More Dragon*Con goodness

This was the best costume I saw at Dragon*Con: Wonder Twin Jayna and her brother Zan, who had already transformed into a bucket of ice.

Don't blame him, he voted for the Brain Slug Party.

Very excellent 'Shaun Of The Dead' guys. It makes me wonder if they wanted to dress up like them because they already looked like them, or if they wanted to dress up like them at it was just luck that they looked like them anyway. Wait, did any of that make sense?

Cookie Monster and Franklin. Cookie Monster told me that he found his costume on eBay. I never got a chance to ask him why he was wearing a toga as well. But then, it might be better that I didn't know. Less therapy bills, you know?

Franklin and a dude whose badge name was The Gnome. He invited me to do a kilt check on him, which I somehow graciously managed to decline with the faint taste of barf in my mouth. Even more oddly, Jonathan had seen this guy before at IHOP.

Here's Jonathan being surrounded by more ladies. They just couldn't get enough of him.

Here's me being clever and rebellious. Take that, The Man!

I have no idea what this guy in the big yellow and red costume is supposed to be, but Jonathan knew and totally geeked out about him so I took a picture.

Lego dude! This was also a very excellent costume.

Sea Hag does Dragon*Con

I went to Dragon*Con on Friday, which is a huge nerd-stravaganza that's held every year in Atlanta, so of course my happy ass is all over that like a rat on a Cheeto. This year was my eighth (I think) time going, and much to my delight Noochie said he'd go with me. Just for the record,The Nooch is in no way interested in anything remotely nerdy, geeky, dweeby or dorky so this was pretty awesome of him. He was like a pilgrim in an unholy land. An unholy land full of girls dressed like fairies, goth kids, Trekkie fans, and sweaty men in 5x t-shirts whose only exposure to the female breast has been of the two-dimensional anime variety. Noochie is the bravest guy I know.

So we got there about 11 a.m. and to my surprise there were about nine million fellow nerds in line to get their credentials. I mean, most nerds don't get up until way after the crack of noon so I was pretty amazed that so many had showed up so early.

NERDS! I totally dug the dude with the Jayne costume on the right... and if you don't know who Jayne is, shame on you.

This is a little baby nerd dressed like Jango Fett we saw while we were waiting in line. Awwww!

Of course, it didn't surprise me that it took a little under two hours to get through the line, because Dragon*Con is a bit... well, I wouldn't say badly run, but it definitely has a bit of a chaotic element to it. I think this is because it's such a huge convention and that it relies almost completely on volunteers to do just about everything. Most of the reason it took us so long was because you had to fill out this form with your name and address and all that on it, then you paid one person, then you stood in a second line so that someone could put all your information in a computer, then you stood in a third line to get your badge printed up. Um... if anyone from Dragon*Con wants a suggestion, why don't you guys type that information into your computers after the con is over? I'll volunteer myself to do it. Anyway, it was all good, because it was totally worth it to hear the girl yell out "Sea Hag!" when my badge was printed.

Anyway, we went exploring after that, and we went to the Walk of Fame, which is where the celebrities hang out, and I met Gil Gerard of disco-fabulous Buck Rogers fame. He was a nice guy! I told him about watching Buck Rogers during my bout with boogers, and we talked about 'Amelie' for a bit too. Most celebrities that show up for cons are either very cool and have a good time meeting their fans, or they act like total asshats, which is a shame.

Franklin got to meet Gil Gerard too, and he thought he was a total class act.

After that, we went to one of the dealer's floors, where they sell all things great and nerdy. Noochie got some awesome movie posters. I walked by a table and saw stuff for the Owly comics. Now... I'm going to admit that last year I met Andy Runton, who draws Owly, and I had a total fangirl moment. I mean, was just a total tool and giggled and blushed and was in general a complete moron. Much to my relief, he wasn't there for me to embarrass myself again, but his nice girlfriend was, and she pointed out some of the super-cute stuff they had for sale, one of the items being the MOST AWESOME HAT EVER which looked like owl ears and had a little Wormy on the head too. If you go look at the comic you'll understand why this is so friggin' rad and why I had to buy one and wear it right then. Of course, after I bought it, Andy Runton came up and wanted a picture with me and my new hat, and I'm proud to say I didn't get all stupid on him again.

You can't look at this and not tell me that this isn't the best hat you've ever seen. I mean, it's so awesome that I put a picture of myself on my blog just so you could see it. I'm here with Andy Runton, the creator of Owly and a super-duper nice (and tall) guy. Go buy his stuff!

Shortly after the Awesome Hat Experience, Noochie had to go do some Noochie stuff, so I hung out with my friends John, Missy, and their friend Dean for a little bit then met my friend Jonathan for some beer in the bar at the Hyatt. Fun was had! Beer was drank! There were some Jägermeister girls there and we got all sorts of free stuff from them. There were also some Michael Collins girls there (apparently it's some kind of whiskey. Who the hell does shots of whiskey at a hotel bar?) and some Miller Lite girls too, who were...well, let's just say that out of all the Liquor Chicks, they were definitely the 'light beers' of the bunch.

Jonathan and the Jäger Girls. Jonathan had chicks all over him all night long, even with me sitting there inadvertently cock-blocking, because that's just how totally sexy he is. He's single, ladies!

After much beer, we wandered the con and saw crazy people and sat through a viewing of the 'musical' episode of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' and I somehow wound up getting free parking in Atlanta, which is a miracle in and of itself.

Tomorrow: More con pics!

