Category — BO-RING

WARNING. THIS WHOLE POST IS A SPOILER. PLEASE DON’T READ UNLESS YOU HAVE WATCHED THE BSG PREMIERE AND ARE READY TO TAKE THE PERIL. I JUST FREAKED MYSELF OUT WITH THAT NERDY SENTENCE.

First things first – I am SO ANGRY about Ellen the Final Drunken Whore Cylon, I am having a hard time writing about this episode without getting up from the computer every two minutes and shaking my fist in the air while yelling, “Damn you Ronald Moore! Damn you and your damn dirty planet where cylons evolved from men!” or something and then sobbing into my tea.

But I’ll try.

I suppose I’ll start with the depressingly beautiful Ingmar Bergman Earth and everyone moping around in the sand. Dee’s weeping about her lost childhood and I guess how she was never any good at jacks was really annoying and totally took precious screen time away from the two actually important things which happened – the dinosaur cylon bone discovery and the Starbuck on Starbuck action.

So we find out the nuclear earth event happened TWO THOUSAND years ago and I think the first cylon insurrection (as it pertains to the BSG we know) happened about 300 years ago? If so, then maybe humans evolved from cylons – thus the cylon skulls in the sand – and not the other way around? It hurts my brain. Moving on.

Starbuck finds herself. HA! But she does and then she burns her own dead body on a pyre made of driftwood and fear. Plus, Leoben says “She told you that?” while backing ever so slowly away from Starbuck when he learns about the cylon hybrid’s secret harbinger-y message. It is scary. It is also funny.

Let’s see…what else? Roslyn becomes enamored of a tiny Wall-E weed which looks a lot like rosemary (for remembrance…Shakespeare people? Anyone?). Rosemary grows near the ocean so this makes sense. Sort of. Anyway, she’s all sad and burns her magic bible book when she gets back to her room on the Galactica. Instead of talking to all the anxious crew people, she updates her Facebook status to “Roslyn is wrong about everything – my bad” and goes to sleep on a board with her sad herb.

Next, Dee and Lee get drunk and omg, they are so totally getting back together but not having sex yet, because this time she is doing it right godsdammit and Gaeta leaves her alone to hum her creepy song and blow her brains out.

This was shocking.

I hate Dee, so I was relieved she wasn’t the final cylon. Also, I might have giggled a little when Gaeta came running back in on his canes. It was not funny, but it was funny. I was a little drunk.

Let’s see, Chief and Tory and Anders and Tigh go for long walks on the beach and everyone gets lost in some new/old romantic memories. Anders remembers playing the wrongest choice of Bob Dylan songs to a woman (Tory) he loved and Tigh remembers that Ellen is the final cylon because it says so on a magical piece of pottery in the ocean. And Chief was in love with a ripe avocado. I feel you, Chief.

So what did we learn really?

We learned that the beach where Roslyn finds the weepy weed is a really good place to touch stuff and then feel sad. We learned that the final five were around before the earth was devastated TWO THOUSAND years ago and that Ellen knew everything was all squared away for a super easy resurrection™. It doesn’t appear that Tigh knew about the super easy resurrection™, though. We learned whatever bright light holocaust killed the earthlings, it came as a surprise to the final four. We learned that the earth was made out of cylons, not people. We learned that Starbuck somehow resurrected and it scares the shit out of Leoben and we learned that he was wrong and so was Roslyn.

Oh! And Adama got drunk and overacted and Tigh stopped him from overacting by underacting and then some foxes go rogue and swim along with the current until they become fisherman.

Or something.

What did I miss?

Omg…I WISH.

Well.

Hm.

Well.

Okay, here’s what happened, you guys.

I took – let’s call it a challenging – yoga class last week and the very next day came down with something that made me sleep for twenty three hours every day afterward. Has this ever happened to any of you?

So, I investigated my sicky-ness on the intertrons and it seems as if I maybe released some toxins or some such dark magicks and given myself a flu thing. Oopie! This did not, however, stop me from continuing to do the yogas every day anyway because I really, really like it and I am bored to tears with the stupid elliptical machine and it is summer all the time in San Francisco apparently so I feel like I need some kind of abominable muscles. Is that right? Did I say that right?

So that is where I’ve been. Oh! Also I am waiting for Dane to be done working on his super secret website project for one of the coolest girls in the WORLD so that he can work on MY project involving a tee shirt for one Mr. Ferik Penrickson. I would do it on my own but I do not know how the XBox works, let alone Photoshop. Never fear, Ferik, I will (continue to) withhold sex from Dane until he gets it done.

And finally we are having an all day orgasm in the Hesselbee household because tonight is the series premiere of Battlefrak Gorramifrak Battlebots Gatatertots and, as I have previously mentioned to both Ferik and Justin Stanley, I am fairly certain that the final cylon is Wall-E. I know I’m right about this because I read it on Gawker and Gawker would never lie to me about anything. It is my bible, my best friend, and my teacher. It is my first love, my father, and my mother. It is what I read in the bathroom. It is, in other words, everything to me.

The pick up line of choice in middle eastern countries is, “Are you married?” unless you are accompanied by your mother, in which case it’s, “How many camels you want for her?”

If you are my mother, your response would be “How many camels is good?” to which you would rightly respond, “MOM!??!” and she would reply, “Well, honey, I don’t want to make you look cheap and sell you for only three cigarettes or something” and then you would say (if you were me) “It’s not prison, mom…they mean real camels.”

This actually happened to me on the way into the Turkish Bazaar in May of 2001.

