Firstly, in praise of the single life, I must say this: I don't have to ask anyone before I make what some would consider a fiscally irresponsible decision.
No one will say to me, "Just because it's half off doesn't mean you have to buy it."
The people who would say that to me, by the way, wouldn't necessarily be in the know. Because it's not just any bargain. It's half-off MARC JACOBS. People, it's half off THIS SEASON MARC JACOBS.
No, wait -- it's half-off-butter-yellow-smoot-as-a-baby's-sweet-pink-bottom leather. It's luxury incarnate. It carries your wallet, your cell phone, your little packet of travel size cosmetics, and an immeasurable amount of holy-fuck-that's-a-gorgeous-Marc-Jacobs-bag STATUS.
I blame the handbag girls. More than anything, I blame the fact that I am back to let's-go-shopping-at-lunchtime agency life. I blame the Kenneth Cole bags, the Coach wristlets, the Furla bag, the Cole Haan bag, the same way junkies everywhere blame that first cigarette, that sweet deep haze of burbon, that exhilarating snort of coke for their eventual heroin-cooking habits.
I talked to the dealer.
I wasn't, it's true, in a nightclub restroom on the dirty floor, I wasn't crouched in the back bedroom of a dark, dank, electricity-free crack house with human feces rotting in the corner.
I was, in fact, in a well-lit, clean, handbag department at Nordstrom, and my dealer was a young man named, improbably, Cliff Countryman.
I know this because when he agreed to put the potentially dangerous dose of handbaggage on hold for me, he gave me his card. He said, "You'll want to call me by the end of the day. This won't be on hold forever."
He said, "You don't find Marc Jacobs half off. Like, ever."
My friends, my Countryman, I'm finding myself drawn, inexorably, into the rabbit hole, beyond the point of no return.
Or, in this case, no returns.
My credit-card hand is twitching above my wallet, Nordstrom is wafting the sweet scent of Italian leather into my office, all of it saying, come back, own me, carry me.
I am a classic.
And just because it's half off. . .
Fuck it. I'll just do it this once.
I'm sure I can stop anytime.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Sunday, June 04, 2006
SHOWTIME! You bastard.
Showtime just somehow made me catch this movie, again. Seriously, it's a terrible film.
But it is full of fascinating things, including:
- Elle MacPherson wearing that hat she seemed to have on in all her film roles from the nineties.
- Sarah Jessica Parker and Elle both make out with a totally ugly dude with the gayest haircut ever. (And, oh, sweet jesus. Click if you dare.) Apologies to my gay friends. I know that a self-respecting gay man would never butcher his head like that.
- There is a teeny-tiny-baby Scarlet Johansson sucking on a lollypop suggestively, interacting cutely with a vaguely funny, poorly coiffed Ben Stiller (inexplicably named "Bwick").
-Predictably, the only one who comes out unscathed, here, is SJP. She is not a style victim, even when she wears the little blue dress with black opaque tights and big chunky black shoes, a'la Sleater Kinney circa 1996. That's classic, though. Seriously.
But it is full of fascinating things, including:
- Elle MacPherson wearing that hat she seemed to have on in all her film roles from the nineties.
- Sarah Jessica Parker and Elle both make out with a totally ugly dude with the gayest haircut ever. (And, oh, sweet jesus. Click if you dare.) Apologies to my gay friends. I know that a self-respecting gay man would never butcher his head like that.
- There is a teeny-tiny-baby Scarlet Johansson sucking on a lollypop suggestively, interacting cutely with a vaguely funny, poorly coiffed Ben Stiller (inexplicably named "Bwick").
-Predictably, the only one who comes out unscathed, here, is SJP. She is not a style victim, even when she wears the little blue dress with black opaque tights and big chunky black shoes, a'la Sleater Kinney circa 1996. That's classic, though. Seriously.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
This is Why I Can Stand Out In My Field.
Sometimes, I hear conversations inside my office, and I think, how do these people figure out how to get dressed and get to work EVERY DAY without dying?
I guess I'm not the only one:
I guess I'm not the only one:
PR stands for public relations, but it should stand for public retardation
Cuz I'm saving the right one for Anne Coulter
Dear Newsweek:
Suck my left nut.
Love,
RJ
UPDATE: Since, somehow, I got linked by MSNBC to this post, I thought I'd elucidate.
I hate that the "State of Marriage" report focuses solely on women. I hate that, somehow, in the economics of union, NAY, in the economics of straight people union, women are considered somehow the commodity. Not only are we considered a commodity, but we are considered a PERISHABLE commodity.
I hate that the idea that men might be seeking marriage is mentioned in passing, and mentioned in the context of a "we've come a long way, baby" sort of pat on the back.
I hate the fact that this article is supposed to be some kind of progressive report, and it still sounds so very pejorative. It sounds more like, "Huh, guys. Turns out our incredibly condescending sweeping bullshit announcement that no woman over 30 would ever be married was wrong. Turns out somebody married these old broads. Weird. Anyway, you old bitches shouldn't be so inconsolate, after all."
I hate the fact that this post will be considered the bitter ranting of an old maid.
And I hate you.
Just kidding, I really don't hate you. I'm sorry. Really, I'm totally sorry. C'mon. I'll buy you an ice cream.
Stop pouting, seriously.
Suck my left nut.
Love,
RJ
UPDATE: Since, somehow, I got linked by MSNBC to this post, I thought I'd elucidate.
I hate that the "State of Marriage" report focuses solely on women. I hate that, somehow, in the economics of union, NAY, in the economics of straight people union, women are considered somehow the commodity. Not only are we considered a commodity, but we are considered a PERISHABLE commodity.
I hate that the idea that men might be seeking marriage is mentioned in passing, and mentioned in the context of a "we've come a long way, baby" sort of pat on the back.
I hate the fact that this article is supposed to be some kind of progressive report, and it still sounds so very pejorative. It sounds more like, "Huh, guys. Turns out our incredibly condescending sweeping bullshit announcement that no woman over 30 would ever be married was wrong. Turns out somebody married these old broads. Weird. Anyway, you old bitches shouldn't be so inconsolate, after all."
I hate the fact that this post will be considered the bitter ranting of an old maid.
And I hate you.
Just kidding, I really don't hate you. I'm sorry. Really, I'm totally sorry. C'mon. I'll buy you an ice cream.
Stop pouting, seriously.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Prounounced the Southern Way -- VAAHHHHHHHHSSSS.
JP: Do you have something I can put some water in for Willis? Some Tupperware or something?
Jason: You can use Kitten's vase.
Mark: Did you just say 'vase?'
Jason: Yes - the stainless steel one we got at petsmart.
Mark: . . .
Mark: Oh. I didn't know we were calling it that.
Jason: You can use Kitten's vase.
Mark: Did you just say 'vase?'
Jason: Yes - the stainless steel one we got at petsmart.
Mark: . . .
Mark: Oh. I didn't know we were calling it that.
Caressing the Delicate Folds of My Soul or Why Do I Pay For a Therapist When I Have Google Horoscopes?
Dear Google Horoscopes:
No One.
No one knows me the way you know me. Such a shockingly intimate knowledge, such a fine, sweet insight you exhibit. I may not even know I'm cruising in cold emotional currents until you cue me in. In perfect, precise paragraphs you tell me how to handle the daily hairtuns in my own fate. Oh, Google Horoscopes. I told you one thing, ONE THING, about me. And you took six simple numbers (120674) and turned it into my roadmap in life.
Where do you come up with such insightful nuggets as
And I already bought myself a two-headed quarter. You know, just in case I got into some kind of coin-flipping duel to the death. It knew I would give myself the gift of magic before I did.
Fucking Beautiful.
PS: Can you tell my mind is facile right now? It's totally facile. WAY more facile than usual.
PPS: MAGIC
No One.
No one knows me the way you know me. Such a shockingly intimate knowledge, such a fine, sweet insight you exhibit. I may not even know I'm cruising in cold emotional currents until you cue me in. In perfect, precise paragraphs you tell me how to handle the daily hairtuns in my own fate. Oh, Google Horoscopes. I told you one thing, ONE THING, about me. And you took six simple numbers (120674) and turned it into my roadmap in life.
Where do you come up with such insightful nuggets as
Be aware that your inner conflicts can confuse others and they may not be able to determine what you really want.and
Give yourself the gift of magic, for your creative mind is more facile now than usual
And I already bought myself a two-headed quarter. You know, just in case I got into some kind of coin-flipping duel to the death. It knew I would give myself the gift of magic before I did.
Fucking Beautiful.
PS: Can you tell my mind is facile right now? It's totally facile. WAY more facile than usual.
PPS: MAGIC
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Dear Casey
Congratulations on your pending nuptuals! I have to say there is nothing more encouraging than when your friend is drunk off her ass on "sexy shots" and her feet hurt from dancing on the bar and she's in the cab going to some thong-assed bar and she has to call her fiance because how can she not speak to him in six hours? That's fucking sweet, sister. But not as sweet as your ass looks in this portrait I took while you were dancing to "Livin' on a Prayer" at Hogs & Honeys doing your trademark assslap dance. On the bar. At Hogs & Honeys.
I think that proves how much I love you.
I think that proves how much I love you.
The Early Bird Gets the Ironic Little Meaty Worm
I read this poem on Britney's Web site the other day, and I was thinking about doing a close reading. But I was beat to the punch.
Brilliant.
This passage serves merely to illustrate the propensity of the poem to contain multiple, and equally important, readings within itself.
Brilliant.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Hipster Hating
Real soon I'll tell you about how I got pulled over at 3:00AM with my bra hanging out, but, in the meantime, y'all read this:
That must have been like when Ben Franklin tried to invent the keykite but it came out as electricity.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Every Second Of The Night, We Live Another Life
You know how sometimes, you have a dream that, when you wake up, stays with you? Like, you dreamed you saw and hugged your dead grandma or you found the vintage watch you lost years ago? And you wake up wishing your dream was true? All day, you have that little flutter in your chest? That bittersweet sense of tender longing?
I had a dream last night Lindsey Lohan left a comment on my blog saying how she likes to read it. The REAL Lindsey Lohan.
It hurts, you know?
Oh, I just remembered, I also dreamed that I tested Johnny's urine and found it positive for kidney cancer antibodies. That didn't mean he HAS cancer, just the antibodies. He needed further testing. Then Susanne chased me out the bathroom window.
I had a dream last night Lindsey Lohan left a comment on my blog saying how she likes to read it. The REAL Lindsey Lohan.
It hurts, you know?
Oh, I just remembered, I also dreamed that I tested Johnny's urine and found it positive for kidney cancer antibodies. That didn't mean he HAS cancer, just the antibodies. He needed further testing. Then Susanne chased me out the bathroom window.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Hipster Couple That Is Totally In Love In The Coffee Shop:
You're all, we're in love, but it's troubled love.
That's because we're deep. And young.
So, like, he comes into the coffee shop and surfs myspace for, like, three hours, then, when I get off work at the vintage boutique, I'll join him. And, since we haven't seen each other since this morning, of course we're going to make out. And, like, kiss each other's necks with obscene slurps, and, like, obviously be slipping our hands up under each other's shirts.
But, since we're also intense people, we're going to immmediately get in a fight. Because we don't keep anything from each other, you know? Get it?
But, we're in love, so we'll just make out to make up, you know, and then we'll look at myspace TOGETHER and we'll look at the Intonation fest site together but that actually is a bad idea because then we have to FIGHT about whether we want to go to that fest. Because I just don't know if it is worth it but he says it'll be a great live show and I say why do you have to be like this?
I mean, I got this tattoo on my back, the one with the two skeletons making out? For YOU! BECAUSE I TOTALLY LOVE YOU.
So, you just look at myspace and I'll lean on you.
Because that's how it is.
See? This is nice. Put your hand on my leg.
You can type with one hand.
Okay, fine, don't.
Huh.
But you're ignoring me!
It's fine. Fine. FINE. I'm leaving.
Bye.
If you click here, you can totally see her retreating. And him not caring.
That's because we're deep. And young.
So, like, he comes into the coffee shop and surfs myspace for, like, three hours, then, when I get off work at the vintage boutique, I'll join him. And, since we haven't seen each other since this morning, of course we're going to make out. And, like, kiss each other's necks with obscene slurps, and, like, obviously be slipping our hands up under each other's shirts.
But, since we're also intense people, we're going to immmediately get in a fight. Because we don't keep anything from each other, you know? Get it?
But, we're in love, so we'll just make out to make up, you know, and then we'll look at myspace TOGETHER and we'll look at the Intonation fest site together but that actually is a bad idea because then we have to FIGHT about whether we want to go to that fest. Because I just don't know if it is worth it but he says it'll be a great live show and I say why do you have to be like this?
I mean, I got this tattoo on my back, the one with the two skeletons making out? For YOU! BECAUSE I TOTALLY LOVE YOU.
So, you just look at myspace and I'll lean on you.
Because that's how it is.
See? This is nice. Put your hand on my leg.
You can type with one hand.
Okay, fine, don't.
Huh.
But you're ignoring me!
It's fine. Fine. FINE. I'm leaving.
Bye.
If you click here, you can totally see her retreating. And him not caring.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Proud Member: The NRA
That's right.
This whole week I'm at the NRA show.
Unfortunately, there are no rifles, handguns, ammo, or other deadly weapons (well, unless you count kitchen knives. Which, really, you should. So). It's the National Restaurant Association show, where you can sample cheesecake on a stick, every kind of popper known to man, and even hook yourself up with a shot glass and chaser in one.
It is a massive display of the depth of the restaurant industry -- chafing dishes, gelato, menu covers, lightweight marble substitute, i-can't-believe-it's-not-wood paneling, miles and miles of stuff all designed to make your dining experience that much more spiffy.
Some things I've found immensely charming in the last few days include:
- this poster, which I have blurrily captured with my cell phone camera. In case you are getting a migraine trying to read it, I'll translate. It says "America's Favorite Corn Muffin -- 90% Corn Muffin Share." That means Jiffy? the KING OF CORN MUFFINS. Other corn muffins occupy mere fractions of the corn muffin market, they are edged out by the herculean power of Jiffy. Their booth consists of this poster, a table with many massive boxes of corn muffin mix, and several chairs with tshirts draped over them with snappy slogans such as, "Muffin Doin'" and "Muffin Much" and "Muffin Better!" I just want to go over there and pinch that Jiffy brand on the cheeks! There is muffin more adorable!