Cinnabon canned coffee = meh

When I saw the 4-can bricks of Cinnabon premium coffee drink at the Super H Mart, I just about pooped myself. I mean, does everything that Cinnabon makes taste awesome? And am I a total slut for coffee? I think we all know the answers to those questions. So I bought the Caramel Nut Latte and the Cinnamon Vanilla Latte flavors and went home to have my taste buds be awash in Cinnabon coffee goodness.

I think I might have set my expectations too high for this drink, because I thought they both tasted like Yoo-Hoo. Now, I love me some Yoo-Hoo (especially the strawberry one) but I really wanted it to at least pretend to taste a little like coffee, not super-sweet chocolate-ish water. Plus those little fuckers were expensive so that was a bummer too. It would have cheaper to just get a truckload of Yoo-Hoo.

In the end it's probably not Cinnabon's fault this tasted kinda crappy. I think coffee is just one of those things that tastes filthy in from can, like beer, spinach, and mushrooms.

Sea Hag vs. The Boogers

Well, Sea Hag fans, it looks like I might be victorious over the Phlegm Monster... for now. And during my sickness I learned a few things:

1. Double shot of codeine-laced cough syrup + 2 Tylenol PM + 2 glasses of Kahlua and milk = 4 hours of sweet, merciful sleep.

2. Humidifiers are the greatest invention known to man.

3. Soup, grapes, Oreos, hot tea and a sandwich all arranged on an awesome red school lunch tray go a long way towards making me feel better.

4. Don't share your cough medicine with codeine unless you are really, really, really sure you don't want it anymore.

5. Next time I have something this awful I will be sure to lick more people I don't like.

Drugs, drugs everywhere

... and they're all IN ME.

Darling Sea Hag readers, I would like to point out that it is 6:31 a.m. and my happy ass is still awake. Now, I'm notorious for having pretty bad insomnia, but I haven't slept but about 4 hours in the last 50. OK, I've been known to stay up even later than that on occasion (all the time) but I am currently battling some stupid-shit bronchial infection so I need to sleep VERY BADLY. So, naturally, I can't.

Yay for drugs! I noticed that after I took this picture I was inadvertently giving a thumbs-up to Michael's DJ gear as well, but in the end I decided that I was killing two rad birds with one stone. Or thumb. Whatever.

Let me give you a little slice of history how this all came to be. When I woke up on the morning (well, afternoon) of my birthday, I had a sore throat, so that was just a big, sweet steaming pile of motherfuck. But let me state for the record that not only was Friday my birthday AND I was sick, I didn't call in to work (you can send Martyr Dollars to Sea Hag, P.O. Box 369, Walla Walla, Washington, 90028). But what started out as a sore throat turned into a raging phlegm monster that finally made me to go to the doctor yesterday.

So while at the doctor's office, after forgetting about me for an hour, they had me smoke some peace pipe thing and then they gave me a shot of sting-y medicine in my ass. They also gave me prescriptions for three other medications to take at home.

Let me just state for the record that out of the five medications I ingested today ON TOP OF the gallons of hot tea, orange juice, Tylenol, and Robitussin I took, not one damn thing has worked at all. I'm still coughing about every 45 seconds, which I'm sure would be keeping Michael up if he hadn't been up all last night with me watching 'Buck Rogers in the 25th Century'.

The cough medicine I'm taking has codeine in it, which had previously been a good friend of mine but is totally disappointing me. It should at least be making me drowsy if not making me think I can walk through walls and hear dead people. I think the problem is that the other two medications I'm on are some kind of steroids since I can't take NSAIDs, and both of them have promised to give me a jittery meth-like jolt according to their patient information cards, so I'm pretty much totally dicked (and not in the good way... although, if they keep me on steroids I might be able to dick myself soon). But at this point I'm so desperate for sleep that I popped two Tylenol PM (on top of the Rozerem I took 5 hours ago), adverse drug interactions be damned.

So please, down-stairs neighbors, if you hear a loud thud in about an hour, call 911. I'll try not to soil myself if I have a stroke.

Douchebag pleads guilty

So, Michael Vick decided to plead guilty to federal dogfighting conspiracy charges earlier today, and so the question now is what will become of his career? I was reading this article on Yahoo! News and saw this quote in it from Green Bay general manager Ron Wolf:

"If he [Vick] pays his debt to society, why shouldn't he get another chance?" asked Wolf. "Maybe I don't understand something in all of this, but you're supposed to get a second chance in this country."

In a perfect world with unicorns and candy rainbows and elves who make cookies in hollow trees, yeah, the dude should be given a second chance. But in reality? I don't see it happening. First, the 'second chance' this guy is talking about is the chance for ex-cons to come out of prison and go be productive members in society, not return to star positions on a professional football team and make millions of dollars.

But what about all the other guys in the NFL who are ex-cons? They all got a second chance! Wolf goes on to say:

We've had a lot of people in this league do a lot of bad things, and they still got a chance," Wolf said. "Leonard Little killed someone (while drunk driving). Jamal Lewis went to prison (in connection to) selling drugs. Are you telling me that killing eight dogs is worse than killing a human being? … Yes, this is bad, but are you really telling me that he doesn't deserve a chance to play again when other people have committed crimes and come back?"

Ah, but what did the two examples that he mentioned have in common? That's right, drugs and alcohol. We are a society that is willing to forgive anyone after they stand up and say "I have a problem with drugs" or I have a problem with alcohol" or "I have a problem with Internet porn" or whatever. We cut addicts a lot of slack because in our society we understand that to have an addiction is to have an incurable disease, and even if they fake like they have a problem we still tend to go along with it. You can be addicted to gambling, but I don't think anyone would buy that you were addicted to slaughtering dogs and being a total douchebag.

