What Are You, Blind? Then I'm Blogging for YOU Too.

I'm going to start blogging for the deaf:

FIRST OF ALL I'D LIKE TO THANK MY DEAF READERS FOR COMING TODAY. WE LOVE OUR FELLOW DEAF PEOPLE AND THINK THEY ARE JUST LIKE REGULAR PEOPLE ONLY... WHAT'S THAT?...

Oh. My producer is telling me that I don't need to yell on my blog for deaf people. I guess they must have one of those newfangled hearing-impaired Blog Reading Devices (or, BRDs for the acronymically-inclined).

However, there is another group of people I'd like to welcome to Nanny Goats in Panties and that's the blind people. You heard me (YOU TOO, DEAF PEOPLE! - I mean - you too, deaf people.)

Anyway, to all my new blind readers:

HELLO TO ALL MY NEW BLIND FANS! CAN YOU SEE ME OKAY? FIRST OF ALL, I'D JUST LIKE TO SAY THAT WE LOVE BLIND PEOPLE. AND THAT WE HERE AT NANNY GOATS IN PANTIES CONSIDER YOU TO BE JUST LIKE NORMAL HUMANS...WHAT'S THAT?

Oh. What? Them too? Excuse me, my producer has just informed me that we don't need to yell at the blind people, either. Boy, the next thing you're going to tell me is that we don't need to yell at dumb people as well.

Anyway, now that all the niceties are past us, I'd like to tell all you other insensitive bloggers how to be more accessible to the visually impaired. Seriously. You probably didn't even realize that blind people surf the internet all the time. And that's why I'm here to help. 'Cause I'm a helper.

So, according to the American Federation for the Blind, here are just a few tips:

1. If you have a blog roll, move it to your left-hand sidebar. Blind people use screen readers that begin from right-to-left and the last thing they want to do is listen to one long ass list of links before getting to your blog post for the day.
2. If you want comments, don't make them "enter characters seen in an image".  Also, if you can, label all your text entries in the comment form properly so they know what you are asking for.
3. Describe your images. In HTML, you can provide alternative text for images by adding alt="your description of the image" within the image tag. Here is an example of a properly alt-tagged image:

< img alt="blind man walks into bar" height="30" src="imgdir/blindmansbrokentooth.jpg" width="30" />


It's all about making your site more accessible. For more detailed info, you can go to the site from the AFB (American Federation for the Blind).

So if you know any visually impaired or blind people, send them to Nanny Goats in Panties. Or if YOU are visually impaired or blind, I'd love your feedback. But your Martian friends? You can tell them to forget it. We don't need their kind here, the green boyfriend-stealing bastards.

Goat Thing of the Day: The Men Who Stare at Goats

A new movie comes out November 6th starring George Clooney (also Kevin Spacey, Ewan MacGregor and Jeff Bridges) called The Men Who Stare at Goats.

It is based on a 2005 nonfiction book by UK journalist Jon Ronson.

From the book's dustjacket: "In 1979 a secret unit was established by the most gifted minds within the US Army. Defying all known accepted military practice - and indeed, the laws of physics - they believed that a soldier could adopt the cloak of invisibility, pass cleanly through walls and, perhaps most chillingly, kill goats just by staring at them."

Paranormal? Goats? Conspiracies? A secret wing of the U.S. military called First Earth Battalion? I am SO buying this book!

The movie trailer includes a goat scene. (I wonder if they cast those "fainting goats" for this movie)



Thanks to Israel who blogs on The Elmlish, for finding this on boingboing.

A NatGeo snippet about fainting goats:

How Disco Can Save Your Life

So this man-eating squirrel attacked me while I was rooting around in his nut stash (whatever THAT means) the other day. He came at me squealing like a banshee and by merely trying to defend myself, I accidentally smashed him over the head with my Pillowcase O' Pennies. As hard as I could.

Then I felt horribly guilty about it and decided that since he was only trying to protect what was rightfully his, I should try to resuscitate him. That's when I remembered a little something called CPR.

I put my ear to his chest and couldn't detect a heartbeat. Or breathing. He wasn't breathing either. So I pinched his nose - at least I think it was his nose - and blew into his mouth. His little chest puffed up and air squeaked out of his little mouth.

I put two fingers together from each hand and began pressing down on his little chest. Which brings me to the real reason I brought you here today.

Did you know that when you are performing CPR on a person, it needs to be within a range of a certain number of beats per minute? Like 100 beats per minute? Right about now you're probably asking, "How on God's green earth am I going to be able to know what 100 beats per minute is?"

Funny you should ask. Because I recently learned EXACTLY how.

