That double non-fat soy latte with extra whipped cream was just too much for him.

Crazy Dutch activists demand that New York becomes New Amsterdam

Host Robby Starbuck Hits Warped Tour 2007 This Year.... The Drive Just Took A While

Toilet Justice by Juliet Aucreman

I thank Mrs. Wright, my kindergarten teacher, for teaching me to stand in line, a skill I’ve used ever since, while waiting to use a women’s bathroom. But still I suffer   more...the experience. You see, Mrs. Wright neglected to address Restroom-Line Indignation (RLI), the indignation incited in waiting women when they witness men whooshing through men’s rooms.

Recently, my husband and I drove to Death Valley to see the spring wildflowers. From time to time, my husband sipped water, and now and then he’d pull over, pop out, and leave me to ponder. I drank little, willfully parching myself. For a dame, drinking and driving in lowland Death Valley is dangerous since there’s nothing to pop behind. The road stretches straight across the flat, leaving the far hills to loftier duties than hiding busy women.

After driving through Death Valley for about two hours, we reached “Badwater”, a salty body of water named by a prospector whose mule wouldn’t touch the stuff. The National Park Service has furthered the Badwater tradition by providing vaulted toilets.

I approached the bathroom lines, women’s and men’s, which, of course, were lopsided. Without a thought, I pulled in behind a woman, number fifteen in line. Then I peered ahead at the men’s line. Total men in line? Three.

Suddenly it occurred to me: the men’s line was shorter because the men had been going…all along the road.

Now we women, who’d had to wait and wait and wait while our partners had pulled over and over and over, and wait and wait and wait for a bend in the road that did not come, and wait and wait and wait for a tree that did not exist, and wait and wait and wait for a bathroom to appear…had finally found a latrine, and where yet again we waited, watching the men whoosh ahead.

That’s when the RLI struck.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I announced.

I walked up to the men’s line. In the men’s line, last place was fourth place – which, back in the women’s line, was a prestigious position. My comrades crowed in approval.
The man just ahead of me, dressed in Harley gear, welcomed me. Then he invited his girlfriend to come on over. Over she came.

“This is crazy,” I said to the men. “We’ve waited and waited and waited, and now we have to wait again. You’ve been peeing all along. You can pee anywhere you like.”

“Oh yeah?” said Mr. Harley. “There’s a fine for peeing anywhere but the latrine. You pay the fine, and I’ll be happy to pee most anywhere.”

The men ahead of him just looked down.

Three more women joined my new side. Behind them, a few more Harley men joined us. One said:

“If you guys keep coming over here, we’ll never get a turn.”

Saying this, he inspired two more women to cross over. We knew that separate was not equal.

Finally my turn came.

Before entering the latrine, I sucked in a lungful of Badwater air. My lungful started out bad, and only grew worse as I tried not to suck in another lungful, wondered whether I’d
lose my head, wondered why they couldn’t build some concrete bushes for women along the way, wondered what horrible person invented latrines, wondered whether I really needed to button up my pants before exiting, and wondered if God could intervene before I finally rushed out, gasping.

Dust coated my nostrils. Air seared my lungs. But something wonderful was happening. My fellow linebackers were smiling. Because for the first time in history, a men’s line had grown longer than a women’s line.

I smiled in sweet epiphany.

Only thirty years past kindergarten, I’d finally gotten my toilet justice.  less

Rattled by Juliet Aucreman

The other day, my husband and I drove to the beach for a walk. We fed the parking meter and then walked out onto the sand. But it was high tide, so we couldn’t go more than   more...a few minutes in either direction. We had to turn back. I was disappointed because I’d wanted a long walk. And I resented putting a lot of change into the parking meter.

My husband Corky suggested we make good on our parking investment by exploring the open bluff over the beach. It sounded like a good idea, but I worried about our footwear. I wore sporty sandals, but Corky only wore flip-flops.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

Corky is usually safety-conscious – he recently made me upgrade to a safer car - so I thought, “Fine! I’ll stop worrying.” But I let him take the lead.

We followed a little footpath that led us uphill, back and forth, switchback style. Suddenly, Corky lunged to the side and then bolted ten feet up the trail. I heard rattling and dashed back several paces. Something dark was coiled up in the path.

Corky yelled down at me, “That’s the biggest rattlesnake I’ve seen! That thing’s at least six feet long!”

I looked up the hill, trying to see how I could get past the snake. Tall thistles and cactus, as high as my shoulders, guarded both sides of the trail. I scanned the hill, looking for a break in the brambles, but saw nothing. The snake continued rattling – it sounded like someone shaking a piggy-bank. Corky found a five-foot stick, came down the slope, and tried to move the rattlesnake off the trail. It wouldn’t budge.

“Why don’t you come up here and join me?” said Corky, not joking.

“I’m not THAT lonely,” I said.

He kept prodding the snake.

The rattling persisted; the snake stayed put.

Keeping his stick wedged between the snake and himself, Corky came back by leaping through the four-foot thistle thicket.

“Can we go home now?” I said.

“We’ve only just started,” he said. “Let’s walk around some more.”

“But your flip-flops! And the snake!” I said.

“Ah, that’s not going to happen again,” he said.

This from the man who insisted I needed a safer car.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t that big a deal,” he said. “I wouldn’t have died – I’d have just lost a leg or something.”

