Memes have a tendency to make a person past their teenage years feel old.  Really damn old.  Some, like the “Fail” tag, appeal to me.  Others, like the “babby” joke or half of the rapidly spawning initialisms used by hardcore Twitterererers make no sense and consequently cause me to feel older than I really am.  I grew up with computers, so the technology isn’t what scares me (although I took “The Moron Test” on a friend’s iPhone the other day and those things do kind of frighten me now), it’s the people that have access to said technology and then subsequently ruin it for me.  Consider the following trend generators:

Myspace.  My first foray into social networking was on myspace.  Oh sure, it grand at first- posting pictures!  Writing a blog!  Commenting on my friends sites with inappropriate booty videos!  Then my actual friends stopped using it and the only chatter heard echoing through the site’s dank halls were crappy bands trying to promote themselves and amateur porn stars trying to sex me up.  Myspace has been ruined by spam and the lack of interest from people I actually know (I’ve essentially dropped it, too, what’s in it for me now?).  So, I evolved onto…

Facebook. I was sort of a latecomer to Facebook and didn’t like it at first.  No making my site borders and text coordinate with a hot pink and black background, no selecting playlists for all my friends to ignore marvel at, no adding beer logos, drug references and English-to-Klingon translators… the site was bereft of my classy personal touch.  So, I jumped onto the app bandwagon and added a bunch of stupid programs that did nothing but clutter up my page.  But I could move my lolcat app next to my Chuck Norris phrase generator- displacing my stick figure family portrait, sure, but that’s not nearly as funny.  Then Facebook had an identity crisis and decided to cross-dress as a Twitter and now I have an unmanageable newsfeed that is useless in stalking anyone.  17,000 quizzes are completed each day and we’re all mourning 9 different celebrity deaths and these personal revelations/grieving tributes push down all the normal updates so I never know what the fuck is going on.  Also, it probably doesn’t help that I changed my language to “pirate.”  It’s really difficult to find my “Grog Fest” invitations now.  Anyway, too much chatter is Facebook’s problem.  Then there’s…

Twitter.  Not everyone uses this.  A lot of people actually hate it.  But I joined thanks to my friend Shannon and since T-Mobile doesn’t support Facebook text updates, I now have a way (kudos to another little app) to update from my yacht or wherever I happen to be.  I don’t update all the time and I don’t understand 95% of others’ updates as half of the text is illegible acronyms indicating… well… something about somebody.  I don’t fucking know.  This site is inane and pretty much pointless, but I still want to know what the hell everyone is saying.

These sites help generate/distribute many of the new ideas and phrases that perplex me so.  Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel are also helping to dig my early grave by mass-producing today’s teen idols.  When someone is so huge that they outsell Sting and you have NO IDEA who he/she is, you know you’re getting old.  I have a ten year-old sister-in-law, and I like to attempt to keep current enough to buy her decent presents.  So, two Christmases ago I read up and purchased her something related to art (painting set?), and something having to do with Hannah Montana (doll?).  Then, I found out a few short months later that she HATES Hannah Montana and drew horns and a moustache on all her posters.  So it goes… I can’t really keep up with the kids these days… but I realize that my parents probably wondered why the hell I wanted a New Kids on the Block comic book, seeing as how only one of them was even remotely attractive (Joey, duh).  But I was young and only saw their awesome star power.  Today, all the cool girls seem to want to “go around” with the Jonas Brothers (whatever that means today- oral?  eye socket?  who knows), and I am forced to wonder how much their comic books go for…

A friend of mine recently posted a Facebook note saying he learned about dental dams via “sex with mom and dad.”  I responded, “Please tell me that’s just a poorly-named educational video.”  Turns out, it’s an MTV show that I have simply never heard of.  This scenario has tragically played out multiple times for me recently- there will be a new commercial or show that people are obsessed with and I’m like some sort of weird 19th century observer to their rapture.

Me: “Sex with Mom and Dad,” eh?  Sounds revolting.

Errrybody else: It’s fucking great.  Go ride your giant-wheeled unicycle you uncultured tard.

Me: <Doffs cap>  Well!  You can have your damned “telo-vision!”  I’ll just take my Sears brand heroin and be done with it all!

When I was very young my parents had cable, then the money machine (as I referred to ATMs at the time) stopped working and they got rid of it.  I didn’t have it through college, but just two (three?) spoiled ass years in San Diego and now I feel like a starving Malay orphan without one.  It was a sad day when Alex took our Time Warner box to the farm to live with its new owners.  My hairstylist (don’t I sound like a biyatch) has to keep me updated about “Intervention,” a former favorite of mine.  Just today she tried to explain to me about the anorexic twins that had to take the same number of steps each day so they would burn exactly the same number of calories.  Shows lose so much of their trashy magic when explained as opposed to seen, however, and I still miss them sometimes…

I’ve had to find other things to do with myself as I try to leave this section of the wonderful world of entertainment behind.  I started this bunkenstein blog (and never update it), picked up a Kuk Sool class (and get my ass beat), and play WoW with my loserest friends (just kidding lol L4G RFD).  I need more stuff to do, though, because I still find myself watching “Maury” sometimes on my days off.

