I feel like I'm constantly apologizing for this...

Yep, I haven't posted in a few days, and though I have a post or two in my back pocket for times like these (i.e. when I'm feeling lazy), I'm not going to publish them (because they suck). This week has been full of DNC happenings and veep choices (haha, ooook McCain), and also I'm trying to write stuff that will help me have a real career, so this blog will have to deal with being my neglected bastard child from time to time.

But I'd hate to leave you all high and dry, so I'm gonna do some piggybacking on the work of my college buddy, "Vern." He wrote this fake craigslist post, and it had me ROTFFLOLDFGYJNBVC (don't ask what that stands for, I just dragged my knuckles across the keyboard and thought the letters looked cool). Please don't be taken aback by its crudeness...ok, go ahead and be taken aback, but you CANNOT tell me with a straight face that the wikipedia part didn't elicit the smallest of laughs from you (there is a picture toward the bottom that is slightly NSFW).

____________________________________________________

Hey, do you want to get fucked in your vagina by a penis? - m4w - 24 (SoHo)

Reply to: [redacted] Date: 2008-08-27, 12:57PM EDT

Then, my darlings, my lovers, my Nubian queens, you have come to the right place. Because I am about to unleash this dick all over your ass. Oh yeah. You read that right. This dick. All over that ass. Let me put it to you in even more ridiculous terms.

I have a penis. You can call it a lethal weapon. You can call it whatever you want to call it. Fact is, I'm going to elect your vagina to political office just so that I can assassinate it. I'm going to make sure that your vagina is not registered in the National register of historic places, because I am about to destroy it and I do not want to get fined. Let me break it the fuck down.

First, you'll pull up into my apartment complex in your lifted truck that you stole from your old boyfried, but it doesn't matter, since he's in jail and all. I'll open the door for you, wearing nothing but full body SCUBA gear. Yes, to answer your question, of course it will have a hole in it with my dick hanging out. I'll pull out the case of PBRs that I purchased, and we will slam them. All of them. Shotgun, bong them, whatever. I'll light a few candles. I'll then take your pants off, and singe a few pubes with the candles if you need it. You won't care, as you are already in awe of my penis. You'll be like, "omg, that looks delicious!". I will agree. I will then excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I won't move. You'll ask, "aren't you going to go to the bathroom?", and I will continue to remain still. Then I'll start pissing on you. You'll think to yourself "ohh...fuck". Covered in piss is no way for a lady to present herself, so I'll slap you in the face and tell you to clean up. You'll like it, since you are a sick fuck and you're into that kind of stuff. Whatever. I'll take you to my room, but since you are covered in piss, I'll pull the sheets off first. I'll then proceed to tell you that you look like Rebecca Lobo. You'll say "who?", and I'll get all pissed and make you look her up on Wikipedia before we proceed. The whole time I will be sitting on my bed jacking off while wearing batting gloves.

Ok. So you looked that bitch up, said she was ugly, and got all sad. I said, "no way, baby, she's one of the prettiest women on the planet, just like you". You'll open your mouth in a huge smile, and then I'll jump up, stick my dick in it, and yell "siiiike!". HA! You just got served! SERVED! Oh well. I'll make you bite off my pubes, too. You sick little girl. But then I'll stop playing games and get back to business. And I am in the business of tearing that vag up. I'm like a fucking entrepreneur in that business. So I'll go to town, like a fucking jackhammer on your uterus. A jackhammer with balls. And ball hair. Shifting around, hitting all the spots, pretty much surveying all of the land with my wang, taking you to pleasuretown on the L train, you fucking hipster. I will pull it out, put it on your forehead, and knight you. I will rub ball sweat all over your hair, and then style it like Belinda Carlisle's. You will be moaning. I will make no sounds, like a silent ninja. You'll ask me why I am silent, and if I am even enjoying it. I'll cockwhip you in the face and tell you to shut the fuck up. Huh? You like being yelled at? No? Then DON'T FUCKING CRITICIZE MY SILENCE. You stupid tramp. I'm sorry. Can I put my penis back in your vagina? Thanks.

So, as I'm pulling into the final stretch, I'll start thanking all of the people who made this possible. I'll thank Craigslist, I'll thank God. You'll interrupt me and tell me to stop. I'll give you an angry glare and you'll get the point, lay back down, and shut the fuck up. I will proceed to thank my parents. I'll thank Al Gore for inventing the internet that I solicited you with. And, finally, I will thank you for taking the dick. Then, in my final silent scream of quasi-pleasure, I'll blow it all up in the condom. Because I don't want to get you pregnant. You don't even weigh less than me, and that's just sick. Damn. Get out of my garage.Here's an artist's rendition of the dick, since this is Craigslist, and I have to post my dick.






