“But you’re already missing a hand,” I said. (Corky was born without a left hand.) “If you lose a leg, you’ll just have two limbs left.”

“No, three,” he said, laughing.

We started walking again. Then I saw a snake twisting through the air over the trail. I screamed; Corky laughed. The “snake” was only a old bent pipe. We walked a little further. Something rustled in the bushes. I screamed; Corky laughed. It was a little bird. Now I LONGED for home. After all, I’d just battled three snakes. We passed through a chain-link fence, and my shirt got caught. I screamed; Corky laughed.

Walking back toward the car, we passed a bus stop where a ragged-looking man was sitting.

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Just trying to hold together,” he said.

“Me too,” I said. Corky laughed.

I smiled, and rattled my keys.

Corky screamed.

Revenge is sweet.  less

Moo-ing Mercedes by Juliet Aucreman

I was raised to mock Mercedes. In my New England Puritanical upbringing, Mercedes luxury cars were equated with evil itself. Mercedes stood for nothing but over-inflated   more...egos. For most of my life, not owning a Mercedes was easily accomplished.

A few years ago, I ran into a little dilemma. I had the perfect car, a car whose paint job yelled “Howdy!” A brilliant turquoise, my car put blushing Smurfs to shame. Though I often lost my keys, my day-planner, my wallet, and my mind, I never misplaced that car. Its constant presence gave my life stability.

But my husband was biased against my car. He deemed Ford Escorts unsafe. Despite its obnoxious visibility, glowing like toxic waste as it sped down the highway, Corky remained unmoved. So I started hunting around for a replacement.

One day I spotted an ad at the local library: $6,000 dollars for a cute-looking white Mercedes. It had 97,000 miles on it: surely the Mercedes would run for another 300,000 miles. I reported my discovery to Corky, and when he didn’t nix the idea. I knew he was intrigued.

Corky called the Mercedes’ owner. She worked at a museum. She had bought the Mercedes new, and had maintained it fastidiously. All of this scored major points with Corky, so we met up with her. Corky inspected the Mercedes, every inch of it, examining the paint, examining the engine, examining its karma. I know he was ecstatic, because we bought the car.

Suddenly, I was driving a white Mercedes. I felt uneasy. My upbringing dictated that driving a Mercedes was sinful - I knew I made other drivers feel resentful and inadequate. So I tried to be extra courteous on the freeway to show other drivers that even a Mercedes owner could be nice. By the hundreds, they shot past me in their own Mercedes.

And now I had a new problem. White Mercedes cars in Orange County, California, are like suburban camouflage. Now, when I left my car in parking lots, it just vanished. Trying to increase my car’s find-ability, I stumbled upon an obvious solution: painting the outside with black splotches, like a cow. Trying to contain my excitement, I shared my idea with Corky.

His response? “It’ll ruin the paint. You’ll never be able to sell it.”

That surprised me. I thought I’d be driving the Mercedes forever. Still, I wanted to show respect, so I racked my brain for ways to protect the car from black paint. Then it hit me.

“I’ll just paint white spots on the car first. That’ll protect the car from the black spots.”

Corky said nothing, so obviously he approved.

The next Saturday, I started painting white acrylic spots on the Mercedes. As I began the fourth large spot, I heard Corky enter the garage.

“That’s NOT funny. I want you to remove those spots immediately.”

“But we have to protect the car from the black spots…”

“You’re not putting black spots on the car.”

“I’m not?”

“It’ll cause the paint to fade un-uniformly.”

That stumped me. I’d assumed that white was “faded” incarnate. I looked at Corky’s monochromatic car. I felt sorry for it; it would never look like a cow.

I agreed to pick off the soft paint, on the condition that Corky be nice about the situation. Reluctantly, he agreed. I invited the neighborhood children over to help pick with their fingernails. At first they were reluctant - they wanted the car to look like a cow, too. But soon a bunch of them took up stations around the sedan, and scratched away.

As I picked at the paint, images of my ancestors buzzed through my head. They were driving through the clouds…in white Mercedes. Whenever they honked their horns, their Mercedes mooed.

All their Mercedes were spotted – that made sense – how else to find them in the clouds?  less

some random thoughts on the new season of BSG.

The ending would be better phrased "...and they have no plan".

he maybe crazy. climbing with single hand can cause fatal only one mistake

Robby Starbuck Interviews Hayley, front woman of the band Paramore, currently on the Van's Warped Tour! We talk about life on tour, the boys, the struggles and the internet.

Funny Story about a fan following the band around on tour. Very Funny.

Hayley Williams, the frontwoman of Paramore sits down with Robby as he tells a secret to Hayley and livevideo.com about a breakup that involved Paramore's music!

In the second installment of Anberlin's Interview we touch on the internet and how it has affected Rock n' Roll, touring bands and how manly we both are!

Tour Story About A Turkey In A Windshield. So Funny.

Mr Pregnant The Internet Superstar, This guy has the audacity to go out in public and totally humiliate himself in the name of laughter, More props to the Internet Phenomenon Mr Pregnant, The Epic Entertainer.
  more...http://www.mrpregnant.com
http://www.youtube.com/mrpregnant
http://www.myspace.com/mrpregnant
http://www.facebook.com/mrpregnant
http://www.twitter.com/mrpregnant  less

Landon Music Video for the song "Red Lipstick" Directed By: Robby Starbuck

Video Montage of Battlestar Galactica