Just logged on to Facebook a few minutes ago, and, let me tell you, I was looking forward to beginning my midday routine of Creeping 2.0, hoping to outdo my creeptasticness from the day before.
CreepLog 7.23.08: Have I ever hung out with Ashley Wells? Nope. But I did make out with one of her friends at a college party two years ago. So I felt okay about leaving a comment on one of Ashley's recently uploaded pictures from her vacation to Cozumel, showing her in a barely-there two-piece. "Did somebody get a Brazilian?!" The answer's obvious from looking at the picture, but I'm still waiting on a "yes" in my Inbox.
But before I could get to any Creepbooking (or Facecreeping?) for today, I noticed a message in the upper left corner. "The new Facebook is here Try it now." Double take, what!? A new Facebook? Didn't get the memo for that one. Even so, despite any foreknowledge of this scheme, you better believe I clicked and tried it then. Take a look at what appeared before my eyes.
My home page.
My profile page.
Well, it's certainly wider. Which, unlike what that daily dose of Dunkin' Donuts has done to your significant other's ass, should be a welcome development. I always felt the previous design was too skinny. Is there such a thing? Yes. Just take a look at the movie poster for Wanted of Angelina Jolie's arm.
An article I found through a good friend (Mr. Google Search), written by Sarah Perez at the Web technology blog ReadWriteWeb, points out some other less obvious changes.
According to Perez, Facebook cleaned up its act in an effort to stay relevant with Gen Y-ers who have graduated from college and entered the workforce. Although, she points out, without further privacy controls, the site still isn't "safe for work." The clean up effort really pertains to the applications; specifically, as Perez describes it, their "misbehavior." If, like me, you were greeted with a spam-load of requests from apps like Send HOTNESS ("Let your friends know that they're hot! Spread the love!"), then you know what she's talking about. Some of these delinquent apps have been banned, like Rock You's Super Wall. The ones that remain for this Brave New Facebook, conforming to the new anti-spamming standards, have been moved to a dedicated tab, further un-cluttering the profile page.
Perez wonders if younger users, who are still there for shenanigans like Send HOTNESS, will take to this "step to prevent the Myspace-ification of Facebook." However, she concludes that, for the cubicled set, who are perhaps now just as interested in networking as hanging out, the new design "makes sense."
Does it makes sense to me? After some brief research (shall I say creepsearch?), I discovered Ashley's freshly posted follow-up album, "Cozumel Part Deux." It's more pictures of her and her bikini-clad and margarita-sipping friends, seemingly trying to relive those Spring Break memories. I guess you can take the co-eds out of college, but you can't take the college out of the co-eds' pictures. Not even the New Facebook with its new settings and controls. Makes sense to me!
Yesterday, I wrote about the passing of Estelle Getty, who famously played Sophia on The Golden Girls. Which was almost my favorite show growing up, next to Saved by the Bell.
I got over my infatuation for Lisa Turtle, but I've never gotten over my crush on the four ladies who were past middle age, but certainly not past their prime. And while they were starring in TV's prime time, the Golden Girl who's star was the biggest, despite her stature being the smallest, was Sophia, zinging the other Girls with those hilariously sarcastic one-liners. Many of them can be seen in videos on YouTube; I'd know, because I've been watching them for most of the day, dabbing my eyes with a nearby box of Kleenex. Tears of laughter, my friend.
The following is a comment I found on YouTube from "xAngelActresses," posted on the video included in the aforementioned blogpost. Let me point out that I've preserved the formatting and spacing (and spelling) exactly as it appears there.
Yes, I barely watched this show but my mom watches it all the time and i do miss Estelle very much. I rember I alwyas ask my mom "Is Estelle dead?" Because I do rember it a few years ago and my mom said "No"...
but now she can say "yes."
Truly. Touching. Guess we all grieve in our own way, some of us choosing to emphasize its drama with line breaks. Is a eulogy written on YouTube considered a eu-Tube-logy?
