This is going to be a grueling 44 minutes. And I won't lie, like most of my "reviews", I give up about 1/5th of the way through.

Track One - Fawn
Reminiscent of Sufjan Steven's work, but a lot slower, and with a lot less creativity. Throw in a cheesy baseball-game-sounding organ, and a cheesy saxophone going over it, and you have the underwhelming introductory track! Welcome to the music business Scarlett, may your stay be short lived.

Track Two - Town With No Cheer
Finally! Scarlett decided to show up on her own album! And then proceeds to drone on over a track entitled "Town With No Cheer". This is way too emo for a "successful" Hollywood celebrity.

Track Three - Falling Down
Picks up where track two left off. Seriously, the gap-less playback option worked so well that if I wasn't so on top of my album review game, I wouldn't even know the track changed. Scarlett is still droning...

Track Four - Anywhere I Lay My Head
Scarlett Jo digs deep and comes up with a slower sounding intro that made me run to Youtube because I thought she was going to drone over this beat.

Track Five - Fannin' Street
This is my favorite track. Not because it's any good. Not even because David Bowie is featured. No, it's because the premise of the track is to warn you not to go down to Fannin' street. Nevermind the fact that she replaced the 'g' in 'Fanning' with an apostrophe (totally gangster) but with an opportunity to say something of significance, for instance, an opportunity to warn kids not to do drugs, or talk about the dangers of being consumed with fame or power, she chooses instead to call out Fanning Street. The lyrics reveal no particular reason why. Brutal.

Track Six - Song For Jo
A song for herself. Probably should've kept the entire album to herself.

Track Seven - Green Grass
True story. By this point of the review, I had lost track of how bored I really was. I looked down into my Windows bar thing that goes across the bottom (it really shows that I studied computers doesn't it?) and noticed I was simultaneously in the middle of two Freecell games. I eventually won both.

Track Eight - I Wish I Was In New Orleans
I also wish I was in New Orleans. Back to the actual song, it sounds like a bedtime song with the chimes and dreamy effects. If you're going to attempt to listen to this album, use this track as track one. It'll get you in the mood. And by that, I mean put you to sleep, sparing you from the other ten tracks.

Track Nine - I Don't Want To Grow Up
Is it possible for someone that has a vocal range spanning five pitches (not octaves...PITCHES) to release an eleven tracked album? Who green-lighted this project? And, according to the track title, she doesn't want to grow up. That's very mature Scarlett, very mature.

Track Ten - No One Knows When I'm Gone
E.M.O.

Track Eleven - Who Are You?
YOU, madam, are an actress. A borderline one at that. Should've asked yourself this question before making this album.

Recap - Good riddance. Look, if you're not gifted with multiple talents, there's no need to force yourself into avenues that you probably shouldn't wandering down.

Rappers, you are not country stars. Jessica Simpson, you should have been a country star all along. Dane Cook, just stop it (it = everything). Britney, get back to being a fake music star, leave the parenting to K-Fed (I know, even that's ridiculous, but that's the best I could do with a no-win situation). The driver in front of me that decided to only use half of the left-turn lane and remain halfway on the lane I was driving in, acting as a danger to everyone around, buy yourself some public transportation tokens. Vegetables, stop showing up in my favorite foods, go back to being the dish I try to neglect but my mother will forcibly serve to me anyways. Canadian Basketball Team, just strap on a pair of skates and pick up a stick. Ernie and Bert, well you twos is just ridiculous.

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Hi there.

Anyone else experiencing an inordinate amount of folks trying to add you as Facebook friends since the switchover to the new, ugly and hard-to-use layout (first pointed out here)?

What's the protocol here? Make new friends? Or am I (once again) a real big jerk for forgetting people?

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Yeah, I'm an OG and I O-G spelled backwards.

I'm so OG (urbandictionary it), I recently realized that I had kept Christmas & birthday cards dating back to the year 2000. They were piled nicely in a bedroom drawer, and I had not once taken them out to enjoy since their initial stashing. Yup, they were right there, along with pretty much any letter big or small ever written to me. Every thank you card, every encouragement note, every warm fuzzy, basically anything anyone has ever put down on paper for me.

I decided that it was finally time to rid myself of these leaflets. Of course, I had to sift through everything to determine which cards/letters/notes could actually have lasting value. As opposed to the cards that were purchased from the closest Hallmark and simply signed.

At the end of the messy sorting job, I had an item I did not know what to do with. And you, the reluctant readers of Seriously Stupefying Stupidity should feel free to suggest how I should proceed in the comment section below!

