Roped in like a fashion model on an Ex-Lax farm

There are some things that I, your darling Fontaine, do not wish to read. Here's a list of just a few:

-The 'deep' thoughts and reflections of those in their 20's
-Those in their 20's talking about 'navigating' their 20's
-Those in their 20's stating they are searching for peace, happiness and love
-Pretty much anything written by those in their 20's

With this in mind, imagine my reaction when Madame Bellicose emailed to tell me I would be reviewing a blog called The View From Here this week. It is not one, but five, 20-something women blogging together. That's right, I said five 20-something women blogging together. It was as if someone suggested I allow myself to be stripped down naked, strapped to a dirty bed in an abandoned psych ward somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire, and willingly subject myself to the latest treatment of being spoon fed rusty barb wire by the innovative and caring Dr. Finger Fuck.

Now that I think about it, Dr. Finger Fuck and his 'treatment' seemed highly attractive compared to the notion of having to read a blog written by five 20-something women.

I wanted to crawl through my computer and turn Madame's trusty and snappy riding crop upon her face. Alas, I'm willing to do pretty much anything for 'Ask', and opened the link anyway.

And then I found myself watching a Jay Z video without having the reaction of wanting to wander off and get my laundry started due to being bored out of my wits. Why? There was nothing else to the post other than some little comment about having a pre-concert 'drank'.

And I got all riled up at Marion Barry all over again. Why? I've thought of him as a stupid, stank and rank Jenny since the 1980's. How did these reflecting and navigating 20-somethings rope me into this?

I even found myself watching an entire video clip of an Alexander McQueen fashion show and dreaming of, just once, strutting my stuff down the runway of anorexiaville while not giving two shits (unless, of course, I've been supplementing my eating disorder with Ex-Lax) that I look like a human toothpick that could be blown in half by a 2mph wind gust.

At the video's end I found myself slack jawed, wide-eyed and wondering, "Did that just happen to me? Did I just admire a fashion show? And actually dream of being in one? Sweet tap dancin' Jesus, how high am I?"

Indeed, five 20-somethings had roped me in and roped me in big. I lost all navigation of my own; not following my usual review protocol of rigid adherence to methodically picking through post after post, scouring the 'About' section, making notes, and then winding it all together for my review.

I simply started reading. I simply wanted more.

Rum Punch
Amaretto
mint julep
5 and a possible
courvoisier
Bellini

Who?Are?You?
I want to know what you did over the weekend. What concert you're going to next. What pains you about attempting to simultaneously respect the rules and live your own truth.

How did you get this quick and witty? You made me laugh out loud. A rarity in the world of blogging.

How did you know the best way to get an old broad like me to actually consider doing a little 40-something navigation of my own was to first entice me into dreaming of ripping the pants off of 'BSteve'? I actually found myself wondering what would have happened if I would R.S.V.P.'d in the affirmative to that invitation to Germany so many years ago, and even reconsidered putting off my trip to the Festival in the Desert another year. And no, none of you are welcome to call me an old broad, lest you want to be shamed into admitting you got bitch slapped by a 40-something whose rudder was off kilter.

Here's a word to you wise, witty, thoughtful and navigating ladies:

1. It's time to edit the shit out of your posts. Though you did rope me in, there were times when your brilliance was dulled by having to slog through lazy misspellings, improper grammar and syntax, and even lazier punctuation. I am using a post by Bellini as an example, but you are all guilty. Create a system of review of your own to help one another work out the kinks before you publish a post. (Yes, I know it's amazing that I'm actually suggesting the kink be taken OUT of a situation.)

2. Knock it off with anything blah. By that I mean I never, ever, ever want to read a post about "this happened and then this happened..." out of any one of you ever again. Did I say never? I mean it. I am more than disappointed that one of you posted this on the very day I am writing this review. This 'turn that frown upside down' crap about a lost i-pod, a snow storm and things being strange at work simply will not do. Ever. Never. Stop it. All of you.