But I think the biggest reason that Vick will probably never make a comeback is that we are a society of dog lovers. Just turn on Animal Planet for a day and you can tell by the number of times they play shows about animal cops or vets. We have entire stores dedicated to the upkeep and pampering of dogs. We might be a society that forgives someone with a substance abuse problem, but I doubt anyone will forgive Vick for the wholesale torture and killing of dogs. And people who can't forgive are people who won't buy tickets. And if you can't get people to buy tickets to a football game, you can't expect that any team is going to want to hire you after you're done paying your debt to society.

Go Sea Hag, it's your birthday!

Yes, people... it's my birthday. And you, too, should party like it's my birthday.

I'm the big 2-9 this year, which means that I have exactly ONE year to pull all the stupid shit that you just can't get away with in your 30s. Yes, I know your 30s are the new 20s (whatever the fuck that means) but have you ever seen a 36-year-old woman coming out of Forever 21 in the mall wearing a tight little tank top that is short enough to see her navel piercing? And didn't you just roll your eyes a little? Now do you know what I mean?

Anyway, this is the year to get another tattoo and another piercing. This is the year I blow a lot of money on shit I don't need and not give a damn about my credit score. This is the year to take a bunch of stupid road trips for no other reason than to see the World's Biggest Paper Bag. This is the year I paint my fingernails black all the time and possibly dye my hair a stupid color. This is the year to drink too much and eat lots of candy and not get enough sleep. This is the last year I will wonder if I should just quit my job and go backpacking around Europe to 'find myself'. This is the year that I blow off work as much as possible to go to concerts, because Flying Spaghetti Monster knows that next year I will probably worry about damaging my hearing. Next year I will probably become one of those tools who wears earplugs to a show.

I know some of you who are older than I am are already having a good chuckle about my impending sense of doom about my 30s, but let me just say this: I have become one of those people who always has a pullover or jacket in my car just in case it gets chilly. Even at the height of a Georgia summer when it's 104 degrees outside, I have a hoodie in my car because I get cold in movie theaters and restaurants sometimes. I have become my great-grandmother and I'm still in my 20s.

I need some beer.

Mmm... sacrelicious (or, WWJTL?)

In my previous entry about how I'm a whore for candy and if I ruled the world there would be Christmas-themed Skittles, darling reader Dragon wondered just what would a Jesus Skittle taste like?

If Jesus tasted like a sandwich, he'd definitely have three kinds of cheese and bacon and lots of spicy brown mustard.

My initial thought was that Jesus would taste like cinnamon rolls hot from the oven. I have absolutely no idea why I thought that. But if the Son of God had a flavor, would there be anything better than hot, fresh, ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls?

Or maybe I thought that because of the strong connection Jesus has to baked goods. He did claim that he was the bread of life (John 6:35) and he multiplied loaves of bread to feed 5000 people (John 6:11-12). There's also his strong predilection to appear to people on bready items such as tortillas and grilled cheese sandwiches. So maybe Jesus would taste like a nice loaf of sourdough.

Jesus' association to bread is also symbolic one, as bread is a staple of many diets, so then should Jesus be as important in your daily existence (or so Christians would believe.) But then, bread being central to a diet is a cultural thing too. There are many people in the world who don't consume bread daily, but consider other types of food as being the basis of their meals. If you consider this, then in Asia Jesus could taste like a bowl of rice, or in Central Africa, could taste like fufu.

Going back to John 6:11-12, Jesus might have created the first Filet-O-Fish by handing out fish as well as bread to the hungry. There is also a strong Jesus - fish connection in Christianity, as Jesus is sometimes referred to as a fisherman or a 'fisher of men' (Matthew 4:18-20). Even if you've never heard of John 6:11-12 or the fisherman allusion, you've no doubt seen those metal Jesus fish things (also known as an ichthys) on people's cars. So maybe Jesus would taste like a nice, cool piece of salmon sashimi or a can of Chicken of the Sea (dolphin safe, of course).

Of course, one religion's main purposes is to provide solace to people (or as Karl Marx said, be the opium of the people) so that people who do have faith might think that Jesus could taste like their favorite comfort food: macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, chicken noodle soup, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Cap'n Crunch, grandma's meat loa f, whatever. Since Jesus is also responsible for most of our major holidays, you might associate his potential flavor with a delicious spiral-cut Honeybaked Ham, Marshmallow Peeps , hollow chocolate bunnies, fruitcake, candy canes and sugar cookies. The flip side to all of that would be the people who have been victimized by organized religion, who could think that Jesus would taste like tears, dust, blood, bitterness, or pimento cheese (one of the most disgusting food items known to man).

Fuckin' rad lolcat illustration by Michael, who thinks that Jesus would taste like a nice pinot noir.

There's always the literal answer to What Would Jesus Taste Like, of course. Having never taken a bite of Our Saviour (or any other person), I would have to guess that Jesus could taste like chicken, though honestly I think that humans would taste more like pork chops. If you believe in transubstantiation and communion rites, then you might think that Jesus literally tastes like communion wafers and wine.

In the end, I guess What Would Jesus Taste Like would come down to your personal experiences, much like religion itself. So what do you think Jesus would taste like? Would he be delicious? Sweet? Savory? Nougat-filled? Covered with rainbow sprinkles? Leave some comments!