- An egg booth, serving eggs, lots of pictures of eggs, signs screaming, EGGS! and a small sign that says, "Eggs. This booth serving eggs. If you are allergic to eggs, do not sample the eggs."
Sound advice, if I've ever heard any.
This whole week I'm at the NRA show.
Unfortunately, there are no rifles, handguns, ammo, or other deadly weapons (well, unless you count kitchen knives. Which, really, you should. So). It's the National Restaurant Association show, where you can sample cheesecake on a stick, every kind of popper known to man, and even hook yourself up with a shot glass and chaser in one.
It is a massive display of the depth of the restaurant industry -- chafing dishes, gelato, menu covers, lightweight marble substitute, i-can't-believe-it's-not-wood paneling, miles and miles of stuff all designed to make your dining experience that much more spiffy.
Some things I've found immensely charming in the last few days include:
- this poster, which I have blurrily captured with my cell phone camera. In case you are getting a migraine trying to read it, I'll translate. It says "America's Favorite Corn Muffin -- 90% Corn Muffin Share." That means Jiffy? the KING OF CORN MUFFINS. Other corn muffins occupy mere fractions of the corn muffin market, they are edged out by the herculean power of Jiffy. Their booth consists of this poster, a table with many massive boxes of corn muffin mix, and several chairs with tshirts draped over them with snappy slogans such as, "Muffin Doin'" and "Muffin Much" and "Muffin Better!" I just want to go over there and pinch that Jiffy brand on the cheeks! There is muffin more adorable!
- An egg booth, serving eggs, lots of pictures of eggs, signs screaming, EGGS! and a small sign that says, "Eggs. This booth serving eggs. If you are allergic to eggs, do not sample the eggs."
Sound advice, if I've ever heard any.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Dear Trent Reznor
First off, I just want to thank you. Because, in 1990, as an angst-ridden teen stuck in southern Indiana, I really needed you, and you were there. Full of crazy techno alt-rock loathing, your music really spoke to me. You were full of sixteen year old stuck in the cornfields suck suck suck. It was before the Internet, so what else was I to do but drive around in my 1986 Delta '88 and blast head like a hole? I'll tell you what. Nothing.
But, in the subsequent decade and a half I've broadened my horizons a bit and since have other types of angst to fulfill my deepest darkest self, stuff like mortgages, alcohol, and making fun of shit on the fabulous newfangled Internet.
But you? Trent.
I heard you on the radio today. You were still so full of teen angst that I almost detatched my retinas while rolling my eyes. Trent, you've got to be pushing forty. Take a walk, take a nice bath, read a book. Especially the book part.
Don't make me call you a loser.
Loser.
But, in the subsequent decade and a half I've broadened my horizons a bit and since have other types of angst to fulfill my deepest darkest self, stuff like mortgages, alcohol, and making fun of shit on the fabulous newfangled Internet.
But you? Trent.
I heard you on the radio today. You were still so full of teen angst that I almost detatched my retinas while rolling my eyes. Trent, you've got to be pushing forty. Take a walk, take a nice bath, read a book. Especially the book part.
Don't make me call you a loser.
Loser.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
A little amusement
While I drown in trade show hell. Y'all. Trade shows? They're totally brutal.
Y'all, the internet? Has unintentionally gay videos for you to watch. Life's full of tradeoffs that way. Like Kirk Cameron would say, god makes you go to a trade show, god also lets you laugh at Kirk Cameron. Door/window? Yesiree.
Y'all, the internet? Has unintentionally gay videos for you to watch. Life's full of tradeoffs that way. Like Kirk Cameron would say, god makes you go to a trade show, god also lets you laugh at Kirk Cameron. Door/window? Yesiree.
Friday, May 19, 2006
More disturbing truths about Flickr
Cute pic of susan. Check out the profile of the gentleman who commented on it. (I must say I'm tempted to become his friend. . . you know. . . just out of curiousity.)
Can't decide if I'm disturbed by this or not.
But three people on flickr call this photo of susanne, blindfolded with a scarf at her birthday party, a favorite. Although this shot is of a girl about to break a pinata, the people who favor the photo appear to be scarf/bondage fetishists.
Sorry, Susanne. I accidentally have involved you in some internet psuedo-porn. And probably some monkey spanking.
Sorry, Susanne. I accidentally have involved you in some internet psuedo-porn. And probably some monkey spanking.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Bad Behavior
So, these are the two cows that hang out on a shelf in the waiting room at DeeP's office.
I have been known to be unable to resist the compulsion to place them in sexually suggestive positions while I'm waiting for the elevator.
They're usually back to just kissing by the next time I see them.
I haven't mentioned this behavior to my therapist.
I'm not sure I will.
He probably knows it's me, anyway.
Probably.
I have been known to be unable to resist the compulsion to place them in sexually suggestive positions while I'm waiting for the elevator.
They're usually back to just kissing by the next time I see them.
I haven't mentioned this behavior to my therapist.
I'm not sure I will.
He probably knows it's me, anyway.
Probably.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Singed
I burned the sweet holy fuck out of my arm on Thursday.
I somehow, in the process of performing my domestic best on Thursday, managed to press my forearm (white, vulnerable, pasty) against the 8 kajillion degrees hot iron. So now I have this really interesting strip of science experiment in a suggestive spot -- I kind of look like I recently attempted to slash my wrist.
It didn't hurt at the time, didn't really do more than look ugly for a couple of days, which I took as a good sign, but, as it turns out, was not such a good sign. See, it was Saturday, as the chunks of skin began to fall from the wound, when I realized this is a very ugly situation.
DeeP took a look at it today and informed me that, "yeah, that's a third degree burn."
So, right. Now I'm not just mentally fliberdygibbety, but I've got a THIRD DEGREE BURN ON MY ARM.
I don't know if it is because of said burn, but the whole arm hurts. My elbow? hurts. Wrist? Fucking bitch fuck fuck. Point of this post?
If my arm falls off in the night, just know I always loved you. I will always. . . god. . . no. . . more. . . typing. . . (maybe I'll post a pic later, if you're lucky!!)
I somehow, in the process of performing my domestic best on Thursday, managed to press my forearm (white, vulnerable, pasty) against the 8 kajillion degrees hot iron. So now I have this really interesting strip of science experiment in a suggestive spot -- I kind of look like I recently attempted to slash my wrist.
It didn't hurt at the time, didn't really do more than look ugly for a couple of days, which I took as a good sign, but, as it turns out, was not such a good sign. See, it was Saturday, as the chunks of skin began to fall from the wound, when I realized this is a very ugly situation.
DeeP took a look at it today and informed me that, "yeah, that's a third degree burn."
So, right. Now I'm not just mentally fliberdygibbety, but I've got a THIRD DEGREE BURN ON MY ARM.
I don't know if it is because of said burn, but the whole arm hurts. My elbow? hurts. Wrist? Fucking bitch fuck fuck. Point of this post?
If my arm falls off in the night, just know I always loved you. I will always. . . god. . . no. . . more. . . typing. . . (maybe I'll post a pic later, if you're lucky!!)
Friday, May 12, 2006
Ah, But You Know Me So Well
Today's DeeP:
Me: God, it's just -- I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought, I just need to ask DeeP what the hell am I supposed to DO!
DeeP: Mmm. (takes notes) What do you mean?
Me: I mean, about my LIFE!
DeeP: And you knew I wouldn't tell you what to do.
Me: Yes! Damnit! (starts weeping dramatically)
DeeP: So, when is your period supposed to start?
Me: (through tears) in about two days! What are you trying to say??
Me: God, it's just -- I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought, I just need to ask DeeP what the hell am I supposed to DO!
DeeP: Mmm. (takes notes) What do you mean?
Me: I mean, about my LIFE!
DeeP: And you knew I wouldn't tell you what to do.
Me: Yes! Damnit! (starts weeping dramatically)
DeeP: So, when is your period supposed to start?
Me: (through tears) in about two days! What are you trying to say??
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Dear Top Chef
I've decided that I love Stephen now. Stephen, if you can apologize to Candice for terrorizing her for being a dizzy silly model cum cheflet, I can apologize to you. I'm sorry I said you were just like PeeWee. Well, okay, I'm not sorry, because you were. But, dude. Now you're all sweet and reformed and wearing hott jeans and being sweet and sensitive and apologizing to Candice in the reunion. Even right after they showed that clip where she called you a douchebag.
And, Top Chef, you finally broke down Tiffani by giving validation to the internet crazies who think she's the one who turned down the oven on Lee Ann. That's just not nice.
I'll see you in Hell.
Sincerely,
RJ
And, Top Chef, you finally broke down Tiffani by giving validation to the internet crazies who think she's the one who turned down the oven on Lee Ann. That's just not nice.
I'll see you in Hell.
Sincerely,
RJ
Birth of Buckets
Last night I joined Buckets and a motley crew of his people at the map room, late in the evening, and fed him more than one birthday shot of Makers. You could see it suffuse his brain, slow him down, sink him into his own thoughts.
Buckets has this thing where he likes to stare at you while you're talking to him as if you were speaking some alien clicks and pops language. Not only that, but maybe you were spouting clicks and pops obscenity at him, and maybe spitting a little through your teeth while you were doing it.
You ask him a question and the blank, slightly shocked stare goes on for several moments before he answers you.
Usually with something non sequiter, obscene, or profound.
His darling friend Carla was on hand, she is a cheerful, short, sweet and lovely black woman who could possibly not be any more opposite from the drunken, hipster, tortured B. She said, "How do you know Luc?"
I said, "Indiana University. You?"
"Oh," she explained, between ladylike sips of beer, "I know him from the cult."
Awesome. "Right! The cult! I don't know much about that!"
"Right, well, I got out of there in high school, when my parents left, but if I had stayed I'd be married and have, like, six kids by now!" She began laughing in completely endearing bubbly chirps. "I don't want to be married! But, when you're in the cult, what else do you do after high school?"
Good point. Apparently, for a bit during high school, buckets lived in a cult on the north side of Chicago. Carla explained to me that Luc was the fun, badass cult member who would slip out for cigarettes all the time. Every cult has to have the bad boy, I guess.
We moved on to discuss other important topics, including how Carla likes to go to white trixie girl bars and start fights by accusing the blondes of being racist and yelling, "I AM A STRONG BLACK WOMAN! BLACK WOMEN DO NOT STAND IN LINE!"
"Do black people really not wait in line?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She was giggling, all round cheeks and sweet twinkly eyes and everything cherubic. "Would you be intimidated by me?"
"I don't think so. You're awfully sweet."
"They're always saying, 'oh, you're so CUTE!' and I'm all, 'Shut UP, bitch!'"
She was just so cute.
Luc told me about how he coerced Apple, once into reading Henry Miller to him in her southern drawl, such a literary boy sexual fantasy.
Carla bummed cigs from me, drank many beers, and started many conversations with, "When I left the cult," and, "When we were in the cult," which made me laugh until I snorted.
Then some weirdly cross-eyed blonde blonde blonde spiky woman came over to our table and said, "I'm from San Francisco! People are so nice here!" She explained to us that, "They call me flighty, so I wear airline apparel!" She bought Luc a drink and he followed the call of free liquor to the bar, his eyes unfocused.
Carla and I left, because, we got work to do, people.
Buckets has this thing where he likes to stare at you while you're talking to him as if you were speaking some alien clicks and pops language. Not only that, but maybe you were spouting clicks and pops obscenity at him, and maybe spitting a little through your teeth while you were doing it.
You ask him a question and the blank, slightly shocked stare goes on for several moments before he answers you.
Usually with something non sequiter, obscene, or profound.
His darling friend Carla was on hand, she is a cheerful, short, sweet and lovely black woman who could possibly not be any more opposite from the drunken, hipster, tortured B. She said, "How do you know Luc?"
I said, "Indiana University. You?"
"Oh," she explained, between ladylike sips of beer, "I know him from the cult."
Awesome. "Right! The cult! I don't know much about that!"
"Right, well, I got out of there in high school, when my parents left, but if I had stayed I'd be married and have, like, six kids by now!" She began laughing in completely endearing bubbly chirps. "I don't want to be married! But, when you're in the cult, what else do you do after high school?"
Good point. Apparently, for a bit during high school, buckets lived in a cult on the north side of Chicago. Carla explained to me that Luc was the fun, badass cult member who would slip out for cigarettes all the time. Every cult has to have the bad boy, I guess.
We moved on to discuss other important topics, including how Carla likes to go to white trixie girl bars and start fights by accusing the blondes of being racist and yelling, "I AM A STRONG BLACK WOMAN! BLACK WOMEN DO NOT STAND IN LINE!"
"Do black people really not wait in line?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She was giggling, all round cheeks and sweet twinkly eyes and everything cherubic. "Would you be intimidated by me?"
"I don't think so. You're awfully sweet."
"They're always saying, 'oh, you're so CUTE!' and I'm all, 'Shut UP, bitch!'"
She was just so cute.
Luc told me about how he coerced Apple, once into reading Henry Miller to him in her southern drawl, such a literary boy sexual fantasy.
Carla bummed cigs from me, drank many beers, and started many conversations with, "When I left the cult," and, "When we were in the cult," which made me laugh until I snorted.
Then some weirdly cross-eyed blonde blonde blonde spiky woman came over to our table and said, "I'm from San Francisco! People are so nice here!" She explained to us that, "They call me flighty, so I wear airline apparel!" She bought Luc a drink and he followed the call of free liquor to the bar, his eyes unfocused.
Carla and I left, because, we got work to do, people.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Friday Night Moments
Mark: You always remind me of Ellen Pompeo from Grey's Anatomy!
Susan: Oh, Mark. That is such a complement, because she is so. thin.
Mark:. . .
Mark: Um, that's not exactly what I meant, but. . .
We stumble drunkenly to Bar Louie. Between four people, we order:
- a basket of french fries
- 24 wings
- chip and dip trio
- artichoke and spinach dip
- soft pretzels and dip
The food doesn't all fit on our table. We eat it all. We lick plates. Not a celery stick is left at the end.
Susan: I feel so embarrased!
Me: I feel proud.
Mark: The only thing that would make this better is if I were alone with all this food.
Susan: Oh, Mark. That is such a complement, because she is so. thin.
Mark:. . .
Mark: Um, that's not exactly what I meant, but. . .
We stumble drunkenly to Bar Louie. Between four people, we order:
- a basket of french fries
- 24 wings
- chip and dip trio
- artichoke and spinach dip
- soft pretzels and dip
The food doesn't all fit on our table. We eat it all. We lick plates. Not a celery stick is left at the end.
Susan: I feel so embarrased!
