Why you shouldn't advertise your business

So much uproar on Etsy right now with the roll out of the new search ads.

Should you buy one?  Should you not? Should you advertise your whole shop or a few items?  Or maybe someone else's items?  Is that even an option?  How would that help you?  Is Etsy just a giant spaghetti monster where one strand is Etsy, another facebook, another google and the last ratemypoo.com?

These questions really need no answer.  Cause the conclusion you all need is obvious.  Don't bother advertising.  

Yes folks, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  Why?  Cause it's right.  And when you're right, why bother listening to anyone else's opinions or advice?  They're just wasting your time- you know since you're cushioned in the bubble wrap of rightness that is your opinion. 

But really advertising is a waste.  I once spent $5 to put my Etsy shop url in the program for an elementary school Christmas pageant.  I only got one visit and the person sent me a nasty convo about how my items were so inappropriate for children.  And that experience told me everything I need to know about marketing and advertising.  Don't do it.

Sure, you could spend tons of money and get a sale here or there.  Maybe even a good number of sales.  But I can pretty much state with certainty that you won't get as much joy out of those sales as if you spent your allotted advertising budget on a puppy or perhaps some Hello Kitty pasties.  And therefore the logical conclusion is nipple decorations are more effective for you than advertising.  

You may already be dismissing what I'm saying as hogwash.  Heck, you might've be chuckling to yourself thinking, "sure knot.  save your advertising dollars.  there will be less competition in the marketplace for me! muwahahaha!"

First, stop right there.  I'm the only one allowed to do an evil laugh on my blog. Check out my blog policies (which you can only see in the transaction email you receive after buying something in my shop).  

Second, see that?  I lied.  I said you could get my blog policies after you buy something from me.  That's not true.  They're sewn into the lining of every cozy I make so you can see it after you actually receive the cozy and leave me positive feedback.  Muwahahaha! (that's me doing the evil laugh.  Totally within the rules).  

Third, yeah, I lied again.  Why?  To prove a point. Which one?  That lying is better than advertising.  It's really the whole basis of advertising.  "hey, come buy this great thing at a great price!"  Shyeah right.  That may be true in some cases.  But in reality it's "hey, buy this great thing that's more expensive than the one just like it where the seller isn't spending any money on advertising!"

Conclusion?  Liars advertise and non advertisers prosper.  Try to find all those ads from shops that aren't advertising.  It's a new thing I'm going to refer to as "browsing".  Buy from them.  

Thursday poetry break

God's World

O World, I cannot hold thee close enough!
    Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
  Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour!  That gaunt crag
To crush!  To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
              But never knew I this;
              Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart, -- Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, -- let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Midnight in Paris

I celebrated my birthday over the weekend.  When you think about it, why do we celebrate our birthdays? Why are we happy to get older?  Is it to just to mark that we didn't get hit by a bus or have kidney failure since our last birthday?  I'm starting to think it's a played out tradition.  Oh great, pat ourselves on the back and ask for presents and cake just because we didn't eat meat laced with deadly E coli anytime since the same day last year.  Well done.  Celebrate everyone! Yeeeeee haaaaaa!

I suppose I am happy to get older.  I am officially at the age where people start dying, and not just in freak accidents.  There were so many chances for me to die before now, and I evaded them all.  And now I have to dodge death's stare for an additional 360-something days before I can break the tape of survival yet again.

To celebrate this year's win in my race with death, my husband had a day's worth of activities planned.  I love to hike.  I may seem far too smart and funny to enjoy spending time in nature, but I assure you it's all a facade.  I'm smart enough to know it's more fun to be alone in the woods than be in a pub with most of humanity.  However, the trail turned into the set of Arachnophobia the sequel (I can't remember if there already were a sequel.  If so, this was the third installment).  Webs were strung across the trail about every 25 feet.  This was clearly a poorly used path and I was clearly trying very hard to be bitten by something very scary and dare the calendar to stop flipping on its way to my next birthday.

