Sheps in Aruba: We Brake for Birds

This year's vacation in Aruba was a tour de force of doing nothing. Aside from adhering to the various Happy Hours throughout the day (because there are multiple Happy Hours, because it is Aruba, and Aruba is magical) and one off-site snorkeling venture, it was dedicated to sitting, reading bad literature, and eating too many snacks. It was awesome.

So no 9-minute long videos this year. Sob. I know. But I will leave you with 60 seconds of the Family Shep losing it over local wildlife. To know us is to love us. And love birds.

Learn Terrifying Things About Yourself Through Twitter!

This website took my Twitter feed, sped it through a food processor, and vomited it back up. And this is what happened. My subconscious is a dark, dark, twisted place:

Tirade against people who don't live like a smart-ass pays off. It was making Freedom Tears.

I'm at BAM with you guys. Really hard. And then I don't know I just pretty sure I thought we wound up.

So started whipping up on this week will not sayin. Anyone have to screw stuffed animals. Sent video.

Mmmmmm...smells like an apartment. And ate it. You'll like an apartment.

Yes. Well. NEWSWIRE: Vomiting Woman Sorry about Bun's GI issues. But still, Rockwood bathroom is fucking!

How about bacon, and cheddar jack, it could be sure it won't tell. Just my batshit insane news cycle.

Well. I hate it was 2009. Also, tonight's chores done FAST. I cover gay rights, abortion and still a spy.

I love you know. Bro: Dude! Go throw up! Me: I love you guys. I HATE ANIMALS.

I love you, too. My brain scares me by Rockwood to be a living... DAMMIT!

No pants. Goddamn, spring. Ain't you please embrace unlimited Metro cards? Not just over it. Amiright?

I love your Thin Mints. No." GIMME YOUR THIN MINTS. No." I like a tool. Ben Folds reprise.

This is so important. This is go. Sad. Screw YouTube. Now -- NOW YOU shut up.

Totally stoked to know. It's sweet of dumbfucks. Somebody has a little more massive doses of daily meds!

Fact: Just because you can come, should I CAN'T. I love you, too. Deep-fried peanut butter cup.

Robyn Has a Sore Throat

Fun with home remedies.

And Then We Made A Music Video!: Greg Holden's "Bar On A"

My friend Greg Holden has a kick-ass drinking song called "Bar on A." He wanted to make a video for this drinking song. So he came up with the really high-concept idea of getting all of his friends to come to Derek's house, kill off a keg or two, smoke a hookah, and endear ourselves to the neighborhood.

And now we all have something to show our grandkids how awesome we were once. This is my new favorite thing.

Happy Passover, You Guys!

How To Hit Bottom With Style And Panache (Robyn Happened: Vintage 2008)

OMIGOD YOU GUYS. I was poking around MySpace for old times' sake and re-reading the ol' blog. It used to live there once upon a time. And I came upon this gem of an entry from December 2008. For those playing along, at the time, I was living in DC and had broken up with a guy who did an Epically Bad Thing, and was perpetually drunk and miserable. It was fantastic. I've hit a bit of an emo patch here in 2011 lately, but finding this was like getting a face-punch across time and space from 2008 Robyn, who's all "Awwwwwww, is widdle hipstew Wobyn sad with her uptown wiverfwont apartment and wock star fwiends and widicuwous job. PISS OFF. DON'T. EVEN. START. WITH. ME." And she has something that resembles a point, poor drunk thing.

And to think I didn't transfer this over because I thought it was oversharing. Hilarious.

HOW TO HIT BOTTOM WITH STYLE AND PANACHE (December 2008)

So you think things can't possibly get any worse? Surprise! They just did! But fear not. Here's some tips on how to properly hit bottom.

1a. If the bad news is delivered in a professional/public setting, and does not entail any life or death type situations, it is critical that you accept it elegantly. Look your assailant in the eye and smile like you love nothing more than being metaphorically shot in the gut at close range. Exit the situation with perfect posture until you are out of sight, dragging your metaphorical entrails behind you.