Apparently, the typical human being can automatically remember a song at the correct original tempo, even if he can't carry a tune. So all you have to do is sing a song while your pushing rhythmically down on someone's chest.

And what song can you sing that is exactly 100 beats per minute while you're frantically trying to save the life of a person, be he man or squirrel?

Staying Alive. By The Bee Gees. No I'm not kidding. Ask any EMT (e.g. the lady behind Dispatches from the Outpost):

♫♫♫Well you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm.
I've been kicked around since I was born...♫♫♫

Of course, if you have an aversion to the The Bee Gees, or in the case of a stupid man-eating squirrel whose life you'd just as soon care less about except that now the neighbors have come out to see what all the squealing was about and now you have to feign heroism for the crowd that has gathered - the bleeding heart squirrel lovers...well, you have an alternative song to sing.

Another One Bites The Dust. By Queen. Again - not kidding:

♫♫♫Well, another one's gone and another one's gone.
Another one bites the dust.
Hey, I'm gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust...♫♫♫

And while mourners set up a shrine of flowers and streamers and memory books on your front lawn, they will claim that at least you tried. They will not know that it was pointless restarting his heart because of his brain dislocation from the Pillowcase O' Pennies. They will say that there was nothing you could do.

And then you can go sneak back later and raid his nut stash.







I want to thank Joanna of The Fifty Factor for helping spread the gospel that is Coconut Queen. She put a badge in her sidebar and everything! She's currently in the middle of a nail-biting saga about her husband. That she may have married twice, I don't know, because she's only released the 2nd of 3 chapters so far and I'm on the edge of my seat!!!!


(Coconut Queen graphic courtesy of iWin.com)

I would also like to thank Jo over at Diary of a Sad Housewife for the lovely and esteemed Splish Splash Award:

Goat Thing of the Day: Amish Mowing Machine

Sharon of Sweet Repose captured this picture of an Amish Mowing Machine (or an Amish Fertilizing machine - your choice).

 

Via Rita from Cash Jockey and the "Old Salt"

I Was a Little Bit Country Once

I normally can't stand music on people's blogs that suddenly scare the bajeezuz out of you because you forgot to turn it down last night after watching some stupid crappy YouTube video of a man in green lederhosen singing The Hills Are Alive. But I stumbled onto Glamour Girl's blog the other day and Dixieland Delight by Alabama began to play, taking me back to my Country Music stage of life.

In the mid-1980s, during college, I worked part-time for a country music radio station in Sacramento. Perhaps some of you remember KRAK 1140 AM, or KK105 FM. The DJs had names like Joey Mitchell (who ran the morning show for 20 years, and received Billboard Magazine's Best Country DJ award in 1988), and Big Jim Hall .

circa 1985

A few years later, when I first moved to Southern California, and was looking for a way to "get into" the L.A. scene, I tried country music dancing at a place called Denim & Diamonds. Because when you think of Los Angeles, aren't cowboy boots and Garth Brooks the first things that comes to your mind?

Granted, line dancing in California was a fad back then, so L.A. treated it like one, scooping it up, milking it for all it was worth, and then dumping it on the side of the road like an avocado-colored refrigerator.

Country music fans are some of the most red-blooded, down-to-earth Americans you'll find and somehow, Santa Monica managed to glean the Ferrari-driving, the bling-wearing, and the most painfully fashionable western clothing-donning supermodels alive to perform on the dance floor.

It was disgusting. Yet, there I was, Neon Moon-ing it on Saturday nights with the big-haired and mini-skirted in my generic T-shirt and blue jeans.

You might be asking, "what...the hell... was wrong with you?" Don't worry I got a little better the next year and began playing beach volleyball (although it took me another year before I would take off my shorts in public because even though I was healthily fit - everybody else was bonily fit. I had played college volleyball, indoors, and had eaten real food (cheeseburgers and fries and spaghetti and burritos - you know, college food), and all the girls were "healthy" so my caboose didn't look so big compared to my teammates. But surround yourself with a bunch of girls in bikinis on a Southern California beach and you suddenly feel like a hippo. A hippo with an unhealthy body image. I had a non-anorexic behind. Think Jennifer Lopez. Five minutes after she had the twins.

But I didn't come here to talk about my ass, I came here to talk about that OTHER Dixieland Delight - my brief career in country music.

The California State Fair opened this last weekend in Sacramento and it goes for two weeks. When I worked for KRAK radio, they'd haul their mobile studios to Cal Expo every year for the State Fair and park near the exhibit buildings. The mobile studio was an RV, filled with radio equipment and a back window that would open to expose the DJ to the public so that fans could stand and stare at them. My job was to stand out in the 100+ degree heat all day in a black KRAK T-shirt, doling out bumper stickers, T-shirts and the occasional cowboy hat, while the DJ's sat in the air-conditioned RV doling out George Strait, Randy Travis and the occasional Reba McIntyre.