Me: I feel proud.
Mark: The only thing that would make this better is if I were alone with all this food.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Top Bitch
Once, a few weeks ago, Fauxnica and I were having an incredibly important conversation.
It was about which member of "Top Chef" we most resembled.
Fauxinca said I was like Tiffani.
Of course, I was incredibly offended. Tiffani, omg, she's such a bitch. And her face is so goddamned square.
But, shame on me.
I was just reading Tom Colicchio's blog about episode 9 on Bravo's Website (shut up, I am NOT a loser!), and he made a statement I thought was not only very wise, but also hit very close to home for me. Therefore, worth sharing:
It was about which member of "Top Chef" we most resembled.
Fauxinca said I was like Tiffani.
Of course, I was incredibly offended. Tiffani, omg, she's such a bitch. And her face is so goddamned square.
But, shame on me.
I was just reading Tom Colicchio's blog about episode 9 on Bravo's Website (shut up, I am NOT a loser!), and he made a statement I thought was not only very wise, but also hit very close to home for me. Therefore, worth sharing:
I want to take a moment here to discuss Tiffani's controversial "attitude." While she and I disagreed about the kid challenge weeks ago, I never held it against her – Tiffani was willing to voice what others on her team clearly felt. While she could be tough on people, I never saw her criticize anyone else for sport or out of spite. She made enemies because she was brusque, opinionated, and unwilling to give an inch in her pursuit of the title of Top Chef. Would her toughness and determination have been denigrated in a man of similar talent? Do male chefs get criticized for being demanding and relentless? Is it possible that our distaste for competitive women keeps them out of leadership roles? Or that our preference for easygoing women over strong, outspoken ones clouds our judgment of their talent? It's worth thinking about.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
GOOD MORNING!
This morning, while I hoisted my consciousness out of a hazy, NPR-influenced dream state, I became vaguely aware that my feline companion was being far more active than usual. She does have a habit, in the morning, of milling about my room, jumping over my sleeping body, and meowing loudly in my ears. Like, HELLO ENOUGH SLEEPING IT IS TIME TO FEEEEEED ME! This is annoying. Lucky for her I am not cold-hearted enough to fulfill my fantasies of picking her up and throwing her across the room at that point. Plus, she's pretty cute. I'm a sucker that way. But, seriously. Chekkit:
So, right. Back to the point. This morning, she was tearing around the house, howling, pouncing, leaping, and otherwise scrabbling in a furry flurry of activity. I pried my eyes open and looked over the edge of the matress, where the cat had come to a stop. She was eyeing me with, I swear, a glint of pride. Between her paws was a little mouse. She meowed. She pawed lightly at the mouse. She gave me pride eyes.
This isn't unusual. Or, rather, it isn't unusual for her to be meowing proudly over one of these:
A nice little faux mouse, made of fur that I'd rather not think about, with little pink felt ears and strips of leather for a tail. Usually, the cat immediately eats the tail.
So, it's not unusual for the cat to be pawing at a little wet chunk of matted fur with little felt pink ears. That rattles.
What is unusual, which I realized as I forced my eyes to focus, is to see the cat purring over the conquest of a. real. live. (formerly) mouse. Fully articulated. With little tiny paws sporting little tiny claws and fur he grew himself. Tiny, perfectly formed whiskers poking out from his little snout. A little frowny gaping mouse mouth with tiny little razor sharp teeth. A rodent tail. A for real, long, slightly reptilian RODENT TAIL.
Good FUCKING morning!
The cat was still kind of batting around the dead body and leaning down to playfully bite it.
I got out of bed and ignored the situation. Cannot. Deal. I took a shower. I put on moisturizer. I made. coffee.
Then I came back with a paper towel, encouraged and praised the cat (a dead mouse is better than a live one). And got rid of it.
But I can't get rid of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGRRRAHHHCKKK thing that possesses us city girls when we get a little too much nature.
There ain't enough paper towels for that.
So, right. Back to the point. This morning, she was tearing around the house, howling, pouncing, leaping, and otherwise scrabbling in a furry flurry of activity. I pried my eyes open and looked over the edge of the matress, where the cat had come to a stop. She was eyeing me with, I swear, a glint of pride. Between her paws was a little mouse. She meowed. She pawed lightly at the mouse. She gave me pride eyes.
This isn't unusual. Or, rather, it isn't unusual for her to be meowing proudly over one of these:
A nice little faux mouse, made of fur that I'd rather not think about, with little pink felt ears and strips of leather for a tail. Usually, the cat immediately eats the tail.
So, it's not unusual for the cat to be pawing at a little wet chunk of matted fur with little felt pink ears. That rattles.
What is unusual, which I realized as I forced my eyes to focus, is to see the cat purring over the conquest of a. real. live. (formerly) mouse. Fully articulated. With little tiny paws sporting little tiny claws and fur he grew himself. Tiny, perfectly formed whiskers poking out from his little snout. A little frowny gaping mouse mouth with tiny little razor sharp teeth. A rodent tail. A for real, long, slightly reptilian RODENT TAIL.
Good FUCKING morning!
"Hey, Yo, What's up? I'm a real mouse!"
The cat was still kind of batting around the dead body and leaning down to playfully bite it.
I got out of bed and ignored the situation. Cannot. Deal. I took a shower. I put on moisturizer. I made. coffee.
Then I came back with a paper towel, encouraged and praised the cat (a dead mouse is better than a live one). And got rid of it.
But I can't get rid of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGRRRAHHHCKKK thing that possesses us city girls when we get a little too much nature.
There ain't enough paper towels for that.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Sunday, April 30, 2006
I'm a simple man with a simple mind
Stephen Colbert was the keynote speaker at the White House Press Corps dinner -- so brilliant. Both to watch and as a political move on the Bush front. Brave.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Dads
Casey and I love to exchange random emails our dads send us.
But this is pretty damn awesome:
But this is pretty damn awesome:
I can’t decide what I love more—that my dad was bored enough to click on the Vows section, or that lurking somewhere deep inside my financial planner/marathon running/salad for dinner/wash the car every Saturday whether it needs it or not father is a snarky girl.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Adventures in Kidspotting
Last night, I went to this party.
I had pretty high hopes. If you click on the thing that says "click here for flash evite," you will understand why.
I was psyched at the opportunity to go to a party where a smoky-eyed Chloe Sevigny would fly around in sexy poses, showing off her nipples through flimsy flesh-colored clothing.
That's fucking cool.
Plus, free champagne.
Plus, they were spreading rumors that Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn were going to be in attendance. AND John Cusac. In Chicago, we are serious about our celebrity sightings. (Did I mention I had visions in my head of a flying Chloe?)
Doors didn't open until 9, on a school night, so Fauxnica and I gathered up my Melrose boyfriends and started a nice base drunk -- we ate mexican food and drank Mexican drinks and somehow the waiter sensed that it was Fauxnica's birthday, so he and his colleagues brought over a sugary confection with a candle in it and seranaded her.
It wasn't her birthday, and no one said it was, so we're not sure where this came from but we clapped along and devoured the cake anyway. We took it as a good sign and ordered another round of drinks. Jason discussed the merits of his fabulous new shoes, we grilled Fauxnica on her past, and generally had a good time.
Then, we went and met Ellen at the bar.
Fauxnica? She's from Long Island. NORTH SHORE. (Her emphasis. What the fuck does my hoosier ass know about that?) She's East Coast snotty with a healthy dollop of I-lived-in-San-Francisco-bitches on the side. I sense that she generally smiles upon the Chicago experience as "Sweet." The way your retarded neighbor is sweet. Like, the metropolitan area is fully well-meaning and has its bright spots but can be completely mortifying at times.
Like this time.
Me? I think Chicago is fabulous. I've pontificated about this endlessly. It's urban and dense and layered, complex -- insert wine metaphor here. But I'm gonna have to agree, it can be completely mortifying at times.
We first waited outside some velvet ropes with about four other people while a tall woman alternated between studying her clipboard, ignoring people, and shooting condescending glares all around. A couple of girls in black dresses with too many highlights vogued with cell phones and yelled things like, "We're with the W! The W HOTEL!" There was a guy with crutches and his buddy in a football jersey. That's it. Four other people. And then this staff making a show of "crowd control."
We just looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Fauxinca said, "Are we really here?" But Ellen was inside, and we had to go through with it.
Finally the Woman found Christine's name and turned around and notified a man in a Miami Vice outfit (Is that look coming back, BTW? WTF?). He came over, gazed at us for a bit, then finally opened up the rope to let us through.
The place was sprinkled with guys in suits (to which Fauxinca kept repeating, "WHAT'S WITH THE SUITS? WHY ALL THE SUITS! I DON'T UNDERSTAND!") and chicks with midriff tops and exposed thongs. (Exposed thongs? Ew.)
We missed the free toast, but I bought a couple of wildly overpriced drinks and we grabbed a table next to a bunch of chicks in overdone hairdos and cut-up tshirts that said "POLEKATZ" across their boobs -- with some glowy cat eyes on top. They were vamping and striking poses with slobbering dudes taking pictures with their cell phones. We watched this for awhile until Ellen grabbed one of the girls.
E: What's polekatz?
Polekat: It's a gentleman's club!
E: It's a strip bar?
P: No, it's not a strip bar! It's a strip club! Totally different!
E: Do they treat you well!
P: TOTALLY! You should come!
UPDATE: Ellen informs me that the actual exchange went thusly:
E: It's a strip club?
P: No, it's a strip PUB!
Apparently, a strip pub? It's a totally different thing. Like, maybe they serve Guiness and have pictures of dogs playing poker on the walls and such. I'm not sure exactly what the distinction is, but it is TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM A STRIP CLUB, okay? Thanks.
The Polekat gave us a handful of cards, complete with free admission. To the strip bar. I mean, to the strip club. Check it out for yourself. Total class. Fauxinca kept making me snort by pulling her thong out and putting it on top of her skirt and saying, "is this hott?"
Then Chloe came in. Fauxinca and Ellen spotted a camera and soon the crowd was pressing in to see the diva herself, Miss Sevigny. She swept over to the pre-designated photograph area and fulfilled her five-minute appearance obligation by standing with her hands on her hips looking. very. seriously. at the dudes taking her picture. Chloe looked way blonder than seemed possible. Her hair was stick straight and blonde and glowing, making my eyes squint.
Then she strutted off, presumably into the VIP room upstairs. The party quieted down again, and the music pulsed emptily at the handful of folks standing around and staring at the strippers.
Ellen said, "Fuck this, I'm getting upstairs."
She disappeared. Then she came back, reporting on her finds.
Apparently, she had gone up to the bouncer and said, "OMG! I HAVE TO TALK TO THE DJ! IS HE UP THERE?" and the guy let her by. Stellar security.
As it turns out, the party upstairs was hoppin'.
This is when we had one of our head-shaking moments at my poor city. Because? Really? The VIP area has ten times more people than the main party? So sad.
So Ellen gathered us up and we started walking up stairs.
At this point, Mr. Bouncer Man decided that he had better put his foot down, as he didn't want to ruin the EXCLUSIVITY OF THE VIP ROOM.
"No, you can't take all yer friends."
He stuck out his hand and literally blocked us from the stairs.
Ellen turned on her cute charm, giving him the aw-shucks-what-do-you-mean tone and flashing her dimples at him in an attempt to hypnotize him. But her bold, cheerful approach with undertones of subtle sexual content was not intoxicating him.
So Fauxinca stepped up. Did I mention she's a New Yorker? She turned on her cold indignation with notes of I-will-get-your-ass-fired and said, "Does it help that we're with the company that puts this event on?"
Mr. Bouncer Man: You're with the press? Let's see your credentials.
Fauxinca: We're not MEDIA (read this in a tone that would definitely cause shrinkage). We're with the COMPANY that EMPLOYS you.
Mr. Bouncer Man takes a moment to contemplate this. You can clearly read the internal conflict -- do I maintain my self-importance and risk my job, or do I just let them go up?
He let us go up. Of course. With the rest of the goddamn party. If you want to know what it was like, just observe the photographs here of women in too much makeup and not enough brains. Leering about and trying to hard and, yet, somehow? Completly devoid of cool or hip. But completely immune to their own lameness. So goddamn depressing.
We watched a woman who should never have been wearing a tube top, ever, ever, ever, not to mention a WHITE tube top -- roll about on a couch in between to men (IN SUITS! WHY THE SUITS?) and we dismissed the whole thing as clearly not worth our time.
I could just hear poor Ms. Sevigny now, calling her publicist and saying -- don't ever send me to this soulless godforesaken city again.
And that makes me so disappointed. Because, for real? My city is awesome.
That was one shitty party.
I had pretty high hopes. If you click on the thing that says "click here for flash evite," you will understand why.
I was psyched at the opportunity to go to a party where a smoky-eyed Chloe Sevigny would fly around in sexy poses, showing off her nipples through flimsy flesh-colored clothing.
That's fucking cool.
Plus, free champagne.
Plus, they were spreading rumors that Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn were going to be in attendance. AND John Cusac. In Chicago, we are serious about our celebrity sightings. (Did I mention I had visions in my head of a flying Chloe?)
Doors didn't open until 9, on a school night, so Fauxnica and I gathered up my Melrose boyfriends and started a nice base drunk -- we ate mexican food and drank Mexican drinks and somehow the waiter sensed that it was Fauxnica's birthday, so he and his colleagues brought over a sugary confection with a candle in it and seranaded her.
It wasn't her birthday, and no one said it was, so we're not sure where this came from but we clapped along and devoured the cake anyway. We took it as a good sign and ordered another round of drinks. Jason discussed the merits of his fabulous new shoes, we grilled Fauxnica on her past, and generally had a good time.
Then, we went and met Ellen at the bar.
Fauxnica? She's from Long Island. NORTH SHORE. (Her emphasis. What the fuck does my hoosier ass know about that?) She's East Coast snotty with a healthy dollop of I-lived-in-San-Francisco-bitches on the side. I sense that she generally smiles upon the Chicago experience as "Sweet." The way your retarded neighbor is sweet. Like, the metropolitan area is fully well-meaning and has its bright spots but can be completely mortifying at times.
Like this time.
Me? I think Chicago is fabulous. I've pontificated about this endlessly. It's urban and dense and layered, complex -- insert wine metaphor here. But I'm gonna have to agree, it can be completely mortifying at times.
