And She Was...

Hmm, perhaps I am a sick freak

2008-11-27T11:07:00.004-05:00

"I know, right? What kind of a sick mind would think that a chain of butcher shops inspired by Ed Gein was a good idea?"

Actually, maybe the question should be, "What kind of a sick mind even thought to allude to Ed Gein as a caption for this contest?"

For those of you who aren't familiar, the above is the cartoon from this week's New Yorker caption contest. Every week on the last page of their issue, The New Yorker publishes a cartoon without a caption, and invites the readers to submit their own. The hundreds (dozens?) of contenders are competing for, well I don't really know, but I'm betting the prize The New Yorker awards to the winner pales in comparison to the fact that winners get to brag about their caption being chosen. I mean c'mon - if my caption were to ever be chosen (not that I've ever sent mine in...their all humorless bastards anyways...don't know a good caption when they see it! Their content to just let captions that people put their sweat and tears into flounder in the pile! Um, ahem), I'd totally eschew the year's supply of Rice-a-Roni to just carry around the issue my caption was published in and shove it in every passerby's face, declaring, "Look! The New Yorker, one of the most intelligent and intellectual magazines written today, deems ME as witty and clever!" (Rightfully, the passerby would then pummel me with his/her issue of Cat Fancy)

And I can't even be honored for being the first to think of writing an anti-caption. Seinfeld made fun of New Yorker cartoons back in 1998, and every week, Daniel Radosh features his own anti-caption contest on his blog.

But I was a bit taken aback when, as I first laid eyes on this week's New Yorker contest cartoon, I thought of alluding to Ed Gein. What kind of a sick freak am I? One of my first posts on this blog was about how The Aristocrats joke could serve as a Rorschach test, and now I'm thinking the same holds true for the New Yorker caption contest.

Then again, the cartoon takes place at a butcher shop, there appears to be dancing Rockettes sitting in the meat counter, and weirdly, there is a hacksaw hanging in the background. An allusion to Ed Gein - or any other demented serial killer - seems inevitable. Maybe a Patrick Bateman reference is more current?

So obviously I can't send my Ed Gein caption into The New Yorker - how about this one?

"Using the meat counter as advertising space brings in WAY more money than the ground chuck ever did."

Sigh. I'm never gonna win that caption contest.

I want to be a nude model

2008-11-08T11:48:00.005-05:00

As some of you know, I recently started a new job. This past week was my first with the new company, and HO.LY. SHIT. The amount of information I have absorbed, and the fast-pace of this work environment, has me seriously contemplating if I have gotten in over my head.

Just to indicate how dire the situation is - I don't even know what this company does. Are you computing that? I was hired to help them compete in their industry and keep the company functioning at peak performance, and I don't even know what they do!!!! I'm learning the ropes, the terminology and jargon is slightly less greek to me than it was five days ago, but after waking up at 6:30 am, working for 12 hours straight, then stumbling back home around 9 pm, I'm barely able to digest and organize all the information that was thrown at me.

And it's even more than not thinking I can do the job - I don't know as if I want to do the job. Or any job that requires me to stay on top of 20 things at once, work 60+ hours a week, then feel like a zombie when I finally plop my ass on my couch.

This is why nude modeling has all of a sudden become an ideal profession to me.

My body isn't bad. I don't think it's Playboy ready, but I have the goods so that if I wanted to pose for Playboy, all I'd need to do is work out and tone up for a few months, and then Mr. Hefner might seriously consider putting me in his magazine. My boobs are already Playboy ready, not to sound like a raging narcissist, but every guy or girl who ever had the privilege of laying eyes on them has confessed that my breasts are beautiful. And on top of how gorgeous they are, they're natural. The genes I inherited made me struggle with acne (which has cleared up fairly well, BTW), but hey, I got a nice rack. Genes are very give and take.

Nude modeling - or any profession that required one to use their body as an object - always seemed below me. I eschewed the premise of not using my mind to earn a living because being intelligent and knowledgeable is the highest achievement anyone could pursue. Not to mention, intelligence is sustainable, whereas looks are not. It takes a lot of plastic surgery to nude model when you're 40.

