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…

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…

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.

“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.

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.

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.

Hola muchachos! I got back from Cancun late last night and have spent pretty much all of today catching up and unpacking. But I wanted to write down what happened because I like torturing you.

SATURDAY
We spent Friday night at Alex’s parents house and his dad drove us to the airport Saturday morning. Nothing truly eventful except we were delayed over half an hour for coke. Yes… they forgot to put soda on the plane so we had to wait for it. After apologizing 79 thousand times (without starting the plane), I decided a vote was in order. “Who wants a coke?! Who wants to fucking go?!” No one answered because I was talking to myself, but I think the large guy behind me agreed as he coughed all over my hair. We ended up in Cancun anyway, and found out we had an amazing view that was literally right on the beach. Local weather: hot and humid. We ordered pizza because nothing was open, and I passed out.

SUNDAY
Exhausted from not having enough coke, we decided to take the bus to downtown Cancun. Huge mistake. There’s nothing there except flies and souvenirs. After walking thousands of miles in blazing heat and crazy humidity, I felt pretty lost and Jewish. Actually, it was maybe a mile or two and I did get a nice view of the ghetto. Arriving back at the hotel (after buying a souvenir to make the trip sort of worth it), we decided to check out the beach. Walking from our back porch to the beach took one minute, but I was parched and still had to stop for a pina colada as soon as I hit the sand. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Dashiell Hammett’s detective stories and not applying sunblock, while Alex read “The Da Vinci Code” and wore SPF 15. That night involved buying some beers for our villa’s kitchen (which, along with limes and crackers were all the supplies we needed for a week) and setting up our touristy activities for the trip, which were climbing the Mayan ruins at Chichen-Itza and going on a Pirate Cruise.

MONDAY
The day was spent at the beach, and I again decided sunblock was for losers and trusted my Italian/Mexican genes to carry me and my pale ass through a week of endless infernos. The water was awesome, and I spent some time playing in the sand like a four year old, and loving it. That night we wanted to check out the night life we saw on the tragic bus ride all the way to easkabumfuck a day earlier. We ended up at Senor Frogs, and while we were waiting for our picture (which you pay $25 for AND tip the guy- for what I couldn’t tell you) my legs felt like they were burning. Chalking it up to being out of Fresno for too long and the heat was getting to me, I had a few gigantic drinks and forgot about it. We danced, watched Southerners and Brits get crazy with the little shows the house puts on, drank and danced some more, went home, and had another beer or two (thanks to the well planned stash).

TUESDAY
We had to be good Tuesday because Wednesday we had to get up early for a trip to the Mayan Ruins (real early, like 6AM, not fake early). When I woke up I realized last night my legs had been EATEN ALIVE by fire ants but I was too drunk/stupid too realize it. I laughed in pain’s face but started furiously scratching my legs and realized laughing at pain and/or death always requires liquor. We spent some more time at the beach- I think I wore SPF 6 that day- and went to town to go souvenir shopping. We got some great stuff, but my legs felt like midget dogs were devouring them with NO utensils and I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to handle it. So… we ended up at the resort bar that night. We met a strange guy- Steve?- who came alone and apparently smoked a lot of weed. We also met this nice Southern couple on their honeymoon who were convinced we needed to have lots of babies. Somehow, throughout the one night we had to behave, Alex and I ended up being the most drunk we would be on the entire trip. I had to close the tab because he was ready to pass out, but I ended up on the beach extremely faded in a nightgown. I wasn’t on a nice resort chair either, I was right at the water line saying incoherent things to cute couples as they went for moonlight walks. I had a bath towel with me that I think I was sitting on, but most of my comments to people involved asking for towels.

WEDNESDAY
Alex and I wake up feeling like someone set off dynamite inside of us. Here it is, 6 something in the morning, we have a bus waiting for us, and I can’t get him to put any pants on. We end up at the bus through the mercy of Dionysus and feel like absolute old shit for the first part of the ride. When it started wearing off I compared it to having a nail in your foot that feels nice when it’s out, but you’re still bleeding. Yeah… Alex thought that was a bad analogy too. Anyway, we get to Chichen-Itza, me covered in bugbites and both of us hungover, along with a busful of nice old tourists. The ruins were amazing, but you could only climb on some of them because some dillhole decided it was a fantastic idea to graffiti the inside of the temples. Our tour guide, Pepe, told great stories about treasure hunters using explosives on the temples and how the winner (or maybe loser, no one knows) of the Mayan equivalent of basketball was beheaded after the game. We also talked about sacrificing virgins (no cracks about how safe I must have felt, you dogs) and how the Mayans had a superior grasp of acoustics. You can clap at certain points in the ruins and it will reverberate your panties off or make twanging noises from high up in the great temple. Pepe said some other stuff but I was hungry and it was too damn hot to try and decipher his accent all day. We also saw a sinkhole where they sacrificed “pure people” by throwing them in. I sat next to it and scratched my bugbites thinking of how badly I wanted a ham sandwich. The bus drove us to a good Mexican restaurant for lunch, and our next activity was swimming in an underground cave. Being a germ freak, I only sat on the side and estimated the number of parasites everybody else was going to walk away with, but it was really pretty.

THURSDAY
Still tired from Wednesday’s excellent adventure, we had to recoup in the morning for Thursday evening’s Pirate Cruise. (Yes, bitch, it gets capital letters.) Everyone was going to dress like a pirate, we’d have an open bar AND a steak and lobster dinner. So, to rest up, more fun at the beach! This time, however, all the previous time in the sun finally caught up to us and took a hearty dump. My back was HOT from the burn, and Alex referred to himself as “Lobster Man” and made up a theme song which was something like him half-singing “lobster man” over and over. We sack up and go to the pirate cruise, which was amazing from the beginning because we started out standing in a huge line! Ye-eah! The pirate cruise really got going when we got one of the worst seats right next a speaker on tiny stools with 80 other people (some fortunate souls got the side of the boat). A fat captain calling himself “Cap-i-tan Hook” screamed half-english into his microphone, which was amplified into our little section of the deck. I looked at Alex with pleading eyes and said, “We have to find better seats, or this will be the worst and most un-piratey experience of our lives.” His attempts to rescue us were shot down by the pirate servers. I saw a young couple slide into a prime spot one deck above us, and mustered all the rage a pirate-obsessed American tourist can have onto an unsuspecting deckhand. I wandered over, raised a shaking arm and said, “Can we sit there?” I pointed (angrily!) to the other half of the excellent seats. “Sure.” We ended up getting a great view of the show and the sunset, and the young English couple next to us were just as interested in getting beers as we were, making the cruise pretty cool.

FRIDAY
Just relaxed and packed for our morning flight the next day. Drank the remaining beers. Enjoyed it.