Female outrage begins in 3, 2, 1...

Wow. Just wow. I came across this article in Japan Times titled, Women, Know Your Place.

The writer, Kris Kosaka (apparently female) basically believes professional women (at least Japanese) are "overqualified housewives".

Some money quotes:

"How much money thoughtlessly wasted through the years on cram schools and education, on overseas travel, violin lessons?"

"A new focus on marital arts should replace all other education for women in Japan, starting from mid-elementary level, lest girls become susceptible to the dangerous notion that they can someday have a life outside the home."

"I propose all Japanese women, at the age of 10, enter matrimonial arts academies. The curriculum will center on how to make life pleasant for men and children, and such courses as "Household Funds" or "How to Raise a Chauvinistic Male" will ensure society regains a clarity and unity of purpose so lacking in today's confused world. Seminars such as "How to Pour Beer into your Husband's Glass with Minimal Foam" or "Bathing Children While Maintaining a Pristine Bath" will ensure Japanese women learn the skills and develop the talents necessary for their existence."

Now, I'm no expert on Japanese society, but I'm curious how suggestions like these might fly in the U.S. Plus, I guess I'm a little disappointed the author doesn't at least recommend private geisha lessons.

I just realized: this kinda works as a companion piece to Cary's Neato Dating Tips Of The Day post on List of the Day.

Tail of terror

Last week, Shiny Object reader, Sally, introduced us to her relatives Hickory & Hazel Knutt. Innocent enough. But who knew it would foreshadow a real-life horror story in Northern Ireland, where the Nutt family home (aka The Nutt House) has been besieged by a seething swarm of scavenging squirrels?

Mrs. Oonagh Nutt says she's spent thousands of pounds trying to get rid of the bushy-tailed beasts: "I've had pest control round putting poison down in the roof space and travel routes through the house...We've had squirrel catchers, traps, lights, sonar. Everything but the kitchen sink." All to no avail.

If all else fails, Mrs. Nutt could try, oh I don't know...changing her name?!

It's Garrito's Foto Friday

Yes, it's another Friday. Which means I'm once again too tired or too lazy or a combination of the both, and I go through my 10,000 photos from the last six years looking for something that doesn't suck. Trust me, there's a LOT of suck in there.

I figure I showed off my one kitty, Java, two weeks ago, so now I've got to give equal time to her step-sister, Zoe, who just turned 12 on St. Paddy's Day. Zoe sneezes a lot, and usually when she's less than two feet from my face, and I mean big, meaty, snotty sneezes. It ain't pretty. But she is.

©2009 Garrito

Balls are shrinking!

LONDON (Reuters Life!) - The number of people in Britain with surnames like Cockshott, Balls, Death and Shufflebottom -- likely the source of schoolroom laughter -- has declined by up to 75 percent in the last century.

A study found the number of people with the name Cock shrank to 785 last year from 3,211 in 1881, those called Balls fell to 1,299 from 2,904 and the number of Deaths were reduced to 605 from 1,133.

People named Smellie decreased by 70 percent, Dafts by 51 percent, Gotobeds by 42 percent, Shufflebottoms by 40 percent, and Cockshotts by 34 percent, said Richard Webber, visiting professor of geography at King's College, London.

"If you find the (absolute) number goes down, it's either because they changed their names or they emigrated," Webber, author of the study, told Reuters on Wednesday.

He said that in many cases, people probably changed their surnames as they came to be regarded as in bad taste. "It's because the meaning of words can change. Take the name Daft -- that as a term for a stupid is a relatively recent innovation."

This reminds me of my days as a golf caddy. There was a member couple whose names, I swear, were Dick and Anita Kuntz. Here's proof.

Having a body part surname myself -- and not one of the more pleasant parts -- I can empathize with those who choose to change. Me, I've decided to stick it out. And no, that's not a hint.

Yo no heart Tijuana

So after learning that one of my few obviously insane dear readers hails from San Diego (where I spent a couple years before retreating back to the equally sunny NW), I was inspired to comb through some photos to find some So Cal shiny objects.

Turns out my search brought me just south of the border, to a little strip of hell on Earth known as Tijuana. ¡Aye, chi mama! If "Tijuana" translated to "Abandon hope all ye who enter here", I wouldn't be all that surprised. There is something seriously broken with that place. I know not to judge an entire country by one little cesspool, but that's the only part of Mexico I've been too. And trust me, it's a cesspool.

