You’re damn right he hydrates.
Do you have a Bukowski-sized hangover today? Are you in the process of renouncing all of your Irish, or pretend Irish, heritage? Are you making promises to never drink again?
Let’s get real.
Here are some natural hangover cures because I care about you.
1. Drink water. While this may seem obvious, it’s wicked important. Try to avoid coffee. Even though it’ll make you feel more human and awake, it’ll make your hangover last even longer since coffee dehydrates you.
2. Drink Coconut Water. Coconut water is full of natural electrolytes, which will both hydrate you and keep you hydrated. Avoid the gatorade-like drinks because they’re full of dyes, chemicals, and toxins, that will make you retain water, which you probably don’t want. Nothing worse than being hungover and puffy. Read more »
The buyers and sellers of dreams: American Pickers
Whenever I go back to my parents’ house to visit, I usually end up watching a year’s worth of TV. It’s part of the experience. There’s not much else to do where I’m from. And while I was home over the summer for two weeks, I couldn’t stop watching Junk TV. I’m not saying that TV is junk, although it pretty much is, let’s face it, I’m talking about TV about junk. Junk porn. It began in the late 70s with Antique’s Roadshow on PBS. But no one other than the liberal, elderly demographic of PBS paid much attention until now. Now there’s Pawn Stars, Cajun Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, Storage Wars, Storage Wars: Texas, American Pickers, and the creepy-crawly, panic attack-inducing Hoarders-all on channels that used to be about history or arts and entertainment. They remind us of the things that we own, the things we throw away, the things that our grandparents own or owned, things that used to be made in the good ol’ US of A, things that we knew where they came from. It’s nostalgia in a tin toy robot or a Winchester rifle, a ceramic pot with owls on it. It’s nostalgia wrapped in things we own, or wish we did. It’s big business now, buying and selling junk, and I think it says something about our consumer culture as it was and as it is becoming. We are addicted to nostalgia porn. Read more »
So you should probably watch this.
You know those people who constantly post pictures on Facebook or Pinterest or any of the other fiendish social media outlets? You know, the pictures of someone’s dinner, or appetizer, or caramel pecan latte with the pretty foamy swirls. You know. Those a-holes. Whether it’s chicken cordon bleu or gluten-free cupcakes, people are posting their breakfast, lunch, and dinner on any platform that will allow. As if the whole of the Internet were interested in your dietary habits. I used to loathe those people. I’d think, who gives a shit about what you had for dinner? Or Congratulations on your fucking grilled cheese, d-bag. I used to think this. And then I’d go back to watching cat videos. But now, dear friends, I’ve become one of them. I am guilty of posting my dinner on Instagram. I know. I know. Before you judge, let me explain myself. Read more »
Milk and cookies indeed.
I picked up an Inlander last week and read through the Gift Guide section, last minute gift ideas for various subcultures/friends. And guess what subculture got a two-page spread? “Gifts for Liberated Potheads.” Ever since weed has been legalized in Washington state, people seem happier, dare I say jollier. So, in the spirit of the holidays, spreading good cheer, and celebrating current events, here is your holiday mixtape for the stoner in your life. Enjoy safely, friends. Happy Holidays. May it be festive, green, and full of joy. Read more »
Just add black glasses, warpaint, and American Apparel. Voila!
Over Thanksgiving break, two of my friends and I went to Portland because it’s Portland and none of us had been there before. It was supposed to be an escape from work and school. A grown-up holiday. Friendsgiving. Where we could make the rules and do what we wanted. No relatives. No worries. Just a road trip and an excuse to see something new.
I made reservations for a hotel online, a very nice historic building called the Crystal Hotel (which I highly recommend), and then looked for stuff to do in the city while we were there. Across the street from the hotel is a venue called the Crystal Ballroom. So I clicked to see if there were any shows or events going on during the few days we were going to be there. And sure enough, even on the Thanksgiving holiday, there was a show scheduled for the night we’d get into town. I checked them out on Youtube. They seemed just like your average poppy hipster-loving band. Seemingly innocuous. And tickets were cheap. So I bought them. A spontaneous purchase. Why not? Read more »
Bob Ross and the happy raccoon
Bob Ross holds a special place in my heart. As a kid, I used to watch his program The Joy of Painting on PBS with my grandmother in Watertown, SD. When my parents and I would come to visit, they would drive into town to run some errands and leave me with her. I would plop down in front of the TV and suck on butterscotch discs while she painted along with him. She painted charming Bob Rossesque paintings, nature scenes, mountains, evergreen trees, happy clouds. When she ran out of canvas, she’d tear a scrap of wallpaper off of the wall or she’d take cardboard from one of the many cases of Coca-Cola she kept on hand, flip it to the blank side, and paint on that. It didn’t matter the materials, just as long as she had something to paint on. It was a beautiful thing.