Actually, I'm not sure; she stopped speaking to me at the end of fourth grade, holding true to the threat "if you ask another question, Mommy's not going to speak to you again," eventually completely cutting me off after high school. Not even my prescribed medication could stop my compulsion to ask, mostly about "stupid sh**." I haven't heard from her since the Christmas of 2004, when she sent me a present—the *NSYNC single "Bye Bye Bye" she gave me for my birthday in 2000, re-wrapped in a more recent comics section from the Peoria Journal Star. Thanks for bringing up all the great memories, xAngelActresses. I hope, like Elvis, my mom's still alive.
Elvis has leftentered the building.
PS Mom, if you're reading this, please contact me. I promise I won't ask you any more questions. Deal?
Remember the theme song for The Golden Girls? (YouTube)
Thank you for being a friend Traveled down the road and back again Your heart is true you're a pal and a confidant
I still spontaneously burst into singing the song while showering, scrubbing my naked, statuesque body while thinking of the sitcom that centered around the lives of four geriatric women. Odd? Only if you're a narrow-minded ageist.
Estelle Getty, who portrayed Sophia in the show, has finally traveled down a road from which she won't come back again. Sadly, the Associated Press, in a release this afternoon, reported her passing. She was 84 years old. Ironic that she would pass away now, finally arriving at the 80-something age of her beloved character, sixteen years after the show's final season in 1992.
Even at 80, she was still hunting for booty.
In the AP article, written by Bob Thomas, it is revealed that Getty, at the time in her early 60s, twice flunked auditions for The Golden Girls because she wasn't thought to be believable as 80.
She came prepared for the third audition, however, wearing dowdy clothes and telling an NBC makeup artist, "To you this is just a job. To me it's my entire career down the toilet unless you make me look 80." The artist did, Getty got the job and won two Emmys.
The article quotes Rue McClanahan, who played Blanche Devereaux, as saying, "Don't feel sad about her passing. She will always be with us in her crowning achievement, Sophia."
I hear you, Rue. I've got all seven seasons on DVD. But I can't help but feel a tightness around my heart.
The Golden Girls was my favorite show growing up. Okay, maybe not quite. I admit that, at the time, it was probably Saved by the Bell, due to my infatuation with Lisa Turtle (makes sense, considering I looked like Screech Powers).
But I also had a crush on the four mature ladies who resided in Miami, despite our approximate fifty year age difference. Seventy in the case of Sophia. Sure, Blanche, the relatively younger-looking Southern Belle from Atlanta, was the sexy one. And she knew it, too. It was her vanity and, shall was say, "looseness," that so perfectly set her up for Sophia's now legendary sarcasm-drenched zingers—a dame with wit, now that's sexy. Was she a sweet old lady? Absolutely not. And that's why we loved her.
Believe it or not—you should believe it, though, 'cause it's true—the Golden ladies, to this day, help me stay in shape. That's because, while watching back-to-back episodes of the show, I perform my butt-blasting routine on my living room rug. It consists of 1000 squats, 500 donkey kicks and 500 pelvic thrusts; that's a butt squeeze every 2.7 seconds, my friend. The pure joy of watching the show counteracts the pure pain I deliver to my butt cheeks. Odd, you say again? Watch the video first, and then cast your judgment.
I now officially dedicate my workout routine to the memory of Estelle Getty. As Sophia on The Golden Girls, she made countless cheeks hurt from laughing so hard at her one-liners. I hope some day my butt-blasting routine makes just as many cheeks cramp up.
And if you threw a party Invited everyone you knew You would see the biggest gift would be from me And the card attached would say "Thank you for being a friend"
Thank you for being a friend, Estelle, and a workout partner, and the object of my affection. You bitter old, Sicilian hag, you.
Yesterday, after finishing my morning run—definitely not a jog, which should only be done to catch back up to your friends after tying your shoe—I picked up a copy of the RedEye. "Chicago's free daily newspaper that provides a concise and authentic take on news, sports, entertainment and social buzz." Not a single thing in there about Jean-Claude Van Damme. Or myself. Which leads me to question the kind of "buzz" this "newspaper" is covering. (Over 10,000 views for my sexideo (sexy video, for the first-timers) about my totally un-gay attraction, excuse me, appreciation for Van Damme isn't newsworthy? Seriously.)
