Actually, it IS Rocket Science

Blonde roots

Conversation I had with a fantastically keen former boyfriend prior to boyfriend status.  Keep in mind all the things you think about when talking to a person you really like while reading (ed. note: this is also why I only date guys with a similar sense of humor):

Pre-boyfriend:  So what’d you do today?

Ashlin:  Oh, not much.  Went to work- OH!  You know how they’ve been doing that construction outside my office? So when I was coming back from lunch with my boss, I thought I’d make a nice gesture and offer her some of my gum.  So I’m digging in my purse as we’re walking back to work and I stumble over some giant piece of debris and pretty much almost fell right in front of her.

Pre-boyfriend: Hm…

Ashlin:  I know.  Kinda random, yeah?

Pre-boyfriend:  Yeah.  So wait.  You’re telling me that you literally had an instance where you couldn’t walk… and chew gum… at the same time?

Ashlin: … ….. …  …shit.


Wanna hear something brilliant?

This.  THIS is brilliant.  Remarkably so.  I’m not saying I wasn’t already a fan of both songs, but this is one hybrid that flows together so well it’s heartbreaking.  I’ve never paid that much attention to mashups before, honestly because I always found that in most cases there would be some point that seemed a bit contrived… like the person pushing the two songs together had to shift a tempo of one song or bend the key of the other, or in some cases break one song down into such small segments just so they could cram it to fit into its counterpart.  That’s not to say there’s anything bad about that when it’s done well, but I’m sort of a purist when it comes to music, as much as I hate to admit it.  And what you call butchering altering the structure of a song just to make it work for you is what I generally refer to as a blivet.

Which is why after having listened to this the first time, and then the second time, and then wondering why youtube doesn’t have a repeat button so I don’t have to stop dancing around my apartment to restart it, and consequently why life is so unfair that I can’t download this to my ipod, I realized that this is, quite truthfully, the best mashup I’ve ever heard.  Completely reinvented Gnarls Barkley’s song for me, and gave me new appreciation for Adele simultaneously.

I could go on, but you don’t actually want to watch me get all geeky on you, which I could easily do on this subject.


(Pro tip: move furniture with pointy edges out of the way BEFORE starting the song to avoid post-musical bruising {if you’re as unluckily uncoordinated as I am}).  Now if you’ll excuse me I can’t be bothered as I am very busy and must go wiggle around some more.

The oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh

Oooh crap. Someone’s trying to make another comeback.  Someone’s rallying the troops.  And what diamond-cutting-laser-precise intelligence those troops share, collectively.

I tried to embed the video with no such luck, so if you’re feeling lazy you don’t have to click on the link, but seriously.  Click the link.


Highlights include:

:02- It’s Castro, BITCHES!  What?  Um. All right then- FUCK YEAH, BAY OF PIGS!!!!

:08- “Her bousti-air was like litten up and briiiieeeght.”

:26- Background In Striped Sweater- “What is this. What.  Am I on tv?  Over it.”

:30- Someone get these girls jobs on the The Onion A.V. review board, immediately.

:50- We very well could be witnessing Background In Glasses’ existential realization that he’s made some bad life choices and has just hit rock bottom.

1:05- “Britney’s back.  She’s been back in our eyes for a while…”

1:10- “She was never gone.”


Now go, be free, and feel better about your own intellect for the rest of the day.  You’re welcome.

On flying

I’m stuck writing a paper that could be listed under the “insane” category of expectations; the topic is on law and ethics and if you made it to the end of “ethics” before passing out from sheer boredom then I commend you.  It’s not that I hate the subject.  I just… hate the subject.  Probably because it’s something that requires a lot of extra effort on my part to distinguish that shady gray area that can come up between the two, and we all know I HATE anything that requires me to flex a cranial neuron or give something a little extra brainy elbow grease.  Ew.  Mental image on that metaphor is kinda gross.  I’m doing well enough in the class, and have been lucky enough to have a teacher who’s kind of a badass, but regardless is the reason for such a quick post today.

So some crazysmart people have successfully engineered a robotic bird who can actually fly in the same fashion that its organic predecessors do, and it’s kind of hypnotic to watch.

