good morning

life, liberty, and kittehs.

oodles o' kittehs here

2,200 lbs of salt

motoi yamamoto uses the ubiquitous white mineral to design unfathomably intricate--and deeply personal--floor sculptures.

Yamamoto's latest labyrinth creeps out from a brick tunnel at the Fondation Espace Ecureuil, a gallery in France. He made it -- as he makes all these installations -- by sprinkling salt on the floor through a plastic bottle used for machine oil, starting at the back of the tunnel, then moving forward to avoid stepping on the designs he's already drawn. The whole thing took 50 hours over the course of five days and a whopping 2,200 pounds of salt.

Sanke Peter parish in Cologne

The story behind Yamamoto's salt sculptures is sweet and sad. His sister died of brain cancer more than a decade ago. To honor her memory, he began sketching with salt -- in Japan, a traditional symbol for purification and mourning. The meandering patterns are meant to convey a sense of eternity.

my relentless obsession

jane birkin, you are my moon goddess.

gainsbourg & birkin

gainsbourg & birkin

bardot & birkin

it never gets old

you're smiling now, aren't you?

oh pollock, you crazy nut

click here for jackson pollock kewlness

yesterday i was greasy. today i am clean.

(click below)

bath time

for your viewing pleasure

aimless

diva(licious)

jen stark

i feel greasy.

Magritte

baby jesus

year of the hare

hangover.

toke

truth.

xanax to my ears

you're welcome...

mmmm...

more internet kewlness

click here:

tiny grow




cool, right? or am i just this bored?




........

am currently taking donations...

currently taking donations...for a trippy quilt!! beyond kewl.

check it

in an office funk? longing for the warmth of the spring sun on your shoulders but only getting the buzz of fluorescent lights? well check it: Jonk Music is the jammiest (syn.: rammiest) blog i've seen in a while as far as good tunage goes.  a new indie song everyday, and if you're jonesing to snort a big fat line of 'fuck you, monday,' then look no further, my friends. 

so when you get one of the gnarliest paper cuts you've had in weeks and your first aid kit looks more like a hoarder's night stand...

umm, yeaa

where's the f-ing neosporin when i need it

then my suggestion remains: go the the aughts link at Jonk and listen to the best songs of the 00's (in four parts, no less).  it's almost 5 o'clock and im still rocking out. sooo jammy.

happy fat tuesday (again...)

yea, you read correctly...again...

but besides my obviously needing to purchase a calendar, i think it's time to discuss the true meaning of fat tuesday.  sure we all know about lent and catholicism and blah blah blah, but i said the true meaning; gettin' rowdy. 

mardi gras is french for fat tuesday, so it's no wonder that today is the culmination of all things sinful, but i didn't expect to wake up this morning, still in a heady haze from my dreams of sugarplums and spliffs, to find king cake baby engaging in this...



somebody's going to have a moral hangover, but who am i to judge?

 

these chicas fled my house like hippies from a cop.  (please see below)

after i interrupted this little baby menage (um, i should probably patent this term right away), i congratulated k.c.b. for using a trojan, handed him a hangover gatorade, used the word "stoked" in a sentence, and then we both made fun of his jersey style grenade conquest--all before i left for work! ugh, i am such a cool mom.  

    Grenade 

• A bigger, ugly chick
• More often than not, the grenade jumper gets laid and the rest end up jacking off.

    part of speech: n
 
    see also: landmine
 
    antonym: dime

so im getting home from work on my lunch break and see a bakery package by the front door.  fuck yea. did uncle al send us cringle again?!  in typical fat kid fashion, i immediately threw my purse to the side and grasped the box, frantically ripping away the packing tape.

oohhh noo, this was no ordinary cardboard box of sweets filling my disorderly porch with its love and calories.  It was...my  grandchildren, birthed from the debaucherous night of fat tuesday and left for me, the father's mother, to take in. 