From the diaries of Dr. Sea Hag, Archaeologist:

10 August 2007

I was conducting an archaeological dig of the refrigerator section of the Kitchen last night when I came across an unknown substance lurking on the bottom shelf. Indeed, I was intrigued by the multi-globed, vivid green mass that was contained in a clear, plastic-like container. After careful examination, I discovered that there was a word printed on the 'bag', identifying its contents as GRAPES.


We may never uncover the great mystery that is the GRAPE.

What are these GRAPES? In my many years of studies I have come across - yes, and lustily consumed - several foodstuffs that had been categorized as being "grape-flavoured", but these round, luscious clusters in no way resembled the violet-hued candies and syrups I have known previously from various Skittles bags and grape-creme slushies from Sonic... the GRAPES were secured in a "crisper drawer" for safe keeping until I could research this marvelous find.


11 August 2007

Spent an exhausting day studying the great GRAPE find from yesterday. I came across an ancient text in the early hours of the morning that has helped us understand this unusual object:

A grape is a fruit that grows on the vines of the family Viteace. Grapes grow in clusters of 6 to 300, and can be black, blue, golden, green, purple, red, pink, brown, peach or white. They can be eaten raw or used for making jam, grape juice, jelly, wine, and grape seed oil.

FRUIT! I had heard about these once, many years ago during my studies at Choate. My sophomore roommate, a Miss Nora Whytten-Bosworth, claimed that her svelte figure could be attributed to her enthusiastic consumption of these 'fruits' as well as multiple plates of something she called 'salad'. I had previously believed these terms were coded jargon that she employed to cover the unsavory extra-curricular activities she conducted on her knees or during the mornings when she woke up in a puddle of her own sick in the water closet.


12 August 2007

After much deliberation with the faculty of the university, I have ordered a few of my students to consume a GRAPE while I observed them. All of them seemed to have a most unfavourable reaction to this news, leading me to believe that the GRAPES were most unsatisfactory to the taste buds and, in fact, caused the consumer a great deal of outward hostility and uncontrollable vulgar language. Such comments I observed were:

• What an idiot
• What a fucking idiot
• What a motherfucking idiot
• I am too hung over for this shit right now
• This class is such a waste of time

My exploration of the GRAPE is just beginning! This is an exciting time for me.

I'm a candy whore

So, I'm a total whore for candy and on the suggestion of Diablo Cody I wanted to try the new Carnival Skittles. I got to try a few when I went with most of the Hyperion Nation to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and since then I have craved more. I finally found a Kroger that was selling them and bought myself a giant-ass bag.

Limited Edition Carnival Skittles = nom nom nom.

Last night I was munching on my Carnival Skittles and telling Noochie how much I was digging on the red licorice flavored ones. See, if there is one candy I would totally abandon all vestiges of dignity for, it'd be Twizzlers, so I was totally happy that the good people at the Skittles company made a Skittle that tasted so much like Twizzlers. Noochie ignored my near-orgasmic ramblings about Twizzler Skittles, but was intrigued by the fact that Skittles decided to make a bag of candy based on a theme instead of a collection of flavors (like Sour Skittles, Smoothie Skittles, Wild Berry Skittles, etc.), Noochie and I wondered what theme they might come up with next:

Baseball Skittles: beer, nacho cheese, popcorn, Cracker Jack, hot dogs, peanuts. (They could also market Baseball Skittles to Cubs fans with an additional flavor called bitter disappointment. Ooooh burn!)

Crack Whore Skittles: crack rock, sperm, Dumpster juice, motel tap water, desperation.

Carnivàle Skittles: dust, bearded woman, lobster gal, Knights Templar, evil (which would taste like green peppers), good (which would taste like chocolate Twizzlers).

Christmas Skittles: Christmas tree, sugar cookie, Jesus, spiked egg nog, new socks, credit card bills, bitter disappointment (again).

Hippie Skittles: hemp, dreadlocks, organic arugula, patchouli, tofu.

We should work for the Skittles company, clearly.

To the person who stole Michael's car:

First of all, we found his car today, so fuck you very much. Second of all, if I see anyone even looking at his car funny I will cut you because I am not afraid to go back to jail. So you'd better pray that I never find you.

Look at this pitiful little face! How could you do this to him, you heartless beast?

Also, next time you need to get back to your crack house in Lilburn just ask for a ride, asshole.

Best. Picture. Ever.

International ______ Day!

I'm involved with International ______ Day this month, and I got to pick today's theme! Go read it and love me! LOVE!!!!

I still have issues

In glancing at my blog entry from a few days ago (yeah, all those site hits? Like 1900 of them are mine), I realized that my list of Food Network People I'd Bang wouldn't be any good without a list of people from Food Network I wouldn't sleep with to serve as a basis for comparison. So here it is:

Food Network People I Wouldn't Bang With a Loaner Pussy

5. Giada De Laurentiis

Or, as I call her, Lollipop Head. Actually, she's not that bad, her recipes have been pretty decent and her show is pretty good, but what put her on the list is that she is one of those people who has had a charmed life and you just want to punch her in her big planetoid head. Oh, you're the granddaughter of a big movie producer and you grew up in a rich family! Oh, your family wanted you to be an actress but you turned it down to go to culinary school in Paris! Now you work on TV and get to travel the world and rub it in everyone's face on 'Giada's Weekend Getaways'! Oh, and you turned out to be pretty on top of all that! Actually, she might be good for a grudge-fuck, come to think of it.