Reading through the section Thursday Deals, I found a listing from a nearby bar for $1.00 domestics and $0.50 hamburgers. Miller Lite in exchange for a Washington? Not even a calorie per penny! That's good for the waistline and the wallet. And for your stomach, 'cause we all know Miller Lite is less filling. Says so in the 1992 commercial below, directed by James Cameron, "featuring morph technique." Spoiler alert: The dude's hair morphs into a ponytail and, unfortunately, out of one.
Was I enticed by the half-Washington priced hamburgers too? Don't make me puke up the baby carrots I just snacked on. A penny per gram of fat isn't a bargain, it's a butt-gain. However, I figured the people showing up for this would be the types who need to see some Sexiness personified. I'm a living, breathing example of how baby carrots, light beer, and plenty of butt-blasting exercises can transform someone into a body double for A.C. Slater. Was I Saved by the Bell? Try Saved by the Van Damme Training Montage.
Turns out this Thursday Deal, instead of attracting generally fat-assed types across demographics, pulled in the college crowd, looking for cheap burgers, brews, and booty, in that order. And I'm pretty sure it was the third in that list that brought in the Cougar I spotted at the end of the bar, sipping a cocktail, surveying the scene with her diamond-studded ears perked and capri-covered tail tucked. Apparently, she had a better idea of which type of men would show up for the Deal. She may have been old enough to be their mother, but her chest was half their age. An animal I'd encountered in the wild before, so I knew how to handle myself.
As she walked past me toward the door, I said, "Leaving so soon?"
"I've got to get up early for Yoga tomorrow."
"I bet you know plenty of different positions."
Looking me up and down, taking in my parachute pants and thin-strapped tank top, she asked, "Did you come here from the gym?"
"Nope. But I did just blast my buns while watching the Golden Girls." She laughed, and I added, "Do you have an online profile? I could send you a link to a video of my workout." Another laugh.
"My dog does." At that moment, the ugly face of her rat-dog, googly-eyed and quivering, popped its head up from the large Louis Vuitton handbag hanging over her shoulder. Coug-face leaned over, sticking out her lips, and said in a baby voice, "Wanna give mommy kisses? Yes, you do! Good girl!"
Judging from its kissing technique, the dog must have been French.
After Ms. McCougar left, I finished my Miller Lite and took off too. Not before a co-ed asked me what fraternity I was in. "The Van Damme DOJO. It's a fraternity of Sexiness." She said "exactly" and walked back to her table of giggling friends. Hopefully, she didn't wake up her boyfriend that night with her moans, dreaming about me.
When I got back home, with the Cougar convo still on my mind, I decided to do a Google search with the terms "dogs online profiles." In the results, I found an article from Yahoo! News about the launch of Doggyspace.com.
It's finally happened. With today's launch of Doggyspace.com, a new free site for dog lovers and owners, social networking has literally gone to the dogs. Doggyspace is the ideal crossbreed of MySpace and YouTube, built specifically for dog lovers and their pets. The site features photo, video and networking technology that empowers dog owners to connect, form groups, and create relationships with like-minded people locally, nationally or around the globe. Doggyspace also allows dog fans to create personal profiles for their pets, set up friend networks and send messages.
Profiles for their pets? Not really. More like as their pets.
Among the growing number of profiles, I found Lola, a female chihuahua, who describes herself as "a spicy latina mamacita!" Makes sense, then, that her Current Mood is Flirty. She loves to play with her toys and eat apples. In a comment on her profile, Fun Tenor, a black lab mix "who seeks fun friends...howdy y'all!", agrees with her self-description, writing, "Yes, you certainly do look like a little flirt!!!" By the way, Fun Tenor's already got 86 friends, many of whom have female sounding names. Play-YAH! When Doggyspace adds a music player, I'm sure Lola's profile will auto play R. Kelly's "I'm a Flirt (Remix)." And Fun Tenor's will feature Kells' "Playa's Only."
