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ask fran!

Chew On This.

you say: "write more I am bored"

we say: can't right now (THE F#*$ING RECESSION!!!)

oh lord.

we sigh, we slouch, we eat only bread and butter.
we stretch, we groan, we are going quite nutter.
the gas bills' due.
our rents' too f$*#ing high.
we'd like to booze and sit pretty
all day long...
under the bloomy Chicago sky...
but we can't
and we won't
not till things are taken care of.

'cause we are woebegone over job woes.
and we wrestle with pathless job fauxs'
and we need a hair change.
and a breath mint.

we've got a case of the snifflin' sneezies
and a pasty white lack of tan-ness.
(you can add 'ness' to anything)
and we're worried about the middle east.
we're worried about the warming trend.
we're worried about our grandpa
and our papa and the happiness
of all women, kids, puppies, and men.

and for those that struggle and grapple
for help and for those that need a boost
or a hug and lay in grief on the bathroom
rug. we worry we worry. and mostly we
scurry around in the minutiae of
everyday hurry.

so you see, we have littler time to write.
obviously no time to vent. or stare.
or wonder what in sweet gravy we should
do next in this atmosphere.

but we will be back, all in good time.
if our words were dollars, we'd be
pretty damn fine.
just stick with us like harold and
kumar. like snoop and dre. rob and
big. you get the picture....coming soon
our radio show: peg, frances, & pretty little skib.**

*f & j

**does anyone know anyone in radio. seriously.

WTF.

WHAT ever happened to Bugles?

*f

Sally Struthers Pooped Her Pants.

Cheeseburger

     Fries

And a Shake (click here).

*f

Frances & Judy, M.D.

art love

Greetings, from the feature office of Dr. and Missus Frances Judith Merriweather Poppins.

No, we're not married. We're the medical term most closest to being unidentical untwins. And the point remains that we think, act, live, and breathe in the imaginary. If we fall down and get scraped up, our blood runs in rainbow colored ziggles. We like words. Colors. Stories. A fantasy-based reality. We like music. Art. Quotable quotes and laughable anecdotes. We like dreaming by starlight and dreaming by daylight. We like painting pretty pictures. In thought, word and by hand. By land or by sea. That's where we belong, that's where we'll be.

So without further adieu and after Saturday night daisy vodka brews, we realized what we would do.

We would get our PhD in Creative.

We hear of PhD's in Philosophy. Psychology. And with meds. What don't we start a revolution and get our doctorate in shakin' out what's in our left brained heads?

Are you interested too? Let's start a petish. Let's huddle at coffee shops and talk, drink, and dish. We'll come up with a plan that makes us big bucks. We'll be scholars and pathpavers, a wild unruly fratty bunch.

Other jobs are jest soy milk bizzzzoringggg!

*f

This One Thing Is True.

Today, if nothing else we ask you to remember to dream big, act small, live large, and never listen to anyone else's advice.  You are your own can of worms.  Today, if nothing else go forth into the night carrying a big stick and remember that two cats in one cradle sure as heck don't equal life on a silver platter. Don't put the cart before the horse, y'all.  If nothing else, today medicate if you must, sweep issues and dust bunnies under the rug, blame your shortcomings on others, and make a big sloppy sandwich that makes you laugh and laugh and laugh.  Afterall, you are the cat's pajamas. The golden ticket. And the cream of the crop, in your own eyes.

Lovingly,

*f

Old Gold Balls.

photo love checkout rob mientjes!

There was a time.

When we were so brokenhearted.

Hahahhahahahaha. Did you think we were about to begin to get all Steve-o Tyler there for a second? Didja didja didja? Gotcha. Oh lawd alive our jokes have sure gotten progressively worse with the onset of the winter's encapturing dog days of mole-like buried living....if that's not a sympton of SAD we just don't know what is. 'Cause from what we've heard SAD symptons go like this:

a) bad jokes with little to no punch line telling
b) hair the shade of moldy Christmas fruitcakes
c) eyes the shade of vinegar and/or rotten molasses
d) ass the size of Tangeria
e) personal style similar to potato sack/garbage bag just add boots and/or chapped lips or face.