4. Duff Goldman

Just because his chin looks like it got a Brazilian wax and his show is just a 30-minute long commercial for his bakery. I would, however, totally get it on with the redheaded secretary.

3. Sandra Lee

Besides her unhealthy obsession with canned cake frosting and vodka-based mixed drinks, this woman is the poster child for meth. Seriously, she doesn't blink! And every show she does her outfit matches the set. Every. Little. Detail. Matches. Her earrings, the napkin holders, everything! I mean, who has time to go out and buy all this shit and obsess over every tiny thing? Someone smoking meth, that's who! If she's not on crank, I think she's the undead.

2. Gail Gand

Oh, there's nothing much wrong with her in the looks department, and I'm not entirely sure why I think this, but she just seems be someone who is really kinda clingy and needy. Like someone who would call you seven times and send you thirteen e-mails the day after you slept with her. Also, her show is boring and her recipes are too tedious and difficult. Sorry, I don't have 3 hours to make decorative sugar floss for the chocolate cake that took me 2 days to bake. I'm all about the Betty Crocker, baby, and that's why our love could never work. It's not you... it's me.

1. Michael Chiarello

If you looked up 'douchebag' in the dictionary, you'd come up with this guy. Seriously, he's such an asshole that on New Year's Eve Ryan Adams blogged about how stuck-up he was. He's one of those guys who owns a winery and acts as though you're the biggest piece of crap ever if you aren't currently investing all of your time and money into growing your own vintage in your backyard. The show is basically him making fussy, yuppie food for endless dinner parties. I'm sorry, but I've never been to someone's house for a 'dinner party' before. I'm not going to force a friend of mine to cook for a group of picky-ass eaters and then get stuck with a pile of dishes and crappy leftovers that no one wants. No, we go out to eat at a crappy chain restaurant like Applebee's, damn it! We willingly pay $12 for pasta that is one step up from Top Ramen because we're Americans and that's how we roll! He also did a show where he cooked for a bunch of kids and he made some crazy-ass lasagna and grilled chicken things. The kids all looked like they were about to cry. I don't have kids but I know enough that no kid wants to try any new food ever. Just make hot dogs and fries, man! Michael Chiarello, you can take your Fennel Spice Chips and your heirloom tomatoes and cram them your up your Pilates-sculpted butt.

I have issues

My name is Sea Hag, and I have an addiction.

It's hard for me to talk about this, you know, but understanding I have a problem is the first step towards recovery, and I am so ready to get on the road to independence from this crippling disease.

My addiction has robbed me of time with my family and loved ones. My addiction has caused me to ignore my household duties. My addiction is the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think of when I go to sleep at night.

My name is Sea Hag, and I am addicted to Food Network.

I love Food Network. LOVE it. When I wake up in the morning on my days off, I turn on the TV and, oh look, there's Paula Deen making pork chops! It's like she's saying "Good morning! Let's start the day off right with some grease and butter!" And yes, it is a glorious morning when I can wake up to some soft-core food porn on 'Everyday Italian' or roll my eyes at the lameness of 'Iron Chef America'. And when I go to bed at night, I leave the TV on so that Alton Brown can nerd me off to sleep.

Because I spend so much of my conscious day watching Food Network, I tend to think about it non-stop, and I have taken an unhealthy interest in who is hot on Food Network. So after thousands of hours viewing, I have come up with the list of...

Food Network People I'd Bang:

Honorable Mention: Jamie Oliver

He'd rank higher if I'd seen him around lately and if he didn't spit when he talked. But that dry English charm is delectable. I had a friend who had a Jamie Oliver crotch-shot poster and it was so rad.

5. Rachael Ray

You either love her or you hate her. Honestly, she's about right where Emeril Lagasse was five years ago as far as Celebrity Exposure Overload goes (Emeril had a sitcom once, for God's sake!) and she's perky to the point of nausea sometimes, but she's just so damn cute I can't help but like her... and that ass! Her ass is so bodacious, sweet Jesus. I get all moisty every time I see her in the Dunkin Donuts commercials, because I imagine her eating strawberry-frosted pastry and getting even more curvy and juicy.

4. Jamie and Bobby Deen

Oh, to be the warm, pink meat in a Deen Brothers sandwich. By the way, I've actually met Jamie Deen in person and he was so, so hot. He's got beautiful blue eyes. And in my one shining moment to be able to impress him and become Paula Deen's daughter-in-law, I said "Hi. Heh. Um....hehmmmhuh." Next time, I'll just take off my shirt and let my boobs do the talking.

3. Nigella Lawson

She's beautiful and decadent and naughty and has that kick-ass, sultry accent. She has a recipe for boiled eggs on foodnetwork.com where she mentions prostitutes. If you've ever seen her eat a roast chicken with her fingers you'd think that you were watching free porn. It would be a considered a crime against humanity if I didn't include her on a list that had to do with sex. I'd sit on her face any time.

2. Tyler Florence

He's Food Network's pretty boy, and even though he's put on like 15 pounds in the last few years, he's still totally fuckable. I really liked him in 'Food 911' and in 'Tyler's Ultimate' and I've made a few of his recipes that have been really good. But what kept him out of the top spot that he's a shameless corporate shill for Applebee's. I'm not saying that it's bad to be a whore for a restaurant or product, but Applebee's? Blah! They are to wacky-farm-implements-on-the-wall chains what Arby's is to fast-food restaurants. Chili's is much better. Hell, Outback Steakhouse is better! Major points were lost for lack of taste.

