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Vote or Dye (Spools of Yarn)


Dr. William H. Cosby (Professor of Our Hearts and Souls) has just given the world a great gift and an even greater responsibility.  He has bestowed upon us- mere mortals that we are- the task of choosing a great Champion.  This Champion will uphold the ideals by which Dr. Cosby has lived his life- ideals of warmth, whimsy, and wool.

Bill Cosby has asked us to choose a sweater.  One sweater out of 64.  That chosen sweater will become not just a sweater but a beacon.  A long-sleeved, scratchy beacon.  A beacon of wool.

Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for The Cosby Sweater CHALLONGE!

(Sandman Simms represents represents the one sweater that will save us all; Cosby himself represent 63 losers.)

Let us now look at some potential winners from each category:

The Argyles

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Here we have Classic Cosby: bold but accessible.  A swirling symphony of color and collar the likes of which have changed the landscape of Fall/Winter fashion as we know it.  But is that enough to win?


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This piece is more reflective and moody, eluding to Cosby’s inner torment and psychic pain.  Why are these feet stepping on him?  Why are they so brightly colored?  Why are some blue and others pink?  It is a dark, twisted mystery.


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Here we have the literal look of a champion.  Or one champion and two losers.  Maybe they are triplets?  Or maybe it’s one guy, but he’s running so fast that it looks like there’s three of him.  Somebody is winning something, and that something could be Best Sweater Ever.


The Cardigans

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This sweater, as you may have noticed, is not actually a cardigan.  The categories may or may not reflect the make and model of each garment, but do reflect the mischievous, puckish nature of the Coz. O, what a merry rogue is he!


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This garment, inspired by early Impressionistic art has been dubbed Flying Person Exploding At Night.  Always a classic.


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This memorable rag comes from the episode of The Cosby Show in which Heathcliff declared his allegiance to House Targaryen.


The Cashmeres

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One cannot make sense of this sweater no matter how one tries.  If you stare at it long enough, it stares back.


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See if you can spot the combs hidden on this sweater.

Have you found any?


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This sweater, of course, was worn in the infamous Christmas episode of The Cosby Show in which Dr. Huxtable finally procured a fit male heir only to die in grisly car crash later.  The episode was later written out of Cosby continuity.


The Pullovers

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A peaceful landscape of birds in flight.  Fly away, birds.  Fly away into the red and white striped sky.


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This is…I’ve got nothing for this.


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In this image, Heathcliff succumbs to the strange alien creatures that have affixed themselves to his shoulder and pancreas.  Critics would call this scene- known to fans as The Bad Ending- confusing and weird.

Cast your votes for The People’s Sweater now!  You have twelve- no wait- eleven hours left in the first round of voting.  Choose wisely.  Choose well.

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Let’s All Geek Out Together

I went on The Mary Sue today to check the number of Facebook likes on my last post see what was new in the world of geekery.  The first thing I saw was this:
Which made me do this:
Sometimes I think we are living in the best of all possible time lines.
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Ambien, My Bitch-Goddess


Last night I spent twelve hours working as background on an overnight movie shoot.  Seven to seven.  P.M. to A.M.  Twelve hours spent pretending to eat coleslaw and not looking directly at the camera.  When the shoot wrapped, I had very little time to rest as I had dog walks scheduled for the afternoon.  I needed $85, and I made it on my own terms.

I finally made it home at around 4:30.  Despite my fatigue, I did not want to go to sleep right away.  I just wanted a small nap to rest and recover.  After all, the coming night still beckoned; adventures cloaked in black velvet sky waited for me.  The balmy evening air whispered to me one word: a promise.  A promise of what Nyx had in store for me, and that word was “laundry”.

So, I just needed a nap.  I usually take Ambien for a full night’s sleep.  With my keen knowledge of pharmaceuticals I deduced that half my regular dose (normally 10 mgs) would be enough for a few hours of restorative slumber.

It turns out that’s not how Ambien works.

Let me preface what I am about to say with a warning: Ambien is a hell of a drug, and not to be trifled with.  Don’t ever take it.  Get a good night’s sleep the old fashioned way, with good bed hygiene and regular nighttime rituals.  I take Ambien because my lifestyle does not afford me good bed hygiene or regular nighttime rituals.  If that’s true for you, too, then for God’s sake, take the Ambien.  Sleep is important.  Treat yo’ self!  Just only take it as prescribed, never recreationally, and never with the ghost of Heath Ledger.  Okay?  Great.