3. Tighten up the information about yourselves and your blog. I do not recommend blowing your anonymity, but do think your blog could benefit from more concise descriptions of each one of you, and an overall 'About' page that describes just how brilliant you are, the reasons you are blogging, and what to expect. The blurb on the front page about blogging about 'everything and nothing' and the 'insane and mundane' is beneath you and your blog.

4. Keep going. I may forever prefer being spoon fed barb wire by Dr. Finger Fuck to reading the ramblings of a passel of 20-something women, but would be more than happy to keep this blog as one of my regular reads if you're willing to follow my instructions in 1, 2 and 3.

Your Blog Is Giving Me Shingles. Itchy, Sexy Ones.

A review from Rassles. Once more. With feeling.



Dartboard? Okay. Come on, Rass. You can do this.

YOU ANNOY THE FUCKING FUCK OUT OF ME. YOU ARE OBNOXIOUS. IT CAUSES ME BOTH CORPOREAL AND ETHEREAL PAIN TO READ SOME OF YOUR SENTENCES BECAUSE I WANT TO REFRAGMENT THE FUCKING LOT OF THEM.

Also, apparently I am a sado-masochist.

I am fucking irked to the point of shingles. But then, I'm coyly flirting with my computer screen, oggling these sophomoric sketches (which lead into each blog entry with the finesse of a hobbled Tibetan ox), blushing, casting sidelong glances. I'm doing that thing that I do that pisses me off, where I arch my back and half-smile and pull my shirtsleeves over my knuckles. I must be getting my fucking period.

He’s like the friend you don’t want to introduce to people. You’ll hang out with him, sure, and when you share stories about his verbal rampages you call him “this guy I know" but never "a friend of mine." Because you will tell stories about him, because he's entertaining as hell. Just annoyingly so.

Then one day you and a real friend run into him at a bar. You exchange unpleasantries and separate thoroughly agitated. Your friend innocently asks, "how do you know that guy?" and you arch your back, half smile, roll your eyes, shake your head with annoyance and state, "He’s just this guy" or "we were in a band together."

Why don't you want to admit your friendship? Well, he rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you really don’t care about. And then he rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you don’t really care about. And then? He rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you don’t really care about. Has he ever worked customer service, or is he just a dick?

Tonally, he traverses between unnecessary arrogance and berating himself with the proper dash of pomposity. He needs to work on comedic meter, but really, I mean, who doesn’t?

He claims to have destructive apathy, which I would be more inclined to believe were he a careless loafer laced with a thin string of nihilism, but he’s more mean-tempered than that. More callous. And also, more sensitive, which makes the whole situation soooooo much more irritating.

See, you don't want to admit it, but you want to shamefuck him. Like Shia LaBeouf shamefuckin. I can’t believe I’m typing this right now. But you know what I mean: an annoying shit of a dude that is irritating and unattractive and charming and you’re embarrassed because you want to shamefuck him really, really hard.

Back at the bar, after silently imagining (for about half an hour) exactly how that shamefuck will unfold, you explain to your friend that you can’t focus on your conversation because that guy from earlier? You want to shamefuck him. And he laughs and tells you that he feels that way about his friend's mom. And then you buy him a shot and make him swear to secrecy with pinkies and blood, but you still don't tell him about Shia LaBeouf. That one goes to the fucking grave.

Yeah.

Dartboard, you're still annoying. Go fuck yourself. I don't want to give you any stars, but I’m going to, because you're funny enough and good enough of a writer. But seriously, go fuck yourself.

How about this: I want you to go fuck yourself, and then I want you to call me and tell me exactly what you were thinking about while fucking yourself. Okay? Fine.

Son of a bitch.

The giggle of eyelashes*

In graduate school I learned to sing the body electric. The program I attended was more about souls and songs and art and heart and expression than it was about lectures and footnotes and appendices and theses. We created and explored. We put font to music. We made books and paper and poetry.