When I wasn't working remote broadcasts all over town and then some, I was at the station calling random Sacramento residents at home. I'd call a number and say, "Hi, this is Margaret from ABC Programming and we're just taking a survey to find out what radio stations you listen to." Those first seven words were carefully crafted by scientific studies and research, along with only hiring women, all to increase the chances of being better received by the poor schmuck unlucky enough to pick up the phone. We couldn't tell them that we worked for the radio station, it would sort of ruin the survey.

But it worked! These people would actually answer me. If they listened to a country music station, then I'd ask them if I could play some songs for them so they could rate them. And they would do it! They seemed to enjoy it as well, listening to music and telling me if they liked it, didn't like it, somewhat liked it, loved it, etc. Today, you couldn't get out a "Hello Sir or Madam, this is ABC Programming calling for -" before you heard the distinct "CLICK!" and dial-toney "Brrrrrrrrrrrr!" in your ear.

But this was the 80's. Before we had things called "telemarketers" calling us at dinner time. It was also when real people called you, not the autobots who seem to insist on a daily basis that the warranty on my car is about to expire. And we were nice, we didn't start demanding to know why they didn't listen to country music and what would it take to get them to buy a Dwight Yoakam album TODAY!?

Anyway, here is a crappy quality video of Dixieland Delight by Alabama. I've included it here for your reference, not your opinion. Although if you want to tell me or NEED to tell me if you like it, somewhat like it, somewhat dislike it or hate it, knock yourself out.

Coconut Queen (iWin.com) Gets Awesome Reviews!

If you're just joining us, I wrote the story (and other content) for a new video game called Coconut Queen by iWin.com.

If you're not just joining us, Coconut Queen is getting FANTASTIC reviews! Including comments about how funny the story line is - YAY!

In fact, if you go to iWin's Home Page, and look at their Top 10 List, Coconut Queen is their #1 game right now.

You can see the reviews (and download the game for a free trial) HERE and HERE.

Goat Thing of the Day: Aspen

One of my blogger friends, Darryl Pollack quickly pulled over on a road in Aspen, Colorado, to capture this shot for Nanny Goats in Panties. (Darryl's blog is called I Never Signed Up For This.)

NGIP Quips With Quinn Cummings (Author and Academy Award Nominee)

Hello! And welcome back to The Nanny Goats in Panties Celebrity Hour. With us today is Quinn Cummings who has just published her memoir entitled Notes from the Underwear which I think ties in perfectly with our panties theme and... what's that?

I'm sorry, my producer has just informed me that it's "Underwire". Notes from the Underwire.

Well, that works just as well doesn't it? Because of underwire bras? And panties?

Well, anyway, Ms. Cummings is speaking to us via satellite. One of these days, we're going to get a guest to come into our alien invasion-safe studio, buried sixteen miles deep inside the earth's crust. So while we can't exactly SEE her, as far as we're concerned, she's here, she's Quinn, get used to it.

Some of you may remember her as Lucy McFadden in The Goodbye Girl (1977), for which she received an Academy Award nomination. Others may remember her as Annie Cooper from the television show Family. The rest of you are either too young (or were too stoned) to remember anything from the 70s.

If she were here with us, we wouldn't have to ask this question, but Quinn, darling? Can you hear me? What are you wearing?

QC: A blue t-shirt and khaki pants. Probably should have put on rattier pants before I watered the tomatoes. I swear, my hose has aspirations of being a fountain at the Bellagio in Vegas.

NGIP: Where did the title of your memoir, Notes from the Underwire, come from?

QC: It was a meaningless phrase which came to me at a stop light one day, as many of my more life-affecting thoughts will. It kind of references Notes from Underground, but also gave my editor the chance to use that cover art, which I just LOVE.

NGIP: You tell us in your book that your Significant Other’s name is Consort. Is that short for Consortium?

QC: Yes, he's a Roman senator. Actually, as I'm sure your readers know, Consort is the title a commoner takes when he marries a ruling Queen. Since I'm so not a Queen and we're not married, it seemed like a natural fit.

NGIP: Has your daughter (named Alice in the book) read your memoir?

QC: She's read carefully selected chapters. She is terribly proud of her mom and wishes I would spend whatever massive literary wealth I am irrationally hiding from her on ponies. Miniature ponies that can be ridden by kittens.

NGIP: What book(s) are you reading right now?

QC: I just finished "Lush Life," which is breathtaking and next up is Maile Meloy.

NGIP: Who are your favorite authors?