Well maybe it's SAD or maybe it's just that we is growing older and let's be honest we use wrinkle cream nightly. It's never too early to start and let's just say never say never to lifts, tucks, and little plick-plucks to our face. Sorry earth babies, beauty is pain and we is vain and that's the truth so we will pursue the fountain of youth.

Anyway.

When did you first start realizing you was...aging? You felt...older. Not even in a bad way. Maybe in a good way, like you developed a nice rack in your older years or maybe your figured out how to make your hair swingier and all sexy lionessy. Perhaps you even decided your beer belly was here for keeps, and you that made you more easygoing which made you more likeable and the ladies loved you for it, LL Cool Jay. And before you knew it, your sex life improved and suddenly you weren't taking your frustrations out on the intramural volleyball court any more! See? Old can be gold.

Recently we realized we were old balls when we kept hearing ourselves say the following phrases to our favorite mini-people children beans that we hang out with from time to time:

*Make sure you use your time wisely!
*I'm not asking you, I'm TELLING you!
*Take "can't" out of your vocabulary.

And a part of us was like really? Wtf. Really? You wanna give these midgelings a shout of advice? You think you're an insta-Captain Miss America? And so but then we realized half of us is peanut-butter-jelly-rub-my-belly-jump-on-the-bed-mischief-keeper-candy-eater-dancin'-
spazzo-flowerchild. And the other half must just be a gotta-be-good-and-believe- good-live-good-be-your-best-fill-your-nest-with-friendship-and-love-we-are-an-old-lady mama-in-training-just-waiting-to-exhale-that-the-kids-are-safe-and-happy. OMG.

Old balls. Maybe we'll change our name to Eugenie, go play some Bingo, buy an old lamborghini and drive around waving, with our best friend Mimi (aka Jude).

*f

Rainbow Brain Daisy Chain Questions Sortta Vain

dear puppies & bunnies and fam,
it tis frances pimp bitch here, the artist formely known as the mistress to the late heath ledger, and founder of the The Society Club for Chicagoan Gypsies and Wanderers Club.

which, sure you can join if you come bearing a stiff entrance fee or stiff vodka-daisy drink. pick your poison, one more geese in the gander ain't gonna do nuthin.' the rules are 1) we drink club soda 2) hang at the country club in our minds in slutty tennis clawsss 3) eat club sandwiches euro style 4) do not club seals (but we hit da club wit fiddy ya know what we're saying ya know what we're saying. ahhhhh yeah). deez are da rulez.

but the main thing behind this meeting today is...well let us tell you a story. a story that goes like this: today we had no time to write on the thursday edish of f & j. the end. goodbye. we kid we kid! not goodbye just good luck. no but really really really what we is wondering is these things down below. have a parent or guardian give you consent if you is an illegal bitch. and if you is a bastard, well we do apologize on behalf of your slutty parents.

NOW RESPOND PEOPLE. we beg we beg. And we'll waive your entry fee.

a) do you like to read f & j's blog on thursdays
b) would you rather read it daily but let's just say it might not be updated daily but more like when it is we get to it but we promise it would be ultra sexually active in blog terms that is
*) are you not really paying attention you are sort of lazy-eyed and perverted
d) do you eat peanuts and mayonaise daily, if you do gross
3) did you see the lunar eclipse? did you know there's more than 100 moons in our galaxy? isn't galaxy a cool word

loyally,
fran

p.s. respond!

We Dedicate The Following Song To:

This Vespa. The Gap version. It is a thing of beauty love color and we need it. Therefore we dedicate "My Love" by Justin Timberlake, to our future Vespa of Happiness.

If I wrote you a symphony Vespa, Just to say how much you mean to me (what would you do?) If I told you you were beautiful would you date me on the regular (tell me, would you?) Well, Vespa I've been around the world but I ain't seen myself another Vespa (like you) I can see us holding hands, walking on the beach, our toes in the sand. I can see us on the countryside, sitting on the grass, laying side by side. You could be my Vespa, let me make you my Vespa, you amaze me. Ain't gotta do nothing crazy, see, all I want you to do is be my love.

