i just want to conquer people and their souls

A lot of the time the Manimal and I don't see eye to eye. For example, I like watching Antiques Roadshow and crying when someone finds an ancient Navajo blanket worth beaucoups bucks while the Manimal enjoys shows about zombies that (from what I can tell) are just hours of people screaming and grunting. Anyways, all this is to say that there's really only one thing that we both agree upon wholeheartedly and without reservation: our hatred of Bed and Breakfasts. Things you will never hear us saying: Let's jet up the coast and stay at some quaint B&B this weekend. I so enjoyed talking to that elderly failed actress about her concept rooms while waiting for her to cook me some subpar breakfast food. I love Bed and Breakfasts! Why on earth would you stay in a B&B when there are a plethora of hotels around? Hotels rule! Here are some things you can do in an anonymous hotel room and not in a Bed and Breakfast: Kill a man Smoke crack with a ex-girlfriend turned...

I just got bangs. I think I look like Brenda Walsh: * Yowser! But the Manimal keeps calling me "Crom".  Some googling alerted me to the fact that this may not be some cute nickname but rather an allusion to the fact that I look like an extra from Conan the Barbarian: Well, I am not in the Cult of Doom, is that clear?! If anything I am one step closer to being Dylan McKay's obsession! Take that, Manimal!

In my last post I waxed amorous about the King of all seasons: Summer. Things I enjoy about summer include (but are not limited to): - fireflies - reveling in becoming mahogany rather than sullenly accepting my usual skin tone - ending my work at the human processing factory for 67 glorious days that leads into... - my annual self-dubbed "Summer of Me" which essentially consists of me pretending I am Dickie Greenleaf from The Talented Mr. Ripley : * Now there's a man who knows how to mahoganize One thing I do not enjoy about summer is stinky pits. Which brings me to the latest in my seemingly neverending list of embarrassing life moments.  Recently, I made a pilgrimage "out west" (like Sal Paradise, or actually more like an unchaperoned Lennie) to Portland, Oregon. While in Rip City, I began to change and morph into a different, gentler Ronnie. Maybe it was the quinoa flakes I was eating for breakfast, or perhaps the hemp milk I was forced to douse the...

I've discussed my boo the Manimal and his "Chamber of Wonders"  before on this weblog. Those of you who are faithful readers will know that not just anything makes it into the wunderkammer. Oh no! To be included in his  creepy cornucopia the trinket in question must exist on a higher plane of amazingness. I think we can all agree that this real alpaca foot shot glass from Colombia  eclipses most contenders and earns its place next to the taxidermied cane toad drinking Johnny Walker Red. Welcome home, alpaca foot shot glass.

Q: What has two legs, a rat's tail and a shopping bag full of Chang stubbies? A: The man of my dreams! Just kidding, folks. Unfortunately some other lucky lady scooped him up. But, this perfectly describes the summer clientele of my next Travel Tips locale: Patong Beach, Thailand. This golden dream is located on the island of Phuket, a veritable beacon to the world's classiest folks. Patong has none of that Euro-trash you find stinking up the Italian and French Rivieras with their luxury yachts and designer fashions. No, no! Patong shuns these folks and bids them adieu with one dismissive wave of its acrylic-nailed paw.  No spray tan, no cornrows - no entry, my friend. Based on the promise of such high standards, my wife and I donned our best counterfeit Heineken tank tops and waded in to the fray. Would we be accepted? Would our sunglasses burns be large, and ghastly pale, enough? Could we drink an entire bucket of Thai moonshine and earn our keep amongst the th...

Here at ijustwanttoconquerpeopleandtheirsouls I often discuss my dear husband, the Resident Manimal. One reason I enjoy our betrothal more than anything is observing his random obsessions. Avid readers of this blog (I am flattering myself here) will remember his Wunderkammer , but there are so many more things which intrigue the beast-man. The RM is sort of like a human magpie, accumulating shiny new things for his mental "nest". Recently, his obsessions have ranged from UFOs, pitbulls and painting to home wart removal, baseball gloves and treating leather with Mink oil. Usually, the warning signs of a Manimal obsession begin with copious amounts of internet research and then a trip to Barnes and Noble . This ritualistic approach to learning prompted the idea for this very post: A Book Club. Whereas I usually try to work my way through the back of a cereal box, or one free subway newspaper per week, the Manimal is a voracious reader. He is always jumping around ...

Hi readers, We all know about my feelings for winter . But, there were still things I didn't address in my scathing indictment of a season we endure for seemingly no good reason, like pastiness and weight gain. Old Man Winter is a smart fellow.   [And, apparently, the stuff nightmares are made of!] He uses his icy breath to force us indoors, and then his evil powers convince us that we want to stuff our faces with a bacon wrapped burrito log.   Hence, one wakes up in February thinking, "What on earth happened?" I look like this: What to do readers? Oh, I suppose I could eat sensibly and exercise. But why do that when there's a new fad for me to try? My wife alerted me to an article in the New York Times about Mark Bittman. Bittman claims to have lost weight and got rid of his blood sugar, cholesterol and sleep aepnea just by eating vegan before 6pm. At dinner he can eat whatever he likes. Wowser! Well, I started my veganism this week. It is actually pretty...

My wife has shouted me out on her fabulous blog which has the bonus of being both blessedly gunt and ranga-free, and much better written. For those of you who live in a cabin in the woods, one's "wife" or "wifey" is, in the parlance of today's youth, simply one's close female friend. Clearly, I have a husband (the venerable Manimal ) for home. Anyhoo, my wife makes life bearable for me on the regular, and for that I salute her. In her own post , my wife likened our relationship to that of Mickey Dolenz and Mike Nesmith of The Monkees fame. I could get on board with this, if my mother had not harbored a wicked Davy Jones crush which effectively rendered me unable to look at them without an involuntary shudder. I, being far more predictable and low-brow, (wow, that's probably the first time The Monkeys have been considered high-brow) will offer my own virtual sketch of our bond. This picture represents us quite well. Always getting up to misc...

  Happy 6th Anniversary to the Manimal and I.  Contraria contrariis curantur

By now, readers, you will be quite acutely aware that I am a special breed. My many rants and raves should have alerted you to the fact that it takes a unique man to play house with someone like me. Enter the Resident Manimal (RM). This delightful young man (whose moniker reflects his half man, half fearsome beast genetic makeup) has, for the past 10+ years, deemed me worthy of shacking up with. This photo series proves exactly why we are perfect for each other: This is how we behave when left alone near a display of viking helmets. The Manimal: Me: Obviously, in order for anyone to find living with me feasible, they must have some strange quirks themselves. The Manimal does perform strange old-man stretches in the shower, he also wears ladies slippers and loves nothing more than wrestling men with fungal infections in his free time. Aside from these foibles, however, the RM is a doyen of respectability and glamour. He has an eye for the finer things in life. Our palatia...