But now I feel like a massive moron for not using what God gave me to bank some buck when my body was at the zenith of its suppleness. I have finally come to the conclusion that nude models are the most intelligent people in the world - they are hot AND they are geniuses. They realize that money means the difference between a good life and a bad life, and if you want a good life, why be proud? Why spout off about the integrity of intelligence and the goodness in bettering your mind, why bother to be an intellectual when it doesn't matter AT ALL how smart you are if you're living under an overpass and eating out of dumpsters?

And even beyond being smart - why force yourself to work 60+ hours a week for the good life when all you need do is take your clothes off and earn the same amount?

Well, most nude models probably don't make the same amount of money as say my boss, but they can earn enough to at least live comfortably - and all they have to do is stretch out on crushed velor blankets while naked! Jesus, I'd love to lay naked on crushed velor, but I can't afford crushed velor, and I don't have the time to lay naked on crushed velor! So to imagine doing so while getting paid for it - now that is the good life.

I used to think nude models, porn stars, and strippers were deluded and sad when they'd say things like, "I LOVE what I do for a living. It's the best job in the world!" But now I can see that I always thought like that so I could feel better about the path I chose, the path to be an intellectual instead of an object.

There's gotta be some downsides to earning a living as a sex symbol - I better see some in the comments before I decide to move to Cali and get a job as Maggie Gyllenhaal's titty double.

UPDATE: It is Sunday, and I have spent the past 7.5 hours working on this huge proposal my company has due tomorrow afternoon. And it's my first week. KILL ME PLEASE.

It's gettin, it's gettin, it's gettin kinda hectic

2008-11-02T16:55:00.003-05:00

Thank you Jebus for making November 4th right around the corner, because I think when I say that I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS FUCKING ELECTION, I echo the sentiments of many. The Obama vs. McCain epic has soaked up everyone's energy, and the 2008 presidential election has been on most liberals minds ever since Bush got reelected in 2004. That's four years - four years of speculating, debating and praying that Americans be given the right candidate to fix all of Bush's fuck-ups.

Last week I became embroiled in a fairly volatile email exchange with some friends from back home (Ohio). Maybe I shouldn't have demonstrated my disgust for a mass anti-Obama email a pal sent out by cc'ing everyone on the list (many of whom I didn't know) and stating that McCain was a crazy old man and that everyone who voted for Bush in the last two elections owe Americans and the rest of the world big time for his fuck-ups. But if you're going to send out a political email one week before the election, particularly one that was full of inaccuracies as this anti-Obama email, then you have to be prepared for the backlash.

So I cc'd everyone on the list, and two receivers (of whom I attended high school with) decided to respond to me by accusing me of being an ignorant lazy socialist, and one of them (who used to babysit me, actually) went so far as to accuse me of being anti-American and suggested I move to another country.

I won't go into the details on how I layed the verbal smackdown on these two idiots, but just to demonstrate how badly the McCain campaign has it right now, I will say that one of them used a doctored photo to prove her point. Like, come on - this is what McCain supporters are forced to rely on to defend their candidate?

But the fact is, I got into a bitter argument with people I grew up with, and it went beyond the political - there were some harsh, personal attacks thrown back and forth, and I'll never be able to look at these girls the same again, as I'm sure they view me. Political debate should never get that dirty amongst friends, but it is especially inevitable in this election - there is so much on the line, and so much passion for those who really believe

So I am ready to bid you adieu, presidential election 2008. It was a fun, bumpy ride, one full of intrigue, disappointment, disbelief, rebelief and tears (yeah, I might have cried a few times, don't judge). But my mind has been sapped, and my energy is not infinite. The last bit I have left will be spent on Tuesday, when I'll be wringing my hands and checking the polls and grasping for every piece of political news and expert opinion I can. How it all ends will dictate my next big move - either streaking through the streets on a champagne-induced drunk, or starting the next American revolution.

Life update: Everything has changed!

2008-10-26T11:35:00.004-04:00

ONCE AGAIN, I have been severely delinquent on my blogging. In the almost two weeks since my last post, a lot has changed, and my time has been monopolized with composing the new life on which I'm about to embark.

Previously I lamented the fact that my employer was going to cut back my hours to part-time, and since I could not survive working part-time, I had to find a new job. I was scared, folks, and worried out of my fucking skull. Given today's job market, and the fact that thousands in the NYC metro area are getting laid off (or about to be laid off), it seemed that finding other means of employment would be nil for a girl with less than two years of professional experience under her belt. And without a trust fund to fall back on, a month of no work would prove to be disastrous.

