I'm trying this new thing where I take photos of items that I want to buy instead of buying them, at thrift stores and junk shops and antique stores. I used to just buy things that I thought looked cool... and this lead to a house crammed with crap. I'm trying to avoid that these days. Kind of like my short-lived plan for a "one in, one out" clothing acquisition policy, I guess.

So for various reasons (don't really need it, can't justify owning more of x, too expensive, no room, can't carry it home) these are just a few of the things I have coveted, captured, and released back into the wild recently. I hereby post them for posterity, my own sanity/ therapy, and in appreciation of all the cool shit in our nation's junk stores:









These items were spotted in Washington DC, Chatham VA, Philadelphia PA, and Richmond VA over the last few months.

So I'm going to a friend's birthday party next weekend, and the theme is Vintage Sunday School Picnic. It's gonna be great. Everyone is bringing their favorite classic picnic dish to share (bucket of KFC, jello salad, weiners, etc) and we're all encouraged to dress in vintage picnic wear. If any of you have seen my closet, you know this is the kind of event that my wardrobe has been waiting for. In fact, I actually got the perfect dress a few weeks ago at an estate sale. It looks just like this, but it's bright green 60s paisley, not bright green 60s floral:


I was trying to describe the dress in an email to Meredith yesterday, so naturally I did some googling, putting in different phrases like "mod dress," "shift dress," and "smock dress."

When I put in smock dress, I got directed to this website. Which I thought was strange enough, but then I looked closely at the picture on the main page:

WHAT THE FUCK!?!?! This is supposedly some kind of suicide-preventing safety smock. For... hippie mental patients? Brainwashed extras from a Star Trek movie? ...GANDALF and COURTNEY LOVE!?!

Are these those nutjobs who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart?


The internet is so weird.

I have an optical mouse on my computer at work. This is it:



Dear readers, do not be deceived by its harmless appearance. This mouse is demonic.



Let me explain. On Monday, when I started up my machine, the pointer arrow was frozen on the screen and the little red light inside the mouse was not on. I checked the wire, shut down, started up again, and everything was back to normal. Or so I thought. My mouse is now possessed. It is a veritable Ouija mouse: every so often while my hand rests on it, perfectly still, the cursor on the screen will start to drift verrrrry slowly, on its own accord. Or should I say, under the control of spirits and ghoulies. So far it seems to enjoy drifting left and up. It hasn't clicked on anything yet by itself, but I assume this is the next logical step. The funny thing is, when I remove my (motionless) hand, the drifting stops. When I touch the mouse again, the drifting continues.
The next time it happens, I'm going to start recording the letters/images that it comes to rest on, because I really do think it's slowly spelling out a message to me. (Q-U-I-T S-U-R-F-I-N-G T-H-E I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T maybe, or Y-O-U W-I-L-L D-I-E I-F Y-O-U D-O-N-T F-I-N-D A N-E-W J-O-B S-O-O-N.)



On a related note, can anyone recommend a good replacement song to get 'Ouija board, Ouija board' out of my head?

This morning I saw someone getting a blowjob in a car. A fairly ...vigorous.. one, the speedily bobbing head seemed to indicate. You know how you see a bobbing head, and for like half a second, you think someone is rummaging around in the glovebox, but then it clicks, and you realize what you're looking at is really RHYTHMIC, purposeful bobbing, and then you're somehow fascinated and can't look away as quickly as you should? Well, good morning to you, too. In broad daylight, within sight of my office building.

In a related vein, I have to say that when you live in a group house, probably the most disgusting thing to find when you put your hand between the couch cushions in search of the remote is a small, used, single-use, flavored lube containter. You know that one time, when a spider crawled on your hand, and you yelled HAAH and flung it really far across the room? Well, that's nothing compared to this HAAH and accompanying fling.

I no longer live in a group house. (cue: opening strains of the Hallelujah chorus)

And I have a new couch being made specially for me up in Olney, Maryland, by little munchkins to whom Todd Oldham has personally taught the upholstery arts. Oh, the imagined joy of sitting on cushions where no one has ever sat/fucked before. I've never done it! My bum can't wait.

Upholstery arts --> Dark arts --> Harry Potter --> I really love this picture of Hermione Granger that came out on the internet today:



The Segue. It's not just a gyroscopically-inspired human transporter that makes George Bush fall down go boom! anymore.

When I used to be able to play on Killoggs all day at work, I feel like I used to be a more fun member of this site. I don't read it cover to cover anymore, and I notice that when I do come out from under my bridge to make a comment, I sound pretty cantankerous and retarded. So, sorry for that. It's like I'm one of those old crankypants talking heads who used to be in Nixon's cabinet, and now gets trotted out twice a year to respond in a reliably bitter-old-fart way on The MacLaughlin Group. I don't want to be that guy. I want to be Eleanor Clift, the one who's on every week, sounding smart and with-it.



