You can suck it too Cincinnati

Good People of the Internet! I come bearing news of my terrible, no good, very bad weekend.

First there was this.

Yeah. That still smarts, actually. We were up the whole game! AND WE LOST BY A POINT! I really...can't talk about it.


Then back to Heinz Field I went on Sunday, I was optimistic. I was not worried. I was sure that a Steelers' victory over a sub par Oakland Raiders team was sure to be the aloe to my Pitt loss wound (still...might cry a little over that. ONE POINT.) It would soothe my weary football soul.

And then. Well, I think we all know what happened.

I don't blame myself.

I'm not sure who I blame. I blame the state of Ohio, for sure. I still partially blame WVU (because they always deserve a little blame). I blame Pitt for making me think this would be the year they wouldn't break my heart (Let's recap this year shall we? Final Four? Fail. Sugar Bowl? Fail). I blame the cold weather for being cold. But mostly I blame Heinz Field for not producing the right mojo.

All I know is that Troy would have never let this happen.

I sat in the cold for two days straight for what? For nothing.

There's always next year, right?

Boo.

I'm okay with just voting Uganda off the planet

So, normally, my rants in this blog are contained to things that range from mildly ridiculous to full out ridiculous with some shout outs to Pitt (WTF WAS THE BACKYARD BRAWL ABOUT BILL STULL?!?) interspersed with some love letters to things/people/places I love. I came close once to ranting in all seriousness about Roman Polanski, and while it still makes me irate (HE RAPED A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL. Roman Polanski, GDIAF. Seriously.) I have stumbled across something that deserves my ire and righteous indignation.

First, before I bring my wrath down upon those who surely deserve it, let's give a rousing round of applause to one Mr. John Marcotte of San Francisco, California. I, for one, want one of those t-shirts with the bride and groom chained together. Make note of that. It's on my Christmas list.


Moving on.

I know I place people on my "Dead to Me" list. And that's all relatively fun and games, but this guy? Pastor Rick Warren? Can go fuck himself.

Apparently, the Ugandan government is pushing for an "Anti-Homosexuality" bill. The penalty for being gay? Lifetime imprisonment. And if you have HIV or AIDS or have sex with a minor or a disability? Death.

Oh yeah, we've come a long way. Hats off to you progressive thinkers in Uganda.

And this douche bag? Pastor Rick?

He said this:

"The fundamental dignity of every person, our right to be free, and the freedom to make moral choices are gifts endowed by God, our creator. However, it is not my personal calling as a pastor in America to comment or interfere in the political process of other nations."


You are a man of God, right? Fuck you. And then after being called out on not condemning the Ugandan government for what is clearly a huge, giant human rights violation (not to mention what should be a huge moral violation, particularly if you claim to love a God that is fair and forgiving, but that's just semantics, right?), he goes on Twitter (for the love of God. TWITTER), and tweets a fairly inaccurate and awfully snarky response: "Globally last yr 146,000 Christians were put to death because of their faith. No one, except Christians, said anything."

Where exactly are you getting your statistics from?

But moreover, I'm sorry? Does that make it okay to condemn to death 500,000 Ugandans because their sexual preference doesn't match up with your own?

I could go on, but I think the nice Wonkette reader, queeraselvis v 2.0, said it best:

"And on the night He was betrayed, Jesus took a bowl of lightly salted poisoned rat dicks and, after blessing it, gave it to Rick Warren and said, 'Take, eat. Do this in remembrance of me.'"

"I knew a vampire once. Cute as a bug. Teeth all sharpened."

Dear New Orleans,


I miss you already.

Remember that time that I came to visit? Remember how we drank Hurricanes at Pat O'Briens and sang along to some rad songs with the piano player? Do you remember the awesome guy playing the tin tray? I LOVED HIM. Almost as much as I love you.

It was a great time, wasn't it New Orleans? Did you have fun too?