But I found a job, and though it's a corporate gig (therefore Satan incarnate, or so I've been told), it pays way better than my previous employer ever could have, plus I get health benefits, and the option to partake in the company's profit-sharing. How I found the job and procured it is amazing, because it really does have a lot to do with time and place and circumstance (and NOTHING to do with who I knew). In his essay Here is New York, E.B White confides to the reader that New York can be a dubious place to live and that "no one should come to New York to live unless they are willing to be lucky." That line resonates much more now after analyzing the way in which I found my new employer.

That's not to say that it was all dependent on luck; I had to go on three separate interviews for this gig! It is was gut-wrenching waiting to hear back from them, and every day without an answer was making me sick.

But now that weight is off - whew!

When I wasn't tearing my hair out and puking from anxiety, I was in the midst of moving into a new apartment! The bf and I found a great space with a backyard and jacuzzi bathtub, and it's actually cheaper than the apartment that I just moved out of. I'm not completely moved in yet, but it's getting there. Can I get the readers' opinions on this wallpaper sample - it might be a little too retro for the funk I'm going for in the living room (it'll go on just one wall, mind you!)

SO that is the life update - I now promise to get back to blogging about weird, over-sharey and inappropriate things on a regular basis.

Mrs. P, stop keeping me awake at night!

2008-10-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

I have a fairly reliable long-term memory. In fact, one of my earliest memories is from when I was in diapers (and no, I'm not talking about that crazy time with the football team, the goat, and the box of Depends). It is brief, but I can conjure an image of myself in our living room with big white furniture, donning red footie pajamas and a fresh set of Huggies.

My excellent long-term memory is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, when a debate arises about something that happened years ago, I deftly settle the score and get the record straight by recalling the incident with detailed accuracy. This pisses my mother off on a regular basis. She will bring up a story from my childhood, and even though I love her, she has no right to retell certain events so that she comes out of it looking like the paradigm of superb child-raising - so I call her out. One day a year or so ago, she was telling a friend how understanding and open she was when it came to my sister and I going to college. "I always told them, no they didn't have to go to college for all four years, but they had to give it at least one year to see if it was meant for them. They had to at least give it a chance."

When I overheard my mother say this, I interrupted, as rude as it might have been. "No you didn't!" I cried. "You never gave us that choice - we were going to graduate from college, and that was final in your book."

"Oh no, I distinctly told you and your sister that you only had to go for one year -"

"Na-uhhhhh!" And this is where I broke into a tiresome diatribe concerning all the minute aspects of every conversation she'd ever had with me about college.

Aside from the inane minutia about the past I like to throw up in people's faces, there are other negative symptoms incurred by my elephantitus brain. The injustices suffered at the hands of my ego-maniacal elementary school teachers constantly haunt me, ghosts from the past that probably most people forget, but I replay in my mind when it has nothing to do but think. So I am starting a recurring column where I expound a crime committed against me by one of my teachers. This, I think, will serve as a bit of therapy for me (though the readers might find it hard to relate to...oh well, one of the perks of writing a blog is that you can be as self-indulgent and boring as you want!) Conversely, feel free to use to comment section to bitch about that waddle-necked bitch you had in primary school who always found a way to make your life miserable.

The Perp: Mrs. P, my second-grade teacher

The Crime: Being a screechy bitch-vulture who taught bad penmanship

My second-grade classmates and I were learning cursive, and the letter of the day was T. As customary for primary school, we were working on wide-ruled, triple-lined paper, where the middle line bifurcates the space between the top and bottom lines with a level dash. This effectively makes the writing area vertically symmetrical.

As we all know, lower-case cursive t's are not only shorter than their upper-case counterparts, but the two lines that make-up the character are perpendicular like a cross, not a plus sign. Because Mrs. P was a bizzaro penmanship nazi, she insisted that we write our lower-case cursive t's so that they touched the top line, AND she wanted the middle line of the t to meet the middle dashed line (are you people following this? Even I'm starting to get cross-eyed from this description). Essentially, she demanded that we make them look like the retarded bastard cousin of what a real lower-case cursive t should look like.