I’ve traveled, you see. I’m a world traveler and this makes me better than you.

I only bring this up because I’m beginning to believe that I will never go anywhere ever again. I’m done. I wear my pajamas twenty out of the twenty four or twenty eight hours of every day (I don’t know how time works). And now I have a cold or maybe it’s a staph infection or a crisis d’identite or an intense sandwich yearning but what matters most is my impending shut in status and how BORING it is making my blog.

Luckily, we are going to a karaoke event with Dane’s colleagues on Tuesday. I think I’ll begin planning my outfit today. Why not? What else am I going to do?

Tell me what I should wear, cookies frookies.

So, I guess Portland is weathering an Arctic Blast™ right now. (WEATHERING…GENIUS!)

I am incredibly jealous. I love nothing better than a good ice and snow storm in Portland if for no other reason than the excuse to sit all jammified on the couch and watch the local news teams freak the frak out.

Of course, we’re having a “cold snap” here in San Francisco, too, but it’s not the same. It’s about 40 degrees right now which means I actually have to wear a coat and the gay homeless dudes on Castro are sporting extra rainbow blankets.

I made that up.

In other news, the kittens (read: WHISKEY) will not stop getting poop all over themselves and then climbing into bed with me in the morning to purr and rub me in a loving, sweet, poopy way. It’s glorious. No wait – it is the opposite of that.

Uhhh…GOD…that’s all I’ve got. I think I’m suffering from a bout of ennui and neurasthenia and other Proustian thingies.

I don’t want your pity (OH BUT I DO) and I know I hold the key to my own happiness and blah blah blah but I am by nature naughty a solitary person so I think what I’m feeling is just a misguided sense of guilt over not being social. I really want to see Andie and Super Fan Susan and maybe Beth T if she’s into it, but at the same time I really want to clean the apartment, take a bath, and watch The Gilmore Girls.

Oh well. I’ll figure it out. Or I’ll just get more cats. Whatever.

Arthur, our 16 year old gay cat, is dying. His kidney’s are for shit and he has some kind of tumor-ish mass which we can’t afford to have biopsied and really, in light of the kidney thing, it’s a moot point anyway.

Dane and I have to give him an IV of subcutaneous fluids everyday and so far, we’re pretty bad at it, but it seems to be working. He’s definitely feeling well enough now to yell at us every time we stick him with the  needle – which is often because as I mentioned up there in that sentence, we’re not very good at it.

And we are both TERRIFIED we’re going to hit a vein and accidentally inject his blood stream with lactate whatever-it’s-called . This is why I make Dane do it and then nag at him the whole time. It’s a pretty good system.

This is the triage IV thingy Dane MacGyvered over the weekend. He’s tremendously proud of it.

And I bailed out on an assignment for The Mercury and put my editor/friend in a bind and feel terrible about it, but when this all went down, it went down fast and I was such a blubbery stupid weepy mess on Friday that I couldn’t even decide what to do so Dane had to make the decision for me. Because I am 8 years old and can’t get on the effing IM like a big girl and deal with shit.

He also took the call from the Vet for me because I just didn’t want to hear what I knew she was going to say.

It’s not as if any of this came as a big surprise. I’ve been preparing myself for years, but it’s still ridiculously painful.

So now we just wait, I guess. I apologize for not being funny this Monday morning but look at it this way…at least you don’t have to sit here and watch with horrified embarrassment as I sing Arthur’s favorite songs from Gigi and Singing in the Rain while I sob and blow my nose. Count yourselves lucky you’re not Dane – I’m going to make him sing the harmonies with me when he gets home tonight. Come to think of it, we’re not very good at that either.

Fringe Obsessions from Kiala Kazebee on Vimeo.

Here is the wardrobe_remix person I’m talking about. CLICK ME.

First, some business.

Win a date with Superfan Erica! Click here. Cliiiiickkkk. Do it.

Next, I’ve been reading Updike’s Rabbit is Rich (well re-reading…sort of….I never finished it before due to a lot of pressing divorce issues, such as getting one) and boy does he nail the kind of spoiled, backward, insular, non-sensical thinking of young Portland people.

Nelson Angstrom, Rabbit’s prodigal son who does indeed return home from Kent State in a fit of anti-establishment angst and passive aggressive mewling, embodies every single hypocritical east sidecentric, anti-revitalization, the rents are too high for me to continue making my art in my garage while I work part time at Floyd’s person in this town.

“I hate ticky tacky apartments and condos. I hate crummy old inner-city blocks getting all revitalized with swish little stores…it all reminds me of Kent. I came back here to get away from all that stuff. Somebody like Slim acts so counter-culture sniffing coke and taking mesc and all that, you know what he does for a living? He’s a biller for Diamond County Light and Power, he stuffs envelopes and is going to be Head Stuffer if he keeps at it for ten more years. How’s that for Establishment?”

I know, kiddo. It’s confusing when you don’t want to become the thing you hate but you also don’t want to be the thing you are. But jesus, please – stop wanting to keep Portland dirty and broken just so you don’t have to grow up.

So today I was fucking around with vimeo and posting stoopid pet videos and I discovered that I have a lisp.

It is DISTURBING. I have gone my whole life not knowing I have a speech impediment. But you know what? OH FUCKING WELL. At least I don’t look too fat on camera. And in America not looking fat is how we spell Freedom. I do have a weird nose though. I mean, it has character. It’s filled with character and probably some leftover cocaine from 2006. Vintage cocaine if you will.

Enjoy.