"Whew! You've got dog breath!" Said Lola.
In the Yahoo! article, the founder of Doggyspace, Levi Thornton, is quoted as saying, "It's well known that dog-lovers are a rabid breed, and Doggyspace was created specifically to let them share stories, photos and videos of man's best friend quickly, easily and to a very broad audience." And, apparently, to help man's best friend quickly and easily, as the college kids say and do, hook up. Wasn't it Kells who sang "ain't nothin' wrong with a little [four-legged] bump 'n grind"?
Did I find a profile for McCougar's rat-dog? No, I did not. But I imagine, if there is one out there, she describes herself as a "doggy diva" who idolizes Mariah Carey, loves crème brûlée, and adores her mom "because she gives me a ride in her Louis Vuitton wherever we go, even though I sometimes get too excited and go potty in it."
Despite not finding her dog's profile, I haven't given up hope on catching this Cougar. I've got a good idea where she'll be next Thursday. And this time, I'll be prepared with a certain custard-based dessert, topped with a burnt layer of caramel. With M.C.'s "We Belong Together" playing from the jukebox.
For most, going to the movies is a gain. Certainly not for the wallet, given today's ticket prices. A gain to the waistline. After all, successful movie-going demands only two things: keeping your eyes open and your ass stationary, for approximately 120 minutes. And most are doing back-to-back Power Hours, alternating shots of Pepsi and popcorn so drenched with butter, chewing is optional. Quoting myself from one of my sexideos (sexy videos) "That's effin' disgusting!" People should just glue a Ziplock bag of jelly to the back of each arm, keep their twenty dollars for tickets and five for gas, and call it a day. Doesn't have to be that way, though.
For Mr. LamBam, going to the movie theater is also a gain—to the impressive portfolio of fitness that is my body. That's because by going to the movies, I mean running. And by running, I definitely don't mean jogging, which, if sold at the grocery store, would be labeled Running Lite. "Tastes just like running, but with only 1/2 the effort!" Which, in the end, means the only jelly I have is on my toast. And it's a very thin layer.
And not only do I save on gas, I get my ticket for less. Because I go on the weekends. Before noon.
That's right, my afternoon-waking-on-the-weekends friends. This past Sunday, while many Americans were still dreamily digesting Saturday night's 2 AM Fourth Meal from Taco Bell, I was speeding down sidewalks afoot in my Larry Bird Converse low-tops, toward the downtown AMC—approximately 1.89 miles according to Google maps. And let me tell you, all the Cougars out walking their beshirted rat-dogs were giving me the look (happens on the bus too). You know exactly which one I'm talking about. The look that says, Let's play show and tell: I'll show you my enhancements, and you tell me how real they feel. Not that they could help but take a look. I was running with my shirt off and my faux Zubaz on.
An extra meal for those who want an extra chin. And diarrhea.
Needless to say, when I arrived at the front doors, I was more than warmed up. Particularly in the loins. Perhaps parachute pants weren't the best choice for a seven minute per mile pace in 83 degree weather. Good thing they're a sweat-wicking blend of polyester/cotton. And extra baggy through the crotch.
But my workout wasn't over yet.
As I revolved myself through the doors, I was faced with a decision of how to ascend to the third floor showplace. The stairs or the esca-"I'll exercise"-lator?
"Hey, Honey, do you want a large popcorn or an extra large popcorn? I think we should just get one 64 oz. Pepsi with two straws, though. I'm on a diet for Stephanie's wedding."
Of course I took the stairs, two at a time. And despite Mr. and Mrs. Lazy's head start while I took a picture of their poor decision making, I still beat them. And all three of us arrived at the top with the same heart rate—a testament to my conditioning and their Fourth Meal loving.
I made a quick pit stop in the bathroom to paper towel off the sweat from my glistening chest, before putting on my thinly strapped Gold's Gym tank top. And then I purchased my ticket for Wanted, the only new release with a trailer promising gratuitous scenes of murder and nude shots of Angelina Jolie. Both of which, when daydreamed about during Pre-Algebra, make middle school boys remain seated after the bell rings. Schwing!