1. George Duran

In an unprecedented upset over favorite Tyler Florence, George Duran comes in first as Food Network Person I'd Most Love To Bang. He used to have a show called 'Ham on the Street' that was pretty damn funny, and he's got the little chubby-cheek Latino thing going that I just love. The first time I saw him I said "he will be mine - oh yes, he will be mine." I just want to put a little saddle on him and ride him all around. Mmmm mmm.

Sea Hag PSA

For your information, the tan M&Ms were replaced by blue M&Ms in 1995. In other news, my brain apparently went missing for nearly 12 years.

Here is what I would look like if I were an M&M:

Random thoughts for today

The smell of mothballs might be the worst smell in the world. One of the best smells is the smell of rain falling on hot pavement.

I wonder how many times I've had sex in my life. Why doesn't someone make a sex odometer? If you had a foot fetish, would it be a sex pedometer instead?

Sandwiches always taste better when someone else makes them.

I don't think about my toes that much. I feel kinda bad about that.

I like making ptoo! ptoo! laser noises. It makes me crazy happy.

When did tan stop being a color in a bag of plain M&Ms?

Yes I am still here

And so it was that The Flying Spaghetti Monster looked upon my computer, and saw that the motherboard was bad, and touched it with His Noodly Appendage. And lo, it did melt and cause me to curse and cry and not be able to post to my blog.

Well, I thought it was a good excuse.

While it's true that the magical unicorn or whatever mystical creature that makes the damn thing died, I have been pretty non-existent in the Sea Hag Universe lately. Call it boredom. Call it sheer laziness. Call it exhaustion and mild depression. Any way you slice it (mmm, slice) I have been neglecting my blog and all writing in general lately. When I started this blog I didn't want to post on here for the sake of posting. God knows teh intertetz is full of wastes of space as it is and I didn't want to add my trash onto the pile. But I realized that I hadn't made a single post in over a month and that I really did have things to say and people to curse and hate, so I needed to drag my sorry ass out of hibernation and get back to it again, broken computer be damned.

Chattanoooooga! Part 2

So on our second day in Chatty, Noochie, Franklin and I had more adventures:


It was crappy and rainy, so we went to the aquarium.


Franklin was attacked by giant sea horses!


Noochie was attacked by a tiny, shifty squid!


Then a shark bit off his arm! (I beat the shark off of him after I was done laughing and taking pictures).


Even though it was totally cold, we went to the Lookouts vs. Biscuits game. We had excellent seats behind home plate...


Until these drunk asshats sat in front of us. And as further proof that God loves a drunk, the girl on the right caught a foul ball about 5 minutes later.

Chattanoooooga! Part 1

I went to Chattanooga a few weeks ago with Noochie. It was fun! I took pictures and everything. Here are some from the 'art' district of Chatty.


This was some outdoor art. Actually, it was kind of a corral for metal outdoor sculptures.



This one escaped from the pen, and appears to be contemplating jumping into the Tennessee River. Don't do it ! You have so much to live for!



Scrap metal + soldering gun = art, apparently.



I call this one 'Gleaming the Azaleas'.



In Soviet Russia, art draws you!



Here is Noochie admiring what appears to be a giant bronzed paper airplane. Actually, Nooch looks frightened and confused by this sculpture.



Noochie later took out his pent-up aggression and rage against all things bronzed and art-like by punching a little sculpture girl in the head.

Sea Hag does Frolicon

Ever heard of Frolicon? Neither had I, but the Atlanta Psytrance folks were invited to play this year, and I managed to snag a free ticket because they are nice and include me in their reindeer games. Seriously, they're kick-ass people. Send them cookies.

Here's Franklin and Michael mixing up some funky beats. Rave on, Franklin! (By the way, Michael's rad braids are courtesy of Sea Hag).

Anyway, on the Frolicon web site it lists this event as an adult sci-fi convention. Hey, I'm all about geeking it out, so that sounded like fun. Plus, you know, free ticket and no little brats running around. How could I refuse?

So, we checked in with the badge people and I got my badge with no incident in the hotel lobby. Coolness. Then we approached the curtained-off entrance to the con.

Oh my.

I don't know where the 'sci-fi' part of the convention came into play (and next time I'll be sure to actually read the information on the web site and not just give it a quick peek), but it sure as hell had the 'adult' part down. Here's a partial list of things that I experienced whilst there:

1. I got my ass grabbed like 3 times.

2. I ate part of some girl's candy bra.

3. Some dude carrying a 4-foot wooden paddle around invited me up to his room for 'some of his homemade mead' (which was by far the worst pick-up line I'd ever heard).

4. I saw my cousin's mom there (she was married to my mom's brother, so that makes her my aunt by marriage, or something like that. They're divorced now, but still, she's my Aunt Yvonne).

5. Yvonne gave me some kinda crazy-strong liquor and I was pretty plastered.

6. Which was good because it desensitized me to the various people wandering around naked. I'd never seen so many nipples before in my life.

7. Also to the people who were walking around naked with whip marks and bleeding cuts on their backs.

8. Also to the room we wandered into where people were like tied up and getting beaten and whipped and shit. There were many bare red asses to be seen (and possibly grabbed).

9. Also to the story someone told me about walking into someone's room and watching someone get fisted.

10. Also the the dude dressed up like Jesus next to the dude dressed up like the Easter Bunny. Actually...that was pretty damn funny.

Here's Candy Bra Girl and her guy friend with Frankin The Traveling Gnome. Franklin had a really good time at Frolicon, as you can plainly see. Actually, Candy Bra Girl was cool and she was pretty cute. I'm glad I partook of her sugary lingerie.

