Actually, it IS Rocket Science

Let’s go verifying

There are few times when I’ll pause between commercials to investigate that moment of “I didn’t just see/hear what I think I saw/heard, did I?”  Most of the time I’m right, and it’s just another claim to the fact that my brain, upon interpreting something it didn’t hear clearly enough, tends to lean more toward the sick and obscene rather than a more legitimate interpretation for a misheard phrase or lyric (case in point: upon first hearing The Clash’s “London Calling” I thought Joe Strummer was explaining that “while we were fucking, I saw you running out” which makes no goddam sense, whatsoever, if you’re looking at the mechanics of it all).

This is what makes the moments when I DO find oddities in different media placements all the more leery of my ability to filter  the norm from the bat-shit crazy, which is why I’d like to share with you a recent commercial I discovered on the topic of online background checks.  Please pay attention to about :18 seconds in.  Up till then we’ve got a decent roster of people who are more than qualified to check out the people around them.  But what happens when you finally… VERIFY YOURSELF?

(sorry for the snortlaugh, I thought I did a good job stifling them until I uploaded the video)


Oh shiiiiit!  I completely forgot about that one time I was charged for ARMED ROBBERY!  Dangit.  So much for my senate lead.  Wish I hadn’t overlooked that minor infraction.  I thought there was some sort of amnesty day for that shit or something.  Oh goddammit.  Where’s Trent Lott? Surely he’s got some suggestions on how to get out of a tight spot.  No?  What about Spitzer?! George Allen?? What’s that?  Sex scandals & racial slurs are the only ones permitted?  fuck me, lassie.

(ed. note: anyone else notice the ridiculousness of their outro jingle and how whoever sang it should be evaluated for severe depression? It’s a very serious affliction.)


Hands on (pt 1)

I’m 0-3 when it  comes to massages.  It’s as if I’m a magnet for the world’s worst stories of what goes on in those mysteriously quiet low-lit rooms with unexplained constant fountains and cucumber-flavored water.  I used to believe it was all my own fault, but I’ve actually spent time trying to understand these situations and realizing a strong argument for how each one was it’s own degree of failure, and I can really only be held accountable for one, maybe.

Firstly, I grew up a tomboy.  I preferred jeans over skirts, black over pink, and when the time came, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles over the ever-elusive Barbie.  I mean, hardcore.  I still have TMNT figurines pushed away in my old room at my parent’s house. It fueled my interest in boys and gave me the corner market when playing with them because I could always be April O’Neil and no one would ever argue.  I think that it was also a precursor to my attitude of “Cut the shit” when it came to other things growing up, more specifically in this case with holistic treatments as I got older and was offered a “day of beauty” as a Christmas present for myself and my older sister, who was wise enough to pounce on the opportunity, knowing full-well what spa menu items she’d be partaking in.  The experience was completely alien to me, however, as I sat there and wondered about the difference between aromatherapy and reiki.  Thank god I didn’t opt for cupping or else this post would be more about dealing with much greater demons of my past.

My sister, who was smarter than I, in this department especially, went in for something like a tissue massage and pedicure while I was encouraged by some sadist to undergo some new-age shit I still don’t know the name for with a “curative” facial to follow.  All I remember is lying face up on a sticky doctor’s bed with that infuriating wax paper that moved and crackled every time someone pushed or pulled your body.  The girl rolled my legs out like she was trying to make a play-doh snake and prodded my arms like there were a number of ball bearings stuck in there she was trying to push out.  The best part came when I KID YOU NOT, I opened my eyes at one point to see this hippy literally circling her hands vigorously over my body without touching me.  Yeah.  Like she was trying to get the power of Christ to compel me.  I wasn’t about to sit up and go all Linda Blair on her, but I wanted out, immediately.  I mumbled something like, “I think I feel much better now,” which was greeted with a snake-y “SSSSSSSHHHHH!!!!” and I felt like I had failed my one task of remaining silent so she could exorcise whatever unspoken evil from my body I didn’t know about.  I was eventually asked to sit up, which I did while feeling no different, just embarrassed for the both of us, and escorted into the facial room where whatever shit they put on my face did nothing else but make me break out for an entire week just before senior photos.  I walked out looking like I had been licked by a thousand wart-tongued St. Bernards.