As far as I could tell, Tijuanans (?) seem to think all Americans want to buy three things: Day of the Dead trinkets, wrestling masks (think Nacho Libre), and Chicklets. Chicklets? WTF? Did someone tell them we ran out? And they paint their donkeys like fucking zebras because WHY? Do they think WE think the zebra is indigenous to Northwest Mexico?

I could go on, but for now I'd better just chillax share those photos:

It took all of 5 seconds to cross the border into Tijuana. Getting backing was another story. It took 2 hours. TWO HOURS! This shot was taken on a walkway over the line of cars waiting to get into the U.S. (We were laughing at the fools who were stupid enough to drive... until we reached the other side of the walkway and realized the line of people sans cars stretched half-a-goddamn-mile!) What struck me was the weird, random shit hawkers were trying to sell. Cheap, plastic flamenco guitars, I can almost understand, but huge urns?

In downtown Tijuana, you see a lot of Mariachi. The thing is, few of them are actually playing. Most are waiting for transportation to bring them, I imagine, to annoy the fuck out of people in San Diego's Old Town.

Dios mio.

Photos ©2009 Garrito

Diddler on the Roof -- NSFWish

First of all: Welcome new readers from the insanely funny List of the Day, and a huge thank you to its blogmeister, Cary, for making me his FOLOTD (Fan of List of the Day). Also, thank you to my regular stalkers.

Now let's get down to the business at hand, so to speak.

18-year-old Google Earth fan Rory McInnes thought the new roof on his parents' mansion would make a perfect canvas for his 60 ft. mastur-piece. If we learned anything from the movie Superbad, it's that apparently 8 percent of kids make these drawings. Rory simply took it to new heights.

Let's hope he used paint.

Beer you'd like to tap -- NSFW (barely)

There's a country music song I actually don't hate (no, really!) called "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off". As it turns out, beer does, too. Skinny Blonde, a low-carb beer out of Australia, features a pin-up girl on the label. Drink down a bottle and -- presto! -- her bikini top magically disappears.

The stuff is selling like hot cakes (flapjacks in this case), but less on tap than in the striptease bottles. Apparently, not since "Grab a Heine" has such a bad beer depended as much on anatomy to sell.


Get to the bottom of it here.

Welcome to Garrito's Foto Friday

I just realized that the past couple Fridays I've posted my own photos. It's not as much a testament to my artistry as it is to my sheer laziness. Sometimes searching online for interesting photos and videos (AKA Shiny Objects) can be a bitch and a half.

So, I present to you one of my favorite shots (I call a lot of things "my favorite", so feel free to take it with a heaping grain of salt -- an old friend still calls me Mr. Superlative). It's from NYC two years ago, just south of Union Square on Broadway. Just north of where I learned to shoot pool in the early 90's, and just south of where I once watched a humongous cockroach make a beeline toward an ex-girlfriend in a nice restaurant (Union Square Grill) before it had the good sense to turn away before its tiny eardrums were shattered by a deafening shriek. (Hers, not mine, if I really have to spell it out.)

If this photo had a title, I think it'd have to be "I've Got a Bad Feeling About This".

©2009 Garrito

Michael Jackson finally gets serious about plastic surgery

The King of Pop's face has already been chiseled down more than the four Mt. Rushmore presidents combined. Now it sounds like he might outlast them all, too.

It appears Wacko Jacko is planning to be Shellac-o'd for all eternity by the mad doctor who brought us the until-now harmless Body Worlds exhibitions. Yes, if the Gloved Shunned One has his way, he will be "plastinated" upon his demise (which, sadly, gives me one less thing to wish for).

If there's a silver lining, it sure beats him being cryogenically frozen, only to be brought back to endanger our great-great-great grandsons. Shamone. He heeeee.

Man gives technology the finger

Literally.

Jerry Jalava, a Finnish computer programmer who lost half his finger in a motorcycle crash with a deer, has replaced it with a prosthetic 2gb USB flash drive.


"I just leave my finger inside the slot and pick it up after I'm ready."


I can't help but think this would be much more interesting if Jerry was, say, a butcher.

Eves of distraction

What would you do for two free airline tickets? In London yesterday, about 400 people stripped down to their shamrocks for a special St. Patrick's Day promotion. Oh, that cunning Aer Lingus.

Keep looking for four-leaf clovers here or read about it here.

"Happy Friday the 13th -- watch yer ass!"

©2009 Garrito

So sayeth Java, who's path you best not cross today.