Above all else, stumbling upon the whipping room was a totally weird and surreal experience. I mean, I understand the excitement behind role-playing and dressing up. I can appreciate the appeal of bondage and yielding control over to someone else (though there can be an element of humiliation I totally don't get, but that's just me). But these were people who not only got into S&M stuff and role-playing, but they liked to do it in front of other people. But then you have to figure that there are people who like to watch people being exhibitionist butt-slappers! And that by standing there watching (in other words, gawking like an idiot), I was part of the whole process! Then I thought, I wonder if there are people who are getting off on watching people watch people? My mind, she was blown.

Final verdict: I would totally go again next year, but would more than likely have to be fortified by copious amounts of alcohol. And possibly a naughty school girl outfit and a saddle.

No, I'm not dead

Things have been a little hectic for your friendly neighborhood Sea Hag lately, but now she's back with a fistful of Xanax and a heart full of dreams and unicorns and jelly beans. At the insistence of Hyperion, I am posting an older story I did a few months ago for one of his sites. Hope you like it.

Always Yes

It happens almost exactly how I imagined it.

The knock on the door late at night, I'm not expecting anyone. I am wearing my pajamas. I am making myself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it will help me sleep but knowing full well that nothing can touch my insomnia. I open the door, and he would be there. He would tell me he loved me. Had always loved me. Everything would be all right. It was about time.

He comes to my apartment after midnight, and when I see him I feel a little light-headed, like the sheer force of my desire and imagination has somehow finally managed to call him forth as an apparition. I reach out, touch his arm. I look at his face and see not the declaration of love I had hoped to find, but the unasked question that always lies between us.

Yes, yes. Always, yes.

A desperate woman will belly-crawl through any stretch of wasteland for the smallest hint of succor, will pray for even the slightest hint of elixir on the tongue to save her from the scorching sky, the rocky earth, the hole in her existence that she has stumbled into. He came to me that night looking for sanctuary in my body, for love that he knew was always his for the taking, and he would wrap himself in both and sleep soundly.

This would be enough to sustain me for a while. Always, yes.

He’s thinner than the last time I saw him. His cheekbones are sharp, predatory, an unsettling contrast to his soft brown eyes, eyes that belong to a small, earnest child who longs to be everyone's favorite. His pants are too big for him, I tell him he looks like a hobo. He smiles, teeth still charmingly crooked. He bit me once on my left hip and I was glad I when it became a scar.

Into my bedroom now, he slips out of his clothes and sits on the edge of my bed, tracing the flowers and vines on my quilt with a finger. He waits for me to get a glass of water, to make sure the doors are locked. He knows my rituals, and there is comfort in that, for both of us.

He is gentle with me, sliding his hands underneath my hips because he knows I like it. I can't relax, this is all too surreal, his sudden appearance, the way his skin feels coarse and dry underneath my palms. I cling to him, press my face into his chest, smelling the familiar mix of Irish Spring soap, tea tree oil shampoo, deodorant and spearmint gum. I wrap my lips around him, and his come is sharp and bitter in my throat. He must be on his medication again. Milk and honey on my tongue, nothing could ever taste finer.

He is asleep now, and in the morning he will leave me. I will watch him dress; I will offer him coffee although I know he doesn't drink it. There will be an awkward kiss goodbye. But for now, he his mine and mine alone, and I watch him, admiring his muscular legs, the curve of his fuzzy ass. A penny falls out of his pocket; it's on the carpet near the dresser. When he leaves, I will tuck it inside my wallet.

Luck.

The streetlights are off now, the neighbor's alarm clock buzzes. Stops. Buzzes again. I am still awake, still watching and oh, how I will crawl through the desert every time for just a taste, a souvenir, a chance for yet another scar.

Always, yes.

March Wordsmiths Challenge: House and Home

Well, there was a challenge up on Wordsmiths Unlimited for March, but as of this morning the web site was still melted or something, so this is more than likely the last one I do, which is a shame. Anyway, here it is, based on the lovely Picasso painting below:

House and Home

I couldn't help it. I had to drive by the house one last time before we moved.

Here is the yard, overgrown and shaggy with dandelions; here is the driveway and the crumbling brick path that twists to the stairs of the front porch. Here's the front porch with its railings wound in a poisonous, spiky vine. Here is the house itself; sentient cave, sadly gray and sagging after your wife moved out, and there was me, two months after she left, waiting for you to answer the doorbell, dizzy with love.

The inside of the house was just as impressively miserable as the outside, with the barest suggestion of furniture, spider webs flung in corners, laundry sitting in tidy land mines on the rug. You pointed out the progress you had made since your wife had left: the new faucet in the kitchen, a raw length of pine fence in the backyard.

I wrapped my arms around you and saw in my mind a house bright with paint and stuffed with soft couches, the lawn thick and green. I wished you would let me give you this home I had always dreamed of, had craved since my own divorce three years ago. I wanted to be happy. I wanted you to be happy.

I started with small things. I threw out piles of junk mail and containers of expired yogurt. I wiped off counters when you were in the bathroom. Later I would come over when you were at work and do laundry, scrub grout, replace light bulbs. You said you fell in love. I moved in.

I hired a landscaper so the two puppies we bought could chase squirrels unhindered. I painted. I bought a red couch on credit and sat with my coffee in the early morning sunlight that filtered through the new curtains, thinking of what I had to do next.