Now here comes the great debate:  I really can’t decide who I appreciate more, technology or nature.  It’s kind of awesome that these guys constructed an apparatus to mimic the behaviors of real life- especially getting something made out of METAL to soar in the sky without the help of a propellerhead or jet fuel, and stay up longer than those crappy things your grandparents always gave you made from packing peanuts that always broke or got stuck in a tree or attacked you kamikaze style or all three.  But real birds?  Their bones are made of fucking air.  That’s as good as natural wizardry to me.

And while I’m sure that those guys in their labs sat through countless classes that fried their brain cells and made them feel like drooling idiots, birds never have to take a class on law and ethics because they don’t have shitall to worry about a gray area or getting sued for malpractice later in life.  Birds 1.  Scientists 0.

Just realized I referenced cats twice in this post. That’s kinda lame.

Before I moved to California I lived in Chicago for several years and worked for an A/V company at a site located downtown only steps away from Lake Michigan in the largest installment of a certain hotel chain in America (but you can probably guess it wasn’t at all glamourous).  Because our site was in a hotel, we were required to man our offices every day of the year, even at our slowest seasons.  That means my weekends went a little like this:

Saturday:  Play around, cook a really nice dinner, maybe drink a bit too much wine, pretend like everything’s fine.

Sunday:  Alarm goes off at 4:30am.  Struggle to get out of bed and stumble to get dressed in the dark so as not to wake the boyfriend, stub my goddam toe on that motherfucking goddam bed frame one more friggin time and I swear I’m gonna break  something in this apartment, for real.  Create some semblance of professional attire (though I’m really not kidding anyone- I look and act like Michelle Pfeiffer just before her transition into Catwoman.  Yeah, THAT on top of things).  Walk a mile to the train stop because it’s too early for any of the busses to get off their asses and make a proper bus stop.  Get off my train and walk an ADDITIONAL half mile to my site in a commute that took over an hour to travel less than 4 miles away (not an exaggeration; I clocked it on several occasions).  Open the office and proceed to sit by myself from 7am to 6pm with little-to-no interaction from anyone or anything.  Go home hating the world.  Set alarm for 4am the next day.  Plot my revenge against the bed frame.

Of course it wasn’t always as terrible as I make it out to be.  There were times when I dropped a sock on the ground the night before and it cushioned the blow the next morning to my cracked toe knuckles.

I learned to keep myself occupied during my weekly 11 hour shift doing various activities once my jobligations were performed.  I fell in love with a website that allowed me to watch bootlegged movies (which has since been removed otherwise I TOTALLY would have shared with you guys, it was marvelous), got involved in several online discussions about topics that I never would have given two shits about before, and doodled.  Doodling, more than likely, was the most productive thing I was ever able to report from those crappy Sundays, but I recently discovered a couple that I had been smart enough to save during that very hazy time in my life.

And now I’d like to share them.  Here’s one:


*I would like to express that my cartoons are in no way attempting to reach a level of humor than that of, say, Randall Munroe (sigh) or his counterparts, so don’t think you’re walking into The Oatmeal or Toothpaste for Dinner archives of lost treasures.  Those guys have way too much talent on their hands.  I just have hands.


My old Myspace profile is pretty simple (I still have it only because I’m way too lazy to actually do anything productive online like actually delete it, plus because I must have known I’d need it for a post about Myspace later in life).  I never decked it out with pre-made templates or updated to the new profile layout.  I actually prefered the simplicity of the basic style circa 2003.  Hey, by the way, a fun little experiment for those of you who still have your account with Myspace- go back on there and look at your friends.  Myspace is now an eerie time capsule of you and your friends from almost a decade ago.  People who can’t stand each other now are hugging tightly and making asses of themselves from too much booze; long since broken up couples are back together and happier than ever, and those inside jokes that you roll your eyes at now are fresher than… something really fresh.  It’s literally a virtual ghost town.

Myspace allowed you to edit practically anything while Facebook was still limiting your status updates to “(Your Name) is:” which is fine and all, but there’s only so much you can do with a prompt from a simple linking verb.  “Ashlin Phillips is that show last night was great!” just doesn’t flow that well.  Myspace allowed you to legitimately tell people you were a professional alabaster mine kumquat operator, while Facebook was asking to confirm the name of your school with the school itself.  Man, Facebook, you were such a buzzkill back then.  What’s the point of having a meaningless online friend-sharing profile if you can’t exceedingly magnify your own competencies the way you wish you could on your resume?