So, here's a good one for you: I had a really good laugh on Friday night, enough to make my abs ache the next day. I was at a bar with some friends, including a friend's mom. The Olympics were on the bar tvs. Screens big/close enough to see the action, but not quite big/close enough to make out all the words. And really loud, the mom cried out, "Look who's skating, Bob De Jong and ...Oyster Scrotum!?!?!?!" We were laughing so hard, it was difficult to see through the tears, but we finally saw that the dude's name is Oystein Grodum. It would've been minorly amusing if *I* had said it, but it became high hilarity when it came out of the mouth of a sweet little mom with dimples and bad eyesight, wide-eyed and slightly buzzed, and holding her finger up to point at the tv throughout the whole episode like a little impertinent statue of liberty. Plus, doesn't Oyster Scrotum just conjure up the most amazing mental imagery? I can't get over it.



I had Ethiopian food last week with a big group of girls, and one of them insisted on having regular white bread rolls brought to the table, because she thinks the injera bread "feels like a penis." Color, texture, weight, and "sponginess," in her words. She is utterly and completely freaked out by it. Now I've never been one of those people to go off my food after hearing it compared to something strange, but let's just say I could definitely see her point. It's even the right temperture! Still, as another diner pointed out, chowing down, "Yeah? So, what's the problem? I like penis." Yes, most of us do. I found myself wondering if her aversion to "injera bread" caused the downfall of her last relationship. Then I felt guilty for thinking that. I hope she doesn't read Killoggs.



I went to the bank today, and stopped to watch a crew of guys replacing a big section of brick sidewalk. There were six of them at least, with some loud humming machinery and many stacks of sharp red bricks. They had ground-tampers and stampers and levels and scrapers and scoopers and a small backhoe with jackhammer attachment. They were gonna make that section of sidewalk level and perfectly engineered if it killed them. And out loud I heard myself mutter, "Still can't beat ancient Rome, dumbasses."

All those layers! Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Seriously, there were like nine layers.

I was ambivalent before, but seeing this photo makes me want to see the new Superman movie.

A Morality Play in 3 Acts

Act I: Exerpt from Washington Post's review of 'Hostel' from today's paper

"You can make the argument, as some have with Tarantino (he executive-produced the film, which was written and directed by Eli Noth), that the gore itself becomes art, a la Japanese martial arts films where the carnage becomes an abstract, a toy to play with while making pretty pictures, all's fair in love and art. We're not particularly fond of that argument, having spent the duration of both "Kill Bill" movies with hands over eyes.

High art, this isn't. We can say this, however: It does what it does well. You won't be bored. You will be grossed out. Even if you like that type of thing. You could argue that, by portraying rich yuppies paying to sate their lust for gore, Noth is sending up American greed and sense of entitlement. Arguing that would be a waste of time. "Hostel" ain't that deep.

Noth builds suspense slowly, spending a good amount of time on the hedonistic forays of the three main characters, Paxton (Jay Hernandez), Josh (Derek Richardson) and Oli (Eythor Gudjonsson), though character development is given exceedingly short shrift. We get that Josh is a writer (read: sensitive ) who just broke up with his college girlfriend and is so over it. Really , he's fine. Oli's a little older, and he comes from Iceland. Or maybe it's Israel; the film isn't so clear on this. And the California-born and -bred Paxton, who looks as Chicano-boy-next-door as they come, at one crucial moment, inexplicably claims he's not American and then breaks out in native-sounding German (or is it Dutch?). We never learn why."

Act II: I Don't Think That Word Means What You Think It Means

Saturday, 9:45am
From: Julie
To: Corrections@washpost.com
Cc: Stephen Hunter, Teresa Wiltz
Subj: Major Error in Theresa Wiltz's 'Hostel' movie review

To Whom It May Concern,

Theresa Wiltz's review of the movie 'Hostel' in today's Post names the film's writer/director as Eli "Noth."

Uh, his name is Eli Roth. Not Noth.

This error occurs ALL THREE TIMES that the director's name is mentioned: paragraphs 4, 5, and 6.

I don't know if Ms. Wiltz has a big crush on the actor Chris Noth, or if she's just lazy and went to see a film without bothering to find out who wrote and directed it. Whatever the reason, this is an embarrassing error and I hope you correct it before your website sends scores of young horror film fans rushing to google "Eli Noth" and coming up with nothing.

On second thought, after reading Ms. Wiltz's tepid and disappointingly squeamish review, I doubt this will be an issue for horror fans. Why couldn't you get Stephen Hunter to review it instead? I'm sorry, but anyone who confesses to having spent both 'Kill Bill' movies with her hands over her eyes doesn't deserve to be reviewing films. Film reviewers are paid to WATCH the films, not hide from them. I wonder if perhaps her misspelling of Eli Roth's name is a direct result of her admittedly impaired vision, peeking out at the screen from behind her hands?

For shame, Style section.

By the way, I have amazing editorial skills and a degree in English; let me know if you ever want to hire someone who will catch & correct errors like these in future articles.

Sincerely,
Julie [redacted]

Act III: Goddammit

Saturday, 9:47am
From: Julie
To: Corrections@washpost.com
Cc: Stephen Hunter, Teresa Wiltz
Subj: By the way

To the Corrections Department:

I misspelled Teresa Wiltz's name in my previous email. However, since I'm not a website for a large newspaper, I'm not really embarrassed or worried about this. Nonetheless, I invite you to submit your corrections of my writing to MY corrections department: [redacted]@hotmail.com.

