These are not the turtles you're looking for. Move along.

Someone found my blog by searching "gerard butler and the house of unicorns" which I can only assume is some sort of pre-"hitting-it-big" porn.

Hmm. Excuse me while I surf the interwebz.


In other news, motorcycle accidents suck. Insurance companies suck. Lawsuits suck. And for some reason. lawyers seem to think they're entitled to information that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with anything. Like, what color were my socks six years prior to the accident, and do I still HAVE said socks? Why not? What effect did wearing/not wearing the socks on the night of the accident (in which I was not involved) have on said accident? And have I TALKED about the socks since then? To anyone?

Yes. It's that stupid. I'm unimpressed and this whole thing makes my head ache (if I thank the gods for ibuprofen and caffinated soda to help deal the headache caused by idiotic requests, do I need to report THAT to the lawyers?).

Last weekend we saw The Dropkick Murphys in concert. If you don't know who I'm talking about (WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU??), here:

You're welcome.

So, they were headlining at a casino "resort" (I use that term extremely loosely considering the attitude of the employees at the casino hotel, the general repair of said hotel, and the drastic uncomfortableness of the beds) in Northern Minnesota for an annual beer festival. Tickets were cheap so we were excited to go, and I swear other than the concert itself I was SO FUCKING ENTERTAINED by the crowd mix. You had your stereotypical casino-goers, your redneck parents who bring their 10-year-olds to the casino (for a beer fest...and punk concert), your hipsters (complete with ridiculous beards, flannel shirts, skinny jeans and attitude), college kids just there to swig as much beer as possible from shot glass sized cups, and your Murphys fans (tattoos, the occasional crazy hair color, kilts, piercings...and us).  

Oh. And the khaki-and-fanny pack-wearing crowd who were CLEARLY there for the prior year's headlining musical act: Trampled by Turtles. Yes. That's what I said. No, I'm not linking a video for you. You're on your own there, people.  

Since Husband still has a cane after his accident, we snagged a chair and hung out at the back of the ballroom (the rest of the crowd did not have chairs, although I'm fairly certain the hipsters didn't participate in the usual mosh pit so it's likely there wasn't much of one). The opening band was hard punk: the Trampled by Turtles fans next to us (also hiding at the back of the rowdy crowd) were horrified and confused, but they stuck it out, waiting for what they seemed to think was an Irish folk band.   They stood with arms crossed and cranky faces for three whole songs before the lot of them left, disgruntled.

Seriously, ALMOST as amusing as the amateur drinkers throwing up in trash cans and drunk dancers accidentally kicking people around them. I fucking LOVE the Murphys.

OH...and congratulations to Rowdy Ronda Rousey for KICKING ASS in her big UFC fight Saturday night. Which, of course, was on PPV the same time as the concert, so I couldn't see both. Dammitall. Now...to get her and Gina Carano in the octagon together.

No this had nothing to do with the rest of today's post, but NOTHING in today's post made any cohesive sense anyway, so I'm not sorry.

Gerard Butler and Unicorns (or why I haven't blogged in January much)

January I've been unemployed, and as such I've been watching WAY too much TV, reading pagan-y books, and sleeping off some ongoing depression issues. Not really a valid excuse, but there you go. However, this week stuff happened that was blog-worthy, and so here I am.

I've discovered I'm allergic to martial arts. Or vigorous exercise (sorry husband). Or possibly dojos.

Monday I took my first kickboxing class in oh, seven years or so. I suspect it's called kickboxing because my ass was thoroughly kicked. Out of 60 minutes I believe I did about 35 minutes of motion, and of that only the first 15 were decent form (as proven by the scrapes on the WRONG SET OF KNUCKLES on my hands, because the more noodly my arms became the more I ended up punching the bag like a drunk 3 year old with depth perception issues).

In addition to looking like a fool, my pasty Scandahoovian heritage causes me to turn tomato red when I work out, and being overweight and out of shape means I easily overwork to the point of either feeling faint or puking. I accomplished all of the above on Monday. And about 40 minutes in I started sneezing and couldn't fucking stop.

To whoever got my heavybag when I was done...sorry dude. I swear I didn't snot on anything. I sneezed until Thursday. It was FABULOUS and I signed up for a 30 day trial program.

In other news, I received one of the COOLEST presents EVER from my friend Cait.

See Celtic Knotwork Locket

SEE GERARD BUTLER AND A UNICORN PRE-LOADED INTO SAID CELTIC KNOTWORK LOCKET!!!

That's right...now when I'm having a crankypants (or as my friend calls it: Senora del Pantalones Irritado) day I can look down at a suave, tuxedoed Scotsman hanging around my neck.

Wait...something about that just sounds terribly inappropriate.

Excellent. 

On a Lighter Note:

I'm seriously excited about this movie: Haywire. Why? Because there's something empowering and utterly satisfying as a woman watching a tiny, built MMA fighter kick ass for real. And when I say for real I mean it: watch the first five minutes clip and you can tell Gina Carano knows what she's doing and Channing Tatum didn't hold anything back.

Excellent. Far more believable than Angelina Jolie, whom I adore but think is now WAY too skinny to really pull off being an assassin or martial artist. When she was Lara Croft, sure. But training for a movie can't ever equal professional fighting skills. I have some serious respect for Gina Carano.

Review to come the day after I see it, I'm sure.