Blog spam

Well, tiny dog has finally been found by the blog spambots after a delightful 5 months under the radar. Due to this sorry development, I have had to activate a word verification thing whereby you have to type a word you see into a box thing before you leave a comment, so that Blogger knows you are a real human and not botscum.

Hope this isn't too annoying. If I ever meet a spammer, I will sever his gonads.

Albert, the Fake Christmas Tree

It wouldn't be the non-denominational, god-free holiday season unless tiny dog flogged its own annual tradition, Albert, The Fake Christmas Tree.

Lest you have forgotten, this timeless tale concerns the emotional trauma of a fake Christmas tree and its abuse at the hands of an indifferent and fatherless suburban family. It ends on a resonating note of hope, just like the holidays themselves.

I support the war on Christmas

I had planned to wrap the following dissertation on animatronic toy items in some tiny doggish screed about your last-minute Christmas shopping options, with some kind of analogy to that Family Ties episode where Alex P. Keaton has to buy cough syrup and Slurpees at 7-11 as presents because he has a Christmas Carol epiphany too late Christmas Eve, but I changed my mind. Instead, consider this rant to be like those "Santa presents" your dad would leave out under the tree after you went to bed; the ones he didn't wrap or allow you to speculate on for weeks before the big event.

On to the toys:

Tiger Electronics: Furby: "Your Emo-tronic Friend"

That I may have combed a Wal*Mart near the Canadian border over half a decade ago to secure one of these shouting, peevish battery operated hamsters is a rumor upon which we here at tiny dog will decline comment at this time. Let it suffice to say that possibly, here in 2K5, tiny dog may in fact possess a Furby 2.0 to review for your Christmas consideration.

You may be asking yourself, what is the value-add in a Furby upgrade? Your 1.0 is working just fine; it's asleep, as it has been for 5 years, since you took the batteries out after discovering that it repeated asinine phrases in a made-up language at 90 decibels, and there was no volume switch. Although sometimes you miss the sound of its grinding motors, and the way it yelled SCARED! when you shook it like a drunken au pair, you've kept the batteries safely locked away.

Well bust those Double A's out, people. There's a new Furby in town.

First off, you know it's good because of one key feature upgrade: it's bigger. That's right: it weighs more and takes up more space. It's more Furby for your dollar. Stop right there: that's all it takes for most Americans to slap down the Visa.

However, if this is not consumer catnip enough for you, Furby 2.0 also features grinding motors and no volume control as it shouts YOU NO DOO-AY! and other pearls of Furbish wisdom in a voice that is now only 85 decibels. This means, by the way, "you're no fun," something that our test F-2.0 took pleasure in shouting at me from the back seat of a Toyota for an hour, for no earthly reason, before it fell asleep.

Furby 2.0 comes with a training guide and English/Furbish phrasebook that rivals your Spanish language tome from 11th grade, the one in which that footloose guy Miguel with the three nostrils was always going bailando and cranking up his tocadiscos. The inclusion of this tome in no way differs from version 1.0, and so I am not sure why I am mentioning it, other than to explain that if you want your emo-tronic friend to speak English, get a Teddy Ruxpin.

I could go on about the slightly upgraded details on F 2.0, e.g., the Hobbit-like feet that enable him to wobble like E.T. while singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in Furbish, or the fact that his once plastic ball-shaped beak is now disconcertingly rubbery and pliant, but I will leave these delightful discoveries to the discerning consumer. Did I mention he comes with a drug spoon?

Ok, on to my thesis. Should you buy it? Tiny dog says, why not?

Takara Toy Corp.: Radio Control Loch-Ness

This jointed, rubbery item arrived today in a giant box, complete with a Playstation-looking remote control with radio antenna. As I have no 9-Volt battery and sizeable, loch-shaped pool in which to test it, I have nothing currently to recommend to the last minute Christmas shopper regarding this wireless, flippered submersible.

Should you buy it? Clearly, yes. Takara's own Web site makes a compelling visual argument as to why.

Stay tuned for this toy's appearance in yet another upcoming Quirkyworks film that casually mocks our heavenly creator, The Lord.

The matter of the Scottish Terriers

You know, I almost forgot to mention the matter of the Scottish Terriers.

I was on a walk last Saturday, listening to iPod with my ancient stereo headphones on, the ones handed down from my brother. They are old school kind that look like ear muffs, with a big old indoor-length cord which practically drags on the ground if you don't make a concerted attempt to wind it up. These headphones have five advantages over traditional ear buds:

1. They keep your ears warm.
   
2. They block out loud cars with muffler problems driven by young, angry dudes
   
3. They don't give you earaches
   
4. The cat can't remove and eat the ear bud covers
   
5. It isn't obvious you are listening to an iPod, so that junior high tweens with bad bleach jobs won't jump you when they are walking home from school
   

I had not before Saturday considered the one major drawback of the headphones: they are vicious tiny dog bait.

So I'm walking along, minding my own business, freezing my ass off and listening to, oh, I don't know, some whiny indie rock song I'd heard 1,000 times and was thoroughly sick of by that point, when I look down to see a woman approaching. She was walking two Scottish Terriers.

Purebred dogs always seem to come in pairs, I'm not sure why that is. I've heard Scotties are ill-tempered, but they make for such cute stickers and hoop skirt motifs that I've always given them a pass, although I am not really a terrier kind of person. I had no reason to be concerned in this instance, anyway, as they shuffled my way, brushing leaves into the gutter with their regulation broom-length haircuts.

