Do you hear something?

I was scouring the Internet looking for a story I couldn't quite remember about someone whom I thought had skin cells removed from their ear, and then grafted onto their nose due to skin cancer. The story went, in my mind at least, that the ear cells were so hellbent on continuing their life's mission to become an ear that the patient's nose started to grow some sort of ear-like growth on the end of it. The person had, in a sense, a total earnose. 

Man, I wanted that story to be true! I now actually think it may have just been a dream I had. In any case, as I was obsessively googling it and finding nothing to support the reality of my fabled earnose, I did come across this guy.

This guy has an armear. You can read the full article that I stumbled across here. He's a Greek-born Australian performance artist named Stelios Arcadious, which is like, four letters away from Stadium Arcadium, the Red Hot Chili Peppers album.  Some people call him "Stelarc." I call him "reason I can't sleep at night."

He spent 10 years searching for a surgeon willing to perform the controversial operation and, as I understand it, his "third ear" is really human cartilage that has been grown into the shape of an ear, kind of like the Batman cakes my mom used to bake for us as kids, except those solidified into the shape of Batman. And we did not implant them in our body, but rather ate them whilst drinking Super Sips purchased at the red store that subsequently and without fail burned our throats like battery acid. 

In any case, to further enhance the living art exhibit of his own body,  the artist hopes "to have a tiny microphone implanted [in] it that will connect with a Bluetooth transmitter; that way you can listen to what my ear is hearing."

Okay, let me just repeat that. 

He hopes to have a tiny microphone implanted in his arm ear, so that people can hear what his arm ear is hearing. Wow. How committed to the arm ear is this guy? He just wants to maintain the authenticity of a real ear that badly. Can he take it out? Will it be there forever? Is he going to put a dorsal fin on his back? Or some sort of finger mohawk on his head? Because I'm totally getting a second set of eyes and a mouth installed and its going to look a little like this.

I also loved how many Bluetooth and hearing aid ads ran up and down the page alongside the original article. 

What's that? Oh, you wanted to cry today? You wanted your heart warmed? Well, consider it done.

How I Know I'm Old

Many times a day, I'm reminded of how old I am. Maybe it's because neon shirts and skin-tight jeans are in style again. Or maybe it's the fact that walking through the cloud of thunderous music and teargas cologne leaking out of Hollister gives me an instant migraine. God forbid I go inside and actually try to percieve a tiny tank top in its darkened hallows; I would probably pass out on a pile of sweaters from the eyestrain. In any case, I certainly feel old. But, I've never felt quite as old as I did when I listened to that Lady GaGa song, Just Dance, while sitting in my car. You really need to listen to it to get the full effect.

I had a completely unexpected, and elderly, reaction to it. A youngster, perhaps a Whitney Port or a Gossip Girl, might hear the song, hop out of her car, and heed its imperative message to just dance by actually dancing; I, the old one, had this inner monologue happening.

Oh-oh, eh
I've had a little bit too much, much
All of the people start to rush, start to rush by
How does he twist the dance? Can't find a drink, oh man
Where are my keys? I lost my phone, phone

Oh no, she lost her phone? She needs that! It's really hard to get back all those phone numbers. Wait, she can't find her keys? They probably fell out of her purse! They're probably on the floor! Lady GaGa! Check the floor!

What's going on on the floor?
I love this record baby but I can't see straight anymore
Keep it cool, what's the name of this club?I can't remember but it's alright, a-alright
Just dance, gonna be okay, da da doo-doo-mmm
Just dance, spin that record babe, da da doo-doo-mmm
Just dance, gonna be okay, d-d-d-dance
Dance, dance, just, j-j-just dance

Did someone give her roofies? She doesn't even know where she is! It is not gonna be okay, nor alright, this is getting really, really dangerous.

Wish I could shut my playboy mouth, oh oh oh-oh
How'd I turn my shirt inside out? Inside out right

Okay, now I'm seriously worried. She can't see, she doesn't know where she is, she may or may not have been slipped a date rape drug, and now she's engaging in alcohol and drug-related risky behavior. Somebody help her! She's going to get a DUI! Get her out of there!

It pretty much continues on like that for awhile, until my favorite part of the song, which goes

Spend the lasto(I got it)In your pocko(I got it)

I think it means spend all your money, but who knows, it could some sort of code for everybody do ecstasy. The point is, I don't know because I'm old. I'm so old I want to take care of a pretend girl in a song lest she get into sketchy trouble at the imaginary club that doesn't even exist. I'm going to go spend the lasto in my pocko on Golden Girls DVDs so I can just see what's right around the corner.

I'm obsessed with this car. I saw it parked oustide of a Von's in Rancho Mirage and it's totally for sale. If you want to buy it, you can see the craigslist ad here. Who owns this? A cartoon character? How long is the hood? Steve was like, "It looks like something Mr. Burns would drive."

Did anyone actually read Old Yeller before deciding this was a good idea?