Sincerely,
Julie [redacted]

I had to move this month, so I missed Halloween. I'm pissed. This will be the first time in at least ten years that I didn't dress up or go to any parties. I was too busy trying to get all the shit from my old house into my new house. It sucked.

Fuck you, Halloween! That's all for now.

Hello there, Killoggs. Let's play a little game. This is a game called "I Dare You to Find Proof That Vince Vaughn Is Not Gay."

...Any takers?



(Really. He is actually gay. And rather hot and very funny. This is not a Vince Vaughn bashing post. I like him.)

The Bacon Mary, $8 at Bar Pilar. Like its cousin, Mary Poppins: practically perfect in every way.

I need a roommate starting Sept 1. Yeah... next week. No, I didn't wait until the last minute. I had someone lined up, but it fell through today due to unforseen circumstances. Come sit on the porch and watch the neighborhood go by with me.

Here is my fancy ad on craigslist. Here is the post I made last time I was looking for a roommate. Please email my head or my craigslist email if you have any hot tips for me. We're in a tight spot, as the saying goes... Thanks.

I have a lot of pictures that I've been promising to post. I feel pretty bad about it, but I'm just so damn lazy. I really love this one I took of Meredith in my bedroom getting ready to go out to Run for Cover. I'm not sure she knows I took it. I'm sneaky-- no flash! Mirrors are fun.

Anyway, Meredith is a pretty cool girl, and very good looking, so why don't you look at some pictures of her? More in the responses... featuring various other kavorting killoggers...

JK Rowling today:




JK Rowling in past press photos:




As for writing non-Harry Potter fiction, she hinted she might consider a pen name.

"A fake name is very attractive," Rowling said. "I'll have less pressure and I can write any old thing I want and people won't be clamoring for it and that might be nice."

Since Rowling first introduced Harry and his fellow students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the world in 1997, the books have become a global phenomenon, selling 270 million copies in 62 languages and inspiring a series of movies.

Rowling is now the richest woman in Britain _ wealthier than even the queen _ with a fortune estimated by Forbes magazine at more than $1 billion.

Rowling said she has no complaints, though she is sometimes nostalgic for the days before she was famous.

"But one of my regrets would be that I will never again have the pleasure of sneaking into a cafe _ any cafe I like _ sitting down and diving into my world and no one knowing what I am doing and no one bothering about me and being totally anonymous, that was fantastic."

I can't decide what I'm trying to say with this post. Maybe something about eye lifts. Or something about being a billionaire. Or maybe, nothing. But I think we can all agree that $1B seems to buy a lot of magic anti-aging potion.

Myriam came to DC and luckily, there were still some sparklers left over. Did you guys know that fireworks are illegal in her home state of California? I think this settles the long-running feud of who's better, East Coast or West Coast? once and for all. It was with great pride and pyrotechnic patriotism that I lit Myriam's first sparkler at 12:30am on the morning of July 4th:



More in the responses, my fellow Americans...

Get Jake's post off the top of the page, that is. I mean, it's a beautiful Friday, and some very beautiful people are in their underwear in a movie that opens today. Photoshop contest, anyone? (Click on their genitals for a larger version)

Sadly, I don't have an amazingly adorable child to post pictures of... but I do have this guy! He's a newborn aye-aye lemur, the first born in captivity. Here's the news story about him.

In the forest the aye-aye's batlike ears can detect insect larvae squirming inside trees. A bark-breaking bite from tough incisors and a subsequent probe with a long, bony second digit seals the meal.

I think he's a blend of



and



and





So ugly, he's almost cute! I wish he was elected pope.

So while poring over photos of the recent royal wedding, as I'm sure all of us have done when we ought to have been working this week, (really? just me?) I came across this vaguely disturbing shot of dear Prince William. (Click to scrutinize more closely)



Now, call me crazy, but it appears the young man has a significant bald spot on the back of his head. See the pink peeking through the hair? Also take note of the careful way he has brushed his hair forward to hide his (presumably) thinning and receding temples.

Not that I'm ridiculing baldness, because many of my friends and relatives have lost their hair, and plenty of them make very handsome bald men. But there's just something tragic about Prince Hottie, with the luxurious blond mop of hair, going bald at such a tender age. (22 I think?) It just makes me go awww. And cringe a little.

Naturally, I hit up google for validation, and was not disappointed.
(More.)
(Still more.)

Of course, all this googling led me down the inevitable path to my favorite at-work passtime: google IMAGE SEARCH. Observe an earlier photo, showing how he cultivated the comb-forward to great effect:



And finally. This one has nothing to do with hair loss, but the photo is so salaciously fascinating to me. There's just so much going on here, so many details. Really, this photo couldn't be awesomer if it was staged in a studio. Yes, this is really him, yes it ran in some British tabloids, yes, this is exactly what I imagine I would do if I were dating the heir to the British throne, and yes, this is... kind of hot ... to be honest.



(This concludes me drooling over the royals. Hopefully ER will return from reruns soon.)