QC: The Davids, Sedaris and Rackoff. Sarah Vowell. Jean Kerr. Edith Wharton, when I'm feeling fancy. I love nonfiction, preferably related to science and behavior; "Predictably Irrational," "Mistakes were Made, but Not by Me," "A Short History of Nearly Everything."

NGIP: Starbucks or Coffee Bean?

QC: Coffee Bean, but only because I drink green tea and they have more tea options. I drink green tea even though I'm pretty sure that's how gardeners get rid of their lawn clippings.

NGIP: What is your greatest fear?

QC: Outliving my kid.

NGIP: Why do people even bother? I mean, really?

QC: Because not bothering makes you snotty and passive in a way that the rest of us just hate. Better to be futile but active.

NGIP: In your blog, The QC Report, you recently mentioned a futile battle with Facebook. What is it with them, anyway?

QC: Oh, I wish I knew. This is some variation of how the garage door opener works for everyone but me. Truly, the kid and I drive up to the garage and I hand her the opener because otherwise it's Quinn swearing and pressing impotently at buttons.

NGIP: So you invented the HipHugger. I have this great idea for an infomercial: we have ten naked male models wearing strategically placed Hiphuggers and you toss babies one by one as they catch them into the contraption, while you deliver witty anecdotes about growing up in a convent in Ecuador where you raised penguins. And then I talk in ALL CAPS the whole time while taking calls from old ladies who keep producing audio feedback because they won’t turn their TV down, despite the screeners repeated warnings. … What do you think?

QC: No offense, but that's been done to death.

NGIP: Do any of your HipHuggers have goats on them?

QC: No, but they don't have cats on them either and I'm so into cats that I nearly hork up hairballs.

NGIP: So what have you got against goats, anyway?

QC: It's the pupils. I promise you, if they didn't have rectangular pupils I'd be SO pro-goat. Even with the pupils, I keep trying to convince Consort that nothing says "Wholesome upbringing for the child" quite like her own goat to milk.

NGIP: I have this rash. What do you think it is?

QC: Goat fever.

NGIP: I have this screenplay called Nanny Goats Takes a Bleating. It’s a coming-of-age tale about a young goat who leaves her farm to go to New York City to become a supermodel but is hit by hay wagon on the way to her first audition. In the hospital she meets and falls in love with her plastic surgeon, but must make a choice between love and her career. Can you introduce me to a big name Hollywood movie director, someone whose name rhymes with say, “Poor Bessie” and tell him that my script is fabulous?

QC: I could if it weren't for that darn injunction he took out against me.

NGIP: Is there anything else you wish to tell the many thousands, and quite possibly millions, of NGIP readers?

QC: That you're looking awfully pretty today. Not everyone can use chevre as a hair treatment and come out looking so good.

Why thank you, my dear. Quinn Cummings, everybody!

And we'll be right back after a word from our sponsor with some tips on how to pump your cat's stomach.

What's that? Oh, my producer is telling me that we have no sponsor. And since Quinn has already disconnected, I'd like to take a moment to tell you how hysterical her book is. I found Notes From the Underwire refreshingly sarcastic and self-deprecatingly funny. If you're looking for a well-crafted, hilarious memoir, this is one of them. Last time I looked, you could find it in that Celebrity Biography section with the other best sellers in the front of the store at Borders.

Now, where's that cat?


[Editor's Note: You literal people who must know how much of this interview is real vs. made up: all the indented text in purple, from the moment I ask Quinn what she's wearing until we cut for commercial is WORD-FOR-WORD verbatim. So there. Happy now?]

[Editor's Note's Addendum: A Big Thank You to Rene from Not The Rockefellers for hooking me up with Ms. Cummings]

Release of new game from iWin.com: Coconut Queen

I worked on this video game. And Beta testers say it's funny!

Woo hoo! It's here! It's finally here! The casual online game where you are "stuck" on an island covered with hunky natives to do everything you say. Well, within PG-rated commands, anyway. It's one of those resource management games and you can start playing right now if you go to the Coconut Queen website! I think you can play it for free for an hour, then you purchase the game to play the whole thing. If you laugh, then it's quite possibly something I wrote, even down to the names of the buildings you construct. That is, the buildings that the hunky natives construct FOR you.

I Have This Pain on My Right Side

Have you ever walked into a room full of sullen face people and said "Hey! Who died?" and then wished you didn't? Because someone did? Or perhaps you've found other ways to put your foot in your mouth. Perhaps you weren't aware that your friend Trixie is still sensitive about her sons's sex change operation only to have you go on and on about the removal of your cat's genitals each and every time you see Trixie and Good Lord, what is WRONG with you?