At first, I balked at the artsy fartsyness of it all. I wanted to be a serious student, with serious success, large textbooks, late nights at the library over microfiche, bibliographic complexity. Instead I got professors who encouraged us to open class with an African blessing to the dawn, who wanted artistic presentations on feminist gods, who expected me to dig, dig, dig deep into wells of pain and self and remembrance and hope to create art. It was all so much kumbaya and not enough cross-referencing. At first. But gradually, with eye-rolls and exasperated huffs and hesitant inchings toward release, I succumbed to the power in their poetry, the worth of their wonder. And I'm a better writer for it.

Today's blogger reminds me of that time in graduate school, when I sloughed off some of that rigid academia to embrace the tickle of words. Maya at One Paragraph at a Time is a poet who would have fit in nicely with my crowd of wordmongers.

I hesitate to tell you her blog is almost entirely poetry. But wait! I know. I thought the same thing at first. A whole blog? Over four years of posts? With nothing but poetry? Pass. But stick with me here because Maya can write some damn poetry. I actually like it. Kind of a lot. Her writing is contemplative and introspective and deliberate and lovely and tactile and thoughtful. She writes about nostalgia and sex ("he was all hers, one locked muscle of utter fealty") and lies. Her poetry is honest and mature and revealing. Every word is revered, precisely chosen, and treasured.

I just read an entire blog of poetry. I can't believe it, either, but I did. And I loved it. Oh, the template is boring, and Maya could stand to roll up her archives. But the template doesn't even matter because her artistry is on the screen, in those words I want to roll around on my tongue, those words that delight my eyes. This is not some angsty teenage blithering with rhymed, insipid dreck. This is real, this is art, and this is good.








*My title is stolen from Maya @ One Paragraph at a Time.

I will write in blood on forgotten walls...

If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you. - Henry Rollins

Kelly is a writer. How do you preach to the converted?

I believe that blogging can transform your life, if you let it...It is through blogging that I learned to understand and accept my own narrative. Blogging is the accumulation of all of our stories, all that passes between us in posts and comments, in private e-mails, Facebook, and Twitter. All that we learn, all that we are.

I want to share this story, my story, so that maybe one person sitting out there in the audience hearing it, or you sitting at home reading it, realize. No matter the past you carry in the deep pockets of your own flesh, you have the right to lay it down. We are all scarred. We are all human. I just want you to know that there is someone out there who will understand. There are people that are listening.

I am one of them.

I don't even know how many times I've told some newby blogger, prickly feathers barely poking through their pink fleshed baby bird skin, that writing is healing. Writing, sharing your hurts, your story, your real heart--can set you free.

It has done so for me, and it can do so for others, who grasp ahold of the pen, the keyboard, and use it to free their souls.

What higher thing needs to be said here, about a blog? She writes. She is a writer.



Kelly: My only advice is this: you have a template with tabs, use them to hide your categories, contact info, photo credits, recent posts and other untidiness on the sidebar. Move your archives up, above the ads, so people can find them. Make it clear that you, not secret agent mommy, are the author of this blog (I find it confusing, photo credit should probably go lower in the blog sidebar or at the bottom).

She Doesn't Need To Shut Up, She Actually Puts Up

In this world that we were born into, in this life we've been given, we come to recognize that it is made up of a strange and frightening combination of fragile, strong, evil, love, light and dark.

We come forth and are thrust into this jumble of madness and told to make sense of it all. To experience, but not this or that. To love, but them not those. To take it, but not too much. To give, but to those who deserve.

It's not a clear picture, and there are roads that lead to destinations that are dark and life rattling. Where you become your environment, and it has a hold of you entirely. It all but makes you life's bitch.

If you're lucky something else happens. Something wonderful and just as troubling. Something even harder than sinking to that dark place that you struggled to get to in the beginning.

You recover.

So what happens then? What happens when you've been to the bottom and you lift yourself, fighting tooth and nail, hand over hand to the top again.