Gosh Vern, you always were the charmer!

Quick Post: Songs I'm lurving

I try not to gush over bands or music I've recently discovered. I refrain from doing so because, whenever I'm reading a blog and the author posts a video or music clip, I never, ever take the time to listen. It's time consuming, and the chances of me actually liking the song or video are about 5%. Also, I am probably the last to even 'discover' this music. Odds are the comments will turn into one big thread of "these songs are SO two weeks ago."

But because I'm excited to be seeing them in October (along with my other favorite musician, Beck), I've been listening to a lot of MGMT, and I just thought I'd share a song with my readers. Their album, Oracular Spectacular, has been playing non-stop on my cd player, and this tune, "Future Reflections," has had me hitting the rewind button. Hope you enjoy!




Oh, you want a bonus? How about this one from Panic! At the Disco called "When the Day Met the Night"

MySpace? More like Oh-My-Fucking-God-You-People-Appall-Me Space

After my umpteenth invitation to view some chick's webcam, it seemed time to delete my MySpace account. I never use it; it's an abscess on the shiny veneer of social networking, particularly my social networking. Even though I heart the internet, I am not one of those people plugged in at every outlet - I do not twitter, or digg, or flickr, and I do not own a mobile device that provides me on-the-go internet access. Blogging, emailing, and perusing the Craigslist casual encounters is as much as I do with the interweb. Oh yeah, and Facebook. And coming back to my former statement, Facebook is a far more superior method for social networking - it looks cleaner, and is, in my opinion, more user-friendly. Though MySpace was Facebook's predecessor, MySpace has quickly become the ugly, half-retarded, spam-loving step child of internet communication.

So like I was saying, I was going to delete my profile. As I logged onto my MySpace account and considered the piss-poor layout I was about to obliterate, I clicked on one of my 50 "friends" - people who I have known at one point or another, but can't really say I'm friends with. This particular "friend" was a girl I knew in elementary school, someone who I can quite literally say I watched grow up from an awkward, be-spectacled little girl, into a beautiful young woman, then into a ghetto-ized drug-dealer with a penchant for accusing females in the vicinity of her boyfriend of trying to"git wit him." Seriously, she went from coke-bottle eyeglasses to coke-caked nostrils. I don't totally judge her for it - she was one of my partners in crime during my drug-addled summer after college - but the image she purports in her MySpace is a fucking parody, or would be a parody if she didn't really aspire to be what she puts forth to the world.

In essence, her profile is a total fetishization of all that is "gangsta,""ghetto," and "slutty," although I bet she's trying to be sexy. But it's not sexy at all. She substitutes "da" for "the," deliberately loses the "g" on all her gerunds, and says things like "holla!" Possibly the best (or most despicable?) part of her profile is when she declares that she has "been workin in the sex industry for a while now, its been fun n all but I'm ready and qualified fo so much more!" (sic all of that, if you couldn't guess)

Um, I could forgive that statement if she actually worked in the sex industry, but she works at Priscilla's, an "adult boutique" that sells tacky stripper shoes and penis-shaped crazy straws. It does not, in any way shape or form, require my "friend" to twirl around a stripper pole, perform sex acts on camera, or hustle her ass on the street. So why is she implying thus? There is something truly pathetic about a person who finds the sex industry glamorous. Please, go talk to a prostitute and ask how he or she feels about selling their bodies, and then come and tell me how glamorous it all seems.

After spending 15 minutes reading her MySpace profile in amazement and horror, I moved onto my other high school classmates - what can I say? None were too bright, none were too...dignified? Part of the reason why their profiles make them look like caricatures of ghettofabulosity is implicit in MySpace (I know animated GIFs are fascinating, but Jesus Christo one can only take so much before the seizures happen!) But you can't blame Tom for that profile picture of you holding a fan of Benjamins, and you really can't blame Tom when you lack any trace of irony when you're holding that fan of Benjamins. That photostream of you and all your boys? Yeah, it could have been classy if you'd left out the snapshots where you're flashing gang signs and nuzzling up to some "hottie's" ass. And may I remind you that you will be 30 years old in two months? As most sane people say, no time like the present to grow up.

