Apparently, Porn Stars Age in Dog Years

This is Jenna Jameson, age 32. If you're curious to see what mange may do to human beings, please click on picture.

Let this be a lesson to those of you who are aspiring porn stars.

Awesome. Now that I've provided my monthly public service announcement, I'll write the post I originally came here to write before being distracted by Old Yeller...

Um. Books. Had to do with books...Old books? Yellow books? Shit.

Old books that give excellent head?

Wait, hang on...REVIEWING books! Yeah, I'll be reviewing a couple of books in the near future. Been a while. Too long of a while.

I've turned down quite a few books during the past year due to my inability to concentrate on any text other than my weekly grocery list. The last time I promised a review, I read maybe 1/4 of the book, then gave up like the heathen I am. Guilt ensued. Terrible guilt that haunted my dreams and made me feel even more incapable than usual. So I thought it best to stop accepting books until I felt I could make good on my promises. It's only right.

First book up for review will be "Mommy Millionaire" by Kim Lavine. Received it yesterday from St. Martin's Press, flipped through it, and liked the easy-to-follow format and friendly tone. So, gawd willing, that'll be posted sometime before my firstborn is married. I kid. Maybe.

The second book is one that I've been dying to read for ages now -- Ellen Meister's "Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA." This is the first book I've ordered off of Amazon (or purchased anywhere, for that matter) in centuries. Was supposed to be ordering some book that my shrink suggested I read, but upon perusing the descriptions and sample pages, became turned off by the "goodness gracious, you are special, and are in fact god-like for becoming overwhelmed by lights, noises and smells that normal folks don't notice at all! Yes, it's true, Special Person, your discomfort with humans and inability to swing with the status quo is fantabulously fabulous! You, Special God-Like and Better Than Everyone Else Person, are not a freak, but a special god-like being who, although shunned and misunderstood by the general population, is special! And did we mention god-like? " ca-ca feel I got.

Okay, I'm embellishing a bit here, but the fact is, I hate goopy "feel-good" self-help books that do not address issues, but merely skirt them with tulle and tie it all up in silk ribbon. Screw that, man. I know I'm weird, I know what my problems are, I know that my brain is wired differently than most, and to believe for even one second that the difficulties I face on a daily basis are anything other than distressing and embarrassing, not to mention incurable, would be delusional. I refuse to waste twenty-five smackenheimers on fluff and circumstance.

So I ordered Ms. Meister's book instead.

And then I ate a large ham sandwich with swiss, mayo, mustard, lettuce and tomato. It was a good day.

My Academy Awards Experience

I don't like Jennifer Hudson. WTF?

Gwyneth Paltrow looked absolutely ravishing. WTF?

Ellen Degeneres makes me laugh really, really hard. And she's obsessed with vacuum cleaners, which makes her, like, my soul sister or something. WTF?

Jack Nicholson's wrinkly potato head frightened me and made me cry. WTF?

I actually stayed awake for the whole show, but after I drifted off to my local news, I had bad dreams starring Jack Nicholson's head, Jennifer Hudson's wailing overbite, and a vacuum cleaner named Spud. WTF?

My Heart Lies Dormant

Ms. Lori is disappointed with the lack of hot male studery on this season’s American Idol.

Also, I think Simon Cowell may have had breast reduction surgery, but I can't be sure...There's a strong possibility that he's merely strapping his manly mammaries against his ribcage with some sort of leather contraption designed for such purpose, which, if true, is to be commended. His bounteous bosoms of seasons past were the source of much distraction for me, especially when he would casually toy with them, rub them, slap them, make them dance...Shameful, it was. Dirty and shameful.

That is all.

Oh...There's a Forest?

Listen, "the big picture" usually escapes me, but when that picture finally does come into my fuzzy, narrowly focused view, I get a sense of Aw, for Christ's sake! Why didn't I see/hear/notice/realize that before? It can be a good feeling to recognize what that nagging little bird of common sense has been trying to tell me -- the little bird who sits in the tree that grows in that forest I alluded to in the title of this post. A real honest-to-goodness A-HA moment. I like those moments. Sometimes, however, it can be a bad feeling, and that my friend, sucks beyond all sucking to the point of sucklacious suckodomy.