Well, at least you can feel secure in the knowledge that Google's email program (called "gmail") has addressed such sensitivities. You know those sidebar ads - excuse me, "Sponsored Links" that pop up with allegedly related content?

Like when your Uncle Hogbert wants to know which goats you hired the other day for some light housekeeping:





See those "Sponsored Links" on the right-hand side? There's some genius algorithm that searches the content of your email in the hopes of serving relevant ads to you.

However, in the event you receive some sensitive, potentially catastrophic news via email, Google has seen fit to shut the hell up and let you sit in your sensitive space undisturbed...





See how there are no ads? That's because they are being SENSITIVE to the feelings you might have during this trying time.

Now, I don't want to get nit-picky or anything, but sometimes Google is socially clueless and their email bots - excuse me, "automated filters" can't sense when danger is afoot, and they continue to bombard you with ads.





And other times, when you're feeling really really really uncomfortable, Google can't seem to read between the lines:





That's because they block ads according to a specific list of key words, like SUICIDE or DEATH, regardless of how a specific email might make you feel. For example you might not necessarily be getting bad news:





and yet, they feel it would be appropriate to block ads in this instance because of the use of the word CRASH. Nevermind the fact that the word CRASH was also in the previous email. You know, the really really really uncomfortable one.

Also? Google overreacts to this one as well:





I'm assuming Google must have responded to outcries from all the people who felt offended by ads popping up as they notified others via email that someone had tragically died. Those same people who don't give a crap about you and can't be bothered to make a personal phone call. THOSE people are outraged that Google was insensitive.

So what good is this information to you? Well, I'm glad you asked because I was just about to address this very topic, but wait, watch this:





You see what I did there? Look ma, no ads!

That's right. All you have to do is figure out what key words will automatically filter out the ads and be sure to include at least one in your email.

I conclude with a wonderful sample email to send to loved ones, particularly the elderly who are still trying to adjust to this new-fangled technology. The last thing you want is for Grandma to be so overwhelmed with advertisments that it gets in the way of the actual message you're trying to send her and then that's all she can think about the rest of the week.

Just try and be thoughtful for once in your life and slip in a keyword to all your friends and family the next time you want to tell them you love them.





See? Now, wasn't that nice?

For those of you who haven't heard, I was interviewed by Powder Room Graffiti, and they got all up in my grill, digging for personal stuff. You can read the sordid details here. Feel free to vote it up or comment at the end. It will fool them into thinking I'm really popular.







Speaking of commercials, have you seen the one about the Goat Renter Guy? I hadn't until Jay from Sassmo's Blog showed it to me.



If video above doesn't work, try THIS LINK.

How Do You Let Go of Your Children?

I cared for her. I fed her. I cleaned her little bottom. Okay, I paid people to clean her little bottom. But one heartbreaking day several weeks ago, I had to give her up for adoption. I'm talking, of course, about my baby, little Jade Mica. Here she is at Carmax, the adoption agency:

Notice the sparkle in her eye. That's because she doesn't know we're leaving her there.

Some of you may have seen this very picture on my Facebook page. I was mourning my loss and had to tell someone. Someone who really really knew me and would understand. So I shared my feelings of loss with 500 of my closest friends.

I was inconsolable. Ask my husband. Little Jade Mica was a part of my life for nine years. But once I moved everything out of L.A. and into Sacramento, no longer living in two cities, there was no point in having two children any more.

Depression took me over, embraced me in its eternal grip, and handed me reams of Kleenex.

After about four or five weeks of this, my husband climbed up to my Tower of Despair and tentatively asked if we could stop fasting. At first I couldn't believe his gall. How could he think of food at a time like this? But then my stomach growled and I too became famished. Come to think of it, I was starving!

Excitedly, we decided to try a new restaurant. Well, new to us, the restaurant has actually been around for nearly 100 years. After lunch, we walked into the warm sunshine rubbing our bellies feeling satisfied and content. My husband looked across the street and stopped short.

"What's that?" he asked. "Is that little Jade Mica?"

My head jerked up to follow his pointing finger. We began to walk toward it's sleeping form. As long as I had little Jade Mica, we had never seen another one in the same color. Could it be? It had to be...

It was! I pulled out my phone and took a picture:

My heart filled with joy. She looked healthy and happy. I was so glad to know she had already gone to a good home - you know how everyone only wants to adopt infants.

Carmax is about 20-25 miles from my house, in Roseville, which is not even in Sacramento. Sacramento is a pretty large city (don't we have like over a million people or something?). When we saw it the other day after lunch, it was about 2-3 miles from our house. So maybe, if I wait long enough....








OMG, OMG, OMG it's almost here! There's a new video game coming to town from iWin.com on August 20. It's called Coconut Queen and I'll be credited as writer - woo hoo!