This happens.

The Melindaville Blog washed over me and held me close. Her words wrapped around me like a soft, warm blanket. What is The Melindaville Blog about? In her own words:

My name is Melinda Roberts Tyler and many people have told me I have had a fascinating life. In my lifetime, I have been a professional actor and musician, worked as an exotic dancer and high priced call girl, as well as started the world's first fantasy phone call service. I was a member of San Francisco's punk rock scene of the 1980's, performing with the band, "Wild Women of Borneo," during which time I became a hard-core heroin addict. I recovered from addiction in the mid-1990's and became an honors college student, a fully funded doctoral student, and an award-winning professor of psychology. I am currently writing a detailed account of my life experiences in a memoir, whose working title is "Lost and Found: A Journey." My purpose is to tell my story to inspire others if they desire change in their own lives and to increase awareness about the need for free and available treatment in our society.

I could sit here and nitpick about little things like using the word 'blog' in the title, or the crowded sidebar with unnecessary items like the calendar. I could harp about how far you have to scroll down to get to the archives. I could slap Melinda on the hand for saying "dye their hair" instead of exclaiming that wild women COLOR their hair as I learned in hair school. But, then I would be the world's largest douche bag.

Melinda takes you on her journey and when she tells the tale, you are right there in the room with her. Right there in the hotel room as a call girl. You are sitting beside her in her lonely little apartment, infested with cockroaches and library books. She takes you on the path of her recovery without seeming whiny or self-obsessed.

I thank Melinda for asking us for a review, but I have to decline. I cannot review you, Melinda, because simply enough:








Instead? What I want to do is sing your praises and share your words with the world. Melinda is the type of person who doesn't just sit around, telling you how to make the world a better place and change lives. She actually changes lives.

Pos-itively a Stranger in a Strange Land

Week after miserable week, Miss Missives has trudged the dregs over here at Ask. I've grimaced through post after post: the mundane, the inane, the poorly penned. I'm not a mean person, I don't like giving out slews of flaming fingers. Well, that's not entirely true but what I really like about loitering these hallowed hallways is finding the odd gem. Oh the joys of discovering a writer that rather than labor through, you pore over each entry until you realize an hour has passed in a blink.

Now if Miss Missives didn't know for a fact that her husband, Mister Missives doesn't have the patience to blog and cannot keep secrets from her anyhow, she might have thought looking at Niagaran Pebbles, that she had found his super secret blog. Posol'stvo shares a lot in common with my mister and I thought I'd state that up front since I adore Mister Missives so it might bias me a little favorably in the Pos department.

Though his About Me is a little thin, a thorough reading of Niagaran Pebbles can tell you a lot about the man behind the Medved. For instance:

He is a language and grammar purist.
His wife breaks the ice for him and she likes to drink wine, a lot.
He is a shy crapper.
He is a graceful pragmatist.
He's conflicted about masturbation.
He doesn't enjoy constantly being sniffed
Like Miss Missives, he has seen David Sedaris read in person.
He is a boob man.
He is a closet romantic.
He has an eye for irony.
He has cross-dressed.
He might have been switched at birth.
He writes well, really well.

Here are just a few samples of really good writing:

In my youth and intemperance, I have said unkind words to innocent people out of anger. I have said angry words to innocent people out of ignorance. I have said ignorant words to innocent people out of unkindness.

I am reminded of the time when I found out that my best friend's father, who was always a very uptight and proper man named Jerome, was called Jerry at work. Jerry? Jerry is not a name for an uptight, proper, disciplinarian. Jerry is the guy who tells lewd jokes at the water cooler. Jerry's the guy you have to call a cab for at the Christmas party because he's too drunk to drive. If Jerome caught you looking at dirty magazines, he would probably whip out the belt, but if Jerry caught you, he'd help you find the good letters in the forum section.