So after only an hour or so we turned back and unknowingly stumbled upon a miniature golf course and arcade.  You know that place in the Karate Kid where he takes Elisabeth Shue on their date?  Like with the arcade and bumper boats and stuff?  

You're the best... around! 

It was just like that, except without teenagers.  All the teenagers must stay at home on their iphones, xboxes and whatever the hell else they use to have as little physical contact with other human beings as possible (come to think of it, that's not a bad idea).

Anywho, I played Ms. Pacman and thought about how quickly life goes by.  I also thought about how much cooler it is to live now when arcade games don't need coins, but rather you get a declining balance card to swipe through the machines.  Granted, the skee ball game was crappy as the balls are no longer wooden. I won't make a wooden ball joke.  I'm too old for that now.  But the plasticy rubbery things they had totally didn't work with my well practiced ball roll from yesteryear.  My time of skee ball champion is long passed.  I can't even pass it on as I doubt anyone much younger than I am even knows what skee ball is.  Do they have skee ball for the Wii?  If not, skee ball fans are screwed.

There was a moment where I was drinking a blue Icee and watching my husband play a video game- just like all those idiot girls in all those films. I was literally in 1985.  It was awesome. 

I won't go on to describe the whole day.  It's probably pretty boring sounding to the rest of you.  But I will add that we saw Midnight in Paris that evening.  It centers around a man who gets to travel back in time to an era he idealized- 1920s Paris.  It is so gorgeous it made me want to puke.  Alas he has to decide whether to live in present time or the past, and all that entails. 

Shall I stay with the gorgeous woman in the past or the gorgeous woman in the present?

I shall not spoil the film for you here.  I will simply add that while reminiscing about the 80s we have to remember- our hair was stupid. Our clothes were worse.  AIDS was the scariest thing ever and all the bad guys in films were still Soviets.  Now we barely wear any clothes.  Cancer of weirder and weirder body parts is the scariest thing ever, maybe only second to the bacteria we've created that's immune to antibiotics.  And all the bad guys in films are middle eastern terrorists.

Not much has changed when you think about it.   Oh yeah, except that I'm old as fuck.

For my Etsy friends out there

As you all know, or should know, I have been permanently banned from the Etsy forum.  Now, I have never been banned from any forum in my life.  And I have been active in quite a few over the years.  I think it's even more heinous that I fork over large sums of cash to Etsy every month, but really, who gives a fuck?  The forum has some cool people who I can keep in touch with other ways, and the rest of them are probably typing from padded cells full of granny square blankets and industrial looking vintage stuff that no one knows what to do with.

However, given that I can no longer post the threads for which I was likely banned, I shall do so here on this new "relevancy" thing.  If you're not an Etsian, you should probably stop reading here.  Actually, you probably shouldn't have read this post at all but I do thank you for your attention.  Now go have a latte on me and I'll see you next time.

_________________________________

We Built This City on Recency

We built this city on re-cen-cy-eeeeee!

There's been a big change on the Etsy site.  We now no longer type in a search term and get all the items most recently listed that could have any remote connection possible to what we're looking for.  Oh, it's much better than that now.  Now we see what Etsy's tech types have programmed into a computer to find for us. Yes folks, Etsy is trying to read your mind.  Can't you just feel their handlebar mustaches rubbing around on your gray matter?   They're sort of like an annoying girlfriend or boyfriend who keeps saying, "Please just tell me what you're thinking!"

I don't know about you, but I'm not all that thrilled with Etsy trying to read my mind.  Yes, I know that "relevancy" is the norm out there in cyber selling shitville.  And yes, I know that having a system which let people feed $.20 into the giant one armed Etsy slot machine was probably a bit you know, well, frankly, working well for lots of people.  Etsy was growing by leaps and bounds all the time we were told.  Now I guess we're supposed to believe that Etsy will grow by even greater leaps and bounds.  Yippee Diane!  (yes, Diane is my real name).