In any case, I decided not to delete my MySpace account. Though I rarely go on it, it does provide great comic relief when I'm feeling kind of low. Also - you can't write this shit. The characters that I'm seemingly friends with could not be conjured by Capote, Oates or King. These MySpace profiles are a well of material, a go-to source for those times when writer's block hits me. True, MySpace really only provides me a close-up to a few character traits (ridiculous and fucking ridiculous being the main ones), but my "friends'" profiles are thorough character-studies in and of themselves. Now is the time for you all to start anticipating my debut novel, "Who Knew I Attended High School with Retards?"

Ewe are the wave of the future

From time to time, my college pal Sara will send me topics to blog about. And they aren't colloquial topics either - she never asks me to write about prime time programming or Obama vs. McCain. Moreso, she wants to read my musings on weird shit that, if I (or anyone) were to bring it up in daily conversation, everyone would stare at me cross-eyed and write me off as a schitzo, even though they think weird shit like me all the time. It's just that I'm brave enough to say it out loud! (This is what I tell myself when I have tourette's like outbursts - the fact that I announced that my farts smell like broccoli makes me a visionary.)

Sara has asked me to write about my thoughts on the end of the world, to which I complied, and now she wants to know what I think about a lyric she heard in a song and how "being the last man/woman on earth" has different ramifications depending on your gender. This is the message she left on my facebook wall:

"i heard this lyric in a song that went like, "i would choose her if I was the last man on earth" and i started thinking about if i was the last woman on earth. the difference between being the last man or the last woman on earth.. a man sees it as if he has his pick of fucking any woman he wants, but think what it would be like to be the last woman, you would have alot of dudes just trying to rape you all the time." (emphasis mine)

After I read her message, I hardly had to think about it - my answer to this dilemma is sheep prostitutes.

Because let's face it, if you were the last woman on earth, you have a shitload of problems to deal with. Hell, even though women make up half the population now, we still have to fend off unwanted suitors (i.e. perverted assholes). Prostitutes help divert some of this unwanted attention from the ladies of the day to the ladies of the night, and because of this, I am forever grateful.

At first, I thought maybe I would band together a group of men who, in return for their protection of my lady bits, I would service sexually. But I would need to employ a HUGE group of men to protect me from the other HUGE group of men who were trying to rape me, so I would have to sexually service like, a baskillion dudes, which is kind of what I'd be trying to avoid, so no, that solution would not work.

Then I thought of farmers, and how they are stereotyped to have sex with their farm animals, sheep in particular. (BLUSH ALERT) I hear that ewes have genitalia that feel just like human vaginas, hence the reason for the farmer's predilection for them.

I would become the Heidi Fliess of the animal kingdom. I'd round up a bunch of sheep, at least 500,000, and I'd build some fancy digs complete with ESPN playing on huge flatscreens 24/7, and there would be a bar that has every beer in the world on tap. There would be a cigar lounge, a pornography palace (I can expect men to have sex with farm animals, but I can't really expect them to suddenly be aroused by them), and I don't know, a state-of-the-art athletic center for all that residual testosterone.

While the mens were gettin it on with my ladies, I would train a pack of ewes to be vicious killers, so eventually I would be surrounded by 500 sheep who wouldn't hesitate to rip a man's throat out. And I would live my days happily ever after, reveling in my empire and snuggling in the fluffy wool of my sheep protectors.

How many men would opt for bestiality as opposed to spending the rest of their days just jerking it? Also, would PETA have a problem with sheep prostitutes? Ha! That would be hilarious - decrying the practice of using animals as sexual objects while simultaneously using Pam Anderson's ass to push its agenda.

Let us contemplate this for a second

Ok, I finished American Psycho. I started a blog post about my thoughts on the novel, but then Blogger lost part of what I wrote, and it just seemed stupid to share my feelings about it with people who, odds are, have not read it. So instead, let's please discuss this:


I was making a turkey burger on the George Foreman Grill the other night (covered in a melted string cheese stick - mmm ingenuity!) and while contemplating the grilled goodness that awaited me, my eyes landed on George Foreman's signature. Now I know he's an entertainment personality and whatnot, but is this the signature you would expect from a heavy-weight boxer? This looks like the signature of a Hannah Montana fan, some 11 y/o girl who spends math class practicing her cursive G's and character spacing, perfecting the dips and curls in her letters to ensure that her signature tells people: Pay attention! Please?