Old age has stripped away the layers of shattered obsidian glass that made her such a prickly person to be around. She doesn't remember anyone, who she felt wronged by, anything. She is like a toddler again, filled with wonder and a little fear at not knowing where she is.

Like all of us, Pos could benefit from some serious editing. There are posts that are unnecessarily wordy that could be trimmed to highlight his best work. Still, he's not freakishly verbose and even the long posts were readable. Pos, you have clear voice which is pivotal in writing. You have beautiful phrasing, I even like your poetry.

My chief complaint about the writing is that some posts are better than others. There's the unnecessary, a little work blah here and there, and more than a handful of pedestrian rants. However, if my main complaint is that not every post grabbed me then Pos is way above the fold. Even the meh posts didn't cause my eyes to bleed or my soul to shrivel, it just made me want to skim until I hit the next great post. And who am I to say that the posts that left me wanting don't appeal to someone else because that's another great thing about you Pos, you cast a wide net.

As for the template, it's clean and unassuming. Your sidebar tends toward minimalism and I thank you, for not provoking a migraine with all manner of flashy, blinky, maptastic, statarific bric-a-brac and fauxwards. Pos, not only are you a talented writer, you are intelligent without being immodest. You are as humble as you are intellectual and you clearly don't take yourself too seriously. You are thoughtful and irreverent and you are definitely welcome around these parts, shibboleth indeed. Tell your wine guzzling wife to be careful or we might just steal her husband. There's a long line of girls around these parts just waiting for a smart, funny, introvert who can really write.

This place always smells like sex

I can't promise a purely objective view of this tawdry site. I'll be honest, I like it too much for that. But, I'll do my best.

Keywork first started slumming in these parts after his pal, Laurie, received a fairly cordial yet tepid review of her blog, and whined, loudly. Spankings and mayhem resulted.

And, we've been fast (albeit sexually exhibitionist) friends ever since.

It's rather humorous that Key has finally submitted his blog here, long after doing a few reviews for us. And, knowing how bitchy I am, still hasn't fucking fixed his template.

But, all in good time, my pets.

Without further adieu, the template. Apparently, key's huge penis is doing all the thinking these days, because the template is hideous. It has improved, believe it or not, but it still looks like donkey ass. I dunno, maybe they like donkey ass a little too much out in western Colorado, if you catch my drift.

Key: Use a graphic in the header. If you need it, I'll personally create a header bar for your blog that features this. It should be at the top of your blog.

Second, the fucking font does not need to be this large, unless you're publishing books in large print for elderly readers. And, seniors should be advised AGAINST your blog because your content might give them a heart attack. Thus, scale your font down to some normal size, you retard.

I would recommend, as I always do, something with navigation buttons across the top. These designs are generally clean and user-friendly, and would help. How about something like this or this? Or, maybe even this? All of those are simple and clean, and will make navigation easier for your readers. Move your archive up on your sidebar, put some of these pictures and headings behind navigation buttons, and clean up your sidebar. That will help emphasize your charitable causes, which currently are competing with photos of your electronic monitoring anklets (you fucking criminal).

You might even consider putting pictures of yourself as "hot marlboro marine" in your header bar, though not in the dimension of 1024 x 968 pixels.

In my opinion, you should only read this blog if you like stories about sex. Or, stories about sex with prosthetic limbs. Or, you should read it if you're a fucking retard, doomed to failure. Or, if you have hot geek crushes and want to feel normal (relatively speaking). Or, if you have sympathy for drunken suicide attempts that (thankfully) failed. Or, if you want to learn about rimjobs.

Keywork, you're a fucking cluster. A fuster cluck, or clusterfuck, in the truest sense of the military phrase. You need to get your shit together. I wish you wrote more, because when you actually write posts (versus whoring for votes and/or causes), your posts are profane, hilarious, deeply wrong in all the right ways, and surprisingly touching. You're the non-douchey Tucker Max. You're a fucking screw-up with more than one screw loose, and I want to take you in and serve you chocolate pudding, and then lick it off your hot, naked, frighteningly pale body. Yes, DPH can join in.