Still, I guess I'm okay with trying to be leapier and boundier.  And I guess I'm cool with no longer dropping coins into Etsy like a vibrating bed machine.  Let's face it.  Both often times didn't work and made you nauseous or left with a raging headache.  Can you say "macbook decals"?  The bane of my existence I tell ye!

At least Etsy doesn't have bed bugs. 

I just don't know where that leaves those of us who make "fuck off coffee mug cozies" cause let me tell you people, no fucker is searching for that.  I have considered tagging my items "steampunk" but I have no clue what that is.  It has nothing to with either steam or punk as far as I can see and that's where my research ended. Oh well, I guess time will tell as to whether people will find my amazing crap.

Until then, get all your tags and titles "relevant"... meaning, "add a bunch of keywords to your items in BOTH the tags and titles..." cause there's nothing I love more than a drop of redundancy in my morning relevancy, "and still be beat out by a copycat who has those keywords in NEITHER title NOR tags" because it just wouldn't be Etsy without something not working or doing so mysteriously so conspiracy theories can crop up all over the forum and blogs like mine and twitter and well, you get the drift.

So thanks Etsy for all your hard work.  I hope it does work so all those late night organic green tea iced lattes the techies blew their paychecks on were worth it. I hope my sales skyrocket as a result. If not I'll just hum to myself, "we built this city on recency!" while I find a cheap motel with a vibrating bed and reminisce while I edit my tags and titles again. 

Kid Quotes 3

As said by my daughter when Cartman dressed as Hitler for Halloween came on the screen.  Yes, I let my children watch South Park.  I think it's the best satire out there and want my kids to understand absurdity as young as possible.  I just fast forward through any anal sex jokes.  

Kill. Me. Now.

I know you probably think all I do is complain and/or criticize.  And you're quite right.  But that's not my fault. It's because so much out there sucks.  And it would be unjust of me to simply ignore it when I can point it out to you, make fun of it, and get a perverse sense of superiority out of it.  That's what Jesus would do too.  I'm sure of it.

But we have reached a new low folks.  A horrifying new low.  So low that I'm thinking of ways to end it all. Death by torture?  Crucifixion?  Those would be child's play compared to the pain and depravity we are all going to experience.

They are remaking Dirty Dancing.  I'll pause for your howls of pain and sorrow.  In fact, I'm not sure I can keep typing this post as the vomit is pooling on my keyboard from the chunks spewing out of my face.  I'll wait until the dry heaves come.  Hang on.

If they do, they have to deal with Johnny Castle. 

Okay, I think I can keep going.  Now that the vomit is gone I just have to struggle with the slippery keys from my tears of pain falling on my hands.  I'll deal.  I'm strong.  I can handle it.

Humanity is over.  Patrick Swayze is grinding his hips in his grave right now.  Jennifer Grey's nose is running around the graveyard snorting loudly for all to hear, 'You can rhinoplasty me but you'll never take my freedom!'

I really have nothing else to say about this travesty of justice.  It's all been done.  It's all been said.  And that's proven once again with Hollywood literally (hee hee) raping the anals (hee hee heeee) of film history.  

So this post is for people to suggest to me ways to kill myself that are appropriate for the legend that is Dirty Dancing.  I'm thinking maybe Cha Cha Chaining myself in front of a speeding train.  Or maybe Carrying a Water Melanoma.  Not sure how I can do that to myself though.  Any suggestions?  Please post them here.

Swing low... sweet chariot...

How you know you're getting old reason 3,000,526

Grease.  I love that film.  Even though I look back on it now and sort of think, "wait, you mean this wasn't made in the 50s?" it is still legendary.  You had song.  You had dance.  You had an Australian who wasn't wrestling crocodiles.  It was just cool.

And yet we've now lost a second member of the cast.

I went to Catholic school too!

The full story can be found here: First Kenickie, now Cha Cha: Grease star Annette Charles dies at 63

Hand jive isn't masturbation?  Oops.