Baby steps… baby steps…

I wrote this recently after notifying the last of my friends about my name change.

The last vestiges of my maiden name have been shed by sending this e-mail.  I just wanted to point out that it’s been an incredibly difficult process getting rid of the Captain Kirk of last names (My name also made space babies with green bitches, that’s the analogy.  Get it?!).

First of all, my married name means “Goatherder.”  Fuck that.  I don’t know what Nobeard means but it’s probably something like “Master of Delicious Penne” or “Swarthy Rum Dog” or something.  Also, my husband has no idea how to properly pronounce his own name in his parent’s native tongue, thus, *I* have no idea how to say my own damn name now.  Exhibit C, I loved my name.  I REALLY loved my name.

So, why did I change it?  Because hyphenating would have produced a hypertrophied, carpal tunnel inducing nightmare (with too many “i’s”), and I’m lazy enough that giving up a part of my identity seemed better than writing all those extra letters.  (I have other, more serious reasons as well.  I think.)  So here I am.  It’s weird when mail comes for the “Mrs.,” because I don’t see an old bitch covered in diamonds standing around.  I open those letters for the Mrs., trying to be a good samaritan and get her shit together while she’s away.  Maybe one day she’ll come around to collect it all and in true Nobeard fashion I can get back to sexing up all those hoes in the galaxy that need a good, deep naming.

So picture this, I’m buying groceries for dinner (the usual cheese in a can and some expired crackers that were on sale), and I swipe my club card for the XTREME! savings.  The usual routine is for the clerk to glance at the receipt, declare the exact amount of my XTREME! savings topped off with a polite/bored “Thank you, Miss Nobeard.”  Sometimes I’ll get a “Mrs.” or even the occasional “Ms.,” but I never expected what happened today.  The clerk, perhaps out of nervousness or some type of learning disorder, simply said,

“Thank you, Nobeard.”

That’s it.  No “Miss.”  Not even a “Ms.”  Nothing!!!  She referred to me only by my last name, something that until now only angry coaches and my close male friends have done.  And suddenly I realized that in a matter of mere months I will cease to be any brand of Nobeard at all.  The name that I have gone by (exclusively in some circles) for so many years will no longer legally apply to me.  I looked at the cashier and gave her a sincere, creepy smile.  She wasn’t paying attention anymore, but I knew we had shared something speical that day.  I may not even change my name thanks to the callous wisdom of this jumpy employee.  Regardless, even if my new name will be unpronouncable to announcers at my wedding, graduation, Nobel-prize award ceremony or even to myself, I will always have a few friends and one very special (ed) cashier at Vons who will still know me simply as “Nobeard.”  Legal or not, that name is here to stay.

For the past few months, I have been having an affair.  As torturous as it is to admit, for weeks now I have been getting boned hard by Art’s Laundry Service, Incorporated.  It is a sordid, passionate affair, full of love and hate… but recently, Art has completely broken my spirit.  My soul is in ruins as he happily frolics over the washed-out, moldy remnants of my favorite shirt.

Everything was fine when I first moved in.  I did my laundry in peace, there was a bountiful supply of detergent and the water was always hot.  Soon, Art began to tempt me with his lusty “Speed Queen” washers.  They were decades old, sure, but these buxom girls still had some spunk to their spin cycle.  I even trusted them enough to leave the room during the wash, only to have my heart ripped out upon discovering my dear Speed Queens were whores.  A neighbor of mine MOVED MY CLOTHES without my knowledge or consent after the wash cycle had finished maybe five minutes prior to my arrival.  My Speed Queens rinsed their new loads giddily while I cried over my wasted dollars… and it was all downhill from there.  Art’s cheerful “Call me for repairs” sign gave me no comfort as my Speed Queens began to fall apart.  One Speed Queen became addicted to powdered soap and always had a basin full of the stuff…  Even my steadfast allies, The Dryers, began to show signs of disloyalty.  One just couldn’t get hot for me anymore, the spark was gone.  One ran far too long and shrank my favorite shirt while leaving everything else sopping wet.  “These sluts,” I thought to myself.  “I will never be free of these accursed vixens.”

Then, under the cover of night, Art came and removed ALL my machines.  My old friends… all of our history vanished in a matter of minutes.  As there were NO FLIERS OF ANY KIND indicating that my beloved washing whores would be leaving me, I had already hauled a full basket of laundry down to the room only to discover the horrible truth.  So I was forced to go to the closest public laundromat.  Art punished me for this indiscretion.  The detergent spilled in my trunk.  Each load cost $3 to run.  The change machine was apparently too good for my money.  Every machine was covered in either hair, dirt or soap.  Understanding I had been bested, I praised the almighty Art and prayed for the swift return of my Speed Queens.  Someone asked me if I was alright.  “Of course not!”  I sobbed.  “My washing machines are cheating sluts… and I miss them terribly.”  No one at that laundromat has spoken to me since.