Suddenly, one of them attacked.

I heard the snarl, even though I had the iPod up pretty loud; I looked down to see it attached to my headphone cord, shaking it in a violent rage of growls, while the other Scottie looked foolishly on.

The owner stood by feigning shock; surely she was well-acquainted with the neurotic outbursts of this pair by now. Like most purebred dog owners, she may well have chosen these dogs on the merits of these very behaviors. Somehow, the Scottie yanked the headphones from my head; they flew through the air and cracked to the ground as the Scottie fell upon them in a rage. I could hear the tinny blast of the song I had been listening to calling out between the earpieces as the Scottie chomped into the vinyl with glee.

You'd think I'd be furious, wouldn't you? But no. I burst out laughing. Hysterical laughing, like the kind that on rare occasions overtakes you in a particularly idiotic meeting or a classroom setting, and can ruin your credibility within seconds. The woman, cell phone in hand, ran through her patented apology for the cur, yanking him back by his tartan-pattered collar. "Oh gosh, I am so sorry," she simpered. And then of course: "He never does that." He must have been an earbud kind of dog.

After a minute she slowly backed away, as I laughed and laughed. I knew the headphones were fine; they are those spongy, indestructible kind from another era. Probably my brother used them to listen to "Dark Side of the Moon" on his turntable when he was a sophomore in the 80's.

Do I think that dog was reprimanded for his Tourettish public outburst? Oh, heavens no. I know how small dog people are. That woman gave that Scottish Terrier a Pupperoni the minute my back was turned.

Premiere party: Ool: Origin(s) of Life

The premiere party for the independent film Ool: Origin(s) of Life, directed by Raven Hanna and Brandon MacInnis, happened this weekend at the Fremont Arts Council, a building in Fremont, Seattle that is devoted to independent Fremont art projects, not the least of which is the Summer Solstice Parade. Thus the venue made for an interesting backdrop for the premiere, as the space houses a number of massive costumes and float parts from that event (famous in wider circles for rampant body-painted nudity, but I digress).

Back to Ool, this film was made in the summer of 2005, and concerns a trio of microbes who discuss various theories about the origin of life. It is a handimated film with entirely hand-made characters and sets. It has an original score and special effects, and features the voiceover work of several random people, including myself.

The directors have submitted the film to a number of independent film festivals, but I am not sure if or whether the film will be available online. Stay tuned, and meanwhile, you can view pictures from the premiere in the Flickr photostream.

Three times a lady

You know who rules?

Lionel Richie, that's who.

Forget all of this recent media noise around what's-her-name, his no-talent offspring, and travel back with me to a less cynical and tawdry era, a time of "Say You, Say Me." A time of "Running with the Night." A time of junior high school dance anxiety and Kasey Kasem countdowns and boom boxes with dual tape decks.

There was Lionel, in all of his sweater-and-collar-shirted glory, reliably belting out the great love songs of the decade: "Penny Lover," "Truly," and the mother of all weepers, "Hello." Remember the video of the blind woman who made a hunky Lionel sculpture out of clay? You know that you do! Don't lie to tiny dog!

Remember how you thought of that boy from home room every time "Endless Love" came on the radio? How, (admittedly, along with Phil Collins' "Against All Odds") you sang along with it -both parts- into your hairbrush, until your brother saw you and called you a Total Stupid Idiot? Did this song not blow its fellow super 80's duets like "Islands in the Stream" clear out of the causeway? (Wait, I just looked up "causeway" and that doesn't make sense. But surely, you know what I am getting at.)

And before this even was Lionel at the very zenith of his powers, as a member of the mighty Commodores, performing pop music's finest-ever kiss-off song: "Sail on." Behold: "I know it's a shame / But I'm givin you back your name." Ouch! One can only hope that Britney has the moxie to cover this when she gives K-Fed the heave-ho.

You and I know that, aside from the dubious sap of "Ballerina Girl," there is only one true stain on the fabric of Lionel's storied career, and that is, "Dancing on the Ceiling." I will never forget a high school football game I was once dragged to by a friend: there I was, freezing in the bleachers of the rival high school, with teens all around me sipping liquor cabinet mixtures in plastic Coke cups, while we all watched horsey, thick-calved cheerleaders do a tandem-stomp routine to this song, complete with jazz-hands.

But never mind: never mind. None of this will taint the timeless kettle-drum glory of "All Night Long."

Sail on, Lionel. Sail the %$#@ on.

Give me the &%$! Cialis

For six months, my inbox has been incessantly throttled by dozens of daily pitches for Rolex watches and Levitra. With intriguing subject lines like This vineyard or cicada lozenge, the ads flow in night and day, completely unchanging and unstoppable.

As of today, I admit, I've finally been broken down. Buckley Smiley and Bryant Bryant, Gotzon Salisbury and Horace Brand, gather 'round.

I'll take a metric ton of Levitra. Please throw in 14,000 imitation Cartier watches. I completely trust the legitimacy of your operation; why else would you have hired a random spam factory in Heilongjiang to hammer every American mail server at every minute of every day with the same two ads if you didn't stand behind your product?

Now that I think about it, why should I bother shopping at inconvenient internet retailers with pesky guarantees and credit card security when I could just click on unsolicited e-mails with randomly generated titles, containing grainy .gif files?

Let the shopping begin.