We first waited outside some velvet ropes with about four other people while a tall woman alternated between studying her clipboard, ignoring people, and shooting condescending glares all around. A couple of girls in black dresses with too many highlights vogued with cell phones and yelled things like, "We're with the W! The W HOTEL!" There was a guy with crutches and his buddy in a football jersey. That's it. Four other people. And then this staff making a show of "crowd control."
We just looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Fauxinca said, "Are we really here?" But Ellen was inside, and we had to go through with it.
Finally the Woman found Christine's name and turned around and notified a man in a Miami Vice outfit (Is that look coming back, BTW? WTF?). He came over, gazed at us for a bit, then finally opened up the rope to let us through.
The place was sprinkled with guys in suits (to which Fauxinca kept repeating, "WHAT'S WITH THE SUITS? WHY ALL THE SUITS! I DON'T UNDERSTAND!") and chicks with midriff tops and exposed thongs. (Exposed thongs? Ew.)
We missed the free toast, but I bought a couple of wildly overpriced drinks and we grabbed a table next to a bunch of chicks in overdone hairdos and cut-up tshirts that said "POLEKATZ" across their boobs -- with some glowy cat eyes on top. They were vamping and striking poses with slobbering dudes taking pictures with their cell phones. We watched this for awhile until Ellen grabbed one of the girls.
E: What's polekatz?
Polekat: It's a gentleman's club!
E: It's a strip bar?
P: No, it's not a strip bar! It's a strip club! Totally different!
E: Do they treat you well!
P: TOTALLY! You should come!
UPDATE: Ellen informs me that the actual exchange went thusly:
E: It's a strip club?
P: No, it's a strip PUB!
Apparently, a strip pub? It's a totally different thing. Like, maybe they serve Guiness and have pictures of dogs playing poker on the walls and such. I'm not sure exactly what the distinction is, but it is TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM A STRIP CLUB, okay? Thanks.
The Polekat gave us a handful of cards, complete with free admission. To the strip bar. I mean, to the strip club. Check it out for yourself. Total class. Fauxinca kept making me snort by pulling her thong out and putting it on top of her skirt and saying, "is this hott?"
Then Chloe came in. Fauxinca and Ellen spotted a camera and soon the crowd was pressing in to see the diva herself, Miss Sevigny. She swept over to the pre-designated photograph area and fulfilled her five-minute appearance obligation by standing with her hands on her hips looking. very. seriously. at the dudes taking her picture. Chloe looked way blonder than seemed possible. Her hair was stick straight and blonde and glowing, making my eyes squint.
Then she strutted off, presumably into the VIP room upstairs. The party quieted down again, and the music pulsed emptily at the handful of folks standing around and staring at the strippers.
Ellen said, "Fuck this, I'm getting upstairs."
She disappeared. Then she came back, reporting on her finds.
Apparently, she had gone up to the bouncer and said, "OMG! I HAVE TO TALK TO THE DJ! IS HE UP THERE?" and the guy let her by. Stellar security.
As it turns out, the party upstairs was hoppin'.
This is when we had one of our head-shaking moments at my poor city. Because? Really? The VIP area has ten times more people than the main party? So sad.
So Ellen gathered us up and we started walking up stairs.
At this point, Mr. Bouncer Man decided that he had better put his foot down, as he didn't want to ruin the EXCLUSIVITY OF THE VIP ROOM.
"No, you can't take all yer friends."
He stuck out his hand and literally blocked us from the stairs.
Ellen turned on her cute charm, giving him the aw-shucks-what-do-you-mean tone and flashing her dimples at him in an attempt to hypnotize him. But her bold, cheerful approach with undertones of subtle sexual content was not intoxicating him.
So Fauxinca stepped up. Did I mention she's a New Yorker? She turned on her cold indignation with notes of I-will-get-your-ass-fired and said, "Does it help that we're with the company that puts this event on?"
Mr. Bouncer Man: You're with the press? Let's see your credentials.
Fauxinca: We're not MEDIA (read this in a tone that would definitely cause shrinkage). We're with the COMPANY that EMPLOYS you.
Mr. Bouncer Man takes a moment to contemplate this. You can clearly read the internal conflict -- do I maintain my self-importance and risk my job, or do I just let them go up?
He let us go up. Of course. With the rest of the goddamn party. If you want to know what it was like, just observe the photographs here of women in too much makeup and not enough brains. Leering about and trying to hard and, yet, somehow? Completly devoid of cool or hip. But completely immune to their own lameness. So goddamn depressing.
We watched a woman who should never have been wearing a tube top, ever, ever, ever, not to mention a WHITE tube top -- roll about on a couch in between to men (IN SUITS! WHY THE SUITS?) and we dismissed the whole thing as clearly not worth our time.
I could just hear poor Ms. Sevigny now, calling her publicist and saying -- don't ever send me to this soulless godforesaken city again.
And that makes me so disappointed. Because, for real? My city is awesome.
That was one shitty party.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
There's a Special Place in Hell for Me
But this is what I think EVERY TIME I WATCH TOP CHEF -- and if I had someone to watch it with I wouldn't have to put this on the internet.
IS TO
AS
IS TO
IS TO
AS
IS TO
Fauxnica is gonna kick my ass
Work-related, because we think we're funny (you may disagree. that is your right.) Me harassing Fauxnica while she's on the phone. (I really wanted to write 'fauxn' there, but, it's really a phone, not a fake phone, and I have to make sure that my overuse of "faux" is not ABUSE of "faux.")
Fauxnica: we're talking about how to get George Cloonet
Fauxnica: clooney
Fauxnica: he *redacted client info*
RJ: why don't you ask gawker stalker
Fauxnica: nice
Fauxnica: he's such a big fan of them
RJ: exactly
RJ: you're like, well, consult the google maps, then descend upon him on the street and throw the award at him
RJ: make sure you have a photographer with you
RJ: just get a random paparazzi
RJ: yell
RJ: RENEGADE!
RJ: and then his bodygaurd will probably kick your ass
RJ: but only because he THOUGHT you said GRENADE
RJ: then you threw sometyhing
Fauxnica: STOP
Fauxnica: i'm shaking
RJ: and George is such a big fan of the environment
Fauxnica: i just snickered
RJ: that he was worried about what would happen to the EARTH if the GRENADE went off
RJ: he doesn't really worry about himself
RJ: that's just how he is
RJ: I know your sniffling and coughing is just a way to get me to relent
Fauxnica: we're talking about how to get George Cloonet
Fauxnica: clooney
Fauxnica: he *redacted client info*
RJ: why don't you ask gawker stalker
Fauxnica: nice
Fauxnica: he's such a big fan of them
RJ: exactly
RJ: you're like, well, consult the google maps, then descend upon him on the street and throw the award at him
RJ: make sure you have a photographer with you
RJ: just get a random paparazzi
RJ: yell
RJ: RENEGADE!
RJ: and then his bodygaurd will probably kick your ass
RJ: but only because he THOUGHT you said GRENADE
RJ: then you threw sometyhing
Fauxnica: STOP
Fauxnica: i'm shaking
RJ: and George is such a big fan of the environment
Fauxnica: i just snickered
RJ: that he was worried about what would happen to the EARTH if the GRENADE went off
RJ: he doesn't really worry about himself
RJ: that's just how he is
RJ: I know your sniffling and coughing is just a way to get me to relent
My Morning Soundtrack.
This morning's soundtrack -- My Morning Jacket, Z.
If I was a real "blogger" I would know how to post an MP3 or something. Unfortunately, I'm not, so you'll just have to go out and get the goddamn CD like everyone else.
Anyhow, this is a brilliant commute soundtrack, full of fabulous soaring anthems with just enough bizarre lyrical mentions to avoid the cheese factor. Gideon? Perfect for striding through tunnels and emerging into the sunlight, surrounded by crowds, imaginging that somehow, you are the one being singled out for the camera, expression intense behind your shades, people around you taking no notice as you belt out the chorus -- well, that would be if you were actually in a music video, not imagining you are in one.
In my case, the couple on the train did notice as I suddenly belted out the chorus.
And then quickly brought my coffee to my lips, like, um, I MEANT TO DO THAT. Then they started laughing uncontrollably. Luckily, my sound-isolating earphones prevented me from actually hearing their snickers.
Then My Morning Jacket launched into "off the record," which made me feel better, and I got off the train. There may be some irony here in the fact that I actually just put it ON the record, but, whatever.
Then, as I walked into the office, they whispered in my ear:
Right. That encapsulates the surrealist environment I work in -- celebutante and boyfriend being followed around by VH-1 cameras, squealing, screaming PR girls contrasting severely by the studious, serious, spreadsheet-loving research counterparts all housed together in one open-plan office, forever on the verge of a passive-agressive civil war. Then MMJ said, "I know it ain't easy, but you do what you can."
Agreed. Let's get to work.
If I was a real "blogger" I would know how to post an MP3 or something. Unfortunately, I'm not, so you'll just have to go out and get the goddamn CD like everyone else.
Anyhow, this is a brilliant commute soundtrack, full of fabulous soaring anthems with just enough bizarre lyrical mentions to avoid the cheese factor. Gideon? Perfect for striding through tunnels and emerging into the sunlight, surrounded by crowds, imaginging that somehow, you are the one being singled out for the camera, expression intense behind your shades, people around you taking no notice as you belt out the chorus -- well, that would be if you were actually in a music video, not imagining you are in one.
In my case, the couple on the train did notice as I suddenly belted out the chorus.
And then quickly brought my coffee to my lips, like, um, I MEANT TO DO THAT. Then they started laughing uncontrollably. Luckily, my sound-isolating earphones prevented me from actually hearing their snickers.
Then My Morning Jacket launched into "off the record," which made me feel better, and I got off the train. There may be some irony here in the fact that I actually just put it ON the record, but, whatever.
Then, as I walked into the office, they whispered in my ear:
a kitten on fire, a baby in a blender, both sound as sweet as a night of surrender.
Right. That encapsulates the surrealist environment I work in -- celebutante and boyfriend being followed around by VH-1 cameras, squealing, screaming PR girls contrasting severely by the studious, serious, spreadsheet-loving research counterparts all housed together in one open-plan office, forever on the verge of a passive-agressive civil war. Then MMJ said, "I know it ain't easy, but you do what you can."
Agreed. Let's get to work.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Dear People's Energy
Are you fucking kidding me?
$178 for a month's worth of heat in a two bedroom home?
You suck.
$178 for a month's worth of heat in a two bedroom home?
You suck.
Poets
I'm writing in a coffeeshop. There's a man in front of me, an overgrown hipster with a grey fauxhawk and a general air of british thuggery about him.
Next to me, there are a pair of older women discussing the elusive call of poetry --
"I suppose I could write poetry, but I don't have the inspiration."
"I'm not a writer in my deepest of heart, I'm not compelled to do it, but I want to express the feelings of pain and sorrow and regret, how universal, you know, to capture these things that everyone feels, but express it in a new way."
"I have some books you can read."
"That sounds like too much work."
"Yeah."
They're overgrown goths. Awesome.
Next to me, there are a pair of older women discussing the elusive call of poetry --
"I suppose I could write poetry, but I don't have the inspiration."
"I'm not a writer in my deepest of heart, I'm not compelled to do it, but I want to express the feelings of pain and sorrow and regret, how universal, you know, to capture these things that everyone feels, but express it in a new way."
"I have some books you can read."
"That sounds like too much work."
"Yeah."
They're overgrown goths. Awesome.
Monday, April 24, 2006
More MySpace Studies
MySpace, bastion of overused phrases, overwrought teens, and inexcusable abuses of the english language. And goths as far as the eye can see.
Goths tend to screw up the internet by filling its limitless pages with poems describing how dark they are. Doesn’t the makeup smear when you cry? How do you sneak up on/strangle small animals with all those chains?
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Effective. But Rude, I think.
Subtly suck you in and then hit you upside the head? Formula seems sound.
I'm completely fascinated by these ads. Also, I'm doing my best to create a nice ROI for the ad agency by proliferating them as part of the "VIRAL COMPONENT" of the overall campaign. But, you know, fuck that. What do you think?
I'm completely fascinated by these ads. Also, I'm doing my best to create a nice ROI for the ad agency by proliferating them as part of the "VIRAL COMPONENT" of the overall campaign. But, you know, fuck that. What do you think?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Piss Poor/Poor Piss
You know how, sometimes, if you're working very hard, all absorbed in what you're doing, you may, on ocassion, neglect to pay attention to your body's signals? And, all of a sudden, you're squirming and twitching and bouncing up and down on your chair thinking, WHY AM I SO ANXIOUS ALL OF A SUDDEN? WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT -- Oh, right, I have to pee.
So, finally, you get your ass up and go into the bathroom and you have to pee so very urgently you barely have time to close the stall on the bathroom door before you have your pants down and AHHHHHH
And sometimes you pee super hard because there is so much urine in your bladder, and certain industrial toilets have a strange slant to them, and suddenly you might just accidentally have a spray of piss flying out of the bowl between your legs like some sick garden sprinkler?
Well.
Uh, Yeah.
So, I guess that doesn't happen to you, huh?
Well, um, nevermind.
Damn, I shouldn't have told you that, huh?
I was just kidding!
God, you take everything so seriously.
So, finally, you get your ass up and go into the bathroom and you have to pee so very urgently you barely have time to close the stall on the bathroom door before you have your pants down and AHHHHHH
And sometimes you pee super hard because there is so much urine in your bladder, and certain industrial toilets have a strange slant to them, and suddenly you might just accidentally have a spray of piss flying out of the bowl between your legs like some sick garden sprinkler?
Well.
Uh, Yeah.
So, I guess that doesn't happen to you, huh?
Well, um, nevermind.
Damn, I shouldn't have told you that, huh?
I was just kidding!
God, you take everything so seriously.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
I totally cannot stop myself
So, I said I wouldn't post about work, but. . . this is harmless. So, the girl I wrote about earlier, the Fauxnica Lewinski?
Well, she has this positively charming reaction to laughter -- she immediately starts tearing up. The more you make her laugh, the more she cries. I totally love this. Where she sits in the office -- I can't see her, but I can hear her. She attempts to be very professional as I assault her with IMs. I'm very bad news that way. So she laughs silently, making her cry silently. She mostly just cries, snorts a little, and snots a little as we IM.
I know, if I hear her blow her nose and breathe in a ragged way -- then I've achieved my goal.
So, this exchange just made me blow my wad (ew, did I type that?) and laugh VERY LOUD. In a QUIET ROOM.
