Rosemary’s Baby = Scientology?

While washing dishes the other day, I absentmindedly began contemplating the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes/Baby Suri crazy train and was struck with a sudden (compelling) thought: What if Rosemary's Baby was just an allegory for Scientology? I mean, think about it. In the book, characters (notably Guy, an actor) worship the devil in exchange for personal success. In real life, Scientologists (many of whom seem to be wealthy and prominent actors) believe in Xenu and follow the teachings of second-rate sci-fi author L. Ron Hubbard. And many of these Hubtards seems suspiciously successful to me. Hm. It's just a theory, but it is worth considering.

Although Suri Cruise is an awfully beautiful baby to be the Chosen One of Scientology.

A Harry Potter Tidbit

I'm currently listening to the audiobook of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and have found myself frustrated by one thing in particular, as I explained in a brief AIM exchange with Afshin:

me: yeah, so this is pissing me off
me: harry and hermione are unable to find out what a horcrux is
me: i have one word: google.
me: dumbass wizards.
Afshin: haha

There may be an impending Harry Potter–related rant coming. Depends on how soon I can get the venom out of my system. To put it mildly, I saw the fifth movie last night and didn't like it one little bit.

A Public Service Announcement

If you are a peeping tom in the Berkeley area, this message may be for you. First, let's get something clear: Just because a bathroom happens to be at ground level doesn't mean that users of that bathroom are fair game for unsolicited photography sessions. So, if you're the weasel who was attempting to take/taking pictures of me in the shower last Sunday night, I'd better not see my wet, naked ass on the internet. I have friends in 1337 places—they'll go all haXor on you.

Don't Drink and Skate

I suppose it's been a while since I've proffered any truly embarrassing stories about my frequent bungling—I guess one's due.

So this one happened a while back when I lived in New York. I have always been a sucker for ice skating—watching it, that is. I can skip, oh, the entire rest of the Winter Olympics, but I make a point of watching the ice skating. (I can do without the Summer Olympics entirely.) Anyway, I had been flipping channels and stumbled across some ice skating competition. As I was alone in the apartment, I was free to watch the skating free from ridicule. I made myself a drink and settled in.

Well, it was a strong drink. Maybe even two strong drinks. I started wondering exactly how these skaters executed jumps, anyway. I mean, what's the difference between a triple lutz and a triple salchow? I know there is a difference, but I can't see it. Now I know that, theoretically, you have to build up speed to jump properly, but you see skaters performing small jumps from a standing position all the time. You know, on the practice mats before they're scheduled to take the ice.

You know what the difference is between a professional ice skater and me? For starters, the ice skater's an athlete, not a sports-phobe. And, generally at least, said ice skater isn't inebriated at the time of competition. Moreover, I doubt many skaters attempt jumps in the middle of their kitchens. And I'll bet money that they don't complete their jumps by landing smack in the recycling pile.

Gender, Boobs, and Vocab (In That Order)

Yesterday, as I was walking home from the BART station, I passed a trio of...people. All three had the same body type (short and fat), similar haircuts (very short, boyish), and wore the same sort of clothes (loose jeans/pants and tees). For the life of me, I couldn't tell you whether they were male or female. They were either very butch girls or sort of squashily feminine guys. There was evidence of boobs, but they could easily have just been man boobs. Two of the three were holding hands, which might have been a clue, but wasn't in this case. They could have been a gay couple of either sex or a mixed-gender couple that was extraordinarily well-matched in terms of attractiveness (i.e., totally lacking).

So I couldn't determine the sex of three random people—I'm apparently excellent at distinguishing between real and surgically enhanced breasts. I took The Real Breasts/Fake Breasts Test yesterday (totally NSFW, but I really don't think they'd care in my office) and scored an 18 out of 20. Not bad. If you need to waste about five minutes, check it out.

While I'm on the topic of all things chestal, I might mention a conversation I had recently with my grandmother, who was lamenting how coarse my aunt can sound sometimes. (I, for the record, don't think my aunt sounds coarse, but my grandmother is...particular.) It went something like this:

Grandmother: I hate it when she calls them her "bubs" or "bubbies."

Me: First of all, she doesn't call them her "bubs" or "bubbies." She calls them boobs or boobies—she's not an old Jewish grandmother.

Grandmother: Well, why can's she just call them breasts like any normal person?

I should point out that my grandmother is a retired nurse. When the dog craps on the carpet, it is not poop; it is feces. When you throw up, the expelled matter is not called puke or even vomit; it is vomitus. And, as I learned early in life, that thing that's used to take your blood pressure—you know, the one that everyone, even most medical professionals, call a cuff?—it's a sphygmomanometer.