So planetdan has been painfully neglected as of late. I did take a trip to Hawaii last month, but my absence has mostly been due to the fact that I moved. Or rather, I put my house up for sale, sold it for a song, agreed to purchase a new one, and then lived in limbo for months until the damn thing finally closed – just last Friday. I’ll try to keep it short:
I put my house up for sale, thinking that such an awesome house would surely incite a bidding war, and that the thing would sell for a premium, netting me a hundred grand to put down toward the next house, easy. I have a ton of showings (and log countless hours to vacuuming, dusting, and sitting at the coffee shop waiting it out) but no offers.
March thru July
As I slowly catch up to the reality of the crappy real estate market, I am forced to admit that my house might be overpriced. I try various price reductions, new signage, and weekly open houses, but people still don’t seem to be grasping the unparallelled charm and decorative whimsy of Casa de Danny. I set up a nanny cam in the house in the hopes of hearing some constructive criticism, but the garbled audio picks up nothing except for the loud booming bass when someone actually has the guts to play a song on my jukebox.
After four price reductions the showings have all but dried up. The options are to take it off the market and try again in a few years, or to do one more drastic price reduction as a last ditch effort. I love my house, but in my head I’ve already moved, so I try for bottom dollar. It sells in three days and for twenty percent less than I was hoping. Closing is scheduled for a little over a month away, so I start looking for a new home, and find the perfect place three days later. They accept the offer and I start packing.
The buyers of my old house schedule their inspections and appraisals. The house is in even better shape than I thought. I see the new buyers drive by the house occasionally, clearly looking forward to moving in. I’m knocking on wood like crazy and doing everything I can not to jinx the sale, when one morning I wake up to this:
My neighbor’s car, parked directly in front of my newly-sold home, has had its tires stolen, replaced by a lone cinder block, like I lived in the projects or something. I thought this type of sh!t only happened in the movies. I tell the neighbor to get that thing towed before my buyers drive by, mouths agape. He complies, and luckily no one is the wiser.
Closing time arrives and my old house sells without a hitch. My new place is not so lucky, though, and closing has been delayed until the seller can get his affairs in order. He lets us move into the house anyway, which is good because I would have nowhere else to live, but it’s also unnerving because if the house doesn’t close we’ll have to move right back out a month later.
On moving day, the meteorologist predicts it will Flash Flood all day long, and it does, but I’ve hired movers so I stay dry as a bone and tip them all ten dollars extra. Regardless, none of my furniture fits in the new place and moving sucks hind teat. Is that even a phrase? Hind teat? I don’t like it and I wish I hadn’t used it.
The new place is nice, but not officially ours yet, so I feel apprehensive to hang anything on the walls or alter the decor, so I just live out of boxes. Then one day we get a foreclosure letter in the mail that says all occupants must be out of the house by December. Panic is followed by lawyers who are followed by the realization that if we don’t close on the house by December, it will go into foreclosure, and we will be evicted. Which sounds awesome, but there is nothing I can do about it. I go to Hawaii and lay on the beach and try not to think about the rotting pit in my stomach.
After countless delays, the new place has still not closed, and certain requirements detailed in the purchase agreement have not yet been met. Closing is scheduled for a Friday, and on Thursday night we are forced to threaten to walk away from the deal. There are screaming matches between realtors and few hurt feeling when dan gets testy and starts telling people how it is. Very few escape my wrath. But at the last moment everything works out, we officially buy the place, and I spend the next week walking around IKEA like a zombie, hemorrhaging money.
This whole process of getting from one place to another has been the world’s biggest pain in the ass, and in the future I will probably have to refer to 2010 as “The Lost Year,” but now I live here:
The only thing I haven’t really figured out yet is how to deal with this:
Won’t the tree eventually outgrow the hole and rip the deck to shreds? Doesn’t nature always win these battles? Oh well, looks cool in the mean time.
No one’s ever drawn a portrait of danny before. Ever. Not one cheesy baby portrait in pencil. Not one poorly-conceived 80′s painting of me straddling a wall in a mini-skirt a’la Some Kind of Wonderful. Not even one of those ham-fisted caricatures you can get at the county fair for fifteen minutes and ten dollars.
Some Kind of Horrible.
So I commissioned the first portrait of danny from an internet friend, and it only cost me twenty bucks, delivered to my door. So consider this the big unveiling:
The first commissioned portrait of danny, ever.
For the record, it measures 3.25″ x 4.5″ and I love it, although I’m having a hard time finding a frame for it. Anyway, I feel like commissioning inexpensive self-portraits might be a new hobby of mine, so if anyone’s got a recommendation for a good portrait artist, send them my way. One day I’ll have a whole wall of ‘em. A wall of dan. Just like I’ve always deserved.