8 fertilized cupcakes


lately i've been trying to look at the positive side of things, so rather than have a panic attack over being suddenly old and overburdened, i will just have to eat their glorious purple, gold and green diapers and toss these bitties in with the highlighters in my top desk drawer.  and who knows, if i ever get bored at work (um, which is always), maybe i'll pitch this shit to vh1: a clan of king cake babies on their way to stardom through bad reality tv,  j.ram and (king) cake plus eight?! ehhh, not quite as catchy as the jon and kate original, but it's got total potential (if i do say so myself, aahem). 

so there you have it, the true meaning of mardi gras: (hand) grenades, corruption, sex, nudity, child exploitation and gluttony, oh my!  sounds like a fucking fabulous fat tuesday if you ask me. cheers.

(and move over brandy and ray j! y'all will no longer be the most pathetic, std spreading siblings on a staged vh1 show! woooooo!!)

UPDATE

so i didn't realize that yesterday was fat tuesday because it wasn't fat tuesday...i don't know what's worse, the concrete fact that a dessert (albeit a dreamy one) has the power to destroy my internal calendar, or that i chronicled the entire birthing story of my plastic son based on a mistake. motherhood is clearly tougher than i realized.  props, judy.

but however soggy with embarrassment i may be over my erroneous first post, the blog must go out, and so it shall. 

i know you're all itching for an update on king cake baby's progression...he's fitting in beautifully.



catching some rays on a rooftop pool, no big deal...



bros before hoes.







so there you have it. until next time...

happy fat tuesday to one and all.

happy fat tuesday, y'all. not that i care that it is fat tuesday (or realized it was even today) until i spotted...the glorious, icing covered, deep fried, sprinkle glittered king cake in the office kitchen.  oh, hello. 

that's right, icing so thick you'd swear it was shmear. sprinkles so dazzling you'd think they were the tears of an angel. now that's what i'm talkin about...

as i lay my eyes on this confectioner's prize (in between the slurping of drool and light headedness), i have a flashback of miss evans' 4th grade class.  my one memory of that year, other than my homework assignments being pinned to my shirt against my will at the end of each day, somebody brought in a king cake, and after taking in its aroma and being told of its history and the chance of one of us finding the baby, i was hooked.

[for those of you who don't know about king cake and the baby, check it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_cake ]

but alas, f-ing trent mc-blah of all people got the baby.  he was tubby and spoiled, he didn't need that baby like i did.  i was pissed, jealous, a victim of this king cake and its lure of sugar and a free toy! but, i digress...

so today...standing alone (per usual...cough cough) in the break room, I put my elementary school wounds aside, and after experiencing a tiresome inner monologue of to have some cake, or not to have some cake, i cut into that bitch with a vengeance. 

how delectable this will taste, i thought...how delightful...i deserve this...

and then what do I see being birthed from the cream filling!? plastic baby feet, that's what.
i squealed with ecstasy at my new found discovery.  it was finally my moment; i had found the baby! i frantically looked around; somebody must see that i, j.ram, found the mother fucking baby. it was me! i was the winner!

but

:::::sigh::::

it was a personal victory, as nobody was around to revel in my luck.  not that anybody would, as i am the the strangely dressed, art and music loving, weirdly humored jew pariah; the...democrat...of the office.

so it's needless to say that i took my newly acquired plastic offspring to its cradle (in my top desk drawer next to my scattered rainbow of highlighters--quite a prestigious spot of office real estate) and kept my news of first time motherhood to myself. Wah wah.


placed snugly next to my illegally purchased adderall. i'm just so maternal.

 so you are likely asking yourself, besides 'did i seriously just spend the last 5 minutes of my precious, fleeting life reading this,' what is the moral of the story...and i'll tell you...

1. try not to be the office commy when your boss is McCarthy.

2. forgive the vices of your 4th grade classmates. forgiveness is a virtue, after all.

3. and on a more inspirational note, always choose to take a slice of that proverbial cake, because even if your ass is fat, you just might end up with a baby....wait...what?

so, my faithful follower(s), i leave you with this:

(you know, because i'm a music lover...)