1b. If, however, the bad news manifests itself in a no kidding, life and death type situation, by all means, skip immediately to step 6 and lose your shit like there's no tomorrow. A good primal scream or prolonged gutteral moan works beautifully. As does a nice fainting spell. In this situation, all bets are off.

2. An escape plan is critical. You must, in the near future, flee the scene, if only for a day or so. Clean up whatever logistical mess must be attended to, and then get the hell out of town. If you've just received the bad news, it might be a good idea to fire off a semi-hysterical missive to out-of-town friends requesting, nay, demanding, their hospitality in the not-too-distant-future. You may lose elegance points here, but they will oblige. They'd be scared not to.

3. If it's seasonally appropriate, and if your city is enlightened enough to have one, visit the neighborhood Festivus pole, and publicly air your grievance anonymously. True, it will not solve your issue, but it will be immensely satisfying. Especially if you have a particularly good grievance, or a series of them presented in bullet form on the back of an envelope that once contained an affidavit from Dell Financial Services.

4. If you have a friend in the vicinity of said Festivus pole, call them immediately upon posting your grievance, and drink copious amounts of adult beverages with them. Bonus points if said friend happens to have a healing mixtape on hand, and is willing to share her steak dinner with you. Make sure you have cab fare before embarking on this step. You'll need it later.

5. On your way home, kick the crap out of a few streetlamps. This town is, after all, trying to kill you, and you must fight back. Just mind your toes.

6. Once, and only once, you are in a safe space, it is now time to lose it. Crumple to the floor and weep generously. I mean really get into it. Get all snotty and ugly and maybe drool a little. Ad-lib. Suggestions: "I don't understaaaaand..." or "Whhhhhyyyyyy?" or just say the F-word. A lot.

7. Pass out, either from exhaustion or alcohol, or both. You can take off your makeup in the morning.

8. Wake up, take an aspirin, dress up pretty, and resolve then and there to move to New York City.

Rollin' With Cannolis...

I have a friend named Jennie who's a pastry chef. Have you got a pastry chef for a friend? You should. Because you get to spend afternoons like this.

Jennie decided we should all come over to her apartment to make cannolis. I don't know if you know this about cannolis, but they don't just come in a box. They take a lot of time and a lot of effort and a lot of sitting around eating deviled eggs and drinking whiskey while the cannolis take a nap or something in the fridge. Let me illustrate...

Here, Jennie brandishes her Wüsthof, not because we need to chop anything, but because we need to show the cannolis that we are not messing around.


Next, you have to sift the ingredients to make the dough. And then you make dough patties and put them in the fridge.



Then you vogue a bit in your awesome apron.


After a good hour of that, you take out the dough and knead the living hell out of it. This not only makes it nice and pliable, but also works the upper arms a bit, so as to look fetching in aforementioned apron. This is part of the process, and it is very important.


Then -- and this is where we blow your mind -- you run it through A PASTA MAKER. WHAT? I KNOW. You do this roughly 654 times.



Then, you put the ribbons of dough in the fridge again and you drink.


You also have to work on the filling. Here, we see three pounds of a very special ricotta impastata, obtained deep in Brooklyn. I'm not entirely clear on why it was so special, but Jennie assures me it is "the Cadillac of ricotta," and I am in no position to debate her.


So you take the magic ricotta and you beat it with sugar and spices and whatever the hell else you want. We put some chocolate chips in one batch. And blueberry flan in another. I mean, it was getting WACKY. Completely off the chain.


Then you take a huge vat of oil and stick a thermometer in it and convince yourself that you are, in fact, sober enough to take this on without causing horrific injury.



Then you remember that you put strips of dough in the fridge, so you take it out and cut rounds out of them. Then you take your cannoli rollers, which OF COURSE you have...right next to your pasta maker, and you wrap the rounds around the rollers.


Then you drop the rollers in the oil, drain 'em on a plate...

Squish the cheese into the cannoli shells...

Dust 'em with sugar...


AND HOLY CRAP YOU MADE CANNOLIS. IN ONLY FIVE HOURS AND FOUR COCKTAILS.


Then you take the cannolis you worked all day on over to Cobble Hill where a bunch of inebriated people with floppy hair eat them in about three minutes.

And that's how cannolis are made.