As I mentioned before, I know he's an entertainer and a certain amount of showmanship is to be expected, and since they created the GF grill for the sole purpose of sitting in a kajillion people's kitchens, the signature had to be decorative, but I don't know...I guess I just expect the signature of a fighter to be like, jagged teeth marks on a sheet of paper. What do the readers think - cool sig or not cool sig?

American Psycho has me freaking out

I'm reading the book American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. I've got 96 pages to go before I'm finished, and I really don't know if I should continue.

The book came into my possession a few weeks ago while my boyfriend and I were walking to Prospect Park. American Psycho, along with The Sun Also Rises and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, were lying on the sidewalk, laid in a neat row and presumably free for the taking. Though it had rained a hour or so prior, the books were dry and intact.

I had read about American Psycho in a book I own, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I liked the movie (starring Christian Bale), and since the book was an absolute must-read, I plucked it from the ground (I took the Hemingway novel as well; since I own Caged Bird, I left it for another lucky bookworm).

Last Saturday the bf and I were packing up supplies for a sailing trip, and since I'd left the book I was already reading (Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris) at my apartment, I brought American Psycho with me; when I finally began reading it, I was instantly drawn in. It was fast-paced and provocative, detailing a world where money and image mean everything while at the same time mean nothing. For the first 100 pages or so, there was no violence - just tedious descriptions of 80's yuppie fashion and the vapidity of a life that, though priviledged, made me sigh with relief because I have no connection to it.

But then the gruesome stuff started to take place. At first, the bloody murders were tolerable - though it disgusted me when Patrick Bateman would murder a bum and his dog, I eagerly took it all in, my mouth agape with shock. After a murder more tedious descriptions of name-brand clothing and upscale dining would soften the horror I felt. But then the murders became more frequent, violent and depraved, and now I'm actually thinking that I have made a serious mistake by picking up this book. Part of me wants to keep on reading - 1001 Books says American Psycho "must continue to be read," if for anything because it is a warning, or a powerful statement on how capitalism kills the innocence of the soul, or something...and also, I've got 96 pages to go - I'm almost done with it and I need to see how it ends.

But I'm having nightmares. Last night I dreamed that Patrick Bateman (looking like Christian Bale) wooed me with his looks and charm then tried to kill my family and me with butcher knives. I awoke thoroughly freaked out, and I can remember thinking in my dream "this is all because you are reading that fucking book."

Tonight I was walking my dog, and though I've walked him in my neighborhood (not to mention run errands and gone jogging,) at night a million times before, it was frightening. If the dog wasn't with me, I wouldn't have gone out at all. The entire time, I kept thinking someone was watching me and scenarios kept running through my mind - what would I do if accosted by a psychopath? Would my dog attack him? Should I just run? What about my dog, should I hold onto his leash to make sure he comes with me, or let go of it and just hope he follows? What if the psychopath got my dog, should I run or try to save him? At one point - and I'm almost too ashamed to admit this - I started walking in a zig-zag thinking that by doing so, it would be harder for some lunatic with a sniper rifle to shoot me.

And the worst part is, I can't even be comforted by reminding myself that it's just a work of fiction because the sick shit written in this book does happen. Maybe not in its exact form, but there are crazy people out there who need to control and need to kill, and their methods are revolting and torturous. Hell, maybe someone has read American Psycho and reenacted one or more of the murders described. That wouldn't surprise me in the least.

I'm really wondering if I'm going to have severe trust issues after reading American Psycho, and my paranoia of the everyday has been tripled. Or quadrupled. I don't know, all I know is that I'm freaked out by everyone. And my boyfriend is out of town, so I don't have anyone to relate my fears to:( Except for my readers. I guess that's why I'm writing this.

Then again, maybe this excessive fear will just last for tonight, and another week or so. Maybe the intensity of the violence will wane, and I'll come out stronger for reading it. But I cannot in good conscience recommend this book. It's sick. The detail Ellis writes with is, for lack of a better word, illuminating. But the word illuminating connotes a wonderful discovery, and there is nothing wonderful about this book. Or maybe there is. I don't know, I'll tell you when my stomach stops churning. Ugh, I'm even scared of what will happen if I have a kid and my kid wants to read this book - I certainly don't want him or her to, but how will I stop it? How can I censor them? Oh jeez, I need to chill out.

If anything, American Psycho has made me see the need to legalize prostitution. Many of Bateman's victims are prostitutes, and the same holds true for the non-fiction world; ladies- and gents-of-the-night are often the most victimized group of people. Prostitution should be legalized, therefore monitored, to prevent further horrors from afflicting sex workers. I'm so convinced of this right now that I'm going to start looking into some pro-sex worker organizations. Seriously, I'm on it.