And no, I didn't write the code, you silly, I created characters and story and words and voices.





You can check out the game's website at www.coconutqueengame.com , see some screen shots, watch a little video of the game, and download wallpaper and ringtones. And then you can sit and wait a few days with the rest of us! I'll be the one in the corner looking like I'm doing the pee-pee dance.

Graphics courtesy of iWin.com.

Did you know there's a goat in Disneyland?

as seen on Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

It's amongst the 547,920 things you see in the It's a Small World ride. Thanks to Mikki of the Here's What Let's Do blog for telling us about it.




I'd like to thank Collette at My Babcia's Babushka for this little number, uh...whatever it is. A baseball holding open a book on a piano? I'm not sure exactly what it is, but I'm honored regardless.



I would also like to thank the Cincinnati Women Bloggers for teaching this HTML idiot how to stick one of these things on my blog for my many thousands of rabid fans who must have an NGIP badge of their own:


<a href="http://www.nannygoatsinpanties.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" alt="Nanny Goat in Panties" src="http://i191.photobucket.com/albums/z159/manjoufna/NGIP%20Badges/NGIPbadgepantiedgoat125x125.jpg"/></a>

Why Are You Talking to Me?

Don't interrupt me while I'm playing Bejeweled Blitz, or else you'll pull back a bloody stump, my friend.

The little eSpouse-Neglector from Hell

Anybody who has played this insidiously addictive one-minute game on Facebook knows what I'm talking about.

Facebook also has this Instant Messaging / Chat Box thing where any of your "friends" who can see that you are online can start a chat session with you.

99.99999999999999999999% of the time, my status is displayed as "Offline", so nobody can "chat" with me. Why would I put myself in the position that is the polar opposite of Caller ID, where you can see me, you know I'm there, and I can't screen the call first? Besides, most of the time, people want to chat me up when I'm not in the mood.

Also? I hate talking to people. I'm anti-social. People suck the life out of me.

You might be asking then, why I have nearly 500 friends on Facebook.

Uhhhhhhhh....

OK, you make a good point. So I decided the other day to open up to my people. Connect with my cyber friends. Stop hating. Let the chatting begin.

And within five minutes a little box at the bottom of my screen opens up and some Random Dude has decided that he wishes to speak to Yours Truly.

RD:  Hi

Well, I'm right in the middle of playing Bejeweled Blitz, the current crack of choice on Facebook right now, so this guy is just going to have to wait. Once I realize that there is no way I'm going to beat my current high score, I abandon the game and type into the little chat box (mind you, less than a minute has passed before I respond).

Me:  Sorry, I was playing a timed online game. Hi.

One would expect the other person to either make some bad joke about online games and "What r u doin?" or some such nonsense, but not this genius. He's on it. And responds to me thusly:

RD: Hi

Brilliant, right? I mean, I have no comeback for that. So, in virtual space, stuck alone with this guy out on the balcony at the loser party with a bad drink in my hand, and in desperate need of another, I stood there, taken away from my game thinking: Okayyyyyyyyy. In fact, that's what I wanted to type - Okaaaayyyyyyy..., but that wouldn't be nice, would it. So what should I say?

Nothing, as it turns out, because this guy has the Art of Conversation down, baby. And goes on just moments later with this:

RD: I like the wii.

Step right up, folks, we have a winner! Because he has once again stumped me. What. Do you say. To that? This chat thing is tempting me to say all kinds of things that I shouldn't. So I try something else:

Me: I was playing Bejeweled Blitz.

RD: Be careful with games here. They could have viruses that could attack you.

Oh my God, this is so exhausting, but I soldier on:

Me: So I hear.

You might be thinking, boy, she really isn't helping this guy build a conversation.

And you would be right. And I really don't care what you think, because you weren't the one stuck out on the balcony with this talktard while you and everyone else were having a good time at the spinach dip and weenies table inside. I should hurt you for leaving me alone out there.

But wait, he hasn't given up on me yet:

RD: Yeah.

RD: Be careful.

So, how do you sign off without seeming like a jerk? I mean if you've been talking for like a minute at the most, when is the earliest you can say, "well, I gotta be goin', thanks for all the laughs, Chuckles"?

So I said nothing.

Another agonizing minute or two later:

RD: Well, I gotta be goin'

RD: Bye.

So, anyway, unless one of you can tell me how to be seen as online only by a select set of friends, my little trial of Facebook chat is over.









Sue Bob Davis of the Red Stapler blog was following behind two Pygmy goats (named Bunny and Kitty)  in a Studebaker at the Ventura County Fair Parade on Saturday:

Click on picture to enlarge

Warning: This Thank You letter contains scenes of a graphic nature. It has been rated PG-13 for language. Some content may not be appropriate for children.