Thanks, Day Spa.  Thanks a lot.

Next up: Burton vs. Herbert’s sandworms

I’ve had to sit on this for long enough so mostly everyone could have a chance to not only hear the song, but to be so dick-slapped with it by television and other media that they no longer sit in wonderment at how good the song actually is.  That’s what we do to each other: we take decent material and murder the decency from it by overplaying and finally outplaying it for even Henry David Thoreau upon his return from modern world hiatus to ask someone to kindly shut-it-the-fuck-off.  I watched Saturday Night Live recently and heard Cee-Lo’s “Fuck You” THREE times in an hour and a half.  The song itself?  Flipping brilliant.  But I have to admit that after hearing it that much in that short of amount of time that even I’m exhausted.

Here’s the thing, though.  I think we get to a point where art no longer imitates life, or vice versa.  After a while art just starts to imitate art and life need not apply.  Case in point:

Pretty picture from the video of the song in question (Florence and The Machine’s “Dog Days are (SO) Over (playing poker in all your velvet paintings)”  (ed. note:  here’s a link to the video if you were recently struck with a blunt object and are undergoing soap-opera-inspired amnesia )

And its predecessor.  Notice any similarities?

Now, granted, she’s cut in two, but being a girl who grew up with a somewhat unhealthy interest in Tim Burton and the morbid curiosity of dark humor, this was the first place my mind went to while watching Flo dance around her bee-hived, blue-skinned, sparkle-dressed dancers.  And I’ll be damned if someone doesn’t give the dude cred.

Things that make you go fffuuu

I had the opportunity to meet the most brilliant person alive about three years ago (ed. note: and dealt with him for the continuing three years until I finally moved out to California, so think about THAT while reading).

Most Brilliant Person Alive:  You know what I’m worried about?  North Korea.  Why isn’t anyone talking about THEM on the news?

Ashlin:  But they are.  They’re talking the crap out of North Korea on the news.

MBPA:  But not enough.  I think we should all be informed on the nucular threat North Korea has.

Ashlin:  … Wait. … Say that again?

MBPA:  What?  North Korea?

Ashlin:  No. What threat?

MBPA:  Nucular threat?

Ashlin: …

MBPA:  See what I’m talking about?  You don’t even KNOW about it!

Ashlin:  No… No. I’m very aware.  Just do something really fast for me.  Say “nuclear threat” again.

MBPA:  Nucular threat.

Ashlin:  NOPE.  Say it again.

MBPA: … Nuc-u-lar threat.

Ashlin:  You know you’re saying it wrong, yeah?

MBPA:  What?

Ashlin:  Nuclear.  You’re putting an extra “u” in the middle of it.  You’re saying it like a hill person out of “Deliverance.”  You’re saying it like George Dubya.

MBPA:  Nuc-u-lar.

Ashlin:  Say “New”

MBPA:  New.

Ashlin:  Say “Clear”

MBPA:  Clear.

Ashlin: Say “New” “Clear”

MBPA:  Nuc-u-lar.

Cause I’m leaving on a 2002 Honda CR-V, license No. G41 2358

As soon as I finish this post I’ll be gearing up my modest little car and heading 7 hours north to Modesto to spend Easter with my aunt and uncle (as well as help celebrate their FORTY year anniversary– you guys, I know singular people 40 years old who aren’t as well put together as this pairing- and if you’re reading this then it’s not you, don’t worry).

I have one week (read that again:  ONE. WEEK.) off between last semester and the beginning of my second year of school so I’m making the most of it.  I’ll be triangulating between Modesto and sojourning up to Eureka (yes, like the exclamation) which trapeze’s dangerously close to the Oregon border to visit a friend, and then back down to San Francisco to visit ANOTHER friend who currently resides in New Orleans who is visiting her brother (who is about to take on ex-pat status).  Yep. I’m just gonna jump in there and ruin their sibling bonding time.  Because I’m evil.  And I don’t care.  Because by the time I get home, I have a fairly certain idea that this next week of driving and hanging out will be completely worth it.  Can’t wait to tell you about it.