RJ: I just heard someone over there talking about "Watching out for the short and curlies."
fauxnica: STOP
RJ: not kidding
RJ: completely serious
fauxnica: wait what
fauxnica: is he talking about me
fauxnica: that' s my secret service name
Get it? Because she's diminutive and has curly hair?
Shut up. It's funny.
Well, she has this positively charming reaction to laughter -- she immediately starts tearing up. The more you make her laugh, the more she cries. I totally love this. Where she sits in the office -- I can't see her, but I can hear her. She attempts to be very professional as I assault her with IMs. I'm very bad news that way. So she laughs silently, making her cry silently. She mostly just cries, snorts a little, and snots a little as we IM.
I know, if I hear her blow her nose and breathe in a ragged way -- then I've achieved my goal.
So, this exchange just made me blow my wad (ew, did I type that?) and laugh VERY LOUD. In a QUIET ROOM.
RJ: I just heard someone over there talking about "Watching out for the short and curlies."
fauxnica: STOP
RJ: not kidding
RJ: completely serious
fauxnica: wait what
fauxnica: is he talking about me
fauxnica: that' s my secret service name
Get it? Because she's diminutive and has curly hair?
Shut up. It's funny.
strugglin'
I've wanted to write about things, lately, that, frankly, are (GODDAMNIT) inappropriate for the blog.
Like, for example, about the d-lister/celebutante's VH-1 show, which has been (I shit you not) taping in the office. I've been having to write about it separately, and not post it, because I don't want to get my ass in trouble. (or, God forbid, fired again.)
But there are some RICH snippets of conversation. Including the boyfriend, on camera, looking over to me at my desk nearby and shouting out:
"RJ, is it MALDEEEEEEVES OR MALDIIIIVES?"
Um, stop talking to me.
Then, you know, DeeP --- stupid therapy is all serious and shit. Plus, DeeP totally read my blog.
I called him out on it. I knew. I know things.
When I said, DID YOU READ MY BLOG?
He said, "What? Whatever do you mean?"
Then he 'fessed up.
Then we had to have an indepth conversation about what it MEANS that he read my blog and then what it MEANS that he didn't tell me about it and oh, yes, is he allowed to read my blog in the future?
One of those times when therapy is like stabbing yourself in the thigh with a fork.
So, he's not going to read it, and I must say I'm no longer that interested in writing about him, and then I have to self-analyze (stab, stab, stab) what does that mean?
Stupid therapy.
Then I read Luc's latest stuff, and I'm thinking, Geeze, you tormented, alcohol-soaked, brooding genius, you're making me look bad. Fucker.
But you should read it. It's bone-shaking stuff.
Like, for example, about the d-lister/celebutante's VH-1 show, which has been (I shit you not) taping in the office. I've been having to write about it separately, and not post it, because I don't want to get my ass in trouble. (or, God forbid, fired again.)
But there are some RICH snippets of conversation. Including the boyfriend, on camera, looking over to me at my desk nearby and shouting out:
"RJ, is it MALDEEEEEEVES OR MALDIIIIVES?"
Um, stop talking to me.
Then, you know, DeeP --- stupid therapy is all serious and shit. Plus, DeeP totally read my blog.
I called him out on it. I knew. I know things.
When I said, DID YOU READ MY BLOG?
He said, "What? Whatever do you mean?"
Then he 'fessed up.
Then we had to have an indepth conversation about what it MEANS that he read my blog and then what it MEANS that he didn't tell me about it and oh, yes, is he allowed to read my blog in the future?
One of those times when therapy is like stabbing yourself in the thigh with a fork.
So, he's not going to read it, and I must say I'm no longer that interested in writing about him, and then I have to self-analyze (stab, stab, stab) what does that mean?
Stupid therapy.
Then I read Luc's latest stuff, and I'm thinking, Geeze, you tormented, alcohol-soaked, brooding genius, you're making me look bad. Fucker.
But you should read it. It's bone-shaking stuff.
We walked in and found him in his section. Power Tools. He was leaning against a shelf holding four different radial saws. Looking at the floor. Tennis shoes swollen with sore ankles and flat feet. Fallen arches.
“Hey, dad.”
“Hey, buddy.”
He was exhausted. He looked at me with blue eyes. My blue eyes. I always thought his were green. Or hazel. I thought the tears would hit me…like a summertime Bronx fire hydrant. Like the shitty Santana music video. Rob Matchbox singing about the half naked girls who were dancing in the streams of my father’s tears. I could kill him for it. Rob, not my father. I kept my camera in my pocket.
Walking out, I looked at the floor. I looked at his coworkers and tried to convey, with my eyes, that if they ever made fun of my father then I would kill them. Actually kill them.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Reverend Billy Graham and Hoggle
Not exactly separated at birth, but clearly related.
(Hoggle, I know, is a geek reference. But so cool when I was in sixth grade.)
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
You People Are SPOILED
I slack off for one day and everyone's all, "Why don't you update, bitch?"
At least I didn't do something insipid, like post my five favorite snack foods. Honestly, that's probably just because I have such a hard time narrowing things down.
I am feeling a little sluggish and uninspired, and as if I just don't have my own stories to tell today. So, I'll tell someone else's stories!
So, I was talking to my friend, and she was telling me that she was a White House Intern during the Clinton years. Seriously. No, this isn't a joke. Anyhow, the secret service guys would give her a hard time because she apparently had more than a passing resemblance to Monica Lewinsky -- same haircut, few extra pounds -- definitely not as ditzy, though.
She had such a resemblance that people actually came up to her on the street and asked for her autograph. Although I have to say that anyone who would ask for Monica's autograph is clearly just not too bright, anyhow. Or else totally bored.
Well, toward the end of her internship, apparently the secret service arranged for her to have a private meeting with Mr. Clinton. She was totally awed, like, "wow, do they do this for all the interns?"
It quickly became apparent that this was actually just a joke between the president and his jokester secret service agents, as everyone, including Bill, was chuckling evilly. He said, "You must get a lot of jokes, huh?"
She, being the sassy, awesome bitch that she is, said, "Probably not as many as you."
TO THE PRESIDENT.
He cracked up, because he's totally cool like that.
See, good story, right?
But not mine. Cuz I am just feeling plain dope out of stories of my own. So -- send me a story! I'll publish it! On my AWESOME BLOG! Bleh.
At least I didn't do something insipid, like post my five favorite snack foods. Honestly, that's probably just because I have such a hard time narrowing things down.
I am feeling a little sluggish and uninspired, and as if I just don't have my own stories to tell today. So, I'll tell someone else's stories!
So, I was talking to my friend, and she was telling me that she was a White House Intern during the Clinton years. Seriously. No, this isn't a joke. Anyhow, the secret service guys would give her a hard time because she apparently had more than a passing resemblance to Monica Lewinsky -- same haircut, few extra pounds -- definitely not as ditzy, though.
She had such a resemblance that people actually came up to her on the street and asked for her autograph. Although I have to say that anyone who would ask for Monica's autograph is clearly just not too bright, anyhow. Or else totally bored.
Well, toward the end of her internship, apparently the secret service arranged for her to have a private meeting with Mr. Clinton. She was totally awed, like, "wow, do they do this for all the interns?"
It quickly became apparent that this was actually just a joke between the president and his jokester secret service agents, as everyone, including Bill, was chuckling evilly. He said, "You must get a lot of jokes, huh?"
She, being the sassy, awesome bitch that she is, said, "Probably not as many as you."
TO THE PRESIDENT.
He cracked up, because he's totally cool like that.
See, good story, right?
But not mine. Cuz I am just feeling plain dope out of stories of my own. So -- send me a story! I'll publish it! On my AWESOME BLOG! Bleh.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Puntabulous!
myspace, the final frontier
This is a really interesting article about the fall of Friendster and the Rise of Myspace.
However, it does not address the way that MySpace has turned a whole generation of twenty-somethings into eight graders. What? He didn't put me in his top eight! OMG!
Discuss.
MySpace let these groups run wild and these are the two populations who dominate MySpace - youth (14-24) and 20/30-somethings who participate actively in cultural development (from performance artists to clubgoers to sex divas to wannabee celebrities). These sites are ideal for these populations, even if they make no sense to parents and professionals.
However, it does not address the way that MySpace has turned a whole generation of twenty-somethings into eight graders. What? He didn't put me in his top eight! OMG!
Discuss.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Hormones: The liveblog edition.
Yes, I had a boss who made bitchy comments about my period.
Yes, I'm all feminist and insistent that comments like that are complete bullshit, inappropriate and unwarranted.
Yes, I believe that women should never be considered slaves to their hormones, the very idea that we cannot control ourselves in any given situation just because we are women is abhorrent.
Especially when I am totally PMSing, when EVERYTHING IS PISSING ME OFF.
If it isn't pissing me off, it's probably making me cry. Like, "that time of the month" for me means the time of the month when I will inexplicably decide to voluntarily view "Extreme Home Makeover." AND CRY. Well, also, when I'm not crying, be TOTALLY ANNOYED because it's so EFFING CHEESY and also a giant SEARS AD and PS, TY EFFING PENNINGTON, you're SUCH an ASS!
ALSO!
WHY is KERMIT THE EFFING FROG on the show? It's incomprehensible.
Omigod, now that Chase credit card ad is on about the couple who is getting married and having kids and ohmigod I might cry.
Okay, I'm annoyed again, now. WHY DOES TY WEAR A HEMP NECKLACE? Dear Ty:
- are you currently attending college and living in a frat house?
- are you seventeen and a pothead?
- are you on spring break in daytona?
If you anser "no" to the above questions, it is TIME TO REMOVE THE HEMP NECKLACE!
That goes for anyone else who is reading this right now, too. SO HELP ME if I see you in a hemp necklace!
OMIGOD now they're showing teens with some kind of encephaly that leaves them drooling in wheelchairs! They have parents who are grateful for the miracle of life! Okay, tissue time.
PS: This thread on Gawker is great. . .
Yes, I'm all feminist and insistent that comments like that are complete bullshit, inappropriate and unwarranted.
Yes, I believe that women should never be considered slaves to their hormones, the very idea that we cannot control ourselves in any given situation just because we are women is abhorrent.
Especially when I am totally PMSing, when EVERYTHING IS PISSING ME OFF.
If it isn't pissing me off, it's probably making me cry. Like, "that time of the month" for me means the time of the month when I will inexplicably decide to voluntarily view "Extreme Home Makeover." AND CRY. Well, also, when I'm not crying, be TOTALLY ANNOYED because it's so EFFING CHEESY and also a giant SEARS AD and PS, TY EFFING PENNINGTON, you're SUCH an ASS!
ALSO!
WHY is KERMIT THE EFFING FROG on the show? It's incomprehensible.
Omigod, now that Chase credit card ad is on about the couple who is getting married and having kids and ohmigod I might cry.
Okay, I'm annoyed again, now. WHY DOES TY WEAR A HEMP NECKLACE? Dear Ty:
- are you currently attending college and living in a frat house?
- are you seventeen and a pothead?
- are you on spring break in daytona?
If you anser "no" to the above questions, it is TIME TO REMOVE THE HEMP NECKLACE!
That goes for anyone else who is reading this right now, too. SO HELP ME if I see you in a hemp necklace!
OMIGOD now they're showing teens with some kind of encephaly that leaves them drooling in wheelchairs! They have parents who are grateful for the miracle of life! Okay, tissue time.
PS: This thread on Gawker is great. . .
Tonic Isnt always angry
I found this robotic photoset on flickr.
This one made me sad.
Robots are people, too.
This one made me sad.
Robots are people, too.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Apple Store!
We're in the Apple store! Some jam band is playing upstairs! European tourists are everywhere! I'm blogging! How cool am I? BLOGGING IN THE APPLE STORE!
Scatalogical Humor:
Overheard in Jimmy Johns, not ten minutes ago: "How stupid is he? He fell of the roof while he was trying to urinate!"
Overheard in front of McDonalds:
"Awwww, he done shit on the stool!
"In tha bathrooom?"
"yup."
Okay, got my power adapter! Now I can return to my normal at-home powerbook usage!
Scatalogical Humor:
Overheard in Jimmy Johns, not ten minutes ago: "How stupid is he? He fell of the roof while he was trying to urinate!"
Overheard in front of McDonalds:
"Awwww, he done shit on the stool!
"In tha bathrooom?"
"yup."
Okay, got my power adapter! Now I can return to my normal at-home powerbook usage!
Friday, April 07, 2006
Digits
I was looking up the number to my mani/pedi joint, and I came across this fabulous story. I wish I had six fingers on each hand. That would be awesome. But I would want my sixth finger to be a second thumb. Opposable on the other side or something, for maximum dexterity.
Also, check out the slideshow. For some reason, the last picture is of the boy offering something to a shrine? Like, Thanks for the extra fingers, but my feet look silly in thongs, Vishnu!
Also, I wonder if they would charge more for my mani/pedi. . . I'll have to ask the russian girl who does my toes.
Also, check out the slideshow. For some reason, the last picture is of the boy offering something to a shrine? Like, Thanks for the extra fingers, but my feet look silly in thongs, Vishnu!
Also, I wonder if they would charge more for my mani/pedi. . . I'll have to ask the russian girl who does my toes.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Life Before Weblogs, or, as they are more commonly known as, Blogs.
Oh, my, people.
So, when my mom moved, she did that thing moms do when you're, like, in your thirties and you've been using her attic to store crap you didn't feel like throwing away -- she put that shit in a box and made me deal with it.
I am, today, taking on the box of yearbooks, journals, etc. that she made me take home.
I found a lot of stuff, including an "underground newspaper" I published in high school. AKA -- a 'zine. But we were in Southern Indiana and it was, like, 1992, so, we called it Underground Newspaper. Actually, the thing was called "Circle Art." It was totally hott. I was the editor. We used PageMaker. And a computer. (But we did not have the Internet, back then.)
I found a couple of issues in the box, but I've yet gotten up the courage to look them over, as I am scared to face what an asshole I was at 18. But I did find something I forgot existed -- a REVIEW of our underground newspaper. I'll share that, here:
It's from a publication called "Transitions." I have no idea what this is. I cannot even remember it being published, but I did paste it into a scrapbook, so I must have been super pumped about it.
It must have been written by a fellow teen, y'all -- it doesn't have a full name. It just says, "By Wiley." Wiley is super dramatic.
The review
This is where Wiley gets super hardcore:
See? He's NOT weak of heart, FAINT OF IQ, or scared of FREE EXPRESSION. And, he's totally jaded about living in this podunk town. As soon as he can, he's breaking on out of here and heading to New York to develop his professional VOICE.