I would like to thank DG of the Diary of a Mad Bathroom blog for this effing fabulous award:

NGIP “Sits” Down With Saltwater Buddha, Jaimal Yogis

When I “sat” down with Saltwater Buddha author, Jaimal Yogis (yes that’s his real name), I half expected the first words out of his mouth to be something like, “It is what is, dude.” Or “What’s the sound of one surfboard clapping?”

Rather, he was very cool. It was I who was the complete interviewing dork. You’d think I’d have this interviewing thing down, what with my endless experience of one prior sit-down with another author. But no, I guffaw and chortle. I am buffoonery in panties. (Hey, what a great name for a blog! You can have that.)

Take for example my yammering right out of the gate:

NGIP: In your memoir, Saltwater Buddha, you say that your parents, in their “full-fledged hippie phase”, named you after an Indian saint: Baba Jaimal Singh.

JY: Yes.

NGIP: So can I call you Babs?

JY: ...

NGIP: I’m going to take that as a YES. So listen, Babs. How …[blah blah blah, etc., and Ad infinitum…]

And my God, the constant interrupting! And by interrupting, I mean yank the reins of a perfectly smooth flowing conversation out of his hands and jerk that horse-drawn wagon hard to the left.

Like when I asked him about his recently published memoir, he was lucky to get in the fact that “It’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance goes surfing”, or “It’s a coming-of-age memoir through the window of surfing”, or “It’s a love affair with the ocean” and then I’m breaking in about his appearance on ABC and Capital Public Radio the day before. He was not allowed to finish a thought. Seriously, I have this all recorded. I should be ashameed of myself.

And my subject wasn’t helping, let me tell you. Since Yogis (that really is his name) has a master’s degree in Journalism from Columbia University, he’d turn the conversation around to me. Or maybe I did that since I’m so dang egotistical - Hey, let’s make this interview about me!

I’d ask him about the documentary that local PBS filmmakers want to make based on his book (who are currently raising money to fund the film so if you or an interested friend have any extra investing dollars lying around, contact his publicist at lisa [at] catalystpublicity [dot] com), but then we veer off onto the topic of this video game for which I wrote content that is coming out soon called Coconut Queen by iWin.com, and see? I can't help myself. I’m hopeless.

Anyway, that’s when he mentioned hearing what some kids were doing in the gaming industry where “young Chinese kids mine their own gold” in video games. They don’t actually play the game but, “they sell their own gold on Paypal.” So anybody bitching about the unemployment rate just got a good lead on a new job, right here on NGIP. You’re welcome.

We drank iced coffees at Belle Bru Cafe, in the same Sacramento suburban neighborhood where he attended high school (Rio Americano if anybody wants to holla). That is, until he pilfered $900 from his mother’s credit card account and ran away to Hawaii, but then realized he probably shouldn’t be skipping out on his probation officer so soon after a DUI charge, so he returned and finished high school in Yuba City (Yuba City High if anybody wants to holla?....hello? anyone?) but he talks about all that in his book, so I won't spoil it for you.

Another thing that he talks about in his book that I don't want to spoil for you is his brief stint in France. In fact, I'll let Mr. Yogis spoil it:

JY: I found a cheap exchange program, where I had to pay the woman five francs if I had my hands in my pockets. Like that episode of The Simpsons where Bart has to stomp grapes for the Frenchman. They wanted me there for slave labor and they wanted me to teach their son English and that was it.

Now where was I? We were talking about me, right? Oh, yes, me and my inappropriate questions, such as:

NGIP: What the hell kind of a name is Yogis? Are you kidding me?

JY: It’s Lithuanian. When my great grandfather emigrated here, he was a Cossack in the Russian Army and he hated the Russians, so he stole a horse and ran away from the army and got onto a boat and ended up in Brooklyn.

And this gem:

NGIP: I see you have thirty-six 5-star reviews on Amazon.com for your book? Are any of them not your friends?

As it turns out, most of them, as he patiently explained to me, are in fact, not his friends. Well, touché, then.

Jaimal Yogis: 2, NGIP: 0

I asked him if his book had gotten any negative reviews (because, as you can obviously conclude by now, I’m all about suggesting someone’s failure).

JY: I have not gotten one negative review, which has been amazing. I’ve gotten a bunch that have said, “I thought this book was going to suck.”

So there you have it. His book does not suck. To be honest, Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance kind of bored me, but I found Saltwater Buddha to be engaging, funny, and poignant. It has intrigue and adventure. And “surf nazis”. I laughed. I cried. It didn’t suck.