Bourbon makes the heart grow fonder

When you get to the point in your life when you save having a drink for celebratory matters (LIKE finishing another school semester, or finding the matching pair to your sock) and you couple it with lack of sleep, and you’re already feeling its effects after one glass, you take a couple of things into consideration (in the safety and comfort of your own home so you don’t have to drive home-  Mom- please stop worrying- it’s all in fun).

1.  Maybe less than 10 hours of sleep in 72 makes a difference on intake effects on imbibing.  I’m talking to YOU, loopy loo, doody-doo.  HA! ..Rhymes.

2.  Man.  NBC Thursday night line up is actually really funny.  I mean REALLY FUNNY.  Have you seen that Paul Reiser show yet??  No?  No, actually I’m watching it for the first time myself.  Wait. Hang on.  Okay, no. Don’t.  No, don’t watch it.  I don’t care how much any one of you drink- I’m fairly sure that show will never be even remotely humorous.

3. Why the CRAP don’t I have anything good to eat in the fridge?  It’s all “CELERY” and “WHOLE GRAIN” and  “FAT FREE SOUR CREAM.”  Man, adult Ashlin, you really blew it when it comes to hosting tipsy Ash.


5.  Should I get online?  Nah, I shouldn’t get online… … …


7.  Hey wait-I completely forgot- what’s in the pantry?  Any beef jerky?  No??  shart.

8. Maybe I should go to bed.

9. WAIT. I DID buy beef jerky earlier.  Oh.  But it’s in the car.  fuck it, i’m not THAT hungry.

10.  Oh shit.  That shit I just saw on tv was unintentionally hysterical.  Maybe I could write about that sometime.  Let me make a note:

“some guy on Iron Chef America just dubbed over Morimoto’s directions of “Murry Murry Murry” with “Hurry Hurry Hurry” as if we wouldnt understand his accent”

(this is actually what I wrote last night- and it made me laugh for about an entire minute after writing it)

11. Pilgrimage to car- I want that beef jerky.  I need that jerky. Long as jerky got me he won’t need nobody. He want it I buy go get it I’ll buy it tell other broke brothers be quiet.  STACKS ON DECK- PATRON ON ICE…”

11.  What if that dude that interpreted Murry Murry were to interpret “Louie Lou-ay?”  I’d actually be interested to hear that.

12.  Brush sweaters off teeth while humming to T.I..  dump into bed.  I love everyone.

-Wake up at 10am feeling like a new person.  Life kicks some fleeting ass.  AMERICA.

And so on and so forth.

I’m starting to sound like an angry dad on allowance day

All I’ve got to say is:

$31.50 for an adapter so I can plug my computer into the projector at school.

$17.87 for a book that, while I’m sure I’ll enjoy reading once this shit is all said and done, I only needed at this time for abooouuuuut… I don’t know… ONE sentence reference?

$10 (approx) in gas to get to class on time since I will inevitably be pushing the pedal because I can never properly plan to get out of my apartment on time (I’ll eat that one).

$175 for textbooks (that’s for one class.  ONE. CLASS.)

$12.00 for a 6 page online journal article THAT I DON’T EVEN GET TO KEEP. And again, one sentence reference, and I’m really stretching it with the connection between it and my presentation topic.

$26 for the bottle of bourbon that I will purchase this evening once my first year of grad school has come to a close (although on that?  Even trade).


So yeah.  If I want to put a clip of a “Roseanne” episode in my presentation on communication skills as a “visual aid” you can just sit there and enjoy it.  (And if it’s called into question, I personally believe it is a perfect example of the differences between accurate communication and the implications of sarcasm in the exchange of correspondence).

Bottoms up.

An argument for remaining childless

Just overheard out my window while writing:

Child:  Mommy!  MOMMY!  Guess WHAT?!

Mom:  What??

Child:  I just POOPED!!

Mom:  get inside.