So, thanks once again to my little bird of common sense -- the little bird who sits in the tree that grows in that forest -- I finally realized only just now, like thirty minutes ago kind of now, that certain things I have been writing here can be and are read by anybody who wants to. And their Aunt Begonia, too, and Uncle Kip, and Grandma Clackdogger, and Cousin Twirly (so nicknamed for her moonlighting position at The Pink Pussy), and...Well, you get my drift, yeah?

I've deleted all entries that I don't wish Cousin Twirly, or Donald Trump, or that creepy guy on the corner of Mother Mary Way and 9th who always leers at you when you walk to Starbucks for your usual double latte with cheese, or...Again, you get it, I'm sure.

I have saved the posts and all of your comments for my own personal eyeballism, because those comments of yours made me smile, laugh, feel gooey inside, and made me cry, too. You don't know how much it means to me that you, my awesome, awesome friends, understand and support me during this very weird and wild ride. Sad as this may sound (and I really don't mean it to be), this blog has been my only structured emotional outlet, one of my few connections to those confusing, frightening, wonderful things called human beings...

It still will be. But I've got to keep that forest in my view, got to remember what that little bird told me. However, even though I may not post overly personal details here, I will continue to do so over at MySpace, because MySpace has a lovely privacy function that allows me to set posts to "Friends Only." Blogger is not able to give me that option, so...

Oh, shut the hell up, bird. I heard you the first time. Freaking nag.

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was a Freak Like Me?

I'm on a "Random" kick lately, in case you haven't noticed. I love the word "random" ever so much. It tastes like a Russell Stover dark chocolate-covered vanilla cream bon bon.

Some random thoughts that are going through my head right now:

I'm so grateful that my DSL worked normally for thirty minutes today. I felt like a surfing Cinderella, finally able to join the dance -- frantically visited as many blogs as I could, loaded YouTube videos like a maniac, and listened to the same Fiona Apple song on MySpace over and over again. Alas, as evidenced by the five minutes it took to load my Blogger page, my coach has turned back into a pumpkin.

I wonder if anyone else worries about the DNA we leave on razors. I run the blades of my Daisy razor under scalding-hot water in order to obliterate any DNA that might be lurking there. Now, I realize that the following is not even remotely possible, not even in another dimension, but I have a fear of my DNA somehow collecting in the drain trap and mingling with other people's DNA, then forming a zygote in a warm, nurturing pocket of Saran Wrap that had accidentally gone down the drain, eventually developing into a fetus, and finally growing into a hideous infant that is birthed by pecking its way out of the Saran Wrap womb, sort of like a baby chick, only monstrous. I have actually imagined my monster baby crawling around in the sewers of Rochester, a big rat caught in its beak-like mouth, searching desperately for its mama.

The sickest thing about this fantasy is that I start to feel very upset for my poor monster baby, and even tear up a little.

"The Grudge 2" is SCARY!

With her shaved head, Britney Spears now looks like a total Bertha May Norton.

My brother, Rob, is the only person alive who appreciates how funny it is to yell "Mount Krakatoa!" while perusing videos in BlockBusters.

Random. Is. Good.

Ten Random Facts About Me That Might Make You Wonder About My Sanity

Tagged by the lovely and talented,
JCE, whose intimidating looks are deceiving. I mean, c’mon, he likes Teddy bears.

1) I used to be obsessed with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” wore out the vinyl, two tapes, and one VHS. It depressed me, delighted me, and made me do bad things. I think I’m over it now.

2) I bear a ridiculous, lifelong hatred for Lucy Van Pelt from The Peanuts. That bitch represents every kid who ever insulted me, snubbed me, backstabbed me, and spit milk & cookies on me for no reason other than I was weird. Fuck you, Lucy Van Pelt!

3) I love the word “me.” Tastes like Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie.

4) I honestly believe that aliens have been visiting us for a long, long time, and will make themselves and their intentions known within the next twenty years. I’m so psyched. Perhaps psycho as well.

5) I once had a strange experience while staying overnight at my mother's. Think I was nineteen or so, was trying to sleep on her couch, but couldn’t, and as I was about to get up, light a cigarette and turn on the TV -- the moment I was about to open my eyes -- I felt an intense presence, something right in front of my face. I kept my eyes closed, too terrified to confront whatever it was, but as the seconds passed, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Also, I felt like a dick…So I slowly, slowly opened my eyes just a crack, and for a split second, there before me, illuminated by the streetlamp outside, was a black, chiffon-like scarf thing, balled up. Yeah, a scarf. Was approximately the size of a man’s fist, hovering right there in my face, maybe six inches away. It was moving in a most unusual way, sort of undulating, turning inside and out in a repetitive motion, while at the same time spinning in place. There were parts of it that were blacker than black, dense, and others that were not quite opaque, but not see-through either.