Kenickie and Cha Cha.  The one with the bad temper and the whore.  Gosh, it's literally like parts of me have died (literally... he he).

I remember when people like Moses died and my mother said things like, "I remember his first role.  It was some work with the Jews or something."  And I would think to myself, "People you know are dead?!?  You are so freaking old.  No wonder you smell of piss."

(Note- my mom doesn't smell of urine.  She is young and beautiful and has an appealing aroma of garlic and lavender.  Hi Mom!)

But these days I know the dead people.  And I've crossed over a second threshold where I don't know the alive people.  Okay, I know tons of live people.  I just mean I don't know the youngest alive people who are in our popular culture.  

The other day there was an iPad commercial with some young tart and I said, "Who the hell is that? How is this a good marketing campaign when I don't even know who that is?"

Both my husband and my daughter said almost simultaneously, "That's iCarly!"  Now before you think my husband is some pervert, he is of the parenting school that allows children to be in the same room with you and choose what they want to watch on television.  So he has been subjected to iCarly numerous times.  I come from the school of the kids will get to watch what they want over my dead body, cause I paid for this tv, this couch you're sitting on, the massive Time Warner Cable bill and the very air you breath is subsidized by my tax dollars.  Yeah, our school tshirts were nightshirts just so we could fit the whole name on them.

So I'm now in this no woman's land where the people I know and love are buying the farm, and there's all these young, talentless, perky boobed robots who are getting more air time than all the legends of Hollywood combined. It's like we're all marching towards a cliff and I've just seen Cha Cha hand jive (not masturbate) right over the edge.  My turn is next, and that goddamned iCarly is pushing me.  That bitch.  

I'll shove that iPad right down your throat before you push me over the...  Geronimooooooooooooo!

That's a Bit Shit 7

Gum on the bottom of my shoe at the cinema.

Chris Hansen being a cheating bastard.

Not being able to have a nuclear reactor at home.

Monday morning poetry break

I happened across this poem and wanted to share it.  I think poetry gets sort of lost these days.  Perhaps it always has.  I think it is incredibly difficult to write such emotion into so few words (other than motherfucker). Alas this poem is an instance of deep feeling in a few beautiful lines.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond E.E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

I just want the booze. Isn't this a free country?

Sooo... in case you haven't been paying attention, I live in North Carolina.  Okay, maybe I never told you that before.  But tada! I live in the Tar Heel state. Why Tar Heel?  Well apparently the North Carolinians in the Civil War were so very brave and NEVER ran away from a fight.  So people said, "well daggum those boys must have tar on their heels keepin 'em stuck to the ground!"

Not brave.  Just stuck.

Or so some website told me.  Frankly, I feel as though tar on my heel wouldn't keep me stuck to the ground. Rather, it would simply pick up a lot of dirt, grass and grime and become some disgusting super-sole on my shoe.  Sort of like permanent stuck dog poo.  And that wouldn't make me stay and fight.  That would probably make me sit on the nearest rock and scrape at my shoes with a stick for hours on end, or continuously mutter 'Can you smell that?'

Anywho, my point is that in North Carolina alcohol is controlled by the state.  No, they don't just tax the bejeezus out of it.  They sell it.  Other than wine and beer, and Bailey's Irish Cream (clearly the Bailey's lobby is very strong within the NC State legislature) everything else is sold in ABC stores which stands for Anything But Customers.  Okay, you got me.  It doesn't.  I think it is actually Alcoholic Beverage Control or something. So things like Diet Coke aren't regulated as they don't have alcohol.  If Diet Coke were regulated I would move immediately.

So these stores vary by town and whatnot.  But let me tell you about the ABC stores in my town.  Suffice to say I haven't been to a store in Russia but from my knowledge of such places I can say that the ABC Commission modeled their entire business plan on Soviet style economics.  

Brick shithouse?  Nope.  Liquor store.