I think this means Wiley doesn't have a car.
We were super sophisticated. Not afraid to tackle the topic on everyone's mind, boning. Not afraid to use offensive pennames. Not afraid to write anonymously and then xerox the hell out of that thing. Our circulation reached all the way to the WEST SIDE, y'all.
How can we have both a 'good package' and a 'small size'?
Wrap your faint IQ around that, Wiley.
So, when my mom moved, she did that thing moms do when you're, like, in your thirties and you've been using her attic to store crap you didn't feel like throwing away -- she put that shit in a box and made me deal with it.
I am, today, taking on the box of yearbooks, journals, etc. that she made me take home.
I found a lot of stuff, including an "underground newspaper" I published in high school. AKA -- a 'zine. But we were in Southern Indiana and it was, like, 1992, so, we called it Underground Newspaper. Actually, the thing was called "Circle Art." It was totally hott. I was the editor. We used PageMaker. And a computer. (But we did not have the Internet, back then.)
I found a couple of issues in the box, but I've yet gotten up the courage to look them over, as I am scared to face what an asshole I was at 18. But I did find something I forgot existed -- a REVIEW of our underground newspaper. I'll share that, here:
It's from a publication called "Transitions." I have no idea what this is. I cannot even remember it being published, but I did paste it into a scrapbook, so I must have been super pumped about it.
It must have been written by a fellow teen, y'all -- it doesn't have a full name. It just says, "By Wiley." Wiley is super dramatic.
The review
Since this is my first writing opportunity for a "legitimate" publication, I've decided to share and review my favorite "not-quite-legitamate" publications, a format known as fanzines.
Fanzines, or as they are more commonly called, zines, are privately produced forms of literature which are primarily used as an uncensored channel for the author(s) beliefs. Personalized views of politics, society, arts and entertainment and humor are the ususal contents.
This is where Wiley gets super hardcore:
Zines are not for the weak of heart, nor the faint of IQ. They are often offensive and usually wittier than anything you'll reqad in Spin or Spy. Simply put, zines are the last form of truly free expression. Amazingly, we even have some in Evansville.
See? He's NOT weak of heart, FAINT OF IQ, or scared of FREE EXPRESSION. And, he's totally jaded about living in this podunk town. As soon as he can, he's breaking on out of here and heading to New York to develop his professional VOICE.
Circle Art originates from Castle High School in Newburgh and is thus difficult to come by all the way over here on the West Side.
I think this means Wiley doesn't have a car.
The writers, which are numerous, use offensive pen names to disguise themselves. This zine is produced via computer which gives it a very slick look -- uncommon to most zines which usually look like your third-grade collage. The issue I obtained was the Sex Issue. It was surprisingly informative while keeping an amusing outlook on the subject. Articles ranged from the myths of sex to protection.
We were super sophisticated. Not afraid to tackle the topic on everyone's mind, boning. Not afraid to use offensive pennames. Not afraid to write anonymously and then xerox the hell out of that thing. Our circulation reached all the way to the WEST SIDE, y'all.
Assets: Easy readability, good package, numerous writers that offer a wide range of viewpoints. Overall feel and attitude of zine is dead on.
Liabilities: Limited circulation and small size.
How can we have both a 'good package' and a 'small size'?
Wrap your faint IQ around that, Wiley.
Sarah, The Dinner With Wine
Sarah made me dinner last night! She doesn't do that too often, I think she thinks she isn't a great cook or she doesn't like to cook or whatever, but she is so totally wrong. So, total treat. Chad was uber sick but we made him run back and forth to the kitchen to, like, get us more wine and stuff. Like, Chad! We need more salt! You feeling okay? Cool. Please get us more wine! Snap snap!
I love Chad.
Anyway, at first we had many serious conversations about families and children and pending nuptuals and careers and Donk magazine.
But then we got a few glasses of Chad-fetched wine in us and hit the internet.
What happened was, we started mocking Myspace and making fun of Myspace users and then we had to go look at everyone's profiles and stalk people.
So, lots of people we know do not appear to be on Myspace. I think that's probably because we're, like, in our thirties.
So, we got tired of that and decided to use the Internet for more nostalgia-based persuits. Including looking up ABC afterschool specials on IMDB. So, so many actors are veterans of this fine series of educational dramas. Michelle Pfieffer and Val Kilmer, for example, starred in the compelling "One Too Many," a stark portrait of the dangers of drunk driving. Don't do it, kids. Prominent blogger and published author (not to mention, a key cast member in Star Trek: The Next Generation), Will Wheaton starred in "My Dad Can't Be Crazy. . . Can He?".
But the big drama that was an emotional lynchpin in our television-consuming childhood was the landmark cystic fibrosis film, "Alex, The Life Of A Child." Who could forget this poignant tale of an irepressable child with a terrible affliction? A child who loved root beer so much she begged her dad for it on her death bed. But her dad, Craig T. Nelson, was too late.
She never got her root beer.
When we looked up the film, we were shocked to find that the author of the book, the dad in question, was Frank DeFord! The lovable sports commentator on NPR! This is yet another way the Internet has changed the way I listen to NPR. Thanks, IMDB, for making all these connections so clear to us.
I love Chad.
Anyway, at first we had many serious conversations about families and children and pending nuptuals and careers and Donk magazine.
But then we got a few glasses of Chad-fetched wine in us and hit the internet.
What happened was, we started mocking Myspace and making fun of Myspace users and then we had to go look at everyone's profiles and stalk people.
So, lots of people we know do not appear to be on Myspace. I think that's probably because we're, like, in our thirties.
So, we got tired of that and decided to use the Internet for more nostalgia-based persuits. Including looking up ABC afterschool specials on IMDB. So, so many actors are veterans of this fine series of educational dramas. Michelle Pfieffer and Val Kilmer, for example, starred in the compelling "One Too Many," a stark portrait of the dangers of drunk driving. Don't do it, kids. Prominent blogger and published author (not to mention, a key cast member in Star Trek: The Next Generation), Will Wheaton starred in "My Dad Can't Be Crazy. . . Can He?".
But the big drama that was an emotional lynchpin in our television-consuming childhood was the landmark cystic fibrosis film, "Alex, The Life Of A Child." Who could forget this poignant tale of an irepressable child with a terrible affliction? A child who loved root beer so much she begged her dad for it on her death bed. But her dad, Craig T. Nelson, was too late.
She never got her root beer.
When we looked up the film, we were shocked to find that the author of the book, the dad in question, was Frank DeFord! The lovable sports commentator on NPR! This is yet another way the Internet has changed the way I listen to NPR. Thanks, IMDB, for making all these connections so clear to us.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Why I love this guy I'm working for
He just left a magazine called Donk Box & Bubble on my desk with a note that says "RJ - Thought you might like to see this new pub we're targeting for car wax. G"
I go over there and he says, "Yeah, I got my copy of Donk." Then shows me some pimped out cars on the center. "I love that Kelly Green Lincoln Town Car."
Totally.
I go over there and he says, "Yeah, I got my copy of Donk." Then shows me some pimped out cars on the center. "I love that Kelly Green Lincoln Town Car."
Totally.
Alert!
According to this important message just passed along to me from Sarah:
WHAT SHALL WE DO TO COMMEMORATE THIS MOMENT?
Maybe, post something? Gah.
On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00
in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.
That won't ever happen again.
You may now return to your (normal ?) life.
WHAT SHALL WE DO TO COMMEMORATE THIS MOMENT?
Maybe, post something? Gah.
More pimpy likker
Plus, a secret self-portrait. Taken at my mom's house, of one of her many fancy fancy decanters with fancy fancy pimp necklaces on. I think this one looks super badass. Like, DO NOT MESS WITH THE VODKA, BITCHES!
Dear SuperNanny
I love it when you say the words, "Naughty Spot."
I love it when you explain that a naughty spot can be outside or inside. It doesn't matter. The naughty spot is all in your head.
How do you know me so well, super nanny?
How?
Say "Naughty Spot" again. Say it. C'mon. For me.
I love it when you explain that a naughty spot can be outside or inside. It doesn't matter. The naughty spot is all in your head.
How do you know me so well, super nanny?
How?
Say "Naughty Spot" again. Say it. C'mon. For me.
Monday, April 03, 2006
More on the letters to Star Jones
Hi. You can see Christopher Monks read his letters to Star Jones, here. Susan and Ellen: I think I will not be bragging to say my live reading may have been better. For us, anyway, as it was punctuated by our hysterical laughter.
AND THIS
This is Cayden, my newest nephew. How cute is he? How sweet does his head smell? How tiny are his fingers? How fascinated is he by the ceiling fan?
He loves that fan.
He loves that fan.
GAH
I have to say the one thing I miss about southern Indiana is the climate -- spring is already seriously breaking out there.
It's still winterish in Chicago.
It's still winterish in Chicago.
Recappage
This weekend in the 'ville was pretty interesting -- my sis and I helped our mom move into lovely new digs. We declared that a floorplan that combines living area and kitchen is the space of the future -- that way you can lounge around and be social on the couch while someone cooks. I prefer this to sitting in hard wooden kitchen chairs. I am lazy that way.
I got my sister to tell me tons of fascinating details about her life in New Mexico and her exotic career. I'm not kidding. I really do think being a fourth grade teacher is a super exotic career. It's so intense -- taking care of these kids all day, standing, instructing, being held accountable by ten-year-olds. Seriously, I have a hard time wrapping my citified, wine-soaked, witicism-writing brain around it. You can't bullshit a ten-year-old the way you can a marketing client. She's out there on her own, too. Anyhow, she's way into it. If I had a kid I would fully want her to educate it. (Especially if she could teach my kid about robots and rock and roll!)
My dad and Sally poured us endless glasses of wine and fawned over the dog. Dad told Rachel and I that he has decided that the world just needs to be turned into a plutocracy with a single leader -- him.
Me: Dad, do you really think you're qualified to be the leader of the world?
Dad: Yes.
Me: No, I don't think you're qualified.
Dad: Why not?? I talked to your mother about it. We could be the ruling family.
Me: Oh, in that case. . .
Dad: Don't you want to be the royal daughter?
Me: Well, if you were ruling the world, I guess I would want to be the daughter, because then I'd get more priviledges. But overall, it seems like a hassle. Opening yourself up to all these bloody coups and such.
Dad: SOMEONE needs to do it.
I got my sister to tell me tons of fascinating details about her life in New Mexico and her exotic career. I'm not kidding. I really do think being a fourth grade teacher is a super exotic career. It's so intense -- taking care of these kids all day, standing, instructing, being held accountable by ten-year-olds. Seriously, I have a hard time wrapping my citified, wine-soaked, witicism-writing brain around it. You can't bullshit a ten-year-old the way you can a marketing client. She's out there on her own, too. Anyhow, she's way into it. If I had a kid I would fully want her to educate it. (Especially if she could teach my kid about robots and rock and roll!)
My dad and Sally poured us endless glasses of wine and fawned over the dog. Dad told Rachel and I that he has decided that the world just needs to be turned into a plutocracy with a single leader -- him.
Me: Dad, do you really think you're qualified to be the leader of the world?
Dad: Yes.
Me: No, I don't think you're qualified.
Dad: Why not?? I talked to your mother about it. We could be the ruling family.
Me: Oh, in that case. . .
Dad: Don't you want to be the royal daughter?
Me: Well, if you were ruling the world, I guess I would want to be the daughter, because then I'd get more priviledges. But overall, it seems like a hassle. Opening yourself up to all these bloody coups and such.
Dad: SOMEONE needs to do it.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
snippets - overheard in southern indiana
At Buehler's Buy Low:
teen cashier: So, didn't someplace in town get caught servin' dog?
teen bagger: Naw! D'uh! It wasn't dog! It was cat!
teen cashier: Right! Didn't someplace get caught?
teen Bagger: Yah, that was Mr. Wu's. They got caught servin' cat and then they had to shut down. They're closed, now.
teen Cashier: right, that's right.
On my dad's giant sectional sofa:
Sally: I'm missing my show! My show!
Me: What show?
Dad: The Dog Whisperer. Don't worry, Sally, it's a rerun.
Sally: I love that show! How do you know it's a rerun?
Dad: I don't. But that show is so stupid. It's always the same, anyway, they put a rabbit in front of the dog, they tell the dog to stay, blah blah blah.
teen cashier: So, didn't someplace in town get caught servin' dog?
teen bagger: Naw! D'uh! It wasn't dog! It was cat!
teen cashier: Right! Didn't someplace get caught?
teen Bagger: Yah, that was Mr. Wu's. They got caught servin' cat and then they had to shut down. They're closed, now.
teen Cashier: right, that's right.
On my dad's giant sectional sofa:
Sally: I'm missing my show! My show!
Me: What show?
Dad: The Dog Whisperer. Don't worry, Sally, it's a rerun.
Sally: I love that show! How do you know it's a rerun?
Dad: I don't. But that show is so stupid. It's always the same, anyway, they put a rabbit in front of the dog, they tell the dog to stay, blah blah blah.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
real quick
I am in Southern Indiana. . . for the fam. . . am defintiely collecting stories.
In the meantime, quick observation from American Apparel -- I was in there with my sister yesterday, staring slack-jawed at the walls papered with psuedo-porn, when I realized that all the hipster cotton jockeys were dancing around to the song "Don't Stop Thinkin' About Tomorrow. . . "
I was staring directly at a terrycloth shorts/tubetop combo jumper when the lyrics "YESTERDAY'S GONE/YESTERDAY'S GONE!" were blaring in my ears.
IS yesterday gone, American Apparel? If yesterday's gone, why do you keep bringing back the most heinous aspects of it?
That's all.
UPDATE: Ohmigod, y'all, what's worse than that atrocity on a hanger?
That atrocity on a bed.
Now, THAT is all.
In the meantime, quick observation from American Apparel -- I was in there with my sister yesterday, staring slack-jawed at the walls papered with psuedo-porn, when I realized that all the hipster cotton jockeys were dancing around to the song "Don't Stop Thinkin' About Tomorrow. . . "
I was staring directly at a terrycloth shorts/tubetop combo jumper when the lyrics "YESTERDAY'S GONE/YESTERDAY'S GONE!" were blaring in my ears.
IS yesterday gone, American Apparel? If yesterday's gone, why do you keep bringing back the most heinous aspects of it?
That's all.
UPDATE: Ohmigod, y'all, what's worse than that atrocity on a hanger?
That atrocity on a bed.
Now, THAT is all.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Someone call Magnum P.I.
Dear Tivo:
I wish you could talk.