What can I say? You're our Key, and we loves you. Even if you don't clean up your blog template and the abomination of large fonts, I will still keep immersing myself in your personal sewer. Because I like it, dammit.

Living in a Mommy Blog Paradise

Some of you have the fucked up idea that I hate all mommies, especially stay at home mommies, and that I wish they would drop off a cliff into the Grand Canyon and never blog again. That is so harsh, y'all. And you people are judgemental weenies.

For the record, I AM a mommy. True, I don't like a lot of the former junior leaguer mommies with their ugly ass purses who go screaming through my neighborhood like they're trying out for NASCAR, with cellphones glued to their ears and cutesy stickers that make me throw up a little on the backs of their oversized SUVs. I hate those mommies, with a passion. And, when I spot them in blogland, I do tend to give them the equivalent of the gangsta's 187. Yo, that bk stands for pretentious bitch killa.

Just keepin' it real, y'all.

Anyway. I don't hate all mommies. I like the cool ones who drink too much and need lots of coffee in the morning and make fun of Kelly Ripa:

She’s blonde. She’s skinny. She’s so perpetually happy that if I worked for ABC, I’d be making her pee in a cup on a weekly basis. She is as close to perfect as I’ve been led to believe a person can come.

Looking at her makes me feel like crap.

Word, yo.

Best of all...the ones who don't do anything that I hate. Nothing this blogger does gets on my last good nerve. Can I get an Amen about how long it's been since that has happened for me? It's like the first time my boyfriend and I had sex. At this point in my life, the simple fact that he didn't have a pathetically undersized penis, and that he didn't try to rip off my girly parts with aggressive thrusting motions his index finger, AND the fact that he waited until I was ready? He was like a fucking rock star in my eyes. My expectations are that low.

It's basically the same for my blog reviewing "career," such as it is. A blog that doesn't look like shit, that doesn't have ten million gadgets, and where there is an "about me" page, and where I can easily navigate to read more? Oh, yeah.

And, the fact that this chick writes well AND she's funny and snarky in THE RIGHT WAY (god, I'm sick of posers)?

Oh, hell yeah. Give it to me baby. Harder! Deeper!!!

It's basically like that. She's funny, I like her, and I'm blogrolling her. And, she isn't fucking up. Whee! These days? Huge.

Unfunny people with an inflated view of your own skillz as a writer? Take a lesson. You know who you are. Oh, wait. NVM. You aren't that self-aware. People with ugly/boring blog templates? Take a lesson. I'm talking to you.

Anyway...Ginny? Don't change. Just keep on doing what you're doing, as well as you're currently doing it. If you fuck anything up, I'll have to go all gangsta on your ass, and nobody wants that.

Two Q's and a Z in the Scrabble Game Of Life

Sigh

This is going to be one of those weird situations where I have to yell about a template, but the writing is fantastic and the author is hot attractive, so my feelings are torn.

First things first, though. I'm not sure what happened last week with certain..ahem reviewers last week. So, for our lack of work last week, my humblest apologies. Secondly, I have to say that there are times when we communicate in the background (well, me and Love Bites, anyway) and we moan about whether or not we should turn up the venom (or snarky-ness, as it's been put to me), or we should continue down the road we're on. My thoughts are as they usually are on this subject. We're reviewers. We're not getting paid for this. Occasionally, something we're going to love comes across our plate, and sometimes we'll see something horrendous. Each reviewer has his or her own voice, and I think generally we strive to help. There are times, and don't mistake it, that we do unleash a bit. When I click on a blog link that I get sent, it's fairly simple. I want to be entertained by what I'm reading. I also want a visceral experience with a cool, easy to manage template. I'm not looking for fucking Shakespeare, I had enough of that in junior high. I'm not looking for Michelangelo, I can see that whenever I want. Just make an effort in both departments, writing and aesthetics, and you should do well here.

