Not a Drag...

Hi. My name is Holly and I'm a reality television-aholic. I never realized I had it this bad. Until tonight. Tonight I have to fully disclose this addiction.

At first, it started out with an occasional episode of Survivor, maybe a little Fear Factor here and there in the early 2000s, but as reality shows became more popular, I found myself watching more. Soon, I learned I needed more reality television, campier reality television, the more awful reality TV the better, to get my fix. In my life, I have sat through entire seasons of bad reality shows like Top Design, Shear Genius and even The Pick-Up Artist.

I have seen entire marathons of MTV's My Super Sweet 16, three seasons of Rock of Love, every dance show out there: So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing with the Stars, Randy Jackson Presents: America's Best Dance Crew. You name the reality show, and I've watched at least one episode. I watch back-to-back episodes of America's Next Top Model, Project Runway, Tori and Dean. On occasion, I watch lesser-known reality shows like MTV's True Life or Two-a-Days or A&E's Vegas Showgirls: Nearly Famous, sometimes even Bravo's Work Out will satiate my craving. Occasionally, I will watch a show on television, while watching another online-- only occasionally though.

I have watched Britney Spears' Chaotic. I have watched Cathouse. That said, I do have standards. I will not sit through anything with Scott Baio, Dr. Drew, any married Bradys or combinations thereof.

I believe my love for reality television started way before the reality trend of the early 2000s. It's possible my obsession began in the 80s with Battle of the Network Stars. I used to watch those stars in their glittery leotards while they flew through the air with the greatest of ease, and I would sometimes pretend I was a competitor. Sometimes I still dream of glittery leotards and wish I was an American Gladiator, but that's more disclosure than I would like to admit right now. I can't pinpoint the precise time when I first started consuming reality TV, but I know I can't stop. I know I've seen it all. That is, I thought I had seen it all until tonight.

Tonight I saw something that boggled my mind. It rocked my reality television world. I will never be the same. Tonight, I watched my first episode of RuPaul's Drag Race.

RuPaul's Drag Race, where I heard RuPaul say that the winner will be the next drag superstar and be, "hotter than Tyra wearing a fat suit in July." Yes, RuPaul tells the would-be stars to "work it, girl." And I want to "work it" as well. If RuPaul's Drag Race is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The basic premise of the show is that the girls complete challenges, then are judged by RuPaul in a final lip synch show where they "lip synch for their life," and in the end, one queen is eliminated. It's your basic reality show formula, but in this show, the loser is told to "Sashay away."

So my reality television obsession continues, and one day the desire might be quelled. Until then, I will stick with RuPaul. Yes, I will "Shantay and stay."

A Pox on my House

Literally, there is a pox on my house. I woke up sick this morning and after a stint at the doctor, it's possible I have chicken pox. As an adult. Maybe I'm like Benjamin Button and I'm reverting back to kindergarten, which means I will have to take a stop at highschooltown, and my dating life will complete the proverbial swirl down the can.

While passing the time today, in between naps and inauguration, I ran across this post of fancy toys courtesy of the folks over at Neatorama. While I do love the paranormal and supernatural, I most certainly have a warm spot in my heart for the cryptids out there in the universe. Chupacabra, yeti and Pope Lick Monster, to be precise. I am further fascinated by the Sci-Fi Channel's show Sci-Fi Investigates. In a past life as a radio co-host, I was fortunate to interview Loren Coleman, the country's foremost cryptozoologist, who once spoke about local cryptids around the Bear Lake area in Northern Utah.

Giant. Beavers. "Beavers as big as Volkswagons," I remember Coleman telling us, thrilled to enlighten the masses. And so I find myself passing up the previously mentioned cryptid toys because they do not include the giant beaver. However, I do know of some folks who might just pass as a Yeti from time to time.

Nice beaver:

From a post at Cryptomundo referencing our big, bucktoothed buddies.

Love Bus Lowlights

Just when the Rock of Love franchise couldn't get worse, the producers at VH1 decide that putting a bunch of slammy, drunk bitches on a tour bus is a good idea. And God love 'em for it! Last week, we learned that there are some things too much even for Bret Michaels (I won't say where one of the lovely ladies stuck a shot glass) and this week, I'm giddy as the stripapalooza heads to Indiana.

For the first challenge, the hos write wedding vows for a fake walk down the aisle with Bret, and then present him with a gift. I didn't find it at all surprising that none of the girls chose a white wedding dress. What I did find surprising was that the gift that Bret seemed to appreciate most was a freshly-removed vaginal piercing.

The group proceeds to drink heavily and play a friendly game of "Who is smarter than a rock star?" which is a little like the blind leading the blind. Very few questions get answered.

The three girls who won the wedding challenge go on a hayride and lunch with Bret. Two wear extremely short skirts, which can not be comfortable when sitting on bouncy hay. The date was pretty uneventful, however impressive that none of them seemed to itch.

Finally, the rest of the episode sucked, and at this point nobody is worthy of my support-- yet. Next week one of the girls allegedly gets their implant popped.