My favorite joke of the month, told to me by my buddy Ricko:
“I don’t really like those Russian nesting dolls. They’re just so into themselves.”
Okay, so maybe it’s not the funniest joke in the world, and kinda random to boot, but I like it.
I am fascinated by nesting dolls. I hesitate to say that I “love” them out of fear that people may take that sentiment a tad too seriously and I’ll get nothing but nesting dolls for every birthday, christmas, and anniversary until the day I die. (Likewise and for the record, I do not officially collect anything at all. So there are no easy-outs for gift-giving when it comes to danny. But I digress.)
Over ten years ago I bought a set of blank nesting dolls off the internet in the hopes of coming up with some really clever or funky idea for how to paint on them, but no idea ever came, and so now they just sit in the back of my closet like nested trophies of my creative failure.
So if anyone’s got any bright ideas, send them my way. But Michael Jackson has already been done:
I’ve been gone. From both the blogosphere and Minnesota. I sold my house and have been trying to buy a new one and the process is astoundingly awful and drawn out, in the middle of which I went to Hawaii and swam with the sharks:
When the lady said, “Anyone who wants to swim with the White Tips, follow me this way,” I didn’t realize that White Tips were sharks. Sure, they are smaller, docile creatures who seemed more interested in burying their heads in the ocean floor than eating the fleshy part of my thigh, but being an Icthyophobe, I got the hell out of there as soon as I realized what I was looking at. Eff that.
I’m surprised I even got in the ocean in the first place, considering I had sworn off snorkeling when I saw them drag a dead snorkeler out of the surf and onto the beach on a previous Hawaiian adventure. “That guy’s hardcore!” we all remarked as we saw him strutting out into the ocean on his own with nothing but a snorkel mask and some flippers. A few minutes later, he wasn’t so hardcore anymore. Unexpected deaths can cast a pall over your entire vacation if you’re not careful, so you gotta keep them to a minimum.
Anyway, I’ll blog all about my trip, my shark adventure, my old-house-selling and my new-home-buying woes, as well as everything else as soon as I can get myself and my soiled swimsuit sorted out.
In the meantime, here are some more grody fishies.
It’s that time of the year again.
We all know that sexy Halloween costumes for women have gotten out of control. I lampooned them years ago. The difference between then and now is that back then I had to invent phony costumes in order to push it to the level of total absurdity, but now the costume manufacturers are doing the work for me. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, the following examples of my favorite Sexy Halloween Costumes of 2010 need no embellishment:
1. Sexy Avatar Babe
This one was inevitable, since it’s the most popular movie of all time, and you just know that dozens of sci-fi convention gals have been testing out their blue coverall makeup for months. But even if it’s totally popular, that doesn’t mean it’s not entirely regrettable.
2. Sexy Horror Movie Heroes
The female Jason costume is just a sports jersey with no pants, which is probably the same as her “Sunday Best” in the Fall. And lady Chucky? There was a Bride of Chucky, you know. Why make him into a her when you already got a perfectly good her? I suppose at the very least they are trying to be scary.
3. Sexy New Twists on Old Classics
Apparently old classics like Sexy Cop just weren’t sexy enough anymore, so this new version updates the ensemble into what is basically a handkerchief and a thong. If it weren’t for the barely-there badge and the handcuffs, this costume could just as easily be called Sexy Discount Fabric Scraps.
4. Sexy CSI Slut
This one is sort of baffling, just because I can’t think of a logical reason for her to be wrapped in crime-scene tape, unless she was the victim, and the magnifying glass is like CSI: Sherlock Holmes edition. And where on earth does she keep her fingerprinting duster?
5. Sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Cowabunga! You and three of your sluttiest friends can have the sexy time of your life… at your 10-year-old neighbor’s Halloween party.
6. Sexy Finding Nemo Nymphette
Or you could have the sexy time of your life… at your 8-year-old neighbor’s Halloween party.
You can buy this at yandy.com, if you are so inclined.
7. Sexy Sesame Street Hotties
Or you could have the sexy time of your life… at your 5-year-old neighbor’s Halloween party. Because why stop at elementary school? Why not scar children for life right in pre-school? Heck, everyone needs to learn that C is for Cookie sometime. Sexy Big Bird blows my mind.
8. Sexy Mrs. Potato Head
This one might be my favorite.
“Hey Tiff, what are you going to be for Halloween?”
“Sexy Mrs. Potato Head.”
“That’s hott.” <– said in your most Paris Hiltony voice.
9. Sexy Halloween Time for Man Sluts
Apparently, the Sexy Halloween Costume trend is even crossing gender boundaries this year, although they are starting off simple:
Unfortunately, the sexiest man costume of all is not available yet. But don’t fret, it’s coming soon. Just in case the Walmart near you doesn’t carry black wife-beaters, self-tanner, and Aquanet.