We knew she was wrong. We ignorant second-graders knew this woman was giving into the demands of our wide-ruled baby paper, and we weren't having it. Several of us approached her desk. "But that's not what it looks like," we told her. "Look at what it looks like in our primer books." (Of course we didn't say "primer books," we were seven for chrissakes, but bear with me here)

"No!" she squawked. "Your writing has to match the paper! Do it the way I say!" (What gets me the most, with every complaint I have about my elementary school teachers, is that they felt totally entitled to scream, yell, bark, snarl and gnash at us kids, even when we approached them with subdued temperament. And yes, THAT is how it always went down - the calm children-Davids against the crazy frothing teacher-Goliaths. Remember, my long-term memory is magical and all-knowing, so OF COURSE these stories are being described to you with unfailing accuracy)

Despite the massive evidence we had against her theory - didn't she realize it was just lines on paper, not to mention a format of writing paper that we would never use again after the second grade? - we complied with her batshit penmanship demands. To this day, I lie awake at night wishing I'd known just the right words to say to lay the smack down on Mrs. P for this indiscretion. Though I eventually learned how to write a cursive t properly, I'll always feel the pain from the injustice I and my classmates were dealt that fateful day in second grade.

Why I've been MIA

2008-10-12T16:59:00.003-04:00

In case you were all too busy mourning at the feet of the Pieta in light of the massive downturn our economy has taken, let me inform you that I haven't blogged for a week. A week!!!! That's kind of unlike me. Oddly, I feel some sense of duty to the handful of friends, acquaintances and strangers who read this blog, and a week of absence is like a tender promise being broken. I have failed you sorely.

Oh but then again, I found out last week that my hours are being cut back, and it sent me into a job-searching frenzy. So I guess I had the right to not give a shit about this blog OR the pseudo promise I was breaking. The readers are on the low end of the totem pole when it comes to my priorities (unless you can get me a job, and in that case, when can I start blowing you or painting your garage?)

With regards to the job front: It's not ALL that bad. Yet. My hours are only being cutback, so it's not like I'm going to be destitute. I've got a job interview on Tuesday, and I have a couple good leads, one of which I will be eating dinner with on Wednesday night. Also, there's the boyfriend, and the boyfriend knows I don't like to have sex when I'm hungry. So be assured that I'll stay well-fed.

But these are tough times, and it's an especially tough time to find a job in New York. Too easily this job hunt could turn into a futile, aggravating journey, a journey where the only thing I discover about myself is that I hate everyone and everything and have a penchant for drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag while standing next to a burning oil drum.

Or maybe I'll find a SWEET job, one that pays better than my current employer ever did, and I'll make more money than I ever imagined, AND THEN this employer will open the door to the industry that I really want to work in, and because I didn't have any money in the stock market, I'll end up coming out better from this economic disaster than anyone else. Do you think? Could it be? Believe it and be it, believe it and be it! Ok, I believe; in order to prove to myself how much I believe, I'm going to rack up my credit card with a bunch of debt since surely I'll be a rich woman in 3 months time.

Sidenote: I realize that once before on this blog, I spelled Valium (as in the pills) like volume, as in how loud or soft you play your music. I just wanted to clarify that I am not a full-on idiot, I just have spurts of retardation where I misspell simple, everyday words. Don't even get me started on how often I misspell the word suttle.

It's starting to look a lot like Christmas because retailers are trying to sell us shit

2008-10-04T16:38:00.003-04:00

I am not a doll designer...nor would I want to insult anyone who put their heart and soul into sculpting this little baby's face...but this thing looks like it is in the middle of taking a huge baby dump into it's cloth baby diaper. Cute?

Too bad the scan didn't come out sharper, because it doesn't quite capture the exquisite pain etched into this doll's face. I scanned it from an insert that fell out of my neighbor's Fingerhut catalog. As I was rifling through the mail it dropped onto the floor at my feet. Like any apathetic New Yorker, I was going to leave it there for someone else to clean up (hey! It didn't fall out of my catalog), but something about the baby's face caught my eye...it looked way too much like Damien, in fact that little green cap is probably hiding a 666 emblem. Thus, I had to share it with my readers. Hope you don't get nightmares!

The Heavenly Handfuls web site offers 4 different babies to choose from, and get this - they're only six inches long! That must be good because the web site is so proud to tell us that fact - only six inches long! Only $29.99 for six inches of plastic!!!!! WHEEEEEEEE!

Maybe my sarcastic enthusiasm is a bit overkill, but let us all note what it says on the baby's cap: "I Melt for No One." Well fuck you too, tiny baby dressed in green. Let's both sit on a radiator and see who melts quicker.

