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.

Dads

Casey and I love to exchange random emails our dads send us.

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.

People are so effing weird.

Different onion society...
Originally uploaded by OlivemanMC.

See?

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.

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

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

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:

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.

MyGod

Want to kill a good hour? How about a good mood? This is compelling, yet horrifying. Enjoy!

Dear People's Energy

Are you fucking kidding me?

$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.

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?

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?

MWAH, ha, snort and stuff

MAN
I’ve said it twice, haven’t I? Also, I’m old, like a real doctor.

WOMAN
Well, I do love a bargain.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

Puntabulous!

Hmmm, paper thin, collapsed under the weight of your own clothing, covered in dirty laundry…

You’re Mary-Kate Olsen!

myspace, the final frontier

This is a really interesting article about the fall of Friendster and the Rise of Myspace.

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.