May
22
Everyone out of the memepool
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A while ago, some generous soul posted one of my personal photos to Reddit:
I don’t know much about Reddit but it must be a popular place judging by the number of folks who emailed me to be like, um, hey, your shit is on Reddit. Afterwards, the photo went on to make the rounds on places like Buzzfeed, The Daily What, Cheezburger, Funny or Die, and a bunch more. A Google search for “meta photobomb” reveals the thrilling uncredited contribution Dylan and I made to any number of ad-driven websites.
YOU’RE WELCOME, COMEDIC WEB PROPERTIES.
Anyway, because the photo generated so much discussion, I thought I’d take a moment to address some of the most common observations:
That arm tattoo is hideous. I’d maybe fuck her with the lights out if I didn’t know that thing was there.
You know the exotic and elaborate mating ritual of the bird family Paradisaeidae? Where in order to attract and impress a mate, a Bird of Paradise contorts its body into an orb shape then jumps and dances around its intended lover while making loud ticking noises? My arm tattoo is not at all like this bird dance. Which is to say, feel free to assume I’m not trying to use it to give you a boner.
LOL BABBY WANTS TO SUCK THAT TITTIE HES HANGRY MIIIIIIILK BOOBIEZ
I’d explain how my body wasn’t actually breastfeeding-compliant at the time, but I suspect your blank-eyed, suction-mouthed response would be: “…Boobies? Milk? MA-MA?”
This woman has an SLR and an external flash but didn’t bother to use a tripod? IMHO she should be beaten to death with sticks.
Is this a real thing? Hauling out a tripod for silly spur-of-the-moment shots? Maybe that’s why my 2011 Humorous-Yet-Artsy Baby Photo Calendar never took off.
UR KID LOOKS LIKE BOBBY HILL
Well that’s not really a very nice thing to say, but I have to admit that in this particular photo he totally does. In an equally unflattering photograph taken several years ago, my first son also oddly resembled Stewie from Family Guy:
Nice eyebags. Ew.
They’re from all the sleep I lost wondering whether you, Dedicated User-Submitted Social Website Frequenter, would find this photo as sexually attractive as I’d hoped you would.
I never thought about the people in those meme-y images but now I sympathize and am thinking of maybe starting a support group. We shall meet for badly-staged amateur photos which we shall adorn with sans-serif kitty pidgin commentary. Later, there will be punch.
Lastly, while I’ve always thought that mirror photo of Dylan is hilarious, this remains my all-time favorite family photobomb:
May
16
Wings of desire
Filed Under Uncategorized | 47 Comments
A few weeks ago I was pointing something out to the kids and I noticed that although I was no longer moving, my outstretched arm was. Part of my arm, anyway. Specifically, the triceps area. It was sort of … wobbling, briefly, before coming to a rest.
I immediately thrust my arm out again while peering at the underneath, and damned if it didn’t perform the same gelatinous trick. Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle—J-E-L-L-O! What the fuck.
I’d like to tell you I didn’t spend the next 20 minutes and at least once per day ever since staring with fascinated horror at myself in a mirror while waving my arms in order to gauge exactly how long it takes for the flappy part to stop flapping, but, well, let’s keep it real, shall we? REAL FLAPPY.
This is a new thing, the armflap. I have (had?) nice arms, too. Dammit, I’ve worked hard for these arms. I can do pushups and burpees and I can lift children who have the superpower of suddenly assuming the density of Osmium. I have visible definition in my arms and my once-impenetrable veins now happily accept doctor’s blood-draw needles on the first stab and there are honest-to-god dents in my shoulders.
And yet, the armflap. I know I’m supposed to be all, I love and honor every part of my imperfect and beautiful body, but you know what, I do not love and honor the armflap. Right now I feel that the armflap is a bunch of bullshit, a similar physical injustice as my waistline which has taken on a sort of canary-in-a-gold-mine role where it rapidly expands by one full pants size for every half-pound I gain.
Gripped by the conviction that my body is newly succumbing to all sorts of depressing age-related and gravitational damages, I fled to Amazon and purchased a Tracy Anderson DVD.
Tracy Anderson, for those not intimately familiar with ridiculous celebrity fads, is a sort of trainer to the stars. Her main claim to fame is being the sculptress behind Gwyneth Paltrow’s tight quarter-bouncing Iron Man ass and Madonna’s terrifyingly ropey physique. She’s got a whole diet and fitness METHOD which purports to redesign anyone’s body, as long as you’re willing to do her workouts (2 hours a day, minimum) and follow her diet (eating fuck-all).
It’s totally the kind of thing you buy at 11:30 PM after you’ve just wedged a sleeve of graham crackers in your food-hole while staring at your armflap.
The DVD I bought is her mat routine, and at first I was kind of laughing at it. Stick my arms out and wave them around while trying vainly to copy Tracy’s pornlike facial expressions? This is a WORKOUT? Oh, how my CrossFit coaches would be laughing at me now.
But goddamn if that stupid arm-waving business isn’t about the most painful thing I’ve ever done. It’s not that one of the moves is challenging, it’s the fact that everything is repeated for like twelve years. Seriously: extend your arms, and rotate your hands up and hands down. Do that for twelve years. When you’re done with that, it’s time for legs!
It isn’t exactly thrilling and Tracy really kind of seems like an anorexia-promoting douche, especially when she harps on how her workout is designed to make you SOOO TINY and how it’s mission-critical not to use too much weight or you’ll BULK, but the repetition and music are oddly soothing after a while, and I swear I see new lines in my arms. My shoulders look more defined and I feel like my posture is a little better. I can raise my left arm without hearing my collarbone pop out of joint (this was a phenomenon that appeared after a few months of trying, badly, to do kipping pullups), and my legs seem more flexible.
I can go on and on about what exercise does for my confidence, my energy, my patience, and my overall outlook on life, and it’s all true. It’s also true, however, that most of the workouts I’ve tried have been for utterly vain reasons. I almost always discover the surface results aren’t what I think they will be (running: it won’t necessarily give you an athlete’s body if you don’t eat like an athlete!), but there are often other payoffs (running: it can make you feel like you can handle any challenge, including holding off the desire to shit one’s pants!).
So, Tracy Anderson’s mat routine: silly, girly, probably scientifically fucked, but somehow rewarding. Maybe it’s all those bizarre rotations strengthening up the supporting muscles. Maybe it’s the Power of Gwyneth.
The armflaps, however, are still fully present and accounted for. I think the best solution is to make very, very slow gestures from now on.
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