That said, I am so very high right now.

I had experienced the joys of sleepless Ambien before, usually when circumstances had forced me to wake up before the drug’s effect wore off.  Did I tell you I had a crazy schedule?  Seven-to-seven, dude.  And let’s not even go into my 24-hour catering from hell experiences (you can read about one of them here.  The effects of the drug, when the user is awake are…pleasantish.  Magical, even.  Right now my body feels like it is gently swaying, like the hem of a sun dress.  My mind…my mind feels what I can only describe as “elastic”.  Ideas flash upon me that are at once both brilliant and stupid.  For example, do you think if mankind had never invented the wheel, horses would have evolved into pegasi?  A normal brain would not ask such a thing so boldly.  An Ambien brain knows no shame.

Again, though, don’t take Ambien to get high.  It is one habitual motherfucker.  Ambien will fuck your brain shit up and not even feel sorry about it.  Seriously, ask Heath Ledger.  Oh, you can’t because he died.  Because he abused Ambien.  And his ghost isn’t real, it’s just your Ambien-induced delusion.  Ambien is not candy.  It’s not even the chalky kind of candy you buy by the bag at CVS.  Ambien is evil.  Ambien is the devil.  You do not want to dance with this devil, because the dance isn’t over until Ambien says it’s over, and Ambien really loves to dance.

Unless you need it to sleep.  Then, Ambien is cool.

..Or would horses have evolved little wheels in their hooves?

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Amanda, why have you not posted anything in two months?

image by Chris Sims

Actually, I’ve been very busy in theatre.  Acting and such.  Because I am legit as f***.

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REVEALED! The Mr. Softee Lyrics You Thought You Never Needed To Know!

Ah, the Mr. Softee Song.  Our official warm weather national anthem, keeping time with the heartbeat of America.

Did you know that the Mr. Softee Song actually has lyrics?  I did.  A long-haired fledgling comedienne version of myself figured it all out back in 201o (start at 2:09 for relevant information; start from the beginning for weird information about my cat).

I miss my hair sometimes.

So I solved the mystery of the Mr. Softee lyrics: not a merry jingle, but a desperate cry from the darkest night of the soul.  A tortured banshee wail, lamenting the hopes and dreams that have cooled us through the heat of  summer’s cruel reality.  Hopes and dreams that have melted, like a once-frozen dairy treat, under the punishing gaze of Ra’s visage.

You know.  Summer.

Last week, though, the New York Daily News challenged what was has been since 2010 indisputable truth.  They have blasphemed the name of Softee and infantilized the unforgiving wrath of summer.  Why, and based on what?  What flimsy evidence have they?  Oh, some “sheet music” that was “copyrighted” in “1960”?  Well, let us see, then.  Let us read these words of heresy and see how they compare.


The creamiest dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.

For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee

My milkshakes and my sundaes and my cones are such a treat.

Listen for my store on wheels ding-a-ling down the street.

The creamiest dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.

For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee

S-O-F-T double E. Mister Softee!

…my God.

I have wasted my life.

And I still miss my hair.

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Happy Easter


When I first told my boyfriend about this concept, he said that only New York theater audiences might get it.  Good, I said.  My crayon scribblings aspire to a level of sophisticated glamour and high ticket prices.

Peep No More

That will be ninety-five dollars, please.

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Michonne’s Best Day Ever

There’s a new The Walking Dead on tonight.  Is there anybody who is not hate-watching this show at this point?

I am sick of seeing my favorite characters killed unceremoniously, sick of  Andrea’s wibbling, sick of Crazy Widower Rick’s hallucinatory shenanigans, sick of waiting for Carol and Daryl to hook-up (Carol/Daryl 4evah!), etc, etc, forever and ever, Amen.

The most grievous offense, though?  Michonne.  Lord, how this show has betrayed Michonne.

She’s my favorite character from the comics, and I just feel so sorry for how the show has effed up her character.  Sure, Comic Book Michonne is troubled.  Does she make bad decisions?  Of course.  But she is also complex.  There are more shades to her than “bitch-face”.  I could go on and on about Michonne, but I won’t.  Instead, I will honor her by giving her the best day ever.  In crayon form:


Fly away, Michonne.  Fly away and be free.