Ok, I think I'm done incoherently rambling. I'll probably stay up til 3 am to finish the book, and then stay up the remainder of the night clutching a baseball bat. Gosh, how lucky I was to find this book randomly laying on the ground; God must have been smiling on me that day! (douchebag)

A few demands for the parents of the world

I like little kids. I think they are cute and smart and fun to talk to. Whenever I see a 3 y/o toddling down the sidewalk, it makes me smile and dream about the day when I will have one of my own.

But lately I've been hardpressed to call upon this fondness when trapped in confined places with children. A recent lunch at a pizzeria had me rolling my eyes and cursing under my breath because I was so annoyed with the little kids sitting next to me. My manners left me - I actually stared the dad in the eye and shot him Angel of Death daggers because his youngins were bothering me so badly.

I left before I had the chance to throw a highchair through the soda cooler, and the walk back to work gave me time to ponder my sudden aversion. Had New York jaded me so? This post is a bit cliche in the fact that nearly every single 20-something living in this town despises children; it's almost a prerequisite to move here. But I soon realized that the kids weren't the problem - it was the fucking parents! So here I am, a single 20-something with no children, detailing what parents should and should not do to make my life easier and more enjoyable.


1. QUIT BADGERING YOUR KIDS

Since when did little kids start getting interrogated like hostile teenagers? Whenever I'm sitting down at a dining establishment and some mom or dad has hauled along their toddler, the parent won't stop talking, when clearly the kid is preoccupied with picking their nose or tearing up a napkin or drawing on the wall or some other innocuous thing in silence. Their child has found something interesting and quiet to do, but the parent drones on and on - "How are you feeling? What do you want to do today? How many juiceboxes did you drink today? Tell me your ABC's -" And the kid says nothing, just concentrates on their activity. But the parent pursues the conversation, and even seems to be taken aback that their child doesn't want to talk to them. God, JUST SHUTUP WOULD YOU? Give your child - and me - a moment of peace.


2. STOP GIVING YOUR KIDS SO MANY OPTIONS

A common misconception in life is that having lots of options is enriching. Sometimes it is, like when choosing a color to paint your nails, but not so much when you repeatedly ask your kid, "What do you want to eat?" within my earshot. I know it's just a pizza parlor, it's not like they have decide what vintage wine would pair best with their glazed duck, but demanding that a 3 y/o choose what toppings they have on their pizza is fucking insane! It's insane because that kid probably doesn't know a pepperoni from a sausage, or a pepper from an onion, and don't swear to me up and down that your child knows "because they are gifted" - they aren't. Maybe they are, but you can't claim that just because one time they pointed to a picture of a mushroom and said, "pizza."

Another reason it is insane is because toddlers don't like any toppings on their pizza; hell, I ate cheese pizza only until I was sixteen years old. So parents please, do us all (me) a favor and order the simplest item for your child, or offer them two choices, both of them simple and common so you won't have to badger your kids them for a decision. This will make for an optimal experience while I am forced to share a public space with your family.


3. CONTROL YOUR GODDAMN CHILDREN

I feel like this complaint is on every list ever written about the problems singles have with other people's kids, but it's always on said lists because the parents have yet to learn.

I was walking my dog from the park one day when a little boy, four-years-old I'd say, ran off his front stoop and followed me around the corner. His mother didn't stop him, so I got worried and slowed down my pace, afraid that he would follow me too far and get lost (it takes a village, people. Oh ha, totally unintended pun!) As the little boy followed, he ran up and started to hit my dog on the back. "Don't do that," I warned, "he doesn't like that." When my dog turned around to see what rude jerk was hitting him, the little boy ran away. But 30 seconds later he was behind me again, this time with a stick in his hand, which he proceeded to hit my dog with. This kid must be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, since he was so obsessed with abusing my dog.

"No, don't do that," I told him, trying not to be a total bitch but at the same time furious that his mother thought it appropriate to let her little freak of nature wreak havoc on me and my dog. My dog turned around, and I didn't hold him back - he lurched at the boy, thus sending him running home. That was the last we saw of him.

Parents: I understand that you think your child is special and that they should be allowed to roam wild so as to find their unique talents. I also know that you believe that we as adults should understand that for a child to fully develop, we need to be understanding when the child throws tantrums at the post office and uses your keys to draw SpongeBob on the side of our car. But what you think is not normal, so your opinion is moot. Therefore, stop raising monsters. I shouldn't have to deal with your uncontrollable child now, and I certainly don't want to pay for your uncontrollable child when he or she ends up in the state pen.