So please, Art… I love you.  I miss my machines… I can’t live without them!  Please, give me a way to do my laundry again.  Things haven’t been the same without you.

I used to write e-mail quite frequently about very stupid things.  Here is another such e-mail…  Apparently at the time I had recently watched “Super Troopers.”

From: Capn Nobeard
Subject: Rent Super Troopers!

It’s about 2 o’clock in the AM now. “Of what importance is this to me,” you ask in a funny British accent? Well, Humphrey, it’s letter writin’ time.  I’m bored and typing in the dark, but just a few moments ago I was (rent Super Troopers) looking at my fish. They were doing nothing. Oh, except the big orange one, he was eating the others and screaming something about his ultimate revenge against “those damn lobsters.”  This proving to be totally ordinary, I shifted my attention to the business at hand: becoming a bad-ass cowboy.  Now, you might be thinking, “Erin, although I am jealous of your immense sexual prowess and ability to drive with your eyes closed, you couldn’t lasso a buckin’ tree stump to save your grittles.”  Well my skeptical sidekick, I CAN rope and ride with the best of them grittles, and I’ll show you how.
I am a pirate- this fact is widely known. Am I retreating from my pirate heritage? No! I am simply expanding on it. Who would make a better cowboy than a pirate?! Think about it: a pirate sails around all day, looting and pillaging and drinking grog. Cowboys do the same thing except without the sea, the looting, the pillaging, or the grog! Now you mention the obvious point that cowboys are the inherent good guys while pirates are bad guys, but I can’t hear you because I have sea water in my ear.  Imagine: you’re a saloon girl turning tricks in a general store because the saloon burnt down.  A pirate lumbers into your quaint store on one fiercesome working leg and another slightly amusing but still fiercesome wooden one.  He spits to one side, peers at you through his good eye and you can FEEL the other eye burning through the eyepatch and your clothes.  Just as you start to get turned on he says, “Arr. It’s drivin’ me nuts!”
Now I must depart (much pilliaging to do), but I leave you with this: How much booty could a fiercesome pirate loot if a fiercesome pirate could loot booty?

-The Capn, swashbucklingly

P.S.- Rent Super Troopers.

I was at Rubio’s the other day, intently listening to the women at the table next to me.  (Alex was there too, but don’t ask him to repeat this story because people at the next booth could be plotting his murder and he’d never know.)  One of the women had her young son with her, and while her friend would try relate the latest gossip (One of their co-workers was cheating on her husband!  -Gasp!-) she would interrupt constantly to correct/admonish/control/congratulate her son.  It was incredible that her friend didn’t just give up on the conversation and join the mother in talking about how great it was that the kid stopped screaming for 5 seconds to dump his beans on the floor.  It made me think that children can ruin your adult friendships and you will never have a decent, fluid conversation again while your children are young.  That is a pessimistic generalization, sure, but I don’t care.  I don’t think I have a certain gene that is necessary for the care of young children.  I’m missing the “Insipid Childrens’ Programming Tolerance” gene, therefore I do not make the necessary proteins that cause people to sit through Disney sequels and “Wiggles” performances.  I can’t do it.  I can’t even listen to a conversation other people are having without becoming annoyed at “child-speak” (the substitution of “w’s” for “r’s” and over-enunciated vowels typical of new parents’ dialect).  This is a cause for concern because I like kids, I just can’t handle anything marketed for them.  I guess I’ll just have to wait until I’m 30 and retest myself by going to the “Barney Revisited and Cleared of all Charges: The Movie” in 2013.  If I can sit through the movie without rolling my eyes or feeling maternally inadequate, I suppose I’ll be ready for kids.  Until then, I love your kids, and I admire everyone who is a caring, devoted, patient parent.  Just don’t ask me to babysit your kids unless you want the activity of the evening to be chemistry tutoring, rocking out, and/or watching Law and Order: SVU.

So, I watched a lot of football today.  A LOT of  football.  Now, while it was not a good day for football, it was an excellent day for insobriety.  While in my transcendental state, I had an idea.  Bear with me here.

Have you ever actually listened to what the announcers have to say during a football game?  While drunk?  Well today I did, and it occured to me: “What are the wives of the players thinking about what the annoucers say?”  Probably something dirty.  To illustrate my point:

Example the first
Announcer: “That was some of the best play action I’ve seen in a long time.”
Wives: “You weren’t around last night!”

Example the second
A: “What a huge drive for the Raiders.”
W: “That’s not all that’s huge!”  -Suggestive winking-

Example the third
A: “They just can’t keep their hands on it today!  What is with these greased palms?”
W: -Silence-

Example the fourth (true)
A: “Look at his plays today.  He seems a little tight. No wait, that’s not the right word at all.  Intent.”
W: “You have no idea…”

You get the jist.  I would have a field day with these comments.  Wait a minute, I did have a field day with them.  Mission completed.

-Captain “Put it in the EndZone” Nobeard