Spice informs us that she's the opposite of a miserable cow. I have no idea what that means.

Yowza

Perez, you naughty! Describing Donatella Versace as a Fraggle just ain't right.

She really looks more like RuPaul.

Do You Want to Wax Your Intimate Area?

I do, so I was pleased to find a website that so succinctly addressed my questions and concerns. Specifically, I wasn't sure what growth of hair I should allow to ensure the best result. However, this site is British and the recommended measurement (.25 - .5 centimeters) is metric. Who can remember how big a centimeter is? I had to consult my ruler, then examine my intimate area. Lo and behold, it is time to wax.

My searchings are taking a decidedly vaginal direction today. I just looked up "disco nap" on Urban Dictionary, a term I didn't know (just a nap you take before going out) but that spurned my curiousity of "disco fanny" and "disco minge," which both describe the funk that girls acquire after a sweaty night of dancing. Odd that these terms seem to only apply to girls. I'll go ahead and chalk that up to our cultural disgust over the vaginal and adoration of the phallus, even sweaty, stinky junk.

Ess Jay Pee

Tonight I was reading the new Oprah at Lizh's and there was an article about the new clothing line by Sarah Jessica Parker, Bitten. It sounds very promising--a line of sportswear, shoes and accessories for women sizes 0-22. How nice that SJP, herself a scrawny Hollywood victim in dire need of a meatball sub, recognizes that many woman passed size zero before hitting their teens. Even if you don't love everything she wears, you have to admit SJP is a stylish gal. And practical, too--the highest priced item is 19.98. This makes the Isaac Mizrahi line at Target seem like utter decadence.

Unfortunately, Bitten is only available at Steve and Barry's, which I had never heard of until today. Even worse, there are no Steve and Barry's in the Bay Area, although the store locator assures me there are three stores opening sometime this year. Of course they're all over the east coast. I'm trying not to feel bitter that the residents of Hicksville, New York have something that I don't. If you're familiar with Long Island, you may understand what I mean.

In a fashion related item, I was not impressed with the dress Eva Longoria wore to her Paris civil wedding. Chanel and all, but reminiscient of terry jumpers of years past. I have higher hopes for the actual wedding dress, though I am already sick of hearing about their nupitals.

The End

I have a little post-Deadwood depression. Actually, I'm swerving wildly between four of the five stages of grief. Disbelief: I can't believe it's over. Bargaining: I heard the show John from Cinncinati is really bad. Maybe the writer will come to his senses and resurrect the show. Anger: What's wrong with them that they would abandon such a fantastic creation for some crap about a surfer? * Depression: If I can't watch Deadwood, what's the point of television? I haven't come to acceptance yet. I'm not sure what that would look like.

Isn't it refreshing to know that I've moved out of my laptop-induced euphoria into the deeper waters of television?

* I haven't actually seen John from Cinncinati but the willingness to proffer semi-convincing opinions about anything whether or not it's been seen/read/experienced is of course one of the signs of a Professional Critic.

Technology

I wish my heart was in ranting and raving about the President commuting the sentence of Scooter Libby. But it isn't. I guess that's sort of a sad commentary on how cynical the Professional Critic has become. But really--I'm just so excited about my new MacBook that I don't care! Sure, the little keyboard has my bad typing worse than ever but I'm sure I'll get used to it. The most exciting thing is that it is wireless. I can take it anywhere and blog to my heart's content, freed from the confines of the desk. The first place I would love to be able to blog is in the bathtub, which probably isn't a good idea. Is there a waterproof laptop? There must be. What do all the oceanographers and ... fishologists use? I'll need to investigate but for now I'll keep it on dry land.

I just reread this paragraph and realized with a jolt how easily I have been pacified out of my rage with my nifty, swifty new computer. I feel a little bit concerned about this. Will the Professional Critic be rendered senseless by the opiate of consumption?