I = Sarah Palin? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

2008-10-01T21:18:00.005-04:00

Let's all get something straight: Tina Fey and Sarah Palin do not look a goddamn thing alike.

As soon as Palin's mug was broadcasted on tv screens across the nation, everyone just couldn't believe the uncanny resemblance Palin bore to Fey (or Fey to Palin? What's the chicken and egg in this instance? Oh god, nevermind, please don't waste brain cells considering that). "What a boon to Fey's SNL career!" everyone proclaimed. In fact, a Mr. Scott Sode of NYC took the time to write into TV Guide about the dopplegangers - he's quoted in the September 15 issue of the magazine, next to side-by-side photographs of the 4-eyed brunettes. "Separated at Birth?" TV Guide inquiries of the the ladies.

But I'm here to state - for the record - that Tina Fey and Sarah Palin look nothing alike! Sure, Fey is the most qualified to play Palin on SNL, but the mild likeness they share is not something people should be in awe over. Observe:

(Ok I know, Fey's is a recent pic while Palin's was taken when she was a baby fetus, but it was the only pic of Palin I could find where she wasn't wearing glasses and that is the crux of my argument)

Their jawlines are different. The shape of their eyes is different. The structure of their faces is really not all that similar, yet because they are attractive brunettes who happen to wear glasses, automatically they are twin sisters that has everyone wondering if they, too, have a mysterious lookalike hiding somewhere on the globe.

Put a pair of glasses of any of these lovely ladies, pile their hair on top of their heads, and bam - you've got Sarah Palin lookalikes.

Now why the reason for this petty bitching, you ask? (You are wondering that, right?) Because I have heard from three different people that, while wearing glasses with my hair pulled into a ratty bun, I look like Sarah Palin. And that's bullshit because I don't look like Sarah Palin, and furthermore, I don't wanna look like Sarah Palin!!!!!!!!!

I'm super self-conscious as of late to pull my hair up - which is my daily hairstyle - while brandishing my spectacles, which is currently a necessity because my contacts have been feeling like the devil's fiery tea saucers when sitting on my eyeballs. Palin is a household name now, so if three people think I resemble Palin, there's a good chance that every person I see, ever, is thinking the same thing. This is a heavy burden to endure, people! I don't want my looks to be synonymous with some babbling moose killer, an idiot who needs no mocking because her ridiculousness is so blatant. This is so goddamned unfair.

I'd love to wrap this post up with a cute little moral or expletive filled rant, but I need to find another day to day look that is nothing like Sarah Palin. What do you guys think - should I aim to look like Paris Hilton or Tila Tequila? I just need to look like less of an idiot than Sarah Palin, so either one of those ladies' styles should work.

UPDATE: An old college pal sent me this link after reading my blog - maybe I'm perceiving this likeness to Palin in the completely wrong way. I should be monopolizing on it, not hating it!

NEED SARAH PALIN LOOKALIKE ASAP (craigslist)

The highlight of my week

2008-09-26T14:45:00.002-04:00

The highlight of my week happened last night when my roommate decided to demonstrate how Lindsay Lohan and her gf express their love for one another. It was totally unsolicited, yet he took his hands, parted his fingers on both as if he were making the sign of the Vulcan, then connected them at their bases and squished them together. Presumably, this is how Lindsay and her gf mash pussies.

Ugh.

And that, my friends, is just the tip of the crude, crude heap that I've had to deal with in the past two years of living with this guy. He's self-edited himself a lot more since the beginning (I told him to), but there's still a lot of inappropriate things that come out of his mouth. My femaleness has little to do with it - the stuff he says would be weird in any company, be it a gaggle of choir girls or cell block D at Pelican Bay.

But news break! The bf and I have found a new apartment. The bf is so eager to get out of his current living situation (he hates his roommate) that he's prepared to move in October 1st and shoulder the $1500 monthly rent on his own, or at least until January (I promised the roomie I'd stay through December). So it looks like I'm about to enter a new chapter of my life. The chapter of my life where I get to walk around the apartment naked all the time. What a great new thing to blog about!

So have a fun weekend folks - I'll be in Pittsburgh until Monday, rehashing college memories with some long-lost pals. If you are good maybe I'll post some pictures of the shitshow that is sure to ensue.

Who do you want to punch in the face?