I'd blog if I could...

I know it's taking me forever - 4 days, as Vern pointed out - for me to post, but I have a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and I'm experiencing bouts of painful diarrhea that cause me to run to the bathroom while watching Bravo. I attempted to write, but my head is too whoozy from all the DayQuil I've been popping. So bear with me, folks. If you're good, I'll write about the experience complete with pictures of my toilet droppings.

Good Night and Good Luck,

AndSheWas

PS Who gets sick in the middle of August??? I think this has something to do with all the rain at APW...

VIP tickets are for suckers

This past Sunday the bf and I went to All Points West, a music festival headlined by Jack Johnson and Radiohead. My bf is friends with the bodyguard of a very famous set of sisters, so he was able to procure us two VIP passes free of charge. When we went to the venue on Sunday and picked up our tickets, we were ecstatic to find the them waiting for us, as if we had hobnobbed with Jack Johnson and his manager ourselves! Maybe that's what was in store for us! Our heads (well, mine) swirled with glitzy thoughts of watching the artists perform ten feet away while standing in the wings of the stage.

But that was not what happened...at all. These VIP tickets, which cost $50 more than the general admission tickets, weren't shit. Or were shit. And here I am to expound the reasons why the extra price is totally not worth the "perks" promised by VIP tickets.

Nevermind that it started raining as soon as we got through the VIP entrance, which had a marginally shorter line than where the general admission peeps waited. Confused as to where the VIP section was, where there was free champagne and hors d' oeuvres waiting for us, we slipped into the nearest beer garden. But it's hard to drink beer while being pelted with globules of water, so we draped ourselves in $2 garbage bags and went in search of the other VIPers. Where WAS the section designated for the elite? Where would we find shelter from the rain while conversating with Cat Power and her roadies? Where would I chat up other celebs partaking in the festival?

We asked a worker where the VIP section was, and he pointed to somewhere in the distance. Our gaze followed his finger...many, many yards away from the stages and festivities sat a remote cluster of tents, closed off from the public.

That doesn't make sense, I thought. Why would the artists trudge all the way from the stage to the far-removed VIP area? I don't even see the tour busses. But we walked over to what we presumed the promised land.

The "promised land," we soon found, consisted of three cramped tents brimming with VIPers seeking shelter from the weather. The few couches alotted were piled with people lounging, bored by being forced to watch the concert from a couple of monitors. In lieu of champagne and hor d'oeuvres, there was a BBQ vendor charging $17 for a pulled pork sandwich and $4 for a 20 oz. bottle of Pepsi. Though it was freezing, a shoddy AC bathed us in chilly air. Because we had arrived to the VIP section late, we were left with no room to sit.

I was shocked. THIS was what an extra $50 afforded you? A few rickety tents with our own food vendor charging exhorbitant prices? Since the tickets were free, I was able to roll with it, but I couldn't help but think what fools the other patrons must have felt like.

I thought maybe the VIP stages would make up for the dismal VIP section, so we waited out the rain, then ventured back to the festival. We came to find that the VIP stages were nothing but an elevated platform roughly 50' x 40' in size, 40 feet back from the stage. And it was packed. At maybe 5 feet higher than the ground, it didn't afford us that much better of a view.

So we watched a bit of Ben Harper's set from the platform, then traipsed back to the VIP area to use the bathroom (I will say, the lines for the toilet were pretty short). We got back to the stage area as Jack Johnson was performing, and the bf wanted to try out the VIP stage again. But just as we approached it, a worker said, "No more! It's full!"

Wha-whaaaat? We, who had presumably paid at total of $140 per ticket for one day of festival, would not even be aloud in the VIP section, which we had presumably paid for?????? My bf was livid - it was total bullshit! That moment effectively jaded us both on VIP ticket-holding; it's for suckers.

Oh and also: the beer system was bogus. It worked like this: There were four beer gardens, removed from the stages, and you could only drink your beer in the garden. Once you presented your ID to the workers, they marked your hand with a purple Sharpie and wrapped an orange band around your wrist with 5 tabs hanging off of it. The 5 tabs signified the five beers you were allowed to drink while at the festival - for every beer you purchased, they ripped off a tab. Once you'd had your five beers (and what beer drinker WOULDN'T imbibe five beers at an all-day festival?), that was it. If you were lucky enough to find a worker sympathetic to your tab-less plight, they would sell you another wristband for $20. Yeah, fucking classy.