*f

Pass the Tissues, We all Got Issues.

Not so long ago, in another place in time. With totally different characters and completely different plotlines, we felt like an alien in a world of droids. We felt like a dolphin in a sea of sharks. And ugly killer whales. And poisonous eels. We felt like Daria in a world of Quinn Morgandorfers. We dressed conservatively (in theory and in comparison to). Loathed crop tops. Looked down on hair extensions. Didn't fancy drug use or the club scene. Never did, actually. And felt how a lost hippie gypsy must feel when her '72 rusty yellow Volkswagon van breaks down and she is stranded in....Vegas. On the strip. Next to a lit up blinking arrow sign ironically pointing toward the Midwest. And next to a strip club. And next to a village of tight skinned tanorexics and just so many goddam dancers that you can't help but wonder?

Kinda like starring as Balkie on "Perfect Strangers." Or Alf on "Alf." Foreign. Uncomfortable. Kinda like being thirteen all over again. But not with such a skinny bod or gigando Lipsmacker collection. And all we really wanted was your everyday basic pub pub. And men who don't shave their body hair. And people who wear sweaters and understand that Uggs are worn for warmth, and never with skirts. We didn't want to go to places called Myst or Rain or Storm or Lazer every Friday night. We wanted to go someplace.....real.

And we remember one time someone said to us "I wish I could get inside your head and see what you are thinking," in an awkward sort of fashion. Or perhaps that's just an awkward sort of statement. And we thought to ourselves we're pretty sure we're okay with you not doing that, like ever. Never ever. Never. But we nodded and smiled and moved on. And promptly, moved. Yes, relocated.

But it's a thought isn't it? Whatif we could see the thoughts in bubbles overhead, all the time? Like today, for instance, in the middle of the day we were thinking:

*What really happened to The Wallflowers?

*What ever happened to Jakob Dylan?

*As the son of Bob, didn't he feel it his duty, to make a proper name for himself? It's only reasonable. You introduce yourself as a singer...your father is an revolutionary marvel, a musical and poetic genius, a lyrical rebel and icon. They had a few catchy songs....We liked "Three Marlenas"....One, two, three Marlenas...yeah we still like it.

Okay, okay maybe that guy had reason to wonder about our spaceball thoughts. Shed yours! Jot 'em down! Let's have a laugh.

*f

Shhhhh...!

product love

*

These handy-dandy little cards are classy, understated, and pack a helluva punch. Because sometimes, people should just shut the front door.

Heh, heh.

*j

Marie Does.

true or false.

this antoinette sofa from urban
outfitters makes you want to:

a) eat cinni-bears and licorice squares
b) pop pepperoni bites and ham triangles
c) run nekkid through the woods with the most nicest wooly mammoth
d) sip teacups full of champagne-soaked vodka cherry fizz with licorice stirrers
e) all of the above plus teacup poodles patent mary janes and your mom's peach ice tea

*f

(the answer is 'e' ya numskull, see ya in the woods with the bites and the squares and the champy and the vodka and the tea)

P.S. I Lurrrrve You

Well so anyway, last Friday we felt very quite tipsy. We had heaps and heaps of sips of beerskis, and one too many shot or two or three. And yet, when we got home we still thought to ourselves well, this is as good a time as ever to write to our cousin Katie, Katie Rosalita. We thought perhaps we shall listen to music, write a provocative yet unusually longwinded no directional sort of letter, and do what many a fine folk do at two am on a fuzzy Friday evening slash morning.

So we did.

And this was the product:

Dear Kousin Katie

Do you think it's cool to spell "c" words with a "k" just to be kinda kicky about it? Like when people write "krazy" or "kool." Plus sometimes it's just GOOD for you to write it out. It's cheaper than therapy and gives instant gratification. Which is great for impulsive sensitivie complications. No comment. Let's be honest. It's tricky sucky and sad. Of course hell, you're in love! You're getting married! True courage. Risk of the unknown and a leap of faith. So amazing! Anyway so I just got home and it's 2:15 am. I have to tell you drinking bores me unless it's with people I fu@#ing love and think are hilarious. OMG.