Here are some key lines from this week's episode of Rock of Love Bus:
"I'm from Utah and there are Polygamists and Mormons and guys who marry, like, 10 girls... so bring it on, I'm used to this."

"If ever a tear falls from your perfect face, I will kiss it away..."

"I wrote these vows like if we were already in love..."

"I promise to cook you the best, rockin' food... and not ever wear panties."

"Getting a plaster mold of someone's torso is a little creepy."

"My mom loves me, and my family loves me and I WANNA' GO HOME!" (sob, sob, sob)

I'm Baaaack!

In the immortal words of little Carol Ann in Poltergeist, "I'm back!" Okay, I paraphrased that. She says, "They're back!" but that would imply that I have more than one of me, split personalities if you will. Peanut gallery, insert your jokes now.

I had a rough holiday season, I became a bit anti-social, but in the end, I decided to show some love to my blog. For a little while there, I had no desire to write on this since there are so many people out there who think they're funny and amazing writers, who actually end up contributing very little to the blogosphere. I am going to regularly write on here because I figure it might just motivate me to finally finish my book I've been trying to finish for years now. Maybe one day I'll finish it. Maybe one day I'll publish it. Maybe one day I'll print it out on toilet paper, have a party and invite guests to rub the sheets on their "no-no zones."

And I have another goal in 2009:
Get Kevin Rose from Digg to go for drinks with me.

Tonight, while sitting in a focus group with some fantastic women associated with UtahMama, (and no, my recent blog disappearance is not hint that I suddenly became a mama. I was there representing my work, if you must know) I professed my crush on Kevin Rose and was encouraged to pursue that. I figure it makes me teeter on the ledge of stalker, but if you can't be a stalker on the Web, where can you be a stalker? Seriously?

So no, every post won't be on my unrequited lust for Kevin Rose, but I will certainly track my progress. If any progress is made.

And I might occasionally even be marginally funny. Oh, and I'll post more pictures. For Kevin.

For the first random picture of the year, this is a screenshot of someone who lives near me:

Considering somebody died a couple of months ago in the other side of my duplex, I'm slightly concerned I might have a late-night brain seeking visitor. So sit back, relax and enjoy my regularly updated new outlook on blogging. It's bursting with fruit flavor.

Ode to Fuzz E. Cat

I don't understand how people have so much time on their hands that they actually sit down to create a Myspace profile for their dog or cat. I barely have time to regularly check one social networking profile (no, I don't have a Myspace anymore. Deleted it over a year ago and have been fine without it) much less check and maintain a fake pet page. I'm not downplaying the love for a girl and her cat-- three years ago my twenty-year-old orange kitty Fuzz met the giant Fancy Feast can in the sky-- but why must people put the virtual world through another pointless waste of bytes?

Is it really necessary to anthropromorphize these supposed best friends and companions with some wholly lameass, bogus rap sheet? Have they been sniffing too much litter box? "Hey guys, my name is Buttons and if you're looking for a good friend to hang with, shoot me an add! I love digging holes after a long day of licking things because I can. My favorite weekend activity is curling up with Salinger, and some day want to meet a hip cat who will Whiska me away."

Maybe I'm missing something, maybe there are thousands of pets out there in the world hooking up on Myspace during the day while we're not supervising our computers at home. But without supervision, would we then have to suddenly be concerned with additional cases of "pet"ophilia?

Just wondering.

I'm also currently on Loritab.

Oh thank heaven... part deux

I joke fairly often about leaving flaming bags of poop on people's porches, ringing the bell and running away. I've never done this, but for some reason I always crack myself up at a visual of a flaming bag of poop. What's funnier than a fart? Poop, because it's like a fart, but solid. What's funnier than poop? Poop on fire. Maybe I have the same sense of humor as a seven-year-old boy, but sometimes it's the little things.

That said, I was a bit disheartened to watch the news and find out that Sandy, Utah police are looking for three men who allegedly put their poop in a 7-11 microwave oven and cooked it. This was the same convenience store location to where I rode my bike with friends on hot summer days for a frosty Slurpee treat. It's not like it was a bad part of town either, it was an extremely well-off community, and now the police are looking for men who bake their dookie there. At my old 7-11. The 7-11 of my youth.

I have to wonder, however, why this store said the microwave suffered $3,500 in damages. I lived at that 7-11 for a long time, buying Garbage Pail Kids, stockpiling Lik-M-Aid like it was going out of style (which I think it has at this point), but never once did the sum total of all the equipment there look like it was worth over three thousand dollars. Maybe it was the money lost when the store had to close for a long period of time to air out?

I guess this goes to show you can put a price on everything. It's $3,500 for a dirty 7-11 microwave. But what is the price for tarnishing fond childhood memories? Now that the summers of my youth at that 7-11 are gone, so also is the pure innocence of the flaming bag of poop.

"Strange things are afoot at the Circle K."
--"Ted" Theodore Logan, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure

For another random 7-11 experience I had a few months ago, click here.

He did what?

In my plight to curb the absolute sickness and boredom I've had while doing the tooth recovery, I ran across this news story that made me glad I'm not a reporter in Ohio. Perhaps the police officer who was interviewed for the story puts it best when he says, "Once you think you've seen it all, something else comes around." Yes, yes it does.