You walk in and the shelves are maybe three bottles deep of each product.  And you can't get every product. Oh no.  These shops are maybe the size of half of a CVS pharmacy.  There were booze shops in Connecticut that took up entire city blocks.  So you can imagine that the selection in these places are severely limited.

Also, all the staff wear these little red vests, and I bet stitched on the inside, where we can't see- are a hammer and sickle. 

Those who need customer service will be shot.

It's the sort of environment where you feel as if you should take one bottle, AND ONE BOTTLE ONLY, to the counter.  And then with eyes cast downward you hand the bottle and exact change over.  You receive a bottle and a receipt and you exit quietly.

My local liquor store in Connecticut was like a party waiting to happen.  It had every conceivable type of booze.  It had bottles of booze that contained bottles of booze inside them!  It had bottles in all shapes and liquids of all colors.  It had olives and pearl onions, and the little sword toothpicks.  You were sometimes even approached by the staff to see if you needed any help or had questions!  I know, I know.  There really is no need for help at an ABC store as there are only about five spirits to choose from.  But still, do I want the 750ml bottle or the 50ml bottle?  Maybe a salesperson could help me with this goddamn quandary.

My point in griping about all this is that it is Saturday night.  In other places Saturday night could start with a trip to the liquor store that was almost as enjoyable as the rest of the evening.  It was like a Chinese buffet of booze, with just as much puking afterwards.  Everyone was always happy there.  You would glance at each other and give fellow customers that smile... the 'Yup, it's Saturday night and it's time to PARTAAAY!' smile.

In North Carolina you look at your fellow customer see eyes full of shame and fear.  And let me tell you folks it takes a lot of booze to forget.  I would go buy some right now just to erase the memories of previous visits to the ABC, but it's fucking closed already!

Oh, North Carolina.  I love you so.  And I know you're the buckle of the Bible Belt.  But Jesus didn't wear a belt.  He wore a dress.  And he drank lots of wine.  

I literally can't take this misuse of literally

I spent literally all day and night thinking about the misuse of the word "literally".  I must've heard people use it incorrectly literally a million times.  And every time I hear it used incorrectly, I literally go ape shit.

Do our English teachers literally not give a fuck anymore?  Or are they literally just checked out of their jobs?  

I swear, it is so annoying I feel like literally ripping someone's head off.  I will literally kick their head clear to the other side of town.  And then I will literally drink a thousand bottles of beer while I literally laugh my head off.

After all, these people who speak so poorly literally don't deserve to live.  They literally bring society to a standstill with their devolution of the English language.

And I am so sick of it I literally puke my guts out on a regular basis.  I mean do we literally have to take it up the backside with their ignorance?  Can't we just put them all on an island and literally bomb it into the stone age?

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, there's no way she literally means this shit.  And you'd be right.  Of course I don't.

I literally don't mean all this.  Well, I do literally loathe the people who use the word literally incorrectly.  But I would just figuratively murder them.  And then I'd figuratively go to jail and would figuratively be someone's bitch.

And that would literally suck.

Sorry for the delay since my last post

But I was busy.  With what you ask?  Oh, nothing really.  But saying I was busy is, I think, more professional sounding than, "I just couldn't be arsed to blog the last few days."

Alas, I am now arsed, but I don't have much to say.  Oh sure, there are many subjects ripe for the pickins:

1) The debt ceiling debate rages on. (put the Extreme Couponers in charge)

2) I have a new kitten. (how does litter extinguish vile poo smells so quickly and yet we can't do anything about water treatment plants?  fill the bastards with litter!)

3) My son just finished driver's ed. (his teacher told him if he gets into an accident and the air bag deploys to let go of the steering wheel as to not get burns on his arms.  Why do people have so much respect for teachers?  Lots of them are idiots.  Not all of course.  But I refuse to give them carte blanche respect like I would the fucking Missionaries of Charity.  Ooh, they don't get paid enough!  Oh yeah?  Well plenty  of them are getting overpaid for teaching our kids fuck all so I think it evens out.)