Meet Frank Chu

©2009 Garrito

I had no clue when I took this photo last year that I was in the midst of celebrity. His name is Frank Chu and, according to Wikipedia, he's one of San Francisco's best-known eccentrics. That's saying a lot. I thought I was taking a picture of A nut. Turns out he's THE nut.

Chu's sign changes daily, with the one consistent element being his trademark "12 Galaxies". It's only recently that he's upped the total of Galaxies, as you can see here along the Embarcadero. (Did he finally buy a telescope?) There even used to be a local nightclub named 12 Galaxies in his honor. Chu sells ad space on the back of that sign (I wish I had taken a look!), with companies like Quiznos Sub sponsoring him, and gets free meals at restaurants all over the city.

Who's crazy now, huh? (OK, yeah, it's probably him. Still...)

New KFC offering: chicken of the sea

Colonel Sanders has just been reintroduced to Osaka -- from the bottom of its river -- after a 24-year absence. Seems the locals subjected KFC's leader to lengthy Japanese water torture after mistaking him for MLB reject/Japanese baseball hero Randy Bass. They meant for Bass to (ironically) "sleep with the fish", but grabbed the colonel instead. Still no word on his secret recipe for survival.

More finger lickin' goodness here.

German food company "so goes there"

Why did the chicken cross the Autobahn? To get unwittingly involved in racial stereotyping, it seems. Explaining their new fried chicken offering, Sprehe spokesperson Judith Witting said, "It was supposed to be a homage to the American lifestyle and the new US president." Uh-huh. Right. I guess it could be worse. They could be selling Obama Foot-Long Hot Dogs.

Click the photo for the whole cluckin' story, or go here.

Spiderman hits the unemployment line

The Japanese have finally gone too far. First they embarrass Detroit (because there's no way Detroit could possibly do that to itself). Now they've gone and put one of our beloved superheroes permanently out of business. (I know, at least it's only a Marvel hero, not DC.)

Introducing the Tmsuk (good luck pronouncing that!) T-34 Security Robot, complete with a spidey web-thingy that shoots out of its mecha-mouth to put the bad guys out of commission. Well, at least for a few seconds, until they lift it over their heads. What, rice is the only thing our friends in the Far East can make sticky?

Dental damned

I hate dentists. I know, join the club. But you don't understand: until I was 18, I had only heard about novacaine. My childhood dentist -- let's call him Dr. Jekyll -- wasn't just Old School. He was Old Testament.

They say the Devil's greatest trick was convincing people he didn't exist. I say it was convincing people DDS didn't stand for Doctor of Dental Satanry. Sure, he took on a kindly Mr. Rogers-like form for my parents' sake. But I knew Mr. Hyde was simply waiting for the sound of the drill to cover up his transformation.

It should have been obvious, but by the time you noticed his knuckles -- the hairiest this side of a primate exhibit -- it was too late. They were violating your mouth and flossing your molars.

Then there was that little matter of lack of local anesthetic. The "good" doctor didn't so much drill my teeth as jackhammer them, and the deeper he hammered, the more my nerves became the underlying pipes he took pleasure in rupturing. In a dentist chair, with your mouth wadded in cotton and knuckle deep in hair, no one can hear you scream.

So why do I bring this up today? Well, I just got back from my new dentist's office. I went for a cleaning. I was mentally prepared for a similar experience to my last cleaning, a deep cleaning, at a previous dentist -- a three-day ordeal that, despite many novacaine injections, left me traumatized, in pain, and wondering if a hit man would charge less for a dental hygienist.

Imagine my surprise when my dental assistant du jour first asked me what kind of music I'd like on their iPod (I went with soothing Hawaiian), dabbed my temples with some lilac-scented oil (so that's what aromatherapy is), and proceeded to cleanse my pearly yellows with some new-fangled water jet tool. No pain, no whimpering, and no hit men.

Seems the Devil is learning to hide his tracks better.

Kanga-BOO!

Talk about timing...less than five minutes after friend/loyal reader/ shoe fetishist Shelly tells me about the blog Fuck You Penguin, I come across my very own marsupial mo-fo.

This story answers the age-old question: What do you do when a 6-foot kangaroo crashes through your bedroom window and proceeds to treat your bed (with you, your wife and kid under the covers!) like a trampoline? Apparently, you pull a "Mickey Rourke" and put adorably rabid Skippy in a headlock.