Punctually stepping in at 10:15 AM to Theatre 13—which I easily found, not after reading the billboard sized "Theaters 11-20" above the hallway, but because I was told by the nearly dead lady who struggled to tear my ticket that it was "on the right"—I encountered a roomful of three types: geriatric folks looking befuddled (about to be surprised this isn't Wall-E), clingy couples looking at each other while sharing a bucket-sized Pepsi (if it were her turn to pick, they'd be seeing Wall-E), and young men looking through wire-framed glasses (who wouldn't hesitate to see Wall-E instead, if Angelina Jolie appeared naked in it).
If this triumvirate had anything in common, it was that everyone looked like they could benefit from a Jean-Claude Van Damme training montage. You'd be surprised by how much better you look and feel after having your legs stretched apart by an elaborate mechanism of ropes and pulleys. But I wouldn't recommend kicking over a tree. "What? You want me to break my leg?"
Then the lights went down, and the previews came up. There were six in all, delaying the appearance of Jolie by a quarter of an hour. The most memorable trailer was for The Pineapple Express, starring Seth Rogen, doing his usual thing, and James Franco, doing something nobody who has seen the Spider-Man movies would expect. And that something has to be rolled and sparked, before it's puffed and passed.
And then, finally, Wanted began. Just in case the movie's actual soundtrack wasn't enough, my fellow movie-goers obligingly offered their own accompaniment of cellular buzzing, soda slurping, popcorn chomping, lung hacking, and, my favorite, commentary toward the screen. "No way she could do that!" Grumbled by one of the Fixodent-and-forget-it segment. It must have been difficult for Grandpa to understand how some of those newfangled "typing machines" could allow Angelina's character, creatively named Fox, to curve the path of a bullet. I admit, it was hard for me to believe Jolie could do anything with her arms, each the size of the cardboard tubes inside toilet rolls. Un-schwing!
Maybe Mrs. Smith should take a look at my sexideo, in which I do 212 curls with an Accounting textbook.
The gun, specifically designed for Jolie, was constructed with papier-mâché.
And similar to the process of arriving at said carboard tube, to get to the Jolie money shot, so to speak, you've got to go through a lot of crap. And that "money shot," of Fox emerging from the water in her birthday suit, must not have required much money to shoot—you catch only a split second of the split in her backside. Enough time, though, to elicit "Oh man!" from a bespectacled attendant (he remained seated while the credits rolled). And, given the way in which it was edited, I'm not even convinced it was actually Jolie's. Double Un-schwing.
Wanted wasn't worth the $10 full price of admission. Of course, that's the price if you go at night. Good thing I got up early. The workout and previews alone were worth the $6 I paid. Plus, I got to snap pictures of posters that advertise a trio of movies that likely will be well worth an Alexander Hamilton. And definitely worth the sweaty Lincoln and Washington I'll be sliding under the glass partition. Triple-schwing!
Lately, I've been taking public transportation to get around town. Because of high gas prices? Nope. To reduce my carbon footprint? Absolutely not. The only carbon I care about is the amount needed to make me a carbon copy of Jean-Claude Van Damme. And it seems like there's going to be more than enough for me to do that, along with all my banana peel-bottomed friends I'm trying to recruit to do the same. Which sucks for the polar bears.
"Used to be easy to find a baby seal snack. Would you look at how skinny I've gotten, Bob?! I can almost see my Little Bear. The wife loves it, though."
The real reason I ride the publicly provided rails and wheels is so that I can show off. My butt. Which is why, instead of taking a seat, I always remain standing. Providing everyone a view of the rear-art I chiseled with ten years of mimicking Van Damme movie montages. Tell me this, would you sit down on a Manet? I guess if you hated the pivotal figure in the transition between Realism and Impressionism. A fitting comparison, considering my ass is Real and definitely makes an Impression. If only they sold ass-shaped frames at Target. The closest thing I've found are running shorts.