2008-09-23T11:28:00.004-04:00

I've been having trouble drumming up a topic to blog about, and I blame Will Smith for it. It's not the meltdown of Wall Street that has me troubled, it's not the specter of a McCain/Palin presidency that preoccupies my thoughts, it's that bothersome character who was plucked off the streets of Philadelphia and unleashed upon his rich aunt and uncle only to annoy the hell out of them - and me.

All I can think about (seriously, this has been on my mind for the past 4 days) is how much I fucking hate Will Smith's character on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I was watching it late the other night just before I drifted off into sleepy goodness, and it was unbelievable what a punk he was in that show. All I could do was lay there, my lip curled in disgust, and fantasize about punching him in the face.

Don't get me wrong - I like Will Smith just fine, and generally like him in other roles. Though The Pursuit of Happyness made me want to slit my wrists, Will Smith was well-deserving of his Oscar nod for that performance, and Men in Black will always hold a place in my heart on those Saturday afternoons when it's playing on cable and I'm hungover. But hay-zeus, what a mouthy, inappropriate little prick he is on Fresh Prince. If that were my household, his ass would have been in the juvenile delinquency center after the first week.

All this vitriol toward Fresh Prince era Will Smith got me to thinking about other television characters I'd like to punch in the face. Readers of this blog are familiar with my previous lists involving television - I detailed the Television "Friends" You Would Never be Friends with in Real Life, and The Top Six Kids Shows I Had No Right to Be Watching, so I thought maybe I'd do a post listing the Top TV Characters I Want to Punch in the Face. Fresh Prince Will Smith would be number one, with Carrie Bradshaw coming in at a close second...but that's all I got. This shouldn't be hard, television is practically my second mother, I've grown up with all kinds of horrible protagonists who the audience is supposed to relate to, but really all you want to do is shoot a harpoon gun through their eyeball.

Well you know what to do folks - what tv characters do you despise? Try not to make them "bad guy" characters either - you're supposed to hate those characters, they're written explicitly so you have a reason to root for the good guy. It's the loathed "good guys" that I'm looking for.

A tale of an annoying one-night stand

2008-09-19T00:01:00.002-04:00

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.

These incidentals keep me from blogging! Waaaaaaa!

2008-09-16T21:40:00.003-04:00

Is anyone still reading this blog? Well to the 2.5 of you that still are, let it be known that I have not been slacking all this time - in the past week, I have started three blog posts, and I can't find the heart to finish any of them. The first two were about the Palin fracas, which had all my obsession and interest for about 3 minutes last week. The third was about the Wall Street meltdown, but as I was writing it I realized that I have no fucking clue what I'm talking about, and I got all disgusted and flagellated myself with the bath mat.

Oh yeah, and I've also been laying around watching Mad Men. Tres cool show!

Though I'd like to write about a topic that is greatly affecting our nation, I've decided to wait for the next inane piece of "earth-shattering" news to come along - I will mercilessly analyze and dissect that with the rest of the internet. Until then, let us contemplate the fact that I am moving in roughly three months, and I need to decide what of my meager belongings I will either take with me or give to my roommate.

I don't have much, but some of what I have is worth keeping...or is it? An inventory and pointless assessment follows:

My computer: My mom bought this computer for me for $100 at a garage sale, and it is one of the best investments she has ever made. Though I had to replace the monitor a year ago, it is still speedy and serves my needs well. I'm kind of afraid of what my boyfriend's lack of computer skills will do to it after we move in together. I guess I should sit and have a talk with him about the memory-soaking dangers of downloading too much porn.

My Bed: Oh, if you only knew the pain and aggravation I had to go through because of this bed. Gldngirl knows all the petty details - in short, my college boyfriend gave it to me when he graduated because he didn't feel like hauling it back to his hometown (I still had a year of college left). We broke up about two months later. I said he could have the bed; he told me to keep it. A few months later he was calling my cell and stalking me on AIM demanding his bed. I said fine, come and get it; he told me to keep it. Fast-forward a few months, maybe a month before my own college graduation - and the douchebag started leaving me messages again about getting his bed back. At first I protested - who did he think he was? But after several people told me to just give it back, I told my ex, "fine, it's yours. I will haul it out to the stairwell for you to pick up. You won't see me, because I won't be around to see you." With the knowledge that I wouldn't be there for him to harrass and annoy in person, he said,"Naw, consider it a graduation present." And that was the end of that (well, the end of the harrassment over the bed anyways).