There’s something about his voice that makes everything that’s wrong with the world seem like a sigh, like just another one of those things, like it’s all going to be okay. One of his most famous quotes is, “We don’t have mistakes here, we just have happy accidents.” I love him for that, too. I also love him because he worked at PBS practically for free for over a decade (The Joy of Painting ran from January 11, 1983, to May 17, 1994) until his lymphoma progressed too far for him to continue the show. He donated most of his paintings to PBS, and he made his money off of his line of instructional videos and painting supplies that are still sold today. Read more »
Seems harmless enough, right?
So in my last post I wrote about the plant obsession that is slowly taking over my humble household. Since then, we’ve added several more plants into our growing jungle kingdom because we have no self-control. These are the new additions: a Blue Moon dwarf spruce, an agave plant, a pagoda plant, a dwarf juniper bush, a coleus plant, a variegated elephant plant, and a Madagascar Jewel. Because we lack self-control and foresight, we bought these plants without doing any kind of research first. We went with the buy now, ask later approach; an American trait. This is not a good thing. We should have done a little bit of research or had the peace of mind to at least google on a smartphone while we were choosing our darlings because, as it turns out, one of the plants we chose is a terrifying specimen of epically virile proportions. Exhibit A: The Madagascar Jewel. Or as I like to call it, The Sperm Shooter.
The Madagascar Jewel is a cactus-like succulent in the Euphorbia family, which has over 2,000 species. Supposedly, it originates from Madagascar, but most believe it was cultivated by plant enthusiasts in greenhouses, not in the wild. All of this is well and good. It’s in the same family as poinsettias, so they can’t be all bad, right? What could be wrong with a plant that’s in the same family as pretty, red Christmas plants? Well, turns out these plants ejaculate poisonous sap. Yes, they ejaculate. They ejaculate poisonous sperm. Brings a whole new meaning to the family jewels, doesn’t it? Read more »
Look, Ericka! It’s still alive!
I’ve never been one of those people who have plants in their house or apartment. I used to think that plants were just one more thing I’d end up killing and then feel really guilty about killing. Taking care of myself is enough work as it is. But when Ericka entrusted her basil plant to me before she moved away, I told her I’d take care of it, that I’d water it and keep it alive, that I’d nurture it and protect it as if I had planted the seed myself. And I am proud to say that I’ve done that. I’ve kept it alive so far and it’s thriving. It really is! I am a proud plant parent.
Having the plant by the living room window has added a certain ambiance to my apartment that I never expected. When I walk in now, I don’t smell dirty clothes and dirty dishes, I smell the fragrant scent of herbs and dirt. I feel connected to the earth despite being surrounded by concrete, drywall, screaming neighbors and unleashed barking dogs. But this realization comes at a price–I think I’m becoming a Plant Lady. Yesterday, my boyfriend and I went to Northwest Seed & Pet to pick up some cat food for our cat, Walter. If you’ve never been there, when you first walk in you’re surrounded by plants–little plants, enormous hanging plants–and ceramic pots and planters. Instantly all of my senses were heightened, hyper aware of the goodness of nature. I could feel all of the oxygen they radiated in my lungs and nose, their scents, their colors, their happy little flowers and leaves, all the different textures, waxy, fuzzy, scratchy, and veiny. It makes sense that there is an American Horticulture Therapy Association, a school of therapy based around looking at and taking care of plants. Read more »
I’ve been doing a lot of research for my thesis this summer, and every once in a while I come across a gem. So I thought I’d share it with you. I found it while watching TED Talks videos on Netflix. It’s research.
Frustrated with the contemporary art world, Shea Hembrey came up with the idea to gather of 100 artists from around the world for one giant showing. But he didn’t want to find and contact 100 artists, so he decided to do it himself. Why not? So he created 100 artists, invented 100 characters, and then created each of 100 fictional artist’s installations and documented it. He gave himself two years (the time to write a thesis). No pressure.
I think my piece is “Mixtape Love Song’s Mixtape” or the giant mirror in the wheat.
I’m not sure if I should be impressed, offended, or jealous. So I think he succeeded.