Don't believe me? Click the pic to hop to the article. (Yeah, I really said "hop" -- sad.)

Strip Club EXPOSED!

I go to strip clubs about as often as I vote for Republicans, and with about as much enthusiasm. My last trip was for a friend's bachelor party in '07, at the Acropolis in Portland (which has the nerve to call itself a steakhouse -- believe me, nothing in that place is "well done"). I can say this for the club: none of their strippers had band-aids on their asses, like a dancer at another bachelor party years before. Classy.

The highlight of my evening? A visit to the men's room, where I finally found something I could photograph without risking a black eye or knee to the groin or worse yet, a lap dance.

In retrospect, I really wish I had invested the $1.50 to learn the secrets of their penile enlargement technique (just out of curiosity, mind you) and apparently-Bill Clinton-endorsed oral gratification device. Tough titties (some pun intended), I guess.

©2009 Garrito

Tonya Harding hearts Obama. Riiiight.

Looking like a bloated drag queen wearing a circa-1994 Tonya Harding wig, the former skater/boxer/knee cap-hater bitches about Obama referring to her recently. Of course, in the same breath she says she gets work because the President brought her up (using the old "any publicity is good publicity" rationale). What kind of work, exactly, do you imagine she's getting? Shoe salesperson? ("Ow, watch it with that foot measuring stick, lady!")

Man cuts one, and it's nasty

The guy in this video is using a thermal lance to cut a 9-ton press head (whatever that is) off a giant hydraulic press body (whatever THAT is). I learned about the tool watching The Bank Job last night at a friend's.

Without giving too much away from a decent flick, they use one to enter the bank vault. (C'mon, you knew they break into a bank!) Basically, it's an iron tube packed with iron rods that, when lit, burns at up to 8000°F, can cut through steel...and even melt rocks.

I may not be a Tim Allen-grunting man-fool (more a Woody Allen-kibitzing man-fool, thank you), but this would definitely come in handy in those one-asshole-taking-two-parking-spaces situations.

Eels are shiny, right?

Slimy...shiny...close enough. Anyhoo, I don't describe many things as "sweet" without miming a puke-inducing finger down my throat, but this song by The Eels is just that. It's from the small, quirky movie The Big White, starring some not-so-small talent (Robin Williams, Giovanni Ribisi, Holly Hunter, Woody Harrelson, etc). Just a bit of a warning: it's a fan-made video since there's no actual one. Get ready to go, "Awwwwwww..."

Kitsch of the day

Way back when I was a New Yawkuh, I used to take frequent road trips up to Maine to visit a good friend (sometimes in the company of up to 10 other friends -- can you say "find a good spot on the floor to sleep"?). It always seemed like an eccentric place, from the strangely exotic Belted Galloway cows in Camden that looked like giant, double-stuffed Oreos to Uncle Billy's Bar-b-que in South Portland, featuring walls covered in velvet Elvii and customer napkin drawings of pigs (ie. Frankenpig).

But my favorite eccentricity was the work of local artist Dan Danielson. I can't find much about him online (and I'm far too lazy to comb through my own photos to scan), but I've managed to dig up a couple good examples. I could be wrong, but I believe Dan was originally a plumber who one day decided he was an artist. He took old boilers and crafted them into, well, anything and everything. I remember his workshop featured a boiler Rapunzel letting down her boiler hair from the roof. Some other memorable works included...

St. George slaying the dragon

Easter Island

I was just back there in September for the first time in 6 years (shame on me!), and I can kick myself for not dragging my fiancée to see Dan's work. Then again, she wasn't terribly impressed by the cows.

Signs that Iceland is in the crapper

Things are shitty in Iceland these days. Their economy collapsed. Their government dissolved. And Björk attacked a photographer. Even IceNews seems to be trying to draw attention away from their stinking island to focus on other Scandanavian issues. But notice a familiar theme? That's right -- the journalistic equivalent of underwear skid marks.

What's next, the Mile-High Pub?

An out-of-service Boeing 747 has been converted into a youth hostel named, of course, Jumbo Hostel, at the Stockholm, Sweden airport...complete with staff dressed as goofy 1960's flight attendants. On the upside, rooms start at only $63 per night. The downside? It's the first hotel susceptible to hijacking. (Insert "hostel takeover" joke here.)

Sleep peacefully on an airport runway.

The cockpit honeymoon suite -- expect turbulence.

"Why, no, we've never had anyone asking for a place to 'crash'. Idiot."