4) I put my son on an Amtrak train that was over an hour late yesterday. (Mother of all that is holy.  If you need any further proof that government entities are a waste of oxygen, get involved with Amtrak.  I swear I didn't even know anyone worked at the bloody station until 45 minutes after we arrived when a loudspeaker turned on to tell us about the delay.  Oh, but the staff made themselves known each time a train arrived by going outside to help people board... while simultaneously taking a smoke break.  Imagine having a job that allowed you to smoke while you were helping customers?  "Oh, we do apologize Mr. Smith but you may feel some burning sensations over the next week." "Something to do with the stitches healing?"  "Err, not exactly.  I dropped a lit cigarette from my mouth into your chest cavity.")

5) It is still too fucking hot. (there really isn't anything I can say about this other than God made a serious fucking up by not allowing some natural ventilation in armpits, crotches and the space under your boob.  What was he thinking?  I'm sure up in heaven, at those high altitudes, he probably never sweats and therefore never considered what swamp ass feels like.  "What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?"  Yeah, well he'll never be just like one of us until he smells like rotting chicken soup after mowing the lawn with a heat index of 115.)

Okay, yeah, so as you can see- not much going on at all.

I plan to be back as soon as possible with a meaningful piece of social commentary that will educate, inspire, and motivate.  Yes, I know I've never done that before. But now's as good a time to start as any.

That's a Bit Shit 6

Oreo cream isn't made of broccoli... or some other fibrous vegetable.

I'd bathe in this shit.

It's hot as Satan's balls.

Like looking into a mirror... if I could see my own back... and were ginger... on the beach.

I'm not this surfboard (that's David Beckham and no, that's not his wife)

No, not because I want to be that thin.  

I thought it was because I'm old

But then I read their ages.  Imagine my eyes popping out of my head now.  Okay.  Carry on reading.

Have you seen this story?  The one about a couple having sex in a public pool for 30 minutes?  No?  Well now you know why I won't go in public pools.  It started with Caddyshack, developed with "fecal incidents" while working at the YMCA and came to a crescendo with this story (I didn't use climax as I thought that too obvious).

We're Going To Need A Cleanup In Lane Three

Bet they got those red blindfolds at a sex shop.

When I read this story I didn't think about the traumatized children or the pervy adults who let it go on for thirty minutes.  Really?  No one bonked them with a noodle?  Okay, reaaallly poor choice of words there.  But seriously, if my kids were near a couple of nasty fuckfaces like this I would at the very least throw a pool toy on them and say "use the rubber." 

What I thought about was, how on God's green Earth did a couple in their 30s and 40s have sex in a public pool?  Let alone for 30 minutes.  Do they have kids of their own?  I don't know about you but a bunch of half naked children makes me agonize over doing a load of laundry, not fancying my chances of playing the skin flute.  And 30 minutes?  Do they not have jobs? Or a mortgage? Aren't they tired and trying to relax at the pool?  Just be like the rest of the fucktards and fall asleep so other people feel obligated to watch your annoying children to make sure they don't drown. 

When I go to the pool (not that I do- see above) I want to lay out in the sun and chill out.  I don't want to try to keep my naked arse from floating to the surface, or play hide the sausage while kids are playing Marco Polo. Marco?  Polo!  Marco? Polo!  Marco? Penis! Um, I mean Polo!

And let me tell you folks- public pools have chlorine.  But you'd have to be having sex in a pool full of Clorox for me to consider even dipping a toe in after you've played trains and tunnels in there.  

My words to that couple?  You're too old for this nonsense you pervy, disgusting, excuses for humanity. Go home and traumatize your own children.  Or better yet? Go to jail and play don't drop the soap.  I hope you get lots of noodle bonking while you're there. 

Yes, I'd be a Scientologist for you

Even if you are wearing a Vito Corleone hat for no apparent reason.  And are a short arse.  Well, unless your hands are smaller than mine.  That's a deal breaker.