But fuck you, greedy festival workers, my bf was sly and found a way around your bullshit rules: He tore his empty wristband off and scrubbed the permanent marker off his hand. When he went to procure another band, the bartender questioned why his skin was raw and red, but with little to prove my bf was putting one over on him, he gave him another band. Still, we had to pay $7 a beer.

Also: the festival workers were ratting out the ganja smokers! I saw one kid get pulled from the crowd and escorted out by 5 state troopers because he was puffing on a joint. I'm not a big mary jane connoisseur, but even I thought the kid was written a bad check. You should feel safer at an outdoor music festival than in your own home to smoke some reefer.

In all, what saved us from being totally pissed off at All Points West was the fact that our tickets were free (and Jack Johnson's set was wonderful). But when it comes to my own money, I will never buy VIP tickets, and I will never go to the APW festival again. Festivals are nothing but corporate greed these days, anyhow. I wish it was 1969 so I could go to Woodstock and roll around in the mud with hippies.

Though your music is brilliant, your greed is ruining my fond memories!

"How much money does Led Zeppelin need that people imagine a shitty car whizzing by when they hear their songs?" - Trent Reznor

Ok, that's not an exact quote, it's the gist of what I remember reading in a 2002 issue of Rolling Stone. It was such a funny and poignant comment that I remembered it six years later, and I wanted to use it for this post, even if I am committing some form of libel.

Because I am cheap and poor, I still use an old-school iPod shuffle, these days available for $20 bucks in the Apple store bargain bin. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in size (memory vs. weight, sillies!) Also, without a screen to tell me what song is playing, every song is like a fresh, Christmas-morn gift. Morose Beck followed by groovy Dead is like bawling your eyes out at a good movie, and immediately afterwards seeing a skateboarder crack his nuts on a guardrail.

So my iPod constantly surprises me with music that I unintentionally uploaded to it. This was the case with INXS's "New Sensation," a poppy tune from a much-loved 80's band. When it played on my iPod today, I was at first elated and energized, but the feeling quickly left me - instead of imagining Michael Hutchence's beautiful visage crooning the lyrics, all I could think about was a fucking Bally's commercial.

People sweating on stair-steppers, be-spandexed trainers giving the thumbs-up, and lots of close-ups on abnormally taut abs - ahhhh! The image was more visceral than the actual music video. I had to skip the song; listening to it was actually churning my stomach.

And what a fucking shame. When I was little, my mother's greatest loves were cleaning the house and jamming out to INXS (my father could rot with his tools for all she cared). So we'd grab the mop buckets, crank up the stereo, and let the rockin' songs of INXS guide our soapy rags over the messy counter and dusty bookshelves. Maybe not a noteable memory to some, but an important one to me.

But now that's all been overshadowed by the Bally commercial and INXS's filthy greed. Why'd you do it, INXS? Hutchence has been dead for several years now, so he had nothing to do with the leasing of your rights - would it have never happened if he were still alive?

INXS isn't the only perpetrator to grant some corporate conglomerate the rights to their songs. Here's is a list I compiled SANS INTERNET SEARCH:

The Cars, "Just What I Needed" - granted rights to Circuit City
Heart, "Barracuda" - some car company that's shilling a van
Whoever sang "Fly Like an Eagle" (The Eagles?), "Fly Like an Eagle" - US Postal Service
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" - some car company

Hmmm, can't think of anymore off the top of my head. But there's more, I tell ya!

It's different, though, if a band leases rights to a movie; it doesn't bother me a bit. I guess that's because I regard movies as works of art, and the music is there to stylize the art, not convince me to waste my money on a crappy product...even though movie studios are just as guilty of trying to sell me crap. Hum...

Then again, I have loved - and actually bought - music that I heard from a commercial, like The Greenskeepers "Vagabond," the song used to promote the Liberty City Grand Theft Auto game. Boo-urns to this whole argument - I'm more contradictory than McCain, or the Bible.

Should I just forgive these aging artists for allowing companies to prey upon consumers with their music? Ok, I forgive you, but it doesn't change the fact that when I hear your commercialized tunes on the radio or iPod, I opt not to listen; in fact, I get soured on the other songs in your library, too.

An achievement better than earning a college degree, or losing your v-card

Triumph!