But before I get to the item of interest, I must mention that I found an encouragement card given to me and created by a friend. I found it in an envelope, a church offering envelope no less, and in my excited haste to figure out exactly what was inside the envelope, I neglected to pause and ponder as to why said card would be in the envelope in the first place (because who keeps boring envelopes, much less unmarked church offering envelopes).

And then the glitter started pouring out. And even after two intense hand washing sessions, I wasn't convinced I had got every last bit of it.

The card was a beautiful disaster (Kelly C!), however many years later (: Moving on.

So I have this card that was MAILED to me. From FRANCE no less. Which, I assume took some amount of effort. The problem is, even with the address and name of the person that mailed it to me, I have NO IDEA who this person is. The card itself contains a simple handwritten seasons greeting, along with a Bible themed encouragement. Other than that, there are no other clues as to how I would know this person, or of any common memories we would've shared.

I asked my moms, and she was able to determine that the last name was Vietnamese. And that it was a girl's name (thanks cpt' obvious).

I even looked through old photo albums from the year the card was sent, and the year before that, to look for familiar but forgotten faces. Nothing.

Did I mention that included on the card is an email address? So now you see that I have options!

Do I a) email and explain the situation in hopes of reviving a long lost friendship or b) throw card away and save myself the ultimate dry situation of completely forgetting a person....like completely... c) internet stalk this person (nothing turned up for a quick google search)?

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The other day, as I was narrating my Vancouver hot dog stories, my friend remarks that I am so well traveled this summer. Of course, the semi-sarcastic tone of voice was not lost on me, but I hope I haven't come off like I'm better than you because I've been to a lot of places around Canada/America in the last two months.

(I'm better than you because I'm aawesome with two a's, and you can't tell me nothin'!)

In actual fact, I am not very well traveled. The places I have had the honor to visit these last two months, for the vast majority, are places I have already been before. So, to be more accurate, I'm very well re-traveled. Or just plain redundant. It's like going to see a movie in theaters, then two years later, buying that movie on DVD, not because you liked it so much, but because you forgot everything about the movie, including whether or not you liked it.

Nevertheless, I went, I saw, and I conquered. Twice. Because I like to be extra-sure.

Can we please get back to Vancouver hot dog stories? That sounded much more interesting than anything you've written since. Why do you do that? Put in so much filler that is? Are you intentionally trying to be a bad writer?

I'd tell the story right now, but you'd be a fool to stick around long after that. So I'm going to bumble (bee) through a few stories leading up to the hot dog story. I personally believe context is extremely important, and for you to properly understand the meaning of the hot dog story, you have to come with me on this journey. Or not. You could just skip down to paragraph 16. It's teh internets, what am I going to do?

This, is Vancouver. (Such a compelling introduction! Seriously, paragraph 16. Hot dog. Story. Why are you still here?)

And if you don't believe me, as with most pictures I tend to put up here, you can click to see full size, not that the full sized picture would make you believe me more. Now, to get a picture like this, you probably have to have some amount of google skills be elevated above sea level.

Allow me to introduce you to Grouse Mountain. Grouse Mountain, these are my readers. I'm just going to get the hors d'oeuvres por vous, so mingle a bit, get to know each other, and I'll be right back!

*awkward silence ensues, eased only slightly by that Scarlett Johansson album (to be reviewed here on Seriously Stupefying Stupidity another day, stay tuned! And yup, I'm probably the only person you know that will promote later posts and later parts of posts all at the same time) playing in the background*

Hey! Did you know that Grouse Mountain offers a free climb, not to its peak, but somewhere really far up? Yeah, it's true! They call it they Grouse Grind, and according to the most absolutely accurate encyclopedia to date, Wikipedia, the Grouse Grind takes you up 2,800 ft! You want me to put it in terms that'll make it a bit clearer?

It's about 2,800 consecutive foot-long hot dogs if you place them end to end.

Of course, being that I am human and cannot fly (yet), I had to climb the hypotenuse of the mountain. I included that Wikipedia reference just in case you're not as well-schooled as me. Because you're definitely not as well re-traveled as me. I'm not even bothering to connect my thoughts anymore, let's move on.

The actual climb, or the distance I traveled on the Grouse Grind, was 2.9km. It took me almost 2 hours (apparently the average time it takes is an hour and 30 minutes, I'm lame-sauce). And that's right, that's pretty much 9,500 foot-long hot dogs strung together. If there actually were 9,500 hot dogs strung together, I probably would've ran up that mountain a lot quicker. Like, literally, going for my dreams. Or going with. I'm not sure which one at this point.

Actually, being the trigger happy camera person I was, it probably would've taken me twice the amount of time to get up the mountain because I would've stopped to take a picture of every segment of hot dogs. Then, I would've excitedly come home and stitched them all together for one crazy final product.

