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April and I went to Goodwill today, and not needing anything myself, I was just wandering the aisles, counting the ubiquitous bread machines (6.  Pro-tip:  Do not give a bread machine as a wedding/Christmas/Mother's Day/whatever other goddamn holiday gift.  Give the money to me, instead - that, at least, will go to good use).

And then, our eyes/circuits met across a crowded utility shelf.

May I humbly introduce you to the, at long last found, Love of My Life:

This, my dears, is not cheap reproduction.  It is not a knock-off.

It is a genuine, in mint, factory-condition General Electric Model Number 92T82 toaster.

See those handles?
Those are not plastic.
They are Bakelight.
The plug? (not shown, dur)
Plunger-style, also Bakelight.

Best of all -
The finish.
Do you see that gleam?  That luster?
That is the glint of unmarred, entirely scratchless, mirror-finish chrome.

This beautiful little kitchen appliance has been living in some little old lady's cupboard, untouched, since Iwo Jima.

And I was able to bring her home for $4.99.

Wait, I lie -
$4, after the 25% coupon that another little old lady, unbidden, handed us in line.

It was so meant to be.

I have, in all seriousness, wanted one of these for the last 19 years.  Not a brand new, retro-style toaster - I have wanted a vintage, functional toaster of this era since I saw one in the late summer of (mumble-mumble whatever - I do happen to know it was 19 years - I just don't know what actual year that would be).

And now, at last, I have one.
April can confirm that I did in fact did hug the fucking toaster in the middle of the store.

I also got:

Which is awesome, because after 18 years, my little baby 6 cup Sanyo was making half-burned, half-crunchy rice, so I'd stopped using it, and I guess only kept it on the shelf out of misplaced loyalty.  I'm not even going to donate it - it has lived long, served well, and deserves to be taken out back and shot like Old Yeller  a decent burial.

Also got a brand new, in-the-box and still factory-sealed counter-top espresso maker.  It's cute, although it is only one of the 'better' blase wedding gift types you get at yuppie kitchen stores and what not (also - stop buying these as wedding gifts.  If someone wants one, they will buy it themselves.  If they don't, it will be thrifted.  I guarantee you.  So, STOP IT).  These things don't actually make espresso; just a slightly more condensed shot of coffee.  It does a decent job of frothing milk though, and when I'm in the mood for an approximation of a latte, this will do.  I still mourn the loss of the beautiful pump-driven Italian espresso maker I had years ago, but I did quite literally run it into the ground.  I bought it used from my boss after he closed his cafe, so it had seen some, though not an egregious, amount of use, and I enjoyed it for years before it finally gave up the ghost.

All told?

I spent $18 for this unexpected handful of lovelies that make me happy.  Oh, and yes - they all work.  :)

Speaking of coffee - oh my, I forgot to show you the lovely I brought home last month.  Everyone?  Meet my Chemex:

Also, mon ami, my Buono Hario:

This last little beauty is a mother-fucking EXPENSIVE little piece of kit - a goddamn kettle - for $60?  Really?!

No, I did not pay that much for it.
Are you fucking kidding me?

I am blessed to know a saint of a coffee importer, who not only sells me personally roasted micro batches of coffee from all over the world, but also teaches me arcane secrets of perfect coffee brewing.  I kid you not - my coffee is like the representative seating at the United Nations - Ethiopia, Rwanda, Guatemala, Papua New Guinea, Mexico, Costa Rica, Brazil, El Salvador NO I AM NOT FUCKING KIDDING - this is what he does - flies all over the world, sampling and buying coffee to bring home, roast, and sell to teeny-tiny, wonderful little coffee shops.  Also, me.  For about the same as what you would pay for a pound of coffee, weeks or sometimes even months old, from Starbucks.

Anyway - he sold me the Hario kettle, gently used, with the thermometer, even - for $18.  !!!  18 is apparently now my lucky number.  Also, the new glass digital scale, because I want to make my coffee experience as close to being what it should be - an addiction, with the tools to fit the trade.  Also, the used-only-3 times burr grinder - $20.  Because my mother fucking coffee must be as fresh as a sophomore at her first prom.