I don't get it

I love underwear. When I'm feeling sad, there's nothing like heading to Victoria's Secret to check out the latest lacy stuff (unless we're talking bras, in which case, going to Victoria's Secret leaves me frustrated and empty) or jammies or whathaveyou. But there are certain things that some might consider "sexy" that leave me tilting my head to the side and with a furrowed brow asking, "Quoi?"

For instance: I don't understand crotchless underwear, I can't fathom cupless bras (or what I fondly refer to as a "boob-out") and I most certainly puzzled by the latest "underwear" I found from Lovehoney called the "C-string." (CAUTION! Link NSFW!) The C-string thong doesn't have any strings at all, in fact it appears to be just shy of a headband... 

I don't approve of panty line, in fact, I would hate to become a Glamour Magazine "don't." But has vanity seriously come to this? Are some women really so concerned with already barely-there underwear that they're forced to squeeze a headband into their girly bits? 

But wait, there's more! Reading further on the Web site, I learned that the C-string will eliminate tan lines too! Considering I am so sensitive to the sun I nearly turn to dust when at the beach, I am concerned the C-string wouldn't cover areas that might not need the extra UV rays.

For me, I'll stick with my affinity for wearing thongs and boyshorts, not at the same time, and save the C-string for pulling back my hair while I'm washing my face.

Only in Los Angeles

Like a heroin addict looking forward to a flame and a spoon, I look forward to Rock of Love 2. I'm not proud about it, it's just something I do. I didn't think it could get scarier and scarier each week, hell, I didn't think the ladies could get scarier than last season. As I watched tonight, though, I saw something so hideous and out of control I couldn't stand it.

I'm talking about the restaurant where Bret took some ladies for a date; a trendy West Hollywood eatery called Opaque where they tout "dining in the dark." From their Web site, Opaque will heighten your senses as you dine in a completely pitch-black setting, while being served by "specially-trained, visually impaired individuals."  It was great for Bret Michaels, as we saw from some risque night-vision footage. For me, the mere concept combines too many fears.

It's like "Dinner on Elm Street."

Not only am I scared of the dark, but I'm scared of food. I also don't necessarily like a surprise on a plate, and even though people frequenting Opaque choose their menu while in the light, who knows what one would actually get to eat? I instantly had horrible visions of the dinner scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they sit down to a feast of eyeball soup followed by a monkey brain entree with a side of dead bug puree. 

Maybe it's just me.

First off, I don't like my foods to touch each other on the plate. I have to properly separate it and make sure that my gravy-less mashed potato does not co-mingle with the dinner roll, which in turn does not converge with the plain turkey. I do not like sauces, I do not like things that are "squishy," and I've got the gag-reflexes to prove it. That alone would freak me out at Opaque.

Secondly, I am afraid of the dark. For the first few years of my life my parents would put me to bed at night, and just as they turned out the light, I would scream "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!" I would continue to scream for several hours until the neighbors grew concerned I was being tortured. To me, the dark was torture. This behavior lasted until just before I got my "big girl bed," when an escape from Alcatraz-like climb ended up in a face-first biff out of my crib resulting in a fat, bloody lip. As my dad iced down my face, thinking of how to tell my mom when she came home from work, his guilt took over and he let me fall asleep with him on the couch each night before carrying me to bed. This behavior lasted clear through several seasons of Miami Vice until I was nearly in junior high. (For those doing the math, Miami Vice ran from 1984 to 1989.)

Stick the two together in a "sensory dining experience" and for me, you've got a meal anxiety case study for any seasoned psychoanalyst. And then what if there are ghosts? I'll bet they haven't even considered the ghosts.

I want to open a restaurant called Bright Light. At my restaurant, you open the fridge-like door and are bathed in florescent glory. After donning sunglasses and a nice slather of sunscreen, you choose from a highly specialized, yet limited, menu of grilled cheese sandwiches, Special K with Red Berries and Diet Dr. Pepper. For dessert, you have Tropical Chex Mix and blueberry vodka. You know what to expect, no surprises, no Freddy in the corner. At Bright Light, you know what you're getting into, and the only people freaked out are the Mogwai.

Coincidence, or no?

Creepy!

I don't want to get all conspiracy theory tonight, but it's extremely coincidental that the man who was touted as the "Scourge of Scientology" was found dead of apparent suicide. Sure, he might've needed to get a life when he parked across the street from a Scientology-owned business and displayed anti-Scientology sentiments in his car windows. To that end, he probably spent a little too much time on Florida streets wearing a sandwich-board reading "Cult Watch." But I guess he pissed off one too many Scientologists when he started filming secret documentary footage and dumpster-diving for "classified" documents he later posted on his Web site.

Though his actions died down (pun?) when he decided to cease his work in bringing down Xenu and Pals and actually get a paying job, I guess it was to no avail. Mysteriously he was found in his apartment with a garden hose stretched from his car exhaust pipe to the window.

Nobody puts Tom Cruise in the corner. Read the entire article here.