I would even learn the rudiments of a foriegn language for you, say, if you didn't speak English.
We'd have so many fascinating conversations. I would love to hear your take on things. Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking -- like, "Why did you put 'Friends' on your Season Pass Manager?'"
The answer there is, who knows? Maybe it was a fit of nostalgia for the late nineties. I wonder that every time a random episode shows up in my playlist.
But, I know I was the one who put it there.
Just like I had that whole Carey Grant fascination last year, which is why you are, even as I write this, recording Gunga Din. But enough Carey Grant.
So, I went to change the settings on my Wishlist, which is when I saw that someone, and, Tivo, I'm not saying this is you, but someone put "Spanking & movies" on my wishlist.
Tivo, I am pretty sure that wasn't me.
And, if you could talk, I'm sure you'd finger the culprit.
Then I could ask them, "Why didn't you auto record?"
Just think of all the spanking movies we've been missing out on.
Okay, TTYL, LYLAS, BFF and stuff!
RJ
I wish you could talk.
I would even learn the rudiments of a foriegn language for you, say, if you didn't speak English.
We'd have so many fascinating conversations. I would love to hear your take on things. Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking -- like, "Why did you put 'Friends' on your Season Pass Manager?'"
The answer there is, who knows? Maybe it was a fit of nostalgia for the late nineties. I wonder that every time a random episode shows up in my playlist.
But, I know I was the one who put it there.
Just like I had that whole Carey Grant fascination last year, which is why you are, even as I write this, recording Gunga Din. But enough Carey Grant.
So, I went to change the settings on my Wishlist, which is when I saw that someone, and, Tivo, I'm not saying this is you, but someone put "Spanking & movies" on my wishlist.
Tivo, I am pretty sure that wasn't me.
And, if you could talk, I'm sure you'd finger the culprit.
Then I could ask them, "Why didn't you auto record?"
Just think of all the spanking movies we've been missing out on.
Okay, TTYL, LYLAS, BFF and stuff!
RJ
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Extremely Hott and Incredibly Asleep
This New York Post article is awesome. Or, at least, the first couple of paragraphs are.
This probably could have been written by Susan and me. As she likes to say, if she met JSF, she would "scream like a Japanese girl at a Michael Jackson concert."
(via Gawker)
March 28, 2006 -- LATELY, I've been having this recurring dream where I'm alternately beating up and making out with Jonathan Safran Foer. In the dream, we are standing in a small, sunlit room. "You know, I really think your writing style is precocious," I'll say, and push him around a bit. Next, we start kissing. Then I take him to task on his narrative flow and excessive use of adjectives, while he holds my hand and tells me I'm pretty.
This probably could have been written by Susan and me. As she likes to say, if she met JSF, she would "scream like a Japanese girl at a Michael Jackson concert."
(via Gawker)
BRAIN SHIVERS! Never Coming Soon To a Venue Near You
So, due to some ugly brain chemistry situations, I have been on an antidepressant, Effexor XR, for a few years now. When I first started taking the drug, I was so completely depressed, distressed, and tearstained that I didn't do any sort of research, rather, I clung to the prescription slip from my doctor like a liferaft and waited for something to please, please, help me.
And it did help me. A lot. I'm more or less a normal human being these days.
Unless, as I have been known to do upon occasion, I neglect to take my meds.
The alarming thing about the drug that I am on, the thing that might have freaked me out to no end if I had done some googling prior to popping the pills, is that it has hellish withdrawal symptoms. The symptoms begin within hours of a missed dose. So, for example, if I miss a dose in the morning, by 3 PM I am starting to feel a weird dizziness, by 7PM I am nauseous, and, on the rare occasion that I go to bed without having swallowed a capsule, I sleep very hard and dream Technicolor fever dreams.
So, I try not to miss a dose. In fact, I try very hard to make sure I'm never without -- I have pills stashed all over the place. Somehow, though, this month, I waited until the last minute to refill my meds -- I took every pill in the house, then I called Walgreen's on Sunday and didn't get there in time to pick up my refill. Which meant a forced full 48 hours between doses.
This has happened before, when I've been traveling, for example, and have forgotten to grab my pill bottle off the kitchen counter. What happens is that I become a Raving Lunatic.
I walk down the street with a full understanding of why homeless people twitch and scream at phantom enemies and pull their hair out. Because that's what it is like inside my head.
Yesterday, waiting for the pharmacy to (please please) open at 9AM, I did some Internet research, and found a brilliant explanation of That Thing That Happens In My Brain -- it's incredibly, called BRAIN SHIVERS! Man, I wish I could play an instrument, because that would so be my band name. I very happily stumbled upon this explanation, which beautifully articulates the whole thing. "The Electric Brain Thing!" Yes! That is both absolutely accurate AND a great album name! Sort of retro seventies, how very.
It's bizarre and torturous, and because I'm me, I also think it's weirdly hilarious.
I wrote this email to Sarah yesterday, as she is my clinical consultant AND BFF so, like, she can think it's funny but also let me know if I need professional help. I mean, beyond what I'm already getting. You know. Oh, and, technically, she also prescribes me my meds, so, it's good to let her know what's up.
-----Original Message-----
From: RJ
Sent: Monday, March 27, 2006 11:41 AM
To: Sarah
Subject: meds
I am tempted to write a post about how loopy and goofy I am today as I forgot to take my Crazy Pills yesterday and therefore am like a Drooling Lunatic in a normal person's body. Have done things today like:
- scared the eff out of the cat by walking into the kitchen for coffee, seeing her, and screaming, "TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS!" then laughing maniacally while she runs away.
- Realized I was twitching on the train platform as this old lady stared at me.
- Using Random CAPS
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
What do you mean you were "twitching"??
On 3/27/06, RJ wrote:
Well, I had a cramp in my leg that I was trying to stretch and I was making faces like, "I'm annoyed at this cramp and in pain" and was maybe mouthing words to myself like, "motherfucker" and such. Basically raving like a lunatic.
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
Ok, that's different. I wanted to rule out true neurological symptoms.
Now take your meds!!
PHEW! Neurological symptoms RULED OUT!
Now, I gotta go, cuz, IT IS TIME TO MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING DONUTS, Y'ALL!
And it did help me. A lot. I'm more or less a normal human being these days.
Unless, as I have been known to do upon occasion, I neglect to take my meds.
The alarming thing about the drug that I am on, the thing that might have freaked me out to no end if I had done some googling prior to popping the pills, is that it has hellish withdrawal symptoms. The symptoms begin within hours of a missed dose. So, for example, if I miss a dose in the morning, by 3 PM I am starting to feel a weird dizziness, by 7PM I am nauseous, and, on the rare occasion that I go to bed without having swallowed a capsule, I sleep very hard and dream Technicolor fever dreams.
So, I try not to miss a dose. In fact, I try very hard to make sure I'm never without -- I have pills stashed all over the place. Somehow, though, this month, I waited until the last minute to refill my meds -- I took every pill in the house, then I called Walgreen's on Sunday and didn't get there in time to pick up my refill. Which meant a forced full 48 hours between doses.
This has happened before, when I've been traveling, for example, and have forgotten to grab my pill bottle off the kitchen counter. What happens is that I become a Raving Lunatic.
I walk down the street with a full understanding of why homeless people twitch and scream at phantom enemies and pull their hair out. Because that's what it is like inside my head.
Yesterday, waiting for the pharmacy to (please please) open at 9AM, I did some Internet research, and found a brilliant explanation of That Thing That Happens In My Brain -- it's incredibly, called BRAIN SHIVERS! Man, I wish I could play an instrument, because that would so be my band name. I very happily stumbled upon this explanation, which beautifully articulates the whole thing. "The Electric Brain Thing!" Yes! That is both absolutely accurate AND a great album name! Sort of retro seventies, how very.
It's bizarre and torturous, and because I'm me, I also think it's weirdly hilarious.
I wrote this email to Sarah yesterday, as she is my clinical consultant AND BFF so, like, she can think it's funny but also let me know if I need professional help. I mean, beyond what I'm already getting. You know. Oh, and, technically, she also prescribes me my meds, so, it's good to let her know what's up.
-----Original Message-----
From: RJ
Sent: Monday, March 27, 2006 11:41 AM
To: Sarah
Subject: meds
I am tempted to write a post about how loopy and goofy I am today as I forgot to take my Crazy Pills yesterday and therefore am like a Drooling Lunatic in a normal person's body. Have done things today like:
- scared the eff out of the cat by walking into the kitchen for coffee, seeing her, and screaming, "TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS!" then laughing maniacally while she runs away.
- Realized I was twitching on the train platform as this old lady stared at me.
- Using Random CAPS
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
What do you mean you were "twitching"??
On 3/27/06, RJ wrote:
Well, I had a cramp in my leg that I was trying to stretch and I was making faces like, "I'm annoyed at this cramp and in pain" and was maybe mouthing words to myself like, "motherfucker" and such. Basically raving like a lunatic.
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
Ok, that's different. I wanted to rule out true neurological symptoms.
Now take your meds!!
PHEW! Neurological symptoms RULED OUT!
Now, I gotta go, cuz, IT IS TIME TO MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING DONUTS, Y'ALL!
Monday, March 27, 2006
The head that knew too much
Dear Diary:
Heather told me she teaches people "real life." She said, real life sucks losers dry. You want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said, so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She said, yes. I said, you're beautiful.
- Heathers is on Showtime right now. Though I don't think I've seen it in years, I just realized that I still know most of the dialog. A small sampling:
Heather: I brought you to a Remington party and what's my thanks? It's on a hallway carpet. I got paid in puke.
Veronica: Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.
This is taking up space in my brain right now. I can't remember all the state capitols or even all of my multiplication tables, but I remember that Heather Chandler is the Red Heather, Heather McNamara is the Yellow Heather, and Heather Duke is Brenda from 90210 -- and I remember Christian Slater is feeling superior because, "Seven schools in seven states and the only thing different is my locker combination. . . our love is God. . . let's go get a slushy." It's unnerving. And somewhat disappointing -- like, why couldn't my 15-year-old self have focused all that energy to memorizing something more useful than icklugha bullets??
I would also give my 15-year-old self some other tips, like, dude, lay off the bangs. And the black eyeliner. That shit's wack.
Heather told me she teaches people "real life." She said, real life sucks losers dry. You want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said, so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She said, yes. I said, you're beautiful.
- Heathers is on Showtime right now. Though I don't think I've seen it in years, I just realized that I still know most of the dialog. A small sampling:
Heather: I brought you to a Remington party and what's my thanks? It's on a hallway carpet. I got paid in puke.
Veronica: Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.
This is taking up space in my brain right now. I can't remember all the state capitols or even all of my multiplication tables, but I remember that Heather Chandler is the Red Heather, Heather McNamara is the Yellow Heather, and Heather Duke is Brenda from 90210 -- and I remember Christian Slater is feeling superior because, "Seven schools in seven states and the only thing different is my locker combination. . . our love is God. . . let's go get a slushy." It's unnerving. And somewhat disappointing -- like, why couldn't my 15-year-old self have focused all that energy to memorizing something more useful than icklugha bullets??
I would also give my 15-year-old self some other tips, like, dude, lay off the bangs. And the black eyeliner. That shit's wack.
Totally.
As a priviledged white girl who has it pretty good, good enough to afford therapy twice a week, I often feel really guilty about feeling bad. I just read this post that articulated it quite well, I think:
Because unless you've been raped, homeless, molested, or abused (and it better have been recently) -- or starved, tortured, swept up in a flood, made the victim of ethnic cleansing, forced to work in a sweatshop at the age of eight, had your hands chopped off in a diamond mine, seen atrocities beyond description, etc. -- you'd better be fucking happy all the goddamn time, or you are the WORST KIND OF ASSHOLE IN THE WORLD.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Your Karate Tricks Won't Save You This Time!
First off, will someone please make this for me? I would love so much to have a cryogenic chamber mouse. So delightfully creepy. Someone out there, someone who is crafty and good at making things? I am abysmal at making thing -- sewing, carpentry, name a craft and I will be piss poor at it. I can't even paint a bathroom. But, I can take your picture or write a story about you or bake you some sweet motherfucking cupcakes. So, consider it, please.
Last night, we went to see V for Vendetta -- in IMAX, which geeks me out to no end. I love gigantic movies with gigantic sound. The drawback, in this case, is that we have to venture down to Navy Pier for the IMAX experience. Navy Pier on a Saturday night can be an upsetting experience. So many tourists and children and flashing lights and endless kiosks filled with puzzling, inexpensive merchandise! Strangely-themed stores (Chicago Heroes Store -- for Police and Fire Department gear! Russian Doll Store! Christian T-Shirt store -- including this tshirt!) The experience of getting into the theater itself made us all a bit edgy and anxious.
The film was a delight, although we kept laughing at inappropriate places, and we were completely slap-happy giggly after.
The best moment was as we were exiting the theater, when a flat-voiced announcer came on and encouraged us to exit via the designated exits.
Someone behind me yelled, "NO! WE'RE GONNA STAY HERE AND FIGHT!"
Navy Pier was alllll riled up. It's just that kind of film.
Then we went to an old, familiar haunt and consumed many beers, and persued the following topics of conversation:
- Various deformed and mentally challenged and otherwise handicapped types we went to high school with. Apparently, though Susanne's high school had only 57 students, she had an unsually high number of odditities, including a very small hydrocephelatic woman who kept stats for the girls' basketball team, a hairlipped girl named Ruth who, unfortunately, was unable to pronounce her own name, and a mentally retarded night janitor named Jimmy.
Me: How did you know the night janitor?
Susanne: Oooooh. I knew EVERYONE.
Huh.
Ellen told us about a friend in high school who had a deaf, socially-challenged admirer. Once, she was fighting with her boyfriend in the hallway, when he called her a "Stupid Bitch."
In a romantic, gallant moment of pure chivalry, he admirer came running up, apparently having read the profanities on the boyfriend's lips.
Admirer: DON'T CALL HER A BITCH! SHE'S BEATIFUL!
Friend: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I CAN DEFEND MYSELF!
D'oh.
- Fern Gully. The term "Fern Gully" as an unfortunate euphemism for women's parts. We went into great detail about how "Fern Gully" was appropriate -- including metaphors about machetes, adventures, and moist, musky things. Perhaps not best to reproduce in detail, although I invite you to explore the possibilities yourself. I would like to see it come into more common usage.
- I also took a picture, on my cell phone, of the framed Minnie Mouse poster above the toilet in the women's restroom. That's a sign of a good effing bar.