Anyway - the Chemex.  If you are a foaming-at-the-mouth coffee addict, you know that a Chemex is enchantingly simple - and makes, hands-down, the most exquisite cup of coffee to cross the lips of a human.  It is the polar opposite of french press in every way - coffee made this way passes through a pre-moistened filter that is I think 3 times or more thicker than your usual coffee filter, making it completely free from any sediment or impurities - it is the cleanest, sweetest cup you will ever experience.  Don't get me wrong - I still like French Press.  Just as I like both the original release and the Director's Cut of Bladerunner, they are each dear to me because they are so different and wonderful in their own ways.  The French Press?  She is the slightly slutty cafe waitress who will meet you in the back alley and let you take her against the side of a brick wall.  The Chemex?  The runway model, untouchable and aloof, making her deer-hoofed slink down the catwalk.

I'm kind of into coffee.
Just a bit.

So, yeah.

I enter every expense into a spreadsheet.  If I buy a mother-fucking milkshake, it is an individual line-item, color-coded as "miscellaneous," and counts toward the allowance that I give myself each pay period. Everything - everything -  is budgeted and accounted for.

I buy all my clothing, which is maybe - maybe - once a year - at thrift stores.
(Remember that phobia about shopping?  Yeah, that)>

I don't own frivolous kit like a television set or monster stereo system.

I don't eat at restaurants and make all my own food (you should try my home-made greek-style yogurt with New Mexico hippie-harvested carrot pollen honey that I drove 2 hours to buy because YES I AM AS FREAKISHLY OBSESSED WITH THE GOLD STAR BEST IN HONEY JUST LIKE I AM WITH MY COFFEE) -

I spend very little, so that I can have the finest of a few of my favorite things.

And, because I finally learned to stop thinking and behaving like an impoverished person (money?  there's MONEY in my checking account?  I must buy ALL THE THINGS before it disappears!!!) -

I still have something to put into savings with almost every paycheck.
It may only be a handful sometimes, but I can finally do it.

I live within my means -
And within those means, I live well.

And I make a bad-ass cup of coffee.

Also, toast.
Don't forget the toast.


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Introvert(44%)  iNtuitive(25%)  Feeling(88%)  Judging(44%)

An internet test says that I am of a type only found in 1% of the population.

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We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming already in progress.
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- Now I know why a rib-eye cut steak is so popular

- Now I know how to cook one indoors

- Now I know why the instructions I found said to "...just turn the smoke alarm off, put it under a pillow, open up all the doors and windows and turn on every fan."

- Now I know why people own outdoor grills

Don't care; would do it again.

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To love is to take one side of the argument and hold it fast, unto death.  To land on one side with both feet....

There is pain you can't think your way out of.  You can't talk it away.  If there was someone to talk to.  You walk.  One foot, the other foot....

You can't metabolize the loss.  It is in the cells of your face, your chest.  Behind the eyes.  In the twists of your gut.  Muscle, sinew, bone.   It is all of you.  When you walk, you propel it forward....

Then it sits with you.  The pain puts its arm over your shoulders.  It is your closest friend, steadfast. 

And at night you can't bear to hear your own breath unaccompanied by another, and underneath the big stillness, like a score, is the roaring cataract of everything being, and being torn away. 

Then.  The pain is lying beside your side.  Does not bother you with the sound, even of breathing. 

That is some heavy shit, huh...?  Getting all poetic on its ass, when what it is, is -

I miss you. 
I really, fucking miss you.

Peter Heller, The Dog Stars

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Kittens are trying to break into my office.
It sounds like the smallest and most rubbish zombie attack ever.


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You know, whenever I feel sorry for myself, I remember that I have a humanitarian side, and I think of the kindness I do mankind every day.  I look in the Encyclopedia (do such things still exist?  Nevermind.) and under the entry, "Dodged Bullet," I see my beatific, beneficent face.  Shot from the flattering side, natch.