Can’t wait until next year!
Oops. Shhhhh. Don’t bring it up, but planetdan.net turned eight years old last week and I forgot to give it a present.
Happy-time file make danny happy. So happy, in fact, that I will post it directly on the front page and not even worry about the bandwidth issues of loading a 2MB file every time somebody accesses this page:
Seriously, I could watch that all day. And I know it’s actually Thursday, but I just couldn’t wait.
I think that maybe the Prez was a douchebag in gym class, although probably a funny douchebag:
More fun Obama audio clips at April Winchell. Perfect for turning into ringtones.
We’ve been planning a trip to Maui this Fall for a couple years now. I like Hawaii, but I don’t much like the Ocean. I’m a tad ascared of it. So when my friends get all excited about the prospect of snorkeling, I will send them pictures like this:
Yeah, that’s a Great White that has been half-eaten by something even larger and toothier than a Great White. I’m going to pass on the snorkeling, thanks. Plus, last time I went in the Ocean in Hawaii I got swimmer’s ear, which was entirely unpleasant, even when you throw in the subsequently prescribed Vicodin.
C-Minus (the artist formally known as K-Mack) recently had a baby and she’s coming along just fine. I like her lots, in spite of the fact that she seems completely disinterested in her uncle Dan:
You wouldn’t think it, but babies are a tough audience. Maybe I just need to buy her more presents to gain her favor. I’m thinking this is a super cute shirt that everyone will enjoy:
Here’s a bonus creepy pic:
You might think that C-Minus’ house is dirty and dusty when you look at the beam of light coming through that window. I know I did. But she assured me, “No, that’s just bacon grease.” So no worries.
I’ve seen a lot of swirlie optical illusions on the web in my day, but this one blows my mind. How many colors do you see in the colorful swirlies below? Pink, Orange, Green, and Blue, right? WRONG. The blue and the green are the same color.
And as a personal companion piece, here is an old classic yawn-worthy optical illusion I video-taped at Puzzling World in Wanaka, New Zealand, which I feel is blogworthy since it’s at least on video, which means it’s totally high-tech and stuff:
There’s magic all up in this bitch!
The Goonies is 25 years old this year. And I can still remember the first time I ever saw it. Vividly.
I was ten years old – prime Goonie-lovin’ age – when it was released in theaters. My mother planned an outing for my friend Timmy Crocker and me to see it on a Wednesday. When we picked up Timmy, he started blabbing about how he had already seen the movie that previous weekend and how awesome it was. I was deflated.
By the time we reached the theater, he had summarized the entire plot of the movie. And he ended with this warning: “Man, there are so many skeletons in that movie… man, if you don’t like skeletons, you’re going to HATE this movie!”
I didn’t mind the skeletons at all, but I was surprised that he had completely omitted the malformed-manchild-chained-up-in-the-basement part of the movie, which really freaked my 10-year-old-sh!t out.
I was only friends with Timmy-the-Buzkill-Crocker for a couple more years, when one morning before school another classmate approached me to tell me that Tim had told everyone that I had cheated at a boardgame called Squiggle, and was therefore totally lame. I recall the game of Squiggle in question very vividly as well, and truth be told, I have no idea if I cheated or not, because I totally did not understand how to play the game but was pretending like I did. Timmy Crocker was a tad smarter than Dan was, you see, and I thought it was probably better to have the reputation of being a cheater than someone who was not smart enough to understand the needlessly complicated rules of a game called Squiggle. So I just let it slide. But Timmy Crocker didn’t hang out with me much after that.
Goonies is still one of my all-time favorites, though. Even if it was ruined for me in advance by the the Squiggle champion of the world.
ps. There is a board game out these days called Squiggle that is completely different than the game of my youth. One has something to do with drawing doodles and the other one has something to do with lots of colored blocks with random point values and shaming children who are not smart enough to play it. So try not to confuse the two.
People think that dogs are all sweet and kind and loving and man’s best friend and all that, but they are just as heartless and self-serving as humans:
I haven’t been a very good blogger as of late. I’ve been trying to sell my house and buy a new one and all that business has my guts tied up in knots and so animated GIFs just aren’t tickling my fancy right now. But I’m still making plently of embarrassing blunders of course:
I think it’s strange that my initial panic responses to these types of embarrassing scenarios is to say “Oh Jeeze” like I’m Marge Gunderson or something.
By this point my coworkers must be thinking I’m some closet perv who is unable to avoid overt Freudian slips. Stupid C and stupid X being so stupidly close together on the stupid keyboard. Sorry, Tara.