I wanted to post that picture here, but I can't get it to show up on my Flickr account.
You can't have everything, I suppose.
Finally, Ellen and Katie and I hit Santullo's for a late-night slice and met a curly-haired, flamboyant gay man named Brian who, apparently, is a performer in a one-man play about having a single testicle, called "Balls." He performs the play for audiences at hospitals and medical centers.
Then I went home and passed the eff out. Good times.
Last night, we went to see V for Vendetta -- in IMAX, which geeks me out to no end. I love gigantic movies with gigantic sound. The drawback, in this case, is that we have to venture down to Navy Pier for the IMAX experience. Navy Pier on a Saturday night can be an upsetting experience. So many tourists and children and flashing lights and endless kiosks filled with puzzling, inexpensive merchandise! Strangely-themed stores (Chicago Heroes Store -- for Police and Fire Department gear! Russian Doll Store! Christian T-Shirt store -- including this tshirt!) The experience of getting into the theater itself made us all a bit edgy and anxious.
The film was a delight, although we kept laughing at inappropriate places, and we were completely slap-happy giggly after.
The best moment was as we were exiting the theater, when a flat-voiced announcer came on and encouraged us to exit via the designated exits.
Someone behind me yelled, "NO! WE'RE GONNA STAY HERE AND FIGHT!"
Navy Pier was alllll riled up. It's just that kind of film.
Then we went to an old, familiar haunt and consumed many beers, and persued the following topics of conversation:
- Various deformed and mentally challenged and otherwise handicapped types we went to high school with. Apparently, though Susanne's high school had only 57 students, she had an unsually high number of odditities, including a very small hydrocephelatic woman who kept stats for the girls' basketball team, a hairlipped girl named Ruth who, unfortunately, was unable to pronounce her own name, and a mentally retarded night janitor named Jimmy.
Me: How did you know the night janitor?
Susanne: Oooooh. I knew EVERYONE.
Huh.
Ellen told us about a friend in high school who had a deaf, socially-challenged admirer. Once, she was fighting with her boyfriend in the hallway, when he called her a "Stupid Bitch."
In a romantic, gallant moment of pure chivalry, he admirer came running up, apparently having read the profanities on the boyfriend's lips.
Admirer: DON'T CALL HER A BITCH! SHE'S BEATIFUL!
Friend: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I CAN DEFEND MYSELF!
D'oh.
- Fern Gully. The term "Fern Gully" as an unfortunate euphemism for women's parts. We went into great detail about how "Fern Gully" was appropriate -- including metaphors about machetes, adventures, and moist, musky things. Perhaps not best to reproduce in detail, although I invite you to explore the possibilities yourself. I would like to see it come into more common usage.
- I also took a picture, on my cell phone, of the framed Minnie Mouse poster above the toilet in the women's restroom. That's a sign of a good effing bar.
I wanted to post that picture here, but I can't get it to show up on my Flickr account.
You can't have everything, I suppose.
Finally, Ellen and Katie and I hit Santullo's for a late-night slice and met a curly-haired, flamboyant gay man named Brian who, apparently, is a performer in a one-man play about having a single testicle, called "Balls." He performs the play for audiences at hospitals and medical centers.
Then I went home and passed the eff out. Good times.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
So, so, so GIRLY
I just watched this entire movie. The whole thing. Showtime made me do it. Let me explain. I had Mean Girls on for background noise while I cleaned my kitchen. Also, because Mean Girls is an important film. Each time I view Mean Girls, I get something new out of Lindsay Lohan's nuanced performance. But Showtime went and put a late nineties Sarah Jessica Parker film about quirky late twenty somethings on as a follow.
Watching this film was a little like eating an entire package of old fig newtons because that's the only sweet thing you have in the house. It's a little nostalgic, somewhat enjoyable through the beginning but only finished through some sort of compulsion that, in the end, leaves you feeling a bit ill.
I can't believe I consumed the whole thing.
How incredibly indulgent of me.
Watching this film was a little like eating an entire package of old fig newtons because that's the only sweet thing you have in the house. It's a little nostalgic, somewhat enjoyable through the beginning but only finished through some sort of compulsion that, in the end, leaves you feeling a bit ill.
I can't believe I consumed the whole thing.
How incredibly indulgent of me.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Prodigal Robot
Dear God:
If I ever have a kid, make it this kid.
Okay, well, not really THIS kid, exactly, but. . . listen. I would so much rather have a punk rock robot prodigy kid than any other kind of prodigy kid. Or prodigal kid. I mean, I want a, like, cute smart healthy happy kid.
But I REALLY want him or her to make some kick ass rock and roll about robots.
Thanks,
RJ
If I ever have a kid, make it this kid.
Okay, well, not really THIS kid, exactly, but. . . listen. I would so much rather have a punk rock robot prodigy kid than any other kind of prodigy kid. Or prodigal kid. I mean, I want a, like, cute smart healthy happy kid.
But I REALLY want him or her to make some kick ass rock and roll about robots.
Thanks,
RJ
Rattling About
You know how, sometimes, it feels a bit like there are pebbles rattling about in your head instead of brains? (mmm, brains?)
I feel that way today. Like I make rattling noises when I walk, like everyone is glancing over, like, 'is that a person? or a giant walking Maraca?'
Anyhow, I'm sad because I lost a very important document.
It is a list I made while drinking bloody marys with Ellen and Susan. I made it on a paper placemat at Silver Cloud in the few days after I lost my last job. I've been carrying it about with me and adding to it periodically.
It was my List Of Things To be Happy About. It included (from memory) some of the following things:
Tater Tots
Snazzy Bloody Marys
Dancing
Drinking
Laughing
Susantha Malatestes
Ellen
Melrose Bitches
Blogs, blogging, blogosphere, bloggity blog blog blog
Other People's Babies
Peeing
Charlie's
Singing loud to music in the car
being funny
This American Life
Ira Glass
Thunder Storms
Summer
Drinking outside
riding my bike
going to the beach
fires
Beyonce Barbie Dolls
Lindsay Lohan Party Limo
Gossip
Eating Brunch
Smelling grass
Suddenly thinking something normal is actually hilariously funny
my digital camera
Maria
Sarah-n-chad
Waking up to sunshine
finding money in the dryer
tax returns
people with English or Southern accents
really awesome random paintings from garage sales
And on. . . and on. . .
And it may seem silly, but it actually is something that made me feel better. And I lost it. And I want to recreate it, because, it's pretty funny to read "disco balls shaped like cowboy boots" and remember that there are so many marvelous things to be happy about.
I feel that way today. Like I make rattling noises when I walk, like everyone is glancing over, like, 'is that a person? or a giant walking Maraca?'
Anyhow, I'm sad because I lost a very important document.
It is a list I made while drinking bloody marys with Ellen and Susan. I made it on a paper placemat at Silver Cloud in the few days after I lost my last job. I've been carrying it about with me and adding to it periodically.
It was my List Of Things To be Happy About. It included (from memory) some of the following things:
Tater Tots
Snazzy Bloody Marys
Dancing
Drinking
Laughing
Susantha Malatestes
Ellen
Melrose Bitches
Blogs, blogging, blogosphere, bloggity blog blog blog
Other People's Babies
Peeing
Charlie's
Singing loud to music in the car
being funny
This American Life
Ira Glass
Thunder Storms
Summer
Drinking outside
riding my bike
going to the beach
fires
Beyonce Barbie Dolls
Lindsay Lohan Party Limo
Gossip
Eating Brunch
Smelling grass
Suddenly thinking something normal is actually hilariously funny
my digital camera
Maria
Sarah-n-chad
Waking up to sunshine
finding money in the dryer
tax returns
people with English or Southern accents
really awesome random paintings from garage sales
And on. . . and on. . .
And it may seem silly, but it actually is something that made me feel better. And I lost it. And I want to recreate it, because, it's pretty funny to read "disco balls shaped like cowboy boots" and remember that there are so many marvelous things to be happy about.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Making me Pee My Panties.
Okay, this was posted in the comments a few posts down by Barney Boy, but it deserves everyone's attention, so, I'm reposting.
I read these aloud to Susan and Ellen and we almost hyperventilated.
I hope you will enjoy.
(By the way, the title of this post reminds me of an old job, where I did PR for a company that made maxi pads. I once had to write a memo to my client about how women really hate the term "panties.")
Anyway, I'm writing to you while bare-chested again. It just feels more honest.
I read these aloud to Susan and Ellen and we almost hyperventilated.
I hope you will enjoy.
(By the way, the title of this post reminds me of an old job, where I did PR for a company that made maxi pads. I once had to write a memo to my client about how women really hate the term "panties.")
Dear Jennifer Aniston:
You can buy a sweet motherfucking pad in Chicago with $23 million. Just don't start hanging out at my bars and get everybody all riled up with your celebrity-ness.
Horrific Reality Today
I'm so freaked out about women's rights, people -- when I read about out and out attacks on women's healthcare and reproductive rights -- and then there's this:
All I have to say is, SWEET JESUS, this neocon crap has got to end.
And then there's just the phrase "sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it." I want to scrub my eyeballs with bleach in the hopes that I can erase the memory of having read those words coming from the mouth of an elected official.
All I have to say is, SWEET JESUS, this neocon crap has got to end.
I'm Really Trying, Here
So, I've been struggling a bit with figuring out how to present this week's flip DeeP exchanges. Yes, therapy has its moments of high comedy, but you also have the serious aspects of delving about in the muck between your ears. When you're plunging headfirst into Dealing With Things, specifically, The Shit You Do Not Want To Deal With, it can be less fun and more excruciating.
So, you have to work, and you have to do it, and by you, I mean me -- I have to do this. I have to get in there and fix the shit that's holding me back and making me depressed and then I'll be fine. Or closer to fine. (But not in the Indigo Girls sense, I don't think.) In the meantime, I spend time on the couch crawling out of my skin and fighting the urge to get up and run away. I also cry a lot.
A lot of the funny exchanges stem from the fact that a big way that I avoid the more uncomfortable bits is by throwing out little glib barbs and being generally joke-y. And lately, as we roll up our sleeves and get serious, I've been less barb-ing.
DeeP apparently is tri-lingual. He speaks English, French, and some other language which he refuses to tell me about. I think he refuses to tell me out of some weird boundary issue, also because I think he's afraid I'll make fun of him. He's correct, of course.
It has become an ongoing thing, a nice deflection point, that every week or so I ask him again, "now, what is that other language you speak? Is it Finnish?" And he just half-smiles and refuses to tell me.
Last week he informed me, with the air of some kind of psychic who was sensing the chilling presense of a dead loved one in the room, "I think I'm getting closer to telling you what language I speak."
I just stared at him, mostly because he was acting so corny.
He said, "It is an indication that I'm feeling less threatened by you, I think, which is good. You're letting down some of your defenses."
I said, "Therapy is so ludicrously meta."
He said, "Sister, you have no idea."
So, this week, as I was melting into a jiggly pile of weeping emotional jell-o on his leather porn couch, he said, "You know, I'm so amazed at how you've really taken down your defenses with me in the last couple of weeks!"
I hiccupped through my tears, wiped some snot from my nose, and said, "It's because I want you to tell me what language you speak."
He still didn't tell me.
Bastard.
So, you have to work, and you have to do it, and by you, I mean me -- I have to do this. I have to get in there and fix the shit that's holding me back and making me depressed and then I'll be fine. Or closer to fine. (But not in the Indigo Girls sense, I don't think.) In the meantime, I spend time on the couch crawling out of my skin and fighting the urge to get up and run away. I also cry a lot.
A lot of the funny exchanges stem from the fact that a big way that I avoid the more uncomfortable bits is by throwing out little glib barbs and being generally joke-y. And lately, as we roll up our sleeves and get serious, I've been less barb-ing.
DeeP apparently is tri-lingual. He speaks English, French, and some other language which he refuses to tell me about. I think he refuses to tell me out of some weird boundary issue, also because I think he's afraid I'll make fun of him. He's correct, of course.
It has become an ongoing thing, a nice deflection point, that every week or so I ask him again, "now, what is that other language you speak? Is it Finnish?" And he just half-smiles and refuses to tell me.
Last week he informed me, with the air of some kind of psychic who was sensing the chilling presense of a dead loved one in the room, "I think I'm getting closer to telling you what language I speak."
I just stared at him, mostly because he was acting so corny.
He said, "It is an indication that I'm feeling less threatened by you, I think, which is good. You're letting down some of your defenses."
I said, "Therapy is so ludicrously meta."
He said, "Sister, you have no idea."
So, this week, as I was melting into a jiggly pile of weeping emotional jell-o on his leather porn couch, he said, "You know, I'm so amazed at how you've really taken down your defenses with me in the last couple of weeks!"
I hiccupped through my tears, wiped some snot from my nose, and said, "It's because I want you to tell me what language you speak."
He still didn't tell me.
Bastard.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Quick Follow Up
To yesterday's post on animal-human hybrids.
Apparently, their sole pleasure is beer.
It's hard out there for a human-animal hybrid.
Apparently, their sole pleasure is beer.
It's hard out there for a human-animal hybrid.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Sofas and Sensibility
A friend once told me that Craigslist is the full of black leather couches that women make their boyfriends sell -- a true sign of getting serious. Oh, but, as this blog shows us, there's so much more. . .
Sunday Night Dinner -- Dog for Dessert?
Holy cow. Is there nothing more likely to induce a roomful of full-grown adults to babble in high-pitched baby voices all night than a sweet, freaking cute puppy with huge paws and soft ears? I mean, one that isn't an actual human baby. And with actual human babies, you can't get all blitzed on wine and chase them around the living room while they nip at your pants legs, now, can you?
Best conversation hinged on dog:
Me: Jason! Now you're not the youngest one anymore!
Mark: Or the blackest.
You can drown in puppy goodness here.
Best conversation hinged on dog:
Me: Jason! Now you're not the youngest one anymore!
Mark: Or the blackest.
You can drown in puppy goodness here.
Rock the Vote, Y'all!
My lovely friend Maria has passed on a link to the state of Missouri's latest proposed constitutional ammendment, which reads like a fabulous pulp sci-fi novel.
Unfortunately, the ammendment would ban "the genetic creation of a half-human slave race to serve humankind." Mothereffer -- I was seriously hoping I could get one of those little critters for some light housework.
Unfortunately, the ammendment would ban "the genetic creation of a half-human slave race to serve humankind." Mothereffer -- I was seriously hoping I could get one of those little critters for some light housework.
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