But then we got extraordinarily tired and stopped? The writing was too strenous? The OMG moment was too life altering? One may never know. But we must say drinky journaling is quite fun the next day. And also a secret way to know what you are secretly thinking! You must try. And share.

*f

It's Just a Banana.

or is it.

*f

To All You P.Y.T's

This Christmas season,

We hope you find peace and solitude.

We hope you find latitude and longitude.

And we pray that you find a 

multitude of solitudinal gratitude.

May you be gratitudinally 

solutidinal in your livelihood,

blessed with peace and lovitude,

through the holiday and into 2008.

rockin' & rollin' in the usa & beyond,

*f & j

The 357th Thing That Makes Us Happy.

yes this does makes us happy because yes we love eating scones with other drones. cause we love sugar like we love ourselves: purely; madly; deeply; without reason. and it can also be said that we love sugar like we love moment-livers, gummybear-givers, moonshine-makers, and wintery-scone-bakers. not even lying at all, not one bit.

*f & j

More Q & A with F & J.

Recently we were interviewed (AGAIN) by a well-known secret underground hip hot literary publication out of NYC that pretty much is a hotbed for truly avant-garde multimedia supermogels of beauty wealth power and fame so we probably shouldn't mention it by name for legal copywriting purposes and just well because the interviewer just did not understand that it's dirty outside and totally gray and are just not vibing that and our aura is just totally grumpy so the interview ended abruptly although the writer and publication do not in fact, exist. Or do they. So maybe it never actually ended or maybe it never really began who's to say we for one, cannot say which witch is which. She sells seashells by the shore.

Q: So, tell us. Frances, Judy. Why do you continue to write about such a multitude of topics on a daily basis, without knowing why you do it? Who you're reaching? Or what your goal is?

A: We were born that way.

Q: You were born that way? You mean, like how someone can be born with asthma? Or allergies?

A: No! We were born to run! We were born to be wild! Raaaaahhhhhrrrr.

Q: Did you just growl at me? Um, anyway in another recent interview you listed your favorite activity as frolicking in the forest with the polywags and the devildogs. Was that a part of your imagination or an actual excerpt from your upcoming fantasy fiction comic book?

A: You must listen to the wind of your soul, goblin, to find out.

Q: Goblin?! Did you just paraphrase a Cat Stevens song? Did your mother drop you on your head? Are you currently or have you ever been, on crack?

A: Why. Do you want some? Because two wrongs do NOT make a right Bob Barker. You are what you eat and you've never had it so good. Just keep that in mind cause you are barking up the wrong tree, Space Ghost. You of all people should know that beauty is only skin deep.

*f & j

Nothing Good Comes Easily.

but what about gumballs.

*f

Art Imitating Music Imitating Cartoons...What?

We can't say we 'get' everything David Shrigley does with Worried Noodles (this visual artist's collection of lyrics and cartoonish outlandish-ism). We can't say we agree with some of his disturbing outbursts (any bash toward an animal= no cupcakes for you, our friend. no matter how pretty are. stop batting your eyelashes at us! stop it!).

But we can say uh, hey that's kinda interesting. Hey uh, Shrigley is kinda undeniably poetic. If only in an-insane-in-the-membrane kinda way. Hey, so Franz Ferdinand, David Byrne, Hot Chip, Islands, Liars, Grizzly Bear, and Deerhoof (buzzworthy name drop) all jumped on board to record the 39 'tracks' off this booklet. And uh, that's just cool. And we just have a fondness for like nonsensical noncompoopness combined with the art of doodling and cartoon madness.

It would, at least, make for a good conversation piece slash coffee table book. Just don't have Granny over for tea and crumpets. She would have a hard time swallowing her biscuit.

*f

My Moustache Itches!

photo love

Oh, oh!! Another great find from darling deary Cup of Jo - how can you resist a smile at this very moment, cupcakes? Beards and stripes and fantastical hairy creations! The Beard and Moustache Championship revealed some bizarrely darling facial art, mon cheries. And we could not be happier campers on this fine Friday morn.


*j