So, onto today's entry. The Almost Royal is a WordPress concoction. I do realize that WordPress isn't anywhere near as customizable (without coughing up the dough, anyway) in terms of template as Blogger is. So I'm willing to say that even though this "template" is obviously not what I'm guessing would be her first choice, I'm not going to completely rip it apart. What I am going to say is this. I don't know if WordPress has the same kind of hacks that Blogger does in terms of being able to roll up your archives (and I'm too lazy to look at the moment) and/or your tags, but something has to be done. When a tag extends into the blank space along the sidebar, my artistic sensibilities start crying. Like Jesus just punched me in the groin. It literally makes me want to claw my own eyes out. It happens in both IE and Firefox, so I can't even claim browser lameness. For the love of Jim, find a way to fix that, please. I beg you, Sarah, because honestly, I sincerely love the prose.

You are 25, and for me to say that you write better than most of the 40 year olds I know is saying something. I read through a fair amount of your archives over the morning, and it is an amazing journey, to say the least. I'm really quite pleased that this was delivered to me to review, because I can give it my highest recommendation.

So, listen. Here's the deal. I know WordPress isn't the best for template manipulation, and I'm sure that in terms of everyday life, you could give a rat's ass what your template looks like. However, because I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't say this, find a way to roll up your considerable archives and find a way to consolidate those tags. Please.

Don't change one goddam iota about anything else, please, Sarah. Continue to exercise your considerable talent with the keyboard. I'm genuinely impressed by everything about you, and I don't say that often.





Hopefully, we'll be back on full schedule this week. I make no guarantees, of course, but I'm sure everyone's mid-winter break is hopefully over.

Canada is the New Black

Confession time: I hate sugared cereals (well, except for Frosted Mini Wheats) and am lactose intolerant. If given the choice between a bran muffin and a gigantic bowl of Fruit Loops, I’d choose the bran muffin every time. There’s just something unnatural about eating that much sugar before 10 in the A.M.

Which is why I was leery when I was assigned “The Surprise in My Cereal Box.” I was afraid I was going to have to review one of those “theme blogs” where the author reviews kids cereals and obsessively collects the prizes at the bottom of the box (BTW, are those even offered anymore?). I instantly relaxed when I noticed the author, Sugar Smacks, is from Toronto. For some reason, I really really love Toronto blogs. They’re usually really well written (or so crazy-cool that you can’t help but love them) and often full of pictures of hip concerts and beautiful Canadian boys with manicured beards and cute glasses. As a matter of fact, there isn’t one Toronto-based blog that I don’t like, and this blog is no exception.

Even though I wish Miss Sugar would post more pictures (because she’s so damn cute), her writing style is exactly what I like about the blogosphere (gawd, I can’t believe I used that word). She writes without being too serious or like she’s trying too hard. She writes in a janky, fast, easy style that seems similar to how she talks (or how I would think she would talk). She uses funny little metaphors, slang, and plenty of swears that transport you into her mind. This is actually one of the few new blogs that I’ve come across in my time as a reviewer that I read EVERY SINGLE POST from the present day to the first day she began blogging. I never do that. Not even with the blogs that I’ve been following for 2 years. As a matter of fact, I loved this blog so fucking much that I’ve decided the only way one can become a better blogger is to move to Toronto. Do not pass Go, Do not collect $200, just get on a fucking plane and become a Canadian (especially now with the exchange rate).

I give it a rare double because what else is there to say, other than “will you be my best friend and sponsor my citizenship?”

yet another in the long line of girl crushes

Well, this is an easy review...

After spending an hour cruising the interstate in a convertible this evening while listening to shiny toy guns, I really wasn't in the mood to rip someone down the hindquarters from stem to stern. Thank you little baby jesus lying in the manger, and thank you ghandi, and thank you buddha, and thank you Tom Cruise for providing me with decent blog-fodder to fit my mood this evening.