Welcome to the Vancouver hot dog story of the post. To summarize (or inform those that skipped down here), I had climbed the trail of a tall mountain. Slower than the average folk. I had never felt so out of shape my whole life. But I also felt suspiciously victorious. Like I was on top of the world or somethin'. And there is no better way to celebrate a "fantastic" showing of physical endurance by making up for the weight lost during the exertion.

Cue, the hot dogs.

But not any old hot dogs. These exotic dogs, fell under the Japadog kingdom (biologically speaking). From there, there were three subdivisions, or, biologically speaking, domains.

The Terimayo, the Oroshi, and the Miso Mayo. All priced about double what you would expect for an average hot dog. All tasting about four times what you would expect from an average hot dog. The people behind the stand were all shipped straight from Japan and sent to work, to keep up with the authenticity of the dog shop, and the overall tourist aspect of the stand. And it did. The borderline amateurishness of their English made me giggle. Then I realized I was asked for money, so I anted up.

And it's Ice Cube endorsed. ICE. CUBE. This was a guy was so scary back in the day, you'd fly yourself halfway around the world just to get away from him. If you went to school with him, and he took your lunch money, you'd say, "Thank you Mr. Cube, I have more coming for you tomorrow!" He's so gangster, he could probably get over by police and give them the speeding tickets, and they'd say, "Sorry for troubling you sir, have a good night sir. Keep on rapping those derogatory police songs Mr. Ice Cube sir." And now he's endorsing hot dogs. And shooting, not guns, but family friendly films.

As you try to digest all this information, allow me to digress.

My last day in Vancouver was spent on a rental bike. According to Google Maps, the route we took was approximately 81, 038 foot-long hot dogs in length. You can do the conversion yourself, but I don't see why you'd have to. I'm making serious improvements to the metric system. I think it's an under appreciated and understaffed field. Plus, who wants to talk in ambiguous "kilometers"? I say, "hot dog" and you instantly know exactly what I'm talking about, and probably can put your two hands in front of you spaced exactly the size of a hot dog. You probably just tried it right now! See what I'm talkin' about? Cutting edge, the things I do.

Dr.McOysty, 81,038 is too big of a number for me to imagine. Could you simplify even further? You know, common factor some stuff up a bit?

I appreciate the fact that you acknowledge my PHD in alternative mathematics, so I will try, for your sake. Let's say you're in a hot dog eating contest, and you have 81,000 hot dogs in front of you. Now, being the champion you are, you manage to eat 3 at a time. That leads to 9,000 eating events over the course of that contest. Now, let's also point out that you can fit in about 10 eating events a minute. So now we're at 900 minutes. 900 minutes, is the equivalent of watching 30 half-hour episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Which naturally happens because once you start watching, it's impossible to pry yourself away from the television. 30 half-hour episodes of that great show is just a little over 1 and 2/3 seasons of that show.

So, in conclusion, the 81,038 hot dogs is roughly 1 and 2/3 seasons of How I Met Your Mother. You're welcome.

Anyways.

You know, I really didn't know how to end this post. I hope it's not too obvious.

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I'm watching Last Comic Standing right now, and I've run into a bit of a mental snag. You see, there is a reality show component to this, in that the comics are couped up in a house with one another during the course of the competition. As such, hilarity often ensues, usually in the form of catty or immature rivalries and hatreds between different parties.

Now, herein lies my problem.

Three comics just competed, and two of them have to go home. To me, there is an obvious winner in terms of the funniest act.

But, the least funny of all the acts also happens to be the person I most want to see back in the house just because of the trouble she inadvertently stirs up. And obviously, this is how reality show casts are put together in the first place, not based on the merits related to the competition as the general public (that's you! or not) would believe.

I'm paralyzed with indecision here, and I don't even have a vote. I hate reality television. But for different reasons than before.

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Watch closely, and you might even catch a glimpse of me! But it's not about me. That day was about them. And if I push this video enough, and enough of you push this video to all your friends, then we can take this viral in no time! TOGETHER! YES WE CAN!

Kidding. And in no way does posting this excuse me from not giving them a shout when I was in Seattle. It was my bad.

Clarissa & Kenneth Wedding Highlights - May 31st 2008

I was in the middle of writing a post of epic proportions, but now I'm too teary-eyed to continue.

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I know I know, it says "Oyster Cafe". But upon my first glance at the restaurant sign, I definitely read "Oyster Care". And first impressions are all that matter to me.

Okay that's not true.

But either way, here at Seriously Stupefying Stupidity, I, Buttug McOysty, do care. That's why I share. Even if I haven't really been there (which is here) recently. But scroll down a few inches and witness that I am indeed back in black (word to AC/DC).

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