As a matter of fact, his book just went into its 2nd printing, and that, ladies and goats, is no small feat in this industry, where the average book sells a mere 500 copies.

I asked him where he lived.

JY: I was in San Francisco.

NGIP: And now?

JY: I’ve been in the Bay Area since I got out of high school.

NGIP: In other words, you’re homeless.

JY: I was living in Ocean Beach.

NGIP: So, you’re a homeless person.

JY: Yeah.

NGIP: Homeless people read, right? What are you reading right now?

JY: The Twilight Books, I’m reading New Moon. I totally love it. It’s just like pure entertainment. Vampires have been symbols for us for hundreds of years, really dark, it’s cool how all of a sudden this typically dark story…it’s kind of like Monsters Inc., where your nightmares are turned into this happy place.

NGIP: Is it true that it’s against Buddhist rules to have sex with skulls?

JY: It’s in the Vinaya. It’s a very long list of rules. The Vinaya came out of the monks and nuns getting into mischief.

[Editor’s note: Nuns too? Sorry, ladies. Apparently this rule applies to you as well.]

And then with two minutes left on the clock, I asked a halfway decent question.

NGIP: All the running around you did, do you think you came full circle, finding yourself with Zen and meditating, which is what your parents were trying to teach you but you just weren’t ready to learn yet?

JY: Accepting the fact that I was a hippie just like my parents? That was what this book was about, understanding my own narrative, my own story. And accepting where I come from, whether you come from a family of investment bankers, or gypsies. That is part of you and there’s no way to escape that. I just want to be myself and honor where I come from. I spent years being afraid of who I am or falling into a fear of who I am. And people don’t really care. They’re more likely to accept you when you’re comfortable with yourself than when you’re trying to be something you’re not. That was a realization in the book.

NGIP: Do you like goats, or do their eyes freak you out?

JY: I love baby goats. Some goats are kind of demonic. Like Dragnet, where they have a big goat. At the end there’s this evil villain who wears a goat head. I love goat milk and goat cheese and they’re so cute. I love their little goatees. And I love the name of your blog too.

[Editor’s Note: Aw, shucks. *blushes*]

Then I got all Zen on his ass:

NGIP: If a chicken and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half how long would it take a caterpillar to sift all the dill seeds out of a pickle?

JY: Wow. I’m gonna take some time to meditate on that koan. That sounds like one that could break my linear thinking in a good way.

Yogis is currently signing books all over the place when he’s not going to schools and talking to kids or getting involved with 826 Valencia, that youth program started by Dave Eggers, that you may have heard of.

Jaimal Yogis' website
Upcoming Book Signings (The next few appearances include Denver, Santa Cruz, and La Jolla).

Upcoming Lawsuits regarding defamation of character: www.howtosueNGIP.com














So there's this stupid slot machine game on Facebook that my friends have suckered me into playing so they can get their daily tokens whose sole redeeming event is when I get 3 of these:

What the Heck's Tex-Mex?

Whenever I walk into a restaurant these days I feel compelled to comment on how many people it contains. If it is crowded I dramatically ask the Heavens, "Where is this so-called 'bad economy' about which everyone speaks?" Alternatively, if it is sparse, I marvel at how well the restaurant is surviving in spite of the 'bad economy'.

The other night we walked into a popular Tex-Mex (whatever THAT is) restaurant to see this:

Now it can't always be the 'bad economy' that results in a slow hour. So I searched high and low looking for some other reason as to why this place was so desolate.

It couldn't have been the snakes slithering all over the walls...

or the oddly Italian-themed artwork...



and there's no reason to dislike the 80s bands-inspired uniforms:





and so what if there are lizards on the ceiling that could drop into your plato Gordo at any moment?



and who doesn't have a decapitated head out front?



And I'm pretty sure walking in twenty minutes before closing had nothing to do with it.

I mean, we're talking about a Saturday night, people. Where IS everybody? I guess we'll never know.







Our Rachel Ray Cookware Giveaway (sponsored by CSN Futons) has finally drawn to a close.

We have a winner! Out of 654 comments, the Random Number generator spat out #197.

 

which belonged to Carol of CeeCeeBlogger

Congrats Carol! And thank you to everyone who played!








Everybody? Meet Butter Bean. Butter Bean? Meet Everybody.



Butter Bean is a Pygmy Goat. He's a Pisces, likes walks in the park, sunsets and music that you can dance to.

He's also litter box trained. Seriously.

He also likes this chair.



A lot.

If the chair falls over, he will complain at the top of his lungs until you prop it back up for him to climb back into. Butter Bean comes to us today by way of Melodie over at Laughing Duck Farm.