Up for review: Mephitic Nirvana by zee, who has only been blogging for 3 short months. I'd kill for her abs. Bitch. ;)

About the blog
*Not horrific (though I hate the header image) template (tho I'm not a huge fan of purple)
*Writing that makes me snicker (in a good way)
*Hot pics (I'd do her)

The only criticism i have of this blog is that there is something janky about the template in IE, which forces the content down below the sidebar and pulls up a bunch of code in the archives.

I think she's funny, snarky, and cool. i'll definitely be reading more.

kudos. Way to start off right.

I give it

I'd give it 4, but after only 3 months under her belt, i think she still needs something to strive for. ;)

I Feel Fat

In case you haven't heard, the mother fuckin' Cleveland Cavaliers are going to the finals, and in case you have any doubt-yes, they are going to kick San Antonio's ass. Why am I bringing this up? I was there, watching Boobie and Bron-Bron send the Pistons packing and Wallace on a tirade after his thuggish looking ass fouled out, and I'm going to be there when the Cavs rise up again and show the Spurs. Witness bitches.

I'm also bringing this up, because Cleveland, though one of the countries biggest shit holes, is also a prime example of races living in humble symbiosis, but people will always have their prejudices and stereotypes, as the author of Views of the Silent Majority has kindly pointed out.

Brass tacks: Standard blogger template, the archives are getting to the point where it's time to roll'em'on up, and yes, you guessed it, it's a total snoozefest. I know I shouldn't hate on the standard blogger templates, but there are so many options out there, that's it's almost inexcusable to not use your blogs template to show us some flair. Brian has 37 pieces of flair. Get on that shit.

The content isn't for me. It's reminiscent of all those people I went to college and law school with who attempted to be upper crust elite, but would still get worse grades than me--the slacker who didn't give a shit about anything academic. Basically, I find those people who get to college/graduate school/a point in life/whatever and fulfill some kind of persona they think they should have absolutely fucking obnoxious. Intelligence is something you have or don't, it's not something you flaunt in the hopes people will believe you have it.

Now should this chick actually be this way? Well, I still wouldn't like her. I'm a goofball, I like to have fun, and if I'm going to spend time reading something, you know it's not going to have some kind of educational or real world value. This caveat excludes The Onion.

For me, this blog reeks of trying too hard. Maybe I have this opinion because I think a blog is the last place you should explore your political views, or talk about anything serious on a regular basis that extends personal strife and turmoil, but it's still my opinion.

I give it a and a

And now I go finish eating all my Boss' Crunch Dibs. The bitches are tasty!

This is your blog on acid

This is what your blog would be if Hunter S. Thompson wrote it.

I should say right here that I'm not a huge fan of Mr. Thompson. I get high on life (and an occasional infusion of ska or Jane's Addiction). Drug-addled pop culture observers don't do much for me.

And yet, after a steady diet of mommy bloggers and "dear diary, my dog failed her literacy classes today," Ry's blog was kind of like a breath of a gently pot-laced breeze wafting over my poor wretched nose, a nose that has been breathing too goddamn much sterile corporate air of late.

The template is aight. I can't find much to pick holes in, looks-wise, and I like the title. On the other hand, reading too much of his blog makes me feel like I've been smoking crack. Though, this isn't entirely a bad sensation, I suppose, since crackheads around the world seem to love it.

But he isn't boring. I think he may be nuts. And he really needs to put the thesaurus down and walk away from it. He verges over into "pretensious pseudo-intellectual I haven't been out of literature courses long enough" mode at times.

But he isn't boring.

I rate him:



However, I do think he occasionally believes in his own mythology a little too often, so to keep his ego in check, I'm also passing along this little reminder to keep him out of poseur-dom:

.

And I'd like to extend an invitation to move south and be my boy toy for a month or so. I don't know what he's like in bed (I suspect he has bad ADD), but I don't think he'd be boring.