You're welcome.
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...there would be punishment, and pain,
and there would be happiness, too.
That was writing.

Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

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....but these guys are officially on my rotation schedule now.

At least this one doesn't involve embarrassing vaginal/dental complications, or have that creepy OMG SHOES feel.

And jesuschristholycrap -

Die Antworp's response to YouTube use comments on "Fatty Boom Boom":

I now have to wait for the stomach ache from AHAHAHAHAHAHA to wear off before I can get to sleep.

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This is what I fell over and shattered my pelvis and several vertebrae stumbled on while looking at various coffee extraction methods on YouTube, and this is how they 'labeled' it.

FATTY BOOM BOOM is a bright and colourful African adventure, complete with wild animals, zef savages singing and dancing in the streets, and a special guest appearance by a sneaky little prawn star.

Which is a little like splicing the juiciest bit of "Jaws" into your kid's "The Lion King" video.

I watched...

the whole thing.

Which means I can no longer be registered on the "offendible people" list, I think.


...and I liked it.

Oh god
I feel so dirty...

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Happy Yet Another Day When Some Dude Died


No, seriously.  How many 'important' holidays do we celebrate that aren't associated with some poor bastard and/or entire swath of population getting snuffed?

This is the way my brain works.
And yet, there are still those occasional people who ask, "...and why are you still single?"

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As long as something like this exists, humanity may be spared.  For one more day, anyway.


NOTE:  Take it from me - it's cute while they're young, but if you don't want arms that look like you've plunged them in blackberry bushes up to the elbow, you'll stop that shit right quick.

It's so damn cute, though...

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Final moment of the evening - I give you -

The Dungeon for Scratchy Violins, Screechy Piccolos, Nauseating Trumpets, et cetera, et cetera

And if there was any doubt of the hand of Seuss, notice the increasing insanity of the instruments.

Sweet Dreams.

You're Welcome.

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Addendum to previous:

The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T  is Stanley Kramer's one dying shame.

No, really.

My ex took a workshop with him, and in conversation later, Stewart brought it up as one of his happiest childhood memories -

Mr. Kramer's response:

"Oh.  Yes.  That."

No more was said.

Which is one of the saddest things ever, because - I mean - there's a Hypnotic Duel for christ's sake - WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE?!?!

Editorial note here rather than in the actual post, because whenever I change anything with multiple embedded videos, it completely fucks up the links and I haven't figured out how NOT to make that happen.  GAH


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[personal profile] lolotehe * is to blame for this, because she reminded me of my all-time favorite kid's movie.  If you are familiar with it, it should explain a lot about me that you will now be content to nod and smile and back slowly away from.

If we had an elevator, I'd say this is what going to work is like.  Don't ask me to explain the jogging skeleton (it's not in the movie, obv):

After seeing this movie, could there have ever been any doubt that I would end up in musical theatre?


This Magnum AWESOME features "Fantastic sets, screenplay, and even song lyrics provided by" DR. MUTHA-FUCKIN' SEUSS, BEEYOTCH

Bart has only one enemy in the world: his piano teacher Dr. Terwilliker. Dr. T has a mad plan to force 500 young boys to practice at his magnificent piano 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Bart is the only hope to save these boys from being enslaved. [...] Features the only piano academy ever known to be equipped with cells and surrounded by an electric fence.

Also features one of the earliest single mothers in 50s movies, and portrays a simpler, happier time when self-employed plumbers could hang around and play make-believe with unattended little boys and no one would think twice about it.

And As the Prophecies Foretold:

I became a Theatre Geek.



The Aristocrats!

* It was the metronomes. I DID IT FOR THE METRONOMES.

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I now have 3 cell phones (1 connected, 2 bricked) strategically placed as alarm clocks throughout my room.

Proving once again that:

a) Yes, I do listen to advice, and

b) I keep everything

When the newspaper stacks get over the level of my brow ridge - kill me, okay?  One blow to the back of the head.  Make it quick, so I don't suffer.


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