Tonight marks the best accomplishment I have achieved in my adult life thus far. Though it has nothing to do with my career aspirations, money, or romantic life, it is a prime example of the rewards given when you are inexorably diligent.

About a week ago, my computer stopped connecting to the wireless network in my apartment. I waited it out, thinking that the networking problems were a glitch that would fix themselves. Wednesday and Thursday came, and still no ability for my computer to connect to the internet, even after I pulled every connection trick I knew out of my back pocket. My adapter showed signs of connecting on Friday, but my ability to access the internet was intermittent. The weekend arrived, and I left my computer alone, hoping that the router's signal would improve by Sunday night.

That never happened, and tonight it became apparent that the router was dead. And there was no fucking way I was going to endure another www-less night.

Purchasing a new router was the first inclination, but after scoping out prices on my roommate's computer (he still had internet access, since his computer is wired into the internet connection), I decided that wasn't happening - there are more colorful and majestic ways to spend $70, like on the rent, or dinner.

An ethernet cord lay in the spare room. Rather than go out and buy more junky computer equipment, I decided to make lemonade with my means; my "means" also included a ladies hammer and a chisel, as well as little care to what damage I did to my bedroom wall.

I endeavored a la Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption - hammer in the right hand, chisel in the left, I pummeled the plaster around the small hole my cable cord was threaded through. After about 20 minutes with little plaster eroded, I ran to a friend's and borrowed her power drill. The drill worked better, but in a strange twist, it turned out the wall wasn't made of just plaster - seemed there was some kind of wood holding the wall up, and this wood had hulk-like strength.

I persisted. I jabbed and sawed away at the wood, which for all I knew was actually copper plumbing or a beam that was supporting the entire apartment building. But none of that mattered; seriously, I was so obsessed with getting a connection to the internet that I would have taken a sledgehammer to the wall. Sweat dripped from my pits and forehead; my legs cramped from sitting on them for so long; my joints screamed at me as I forced my limbs into twisted positions, crouched behind my and my roommate's desks.

An hour of amateur millwork later, the hole seemed big enough from both sides. It took another hour to thread the damn ethernet cord through it, a job that made me feel very MacGuyver like - I actually used manipulated paper clips to hook the cord and pull it through the wall. But finally, after roughly 2.5 hours of drilling and peering through a dusty, jagged hole in the wall, the cord was swiftly plugged into my computer and the router, and after some minor configuring....TA-MOTHERFUCKING-DA! I sit here detailing my experience for you fine folks via the internet.

In a way, connecting to the internet is just icing on the cake. I'm oddly proud of myself for meeting this obstacle with ingenuity and an unwillingness to give up. I could have thrown my hands up at any moment, traipsed up to Circuit City and slammed $70 on the counter for a new router, and lived on Ramen for the next two weeks. I've never been especially proficient at handywork or using powertools, and the notion that I was effectively costing us our security deposit was always in the back of my mind. But lookee here! There are few times in life when you take on a project you are ill-equipped to accomplish, yet your sojourn proves fruitful - as far as I'm concerned, this is one of those times. Will I ever feel this glorious again? All I gotta say is that my firstborn better be pritty special if he/she ever wants to live up to my most awesomest accomplishment yet.

Can someone explain the mechanics of oatmeal to me?

The other night I decided to have some honeynut oatmeal for dinner.

After dumping one packet in a bowl, it was apparent that one packet would not suffice. So I poured in another.

The cooking instructions called for 2/3 cup of milk (or water, if you're lame). Now it didn't say 2/3 cup per packet, but it seemed obvious that if you were making two packets of oatmeal, then you'd double the necessary ingredients labeled on the package.


2/3 cup + 2/3 cup = 4/3 cup, or 1 and 1/3 cup. Right? I'm no Pythagoras, but basic fractions are not beyond me. So I poured in just one full cup of milk, since I like my oatmeal thick, and popped it in the microwave.

What I was presented with when the mike timer sounded was a soupy mess akin to pig slop.

I mean, I still ate it - I'm not the most discerning when it comes to what goes in my mouth (That's what she said! - hey-o! - ba-dum-ba!) - but wtf? My homemaker skills are bad enough as it is without Quaker Oats giving me shitty cooking directions.

All my life I've been told to use common sense, even after people (my mom) told me I have none. My common sense told me to double the amount of milk if I was making two packets. But that was wrong.



Do I have horrible logic, or is Quaker Oats run by nazis? My common sense is telling me there's truth in the latter part of that statement.