Just the other day, a 40 year old woman with a 30 year old's outfit and a 20 year old's chest—the very definition of a Cougar—took a seat behind me. She was eyeballin' my body like it was a cosmo, drinking it all in. Difficult to pick up through her over-sized sunglasses. So I informed her that "I make a stiff martini." You can guess which word I emphasized with a subtle hip thrust. Stiff, in case not. She put her Louis Vuitton over her shoulder and moved to the back of the bus.
Must have been far-sighted. I guess she didn't have enough money left over for LASIK after her BOOBSIK surgery. Like I said, if she'd been a But Light bottle, her born on date would have been pre-1970. Didn't get a chance to ask her about watching Neil Armstrong's "one small step for [a] man" before she exited in front of a Saks Fifth Avenue.
"15 FEB 2004": The Born On Date for my Coug's boobs.
Which is a shame, really, because, unlike rattlesnakes, I'm not afraid of romance with someone older than me. (JCVD's 47, by the way.) Probably due to the fact that my first crush was Blanche Devereaux, the Southern Belle from The Golden Girls. Did you know there were seven seasons? I did, because I've got all seven of them on DVD. Most people pop in a workout video to help them get in shape in the confines of their living room. Me? I watch back-to-back episodes of Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia, while I sweat out any trace amounts of Unsexiness contained in my body. I'm sure you're interested in checking out my routine. Especially if you're a Cougar. Here's the YouTube video, and below are the still frames. I'd say they frame my Manet quite nicely. As I've noted before, feel free to save them to your computer. In a folder titled "How to Catch a Cougar on Public Transit."
Subscribe to my feed and you'll be notified whenever I post new MOJO to the Van Damme DOJO. "Subscribe to my feed"? Sounds like I've got a new way to ask ladies to play on my jungle gym.
Do you suffer from a disease known as Unsexiness? Well, I've got the cure. Let me spell it out for you: J-C-V-D. The man called Jean-Claude Van Damme, who everyone forgot about in the late 90s. Everyone except me.
For the last ten years, I’ve molded myself into a mirror image of Jean-Claude by mimicking the training montages from his classic 80s movies, like Bloodsport and Kickboxer. I emulated everything about him: his handsomeness, physical prowess, chiseledness, charm, and, above all, his sexual appeal.
Can you see the resemblance? Of course you can. Seriously. It's uncanny.
While I was in training, Americans turned their thoughts from being in shape, to eating shapes—like onion rings, ice cream cones, and cheese squares. Now, everyone’s one shape... round.
I transformed myself from a Screech Powers look-a-like into A.C. Slater's body double by following JCVD's example. Now, I’m ready to be an example for others, reflecting JCVD’s gilding light on a fast-food culture that loses its breath just talking about the newest, sloppiest burger at Hardee’s.
If you begin to put JCVD in your life, instead of that burger in your mouth, you’ll start to feel better too. And more importantly, you’ll look better. How do you begin? Check out my movie, MOJO by DOJO. What should you do next? Let me spell it out for you: J-O-I-N!
The key to makin' babies with hot ladies? A butt like Van Damme.
Can't convince anyone to make babies with you? I bet it's 'cause your butt looks like a plastic grocery bag. Full of banana peels. If you ever want a girl to play in your jungle gym, you're gonna have to take out that garbage in your back pockets. My sensei, Jean-Claude, has two petrified hams for a butt. And did you know that he has kids on every continent? Yep. Even Australia. What can you do to get a butt like Van Damme? You gotta blast it!
MOJO by DOJO: A short film with high kicks and low calories. And firm butts.
In danger of drowning in its own obesity, America needs a life preserver. It needs the buoyant ring of fitness that is my sensei, Jean-Claude Van Damme. My short film, MOJO by DOJO, shows fat-asses and other sexually unappealing types how they can imitate Jean-Claude in order to reveal their inner sexiness. So do your part to help save this great nation, and spread the word about MOJO by DOJO. It's your patriotic duty!
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