His hat adds height

Reading this article about Tom and seeing that he looks indeed as good as ever, it made me start wondering what religion I'd become and for whom. Yes, I think I would be a Scientologist if I fell in love with Tom. He's good looking, wealthy, has nice hair, etc.  I really don't think Scientology is that much for him to ask.  It's a few afternoons starving yourself on a treadmill or something.  I'm up for it.

I think I'd become Jewish for Daniel Radcliffe.

Don't worry.  He's legal in this picture.

I think I'd be Buddhist for Orlando Bloom.

His arrow makes me quiver. Get it? Nope? Shut up.

I'd become Catholic for Gerard Butler.

I'm already Catholic so this one doesn't really count.

And I'd worship Barry for Gordon Shumway.

He'd have to shave his back though.

Now before you go, "Oh she's sooo shallow for changing something as fundamental as her faith for her man" think of it this way.  Well, there really is no other way to think of it.  You're probably right about me being shallow.  But I'm willing to admit I'm shallow for Legolas.  And I will spend a long time thinking about myself and evaluating my sense of self and purpose while I put sunscreen on Gerard's back.  Think about that while you're falling asleep on your big pillow of integrity.

Luckily I have a partner without religion.  So I just have to suffer Liverpool FC instead of eternal damnation. I'm really not sure which is worse.  

Shit or Not Shit 3

The Grove Park Inn. THE FURTHEST FROM SHIT YOU COULD IMAGINE

This is like a real old hotel.  The kind the Shining might have happened in or some other horror film.  Lots of dark wood and stone and a view to die for.  Muwahahaha.

Someone copying my items.  TOTALLY FUCKING SHITE.

And some of my photos and description.  And trying to buy my stuff to resell on eBay as her own. 

Torchwood not being on BBC America.  SHIT!

It's on Starz now.  Which I don't have on my already extremely expensive list of cable channels. Thanks for nothing BBC America!

I get this fancy schmancy design magazine

called Dwell.  I have absolutely no idea why I receive it.  It must be one of those publications that subsists purely on advertising and therefore doesn't need to charge for a subscription.  I figure they go through the phone book and point randomly at names to decide where to send it.  I won that lottery.  Yippee!

I adore this mag.  I've never considered myself a design person.  I do love art though.  I have a minor in Art History and just enjoy learning about art and its context.  I never really looked at design as art.  It simply was never presented to me in that way and I never independently considered it as such.  This magazine has truly opened my eyes.

However, like San Andreas, I can find the fault in anything.  Well, not really a fault.  More of an oddity.  A cool oddity.  One that made me go "hmm...".   In the back of the mag are ads.  They are typically for household items, but also anything that can be marketed as good design so clothes and other such things are included. The item that caught my eye though was a painting.

Not OJ Simpson's house.

What you're looking at there folks is someone's DNA.  Nope, not the invisible cells floating around.  The paintings on the wall are prints of a PCR I presume.  What is a PCR?  Check here if you really care: Polymerase Chain Reaction.  I know a bit about it as my background is biology and we did a butt load of these in our labs.  But essentially that print is the results of running a PCR with an individual's cells.  The company sends you a kit to gather the cells.  I amuse myself by imagining a box with a big index finger that you have to shove up your backside.  FAQ- "Is the finger up the bum the only way to collect my DNA?" "We value our customers.  While probing the chocolate starfish isn't the only way to collect your DNA, we think it's the best."

I for one think these prints are awesome.  However, I am ashamed that I think so.  Yes, there is beauty in science.  But really? Why not just shit on a canvas and frame it?  Or piss in a vase and stick it on the coffee table?  Are we that obsessed with ourselves that we must immortalize the blueprint of our own body?  That sweaty butt print on the adirondack outside isn't enough?

I wish I had thought of these items because I could be making loads of money with a very simple lab technique.  But then again, I'm going to open the "shit on a shingle" design shop.  I'll let you know when I'm ready to take orders.


Until then, if you want to smear yourself on your walls do visit this website DNA Portraits™

Kid Quotes 2