I was no stranger to the occasional “modification” on my Myspace profile, but I’d like to think I kept things somewhat tame.  That is in comparison to the masses who chose to rename their profiles with things like “Bunkass bitchez 4 LYFE” or those gems taken from a lyric in some shitty emo song no one remembers now like “ShE drOwNs mE iN a SeA oF PaIN.” (Side note: can someone tell me why in name of all that is holy to English grammar would anyone spend extra time writing something that way?  That sentence took me around an extra minute between pressing shift between letters and wanting to vomit from the extreme patheticness of the sentence itself.  Not efficient.  Also looks like shit and murders my eyes).

I chose instead to play around with the arrangement of my name and to mess around with my stats, knowing full well that the people who mattered would obviously know I A) was not born in 1962, and B) did not reside in Wyoming.  (please refer to Fig. A for supplemental visual aid)

Fig. A

Then some funny things started happening.

I started getting questioned by people I saw on a regular basis about my profile information.  Someone asked me why I said I lived in Wyoming, while failing to realize that “No such thing as” is not even a township, district, or legislatively recognized municipality.  Someone else told me in their most sincerest voice that I looked good for 49 years old.  Someone even came up to me in a near panic and tried to warn me that my profile had been hacked.

Then someone who I had hung out with several occasions before during a chance encounter approached me and said in all seriousness, “I think I’ve been saying your name wrong.  I’m really sorry, ‘Ahhh-slin.'”  Which was when I realized shit had gone too far.  Why was my profile being picked apart like an attorney with a personal vendetta against me while these other greasy-faced emo-haired mopes were getting off scott-free?! I questioned this for a long time, until a rare moment of clarity kicked in after a long night of loud music, loud friends, and loud debates over a particular game of Battleship, in no particular order.

Because I was choosing to make small changes to my information, changes that could still be perceived as somewhat feasible, my veritas was called into question much more so than someone who chose to plot out their personal profiles by explaining that they currently took up residence in the belly of Beelzebub and were getting exceptionally good wifi.  Or someone who wanted everyone to believe they worshiped Plath when the closest they’d actually gotten to relating to the author was in passing their kitchen oven every day.  Or that angsty dude who always had food in his braces that would like you to believe that he gets paid to fornicate not-so-nice-ladies; something along those lines.  My lies were somewhat believable and therefore open to debate, although I still challenge those arguments by asking if no one as been paying attention to Steve Martin or Allan Sherman or Tom Lehrer for the past several decades.

Say what you will about Myspace now.  It’s lost its luster, yes.  But fear not the zeitgeist of yourself 5-10 years ago.  F#@% Bitchez- Get M@n$y.  Nicole  4 eva.  Poison some pigeons in the park.

You win this time, yogurt.

It’s a very rare occasion when a commercial will draw my attention toward the screen more so than whatever show I’m watching.  Seeing as how I don’t watch TV during the day and I go to class at night a few days out of the week, I have taken advantage of my dv-r (read: abused.  I admittedly abuse the everloving shit out of my dv-r.  I think it likes it), so I normally fast forward through commercials.  However I have become involved nearly romantically with a commercial that I will literally stop fast forwarding just so I can watch the greatness of colors colliding and liquid in slow motion.  Seriously, I can’t get enough of videos of stuff in slow motion, and slow-mo liquid is my achilles heel when it comes to roping me into watching something.  It’s like fly paper, and it’s like this company knew exactly how to plug their product so that I’d be beyond entranced.  Every time.

(Note:  It’s much better to turn the volume off with this, unless you like hearing someone read bad Dr. Seuss impressions to you)

The role he was born to play

If John C. Reilly is looking for the role of a lifetime, I suggest he seek out his doppelgänger…



As posthumous (and may or may not have been racist under the guise of democracy) as his fame might be:






(That’s Stephen A. Douglass.  He eventually dropped the last “s” but I prefer to keep it in there cause it kind of looks like his last name is “Doug-lass” and we all know I’m a sucker for cheap and stupid butt references.  clickyclicky)