There was the swamp tour! ("If a snake gets in the boat, just lift up your feet, we'll get him out." "By we, he really means he right?") And the gators! All those gators! Remember the Swamp Kittens and how Sarah fed them her Doritos? That was fun, wasn't it New Orleans?

And the French Quarter! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVED THE FRENCH QUARTER?! Bourbon and Toulouse and Chartres? Even though Bourbon street smelled like vomit and booze and urine. And even though the number of strip clubs seemed to outnumber everything else. And even when I paid 8.50 for a Blue Moon. Because it only took about a Hurricane and a half before I was good and sloshed. AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET A HANGOVER. Not once, New Orleans. Do you understand how rare that is? HOW WONDERFUL?

And then the cemetery tour! And Priestess Miriam's House O' Voodoo. Remember how our tour guide told us to peek in through windows and doors? REMEMBER HOW CREEPY/AWESOME THAT WAS?! Remember how she dropped us off in front of Armstrong Park where two tourists had been stabbed for their camera? She was crazy, New Orleans, but damn charming.

And the streetcars, New Orleans! And the World War II Museum! AND THE PAT O'BRIEN'S HURRICANES!

I miss you New Orleans. I miss your booze and your Swamp Kittens. I miss that awesome dinner we had at Coop's and the Mango Mangos every four feet on Bourbon. I miss them gators, and Muffalettas at Central Grocery. Mmmm. Muffalettas. I miss the Hotel St. Marie (but not that non-door to our bathroom). I miss the super creepy guy asking us if we want our fortunes read by Jackson Square.

I will visit again, New Orleans, hopefully soon.

Save some gator jerky and frozen daiquiris for me.


Love,

Lisa

I'm not above begging. Or blackmail.

Dear Guillermo Del Toro,

I did not know who you were. Apparently you directed the second Blade movie. I have only ever seen the first one. And also, I did a little research (thank you Google!) and found you also directed Pan's Labyrinth. Friend, I dug that movie a whole lot. But still, you were a mystery to me. An enigma. But you wrote a book. And one of my favorite new regulars let me borrow your book.

And I liked it, Guillermo (can I call you that? Or would you prefer Mr. Del Toro?). I liked it a lot. In fact, I could not put it down.

I did not realize, Guillermo, that it was the first book in a trilogy. Also, I did not realize YOU HAD NOT PUBLISHED THE SECOND AND THIRD BOOK. ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!?

See, G, I promised myself after waiting two years between H.Potters that I would not do that to myself anymore. I am not very patient, Mr. Del Toro. I am a big fan of instant gratification, and I DO NOT LIKE WAITING FOR SECOND AND THIRD BOOKS TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS.

I know that this is not all your fault. I know that part of this is Paul's fault for giving me a book that was one part of an unfinished trilogy. And not telling me this prior to my reading it. You cannot be held accountable for that part in all of this.

BUT I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. So get your act together, Guillermo. Start writing. See, because I don't know if you know this, but you kind of left everything up in the air. They call those cliffhangers.

I DO NOT LIKE CLIFFHANGERS.

You seem like a reasonable person (actually I have nothing to base this on, this is pure speculation). I'm sure you can figure out a way to hurry up and get the next book published BEFORE I DO SOMETHING WE BOTH REGRET.

I swore, Guillermo, I swore I WOULD NOT GET THIS ATTACHED TO CHARACTERS WHEN I HAD NO IDEA WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO THEM. If you break my heart like J.K. Rowlings did, I will probably die (WHY FRED, WHY?!?). Just so you know.

Shame on you, sir. For shame. For being so DAMN AWESOME. And for writing a book about vampires that is so much better than that garbage that Stephanie Meyers puked up (I cannot blame her inferior writing on her being a Mormon because Orson Scott Card was a Mormon too, and we both know that Ender's Game kicked some serious ass).

I hope even now, as I write this, you are feverishly writing to finish the trilogy. Oh Guillermo! Think of the children. One child in particular. Me. Think about me. START WRITING.

FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY IN THIS WORLD START WRITING.

That is all.

Love, Lisa

Nice turn signal!

You know what's not cool?

PEOPLE WHO CANNOT DRIVE WHO TRY TO DRIVE AND WHO IN DOING SO DRIVE ME CRAZY.

Yes.

I have come to the conclusion that most of the residents in Pittsburgh, but definitely ninety percent of those people living in Aspinwall/Fox Chapel/Sharpsburg, really, really, don't know how to drive.

Old Lady in the blue Buick, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME? I'm sorry that you are too little to see over the steering wheel. Also, I am sorry that you have a car that is approximately the size of a small yacht, but Old Lady, you almost killed me today. Please, stop driving on Route 28. See, I have my lane, and you have your lane, and YOU DON'T ACTUALLY NEED TO BE IN MY LANE, SO STAY IN YOURS!

I need to have a message board on the outside of my car. It can have pre-programmed messages for the masses. Such as "Nice turn signal asshat" and "What are you doing!? You could have gone like twelve times!" Someone invent that for me. I will buy two of them. One for the front and one for the back. I will use it all the time. I will even try to contain myself to very few mean names and I cannot promise anything, but I will try not to use sarcasm too much.

Seriously, though, Old Buick Lady. You're on my list.

Oh Mama, I'm in fear for my life

I spent the weekend at Heinz Field. I think everyone will agree that this is not a bad way to spend the weekend. In fact, a weekend spent at Heinz Field is made of absolute win.

Started on Saturday at nine in the morning. Mimosas and chili. And maybe some beer. Maybe a lot of beer. Maybe so much beer that when the score was 21-7 I told someone it was tied. ("Uh. We've scored twice more." "When did that happen?!?!")

Here is what I learned: when you start drinking nine a.m. you kind of feel like you want to die by six in the evening. I don't know how alcoholics do it. Morning drinking is kind of bad news bears.

But oh! When they play "Sweet Caroline" ("Sweet Caroline...Let's go Pitt! Good times never felt so good...Go Pitt! Go Pitt! Go Pitt!"), my heart swells a little bit. I realize that Neil Diamond has nothing to do with football or the Pitt Panthers, but that song has long been a bar favorite. And bars have alcohol and football games have drunks, so really it makes sense.

And then Steelers football. All those black and gold towels waving and all that Styx playing. And all those Brett Favre sacks. If anyone has a sack coming it's Brett "I'm a drama queen" Favre. (And that last one? Harrison's sack in the last five seconds of the game? Beautiful. It was like poetry in motion.)

It's a beautiful way to spend a fall weekend.

Get up off of that thing and dance til you feel better

I like spontaneous dance parties.

They're pretty much my favorite thing ever.

My dance moves are pretty famous, most notably the "Octopus," that shit will be sweeping the nation. Also my rain dance has been known to reduce mere mortals to tears. I'm thinking of trying out for the next season of So You Think You Can Dance.

There's something about flailing around, looking kind of like someone drowning, that brings a smile to my face. I don't think you need to be good to have fun dancing. I don't think not being good should ever stop someone from dancing. I think you just have to move your body the way that it wants to move and have fun doing it.

I like to dance around in a circle with my hands in the air. It makes me happy. I don't really care that I look like a fool. I'm pretty sure that's half the fun.

I like to twirl and dip and do the sprinkler and the shopping cart. I like to look like the kids in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Pig Pen rocks my world. He just sort of shakes his head back and forth. That's amazing.

This is why I don't care for dance clubs. Those people take themselves way too seriously. I don't really care for people who take themselves too seriously. Life is kind of a bummer sometimes. It's best not to take anything too seriously. Going out to a club, dressed in some skimpy outfit and grinding up next to some drunk stranger? Not my idea of a good time.

Now some David Bowie "Magic Dance" and a dance move that vaguely resembles having a seizure? That's so much better.