I did what anyone else would do in that situation -- I closed my eyes tight and thought to myself that I must have lost my mind. I figured I should probably get the hell out of there but quick, and as I was about to jump from the couch and go crying to Mama, the thing -- something -- whooshed into my neck, right where the indentation is at the top of the clavicle, then exited out the back of my neck. Knocked the breath out of me, it did. Felt like a gush of Arctic air, only worse. So I lay there, out of breath, terrified, confused, chilled to the bone. The icy feeling seeped into my chest, went down into my gut, and I just could not move or open my eyes for fear of seeing that scarf thing again. I waited what seemed at least ten minutes, and when I was satisfied that the thing really was gone, I got up, turned on every light in the room, the TV, and sat smoking cigarettes until morning. The icy chill lasted for about a half an hour.

6) I woke up this morning to a huge box of Godiva chocolates (with a cute little rose keychain on top) and a big-ass heart-shaped box of Russell Stovers. I couldn’t be more happy.

7) It’s been years since I’ve seen a live band. My life is that much poorer for it.

8) Molly Ringwald is currently playing the lead in “Sweet Charity,” which will be coming to Rochester soon. I like Molly, but she’s no Shirley MacLaine. I may go, just so I can experience “Big Spender” live.

Look, I saw Jerry Lewis in “Damn Yankees” for the sole reason of experiencing “Whatever Lola Wants.”

Apparently, I connect with whores on some odd level.

9) I like Nancy Grace, and I’m sure she’s a nice lady and all, but whenever I watch her show, I feel an unpleasant urge to yell obscenities. Why is that?

10) I’m eating buttered toast right now, and I don‘t feel well.

The End.

Random Things About My Weekend That May Bore You to Death

!) My DSL has been veeerrryyy sssllloooowww the past month. Never was that much faster than dial-up, but have mercy, there ought to be a law. This probably would cause the average person some mild irritation and stress, but for me, it's lethal. I, unfortunately, feel an intense need to make sure every single page loads regardless of how long it may take. I cannot simply throw my hands upward in frustration and log off -- I MUST load the page. It's not unusual for me to spend twenty minutes or more just loading and reloading pages. This has screwed up my whole usual routine, and I am not happy.

%) One of my kids plugged the toilet the other day, but for reasons I will not go into, a plunger would not have been the wisest implement of choice. Had to use a Q-Tip, for reasons I will not go into. And, for reasons I will not go into, I spent a ridiculous amount of time with my anti-bacterial soap and a bottle of Clorox bleach. I felt both physically and spiritually violated. I have come to the conclusion that toilet engineers are idiots. Either that or they don't have preteens or teens who eat like elephants. Whatever. I'm still traumatized.

&) I watched “Mozart and the Whale” last night. I had been warned ahead of time that this film might stir up dark fantasies involving Josh Harnett, a vat of acid, and a common garden rake, and it did, but I also didn't think it was half bad. Wasn’t exactly half good, either. Can you say "exaggerated stereotypes written (by Ron Bass, screenwriter for “What Dreams May Come” -- ‘nuff said) and directed by bumbling dorkenheimers"? And yet...I was incredibly turned on by Harnett's character, which makes no sense, considering. Also, the gorgeous Ms. Radha Mitchell was a joy to behold, and despite the implausible public outbursts she was forced to portray (outbursts that seem not to jibe with a high-functioning adult with AS who’s learned to get along in society, be gainfully employed, and exhibits self-control in all other areas of her life), I identified with some of her character’s quirks and personal demons… Bah. I confuse even myself. I give it three cigarettes out of five.

^) I took an online I.Q. test yesterday, and according to the results, I'm not only dumber than my grandmother‘s ceramic chickens, I'm even more stupid than George W. Bush. Of course, in my defense, I did take the test immediately following the toilet/Q-Tip incident, so perhaps that had something to do with the poor showing. Also, please refer to my first mundane rambling. Fifteen minutes loading the page, thank you very much.

!!!) Someone surprised me with a thoughtful gift yesterday. You rock, Kim.