You fired the landscapers one day and the grass grew wild over the brick path and the front porch. You continued to collect spoiled food and credit card applications. The puppies dug a hole under the fence and ran under the wheels of the neighbor's Chevrolet.

Here is the spot in the backyard where I buried our puppies, and here was the place next to that pitiful mound that I cried for them and for my sorry, fallible wish for happiness. Here is the driveway again, where I loaded up my car and did the one thing that finally made my soft little dream come true.

And now here I am in front of the house a year later, sitting in my car, watching as your TV throws blue shadows in the street. My husband is calling me on my cell phone wondering where I am; the movers would come for us early tomorrow to take our furniture to the home where we would raise our family. But for now I ignore it, giving myself another minute to say goodbye, then another.

200-word movie summary: A History of Violence

Two guys kill a bunch of people who work at a nasty motel. One of the guys kills a whimpering little girl because we're all to understand that yes, these two gentlemen are actually quite, quite bad. Then we see Viggo Mortensen (unfortunately not Aragorn in this movie) playing Tom Stall in about 30 minutes of exposition all of which are to make us see that he's a regular guy with a cute family who runs a diner! What a fabulous life full of unicorns and moonbeams, la la la! There is one scene where his wife (Maria Bello) puts on a naughty cheerleader outfit and he totally chows down on her poodle. Hee! Then the two Bad Guys from the beginning come and try to rob the diner and Viggo calmly smites them even though one of them stabs him in the foot. Gah! Viggo becomes a hometown hero and I stopped watching it there because it was so damn boring, and anyway we all have figured out by now that he's really some sort of retired Bad Guy and some other Bad Guys are out to get him and I'm sure at the end Viggo kills 'em all.

Wordsmiths Challenge for January: Crystal Ball

Wordsmiths Unlimited is at it again, and this month we had this challenge: We are going to write in a comedic style: goofy, stupid, and completely un-serious. Think Saturday morning cartoons. Your protagonist is a superhero of your making... The twist is that his or her superpowers are as useless as a sack of wet leaves. They are completely ineffectual, but he or she doesn't know it.

I'll be the first to admit that I had a hard time with this one, and I probably skirted the rules a bit because it's really difficult to be funny on purpose, especially when you're writing. But here it is:


Crystal Ball

Honey sat under a sign that declared "Madame Zannza SEES all!!!!! and KNOWS all!!!!" in flaking gold sparkles and waited for her shift to end.

The turban that she had fashioned out of the sleeve of a bathrobe and a handful of her grandmother's clip-on pearl earrings was itchy, and the harem pants she secretly thought looked cute actually made her look like the illegitimate child of MC Hammer and Barbara Eden. She scratched at her head and wondered for the fourteenth time that day why whoever painted her sign had such a hard-on for exclamation points and poor grammar when a couple approached her booth.

The man stepped up and slid a ten-dollar bill next to her crystal ball, which up until a week ago had been a snow globe with its guts removed. "So, tell me, do you really see and know all?" he said, turning to wink at the woman he was with.

Honey made eye contact with the man, then focused on a point between his bushy eyebrows and let her mind float away:

His name was Harold, he was 39, a security guard at the local piñata factory, and subscribed to National Geographic every year because the pictures of the naked natives got him off like no amount of hard-core girl-on-girl porn ever could.

The woman Harold was with was named Geraldine. She was married and poor Harold didn't know it. While shoplifting fruit-flavored Chiclets and a bag of Funyuns at the local gas station two weeks ago, she had heard him talk to the cashier about his job, and she mistakenly thought that a 'security guard' was one of those guys who sat in armored trucks full of money. Suddenly Geraldine saw in Harold the bright, shining pathway to her life's biggest ambitions: to dump her one-eyed husband, get the biggest, fakest breast implants her spine could support and to live in a grass hut on a beach in Paraguay. Convincing Harold to be her boyfriend had been easy; she figured making him participate in a heist and run off to South America with her couldn't be much harder.

"Well, Madame Zannza?" Harold asked Honey, unaware that his future held for him a short stint in jail after robbing vending machines and a girlfriend who would use the change he stole to go to Tijuana, get a lop-sided boob job, convert to Zoroastrianism after seeing the face of God in the infected incision under her left breast, and write a best-selling book about her experience.

"One eighty-seven."

"Nope, the scale says 221 pounds. I win!" said Harold, and laughed but Honey had already turned to get the stuffed purple tiger that she knew Geraldine wanted.

Getting to know your Sea Hag

In one word...answer

1. Where is your cell phone? pocket
2. Your spouse? non-existent
3. Your hair? static-y
4. Your mother? away
5. Your father? travelin'
6. Your favorite thing? creating
7. Your dream last night? forgettable
8. Your favorite drink? caffeine
9. Your dream car? Pt Cruiser
10. The room you are in? office
11. Your ex? smote
12. Your fear? loneliness
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? orbiting

14. Who did you hang out with last night? Michael
15. What you're not? greasy
16. Muffins? carrot-zucchini
17. One of your wish list items? house
18. Your dinner tonight? spaghetti
19. The last thing you ate? spaghetti
20. What are you wearing? uniform

21. Your tv? off
22. Your pet? imaginary
23. Your computer? sleeping
24. Your life? fluffy

25. Your mood? tired
26. Your holidays? drugged
27. What are you thinking about right now? beer
28. Your car? parked
29. Your work? sucks!!!!!
30. Summer? please
31. Your relationship status? juicy
32. Your dream vacation? Moon

33. When is the last time you laughed? Yesterday
34. Last time you cried? October

35. School? barf