My boyfriend hates my bed. Though I have a Queen and his is just a Full, he'll refuse to give his up. I will inevitably toss mine. But this loss is actually a gain - now I'll feel entitled when I hang my Riot Grrls posters on the ceiling above our bed.

The Living Room Rug: This rug is kind of cool in an ugly kind of way. But my roomie's cat has used it as her own personal scratching post/litter box/kitten playground...meh, I'll just spray some Febreeze on it and it'll be good as new!

The Microwave: My bf has a microwave, but you know what? One of the things that my roommate does that INFINITELY pisses me off is the fact that he uses the microwave without a plate. He just tosses his food on the microwave's glass shield as if that was meant for hot dog roasting. Even worse, he doesn't clean the glass plate after using it! Ugh, and then I'll use a plate to warm up some Chinese, and I'll take the steaming noodles back to my bed, set the bowl on my comforter, then realize there is a big greasy stain soaking into my duvet because the grease from whatever my roomie cooked is on the bowl. MAJORLY ANNOYING.

So I'm going to take the microwave and throw it through the windshield of my roomie's car. THAT'LL TEACH HIM. Though this vindication might not feel so great from a jail cell...

Flatware and Silverware: I'll see what my boyfriend has, but if he has enough, the roommate can keep mine. So not worth the time to pack.

The Entertainment Center: I got the entertainment center from my mom, and my mom got it from a lady 8 years ago who was dragging it out to her lawn for the trashman. Verdict: The roommate can keep. Though I might be able to sell it to him by acting like I paid a lot of money for it.

My Air Conditioner: I did not bring my AC with me from Ohio, nor did I buy it while living in New York. It was a housewarming gift from my roommate's father - he bought one for each of us. Am I entitled to keep this? I feel kind of weird taking it, but since my bf only has one, it would be nice to keep...what do the readers think?

You know you've reached a new low when you're seeking advice from the internet.

Join me in my time machine: The first day of school!

2008-09-09T23:33:00.005-04:00

This post probably should have gone up last week, that being the first week of school and all...oh well, I'm a lazy bum, what can I say?

Does anyone remember the ledger on the inside of their school books? If you were lucky enough to get a brand-spanking-new text that first day of school, complete with crisp, fragrant pages and a shiny cover, you would sign your name to it and declare its condition as "Brand New". You would cherish it with one final caress of your hand across its veneer, and then you'd toss it in your desk or locker for it to get buried by dirty gym clothes, melted chocolate bars, and your handgun.

But let's say that, due to "lack of funding" (i.e. the vice principal used the school's bank account to pay for his hooker and gambling addiction), the school wouldn't be getting new textbooks that year. Or for the next five years. And when you would be issued yours, a third of the pages were ripped or torn out, the people on the front cover had their teeth blacked out by pen and badly drawn penises aimed at their mouths, and the ledger was filled up, so you had to sign your name and the book's condition two or three lines below it. Bitter about the fact that you were receiving a severely out-dated and battered text, you'd label the book's condition as "Fucking Old."

The above scenario didn't happen to me exactly, but I do remember in 7th grade being given a school book that was published in 1979. I entered the seventh grade in 1996. Though most of the stories were still relevant ("The Tell-Tale Heart" was one we read that year), it was demoralizing to be given something meant to help you learn that was so broke down, so trashed, so disgusting, and nearly 20 YEARS OLD. Who was looking out for the children? Didn't anyone care to give us the best supplies to help us learn? On the upside, our teacher didn't really care if we treated our texts like coloring books. She would actually kind of encourage us to vandalize them - "Sure, go ahead, they're horrible anyways."

I hope you all enjoyed this little foray into the past - quite nostalgic, no? Though maybe no one reading this had to suffer through misappropraited tax dollars that directly affected your education. Does that make me more real, more hardcore? No I don't think so, but it probably left me better prepared for a career in triple-X hardcore.

Sidenote: I originally ended this post with a joke (albeit poorly written) about having a kidnapped junior high student locked in my spare room, the explanation as to why I have a middle school textbook in my possession. I deleted it because I thought it might be crass and ill-received. What do the readers think? Is kidnapping a 12 y/o appropriate joke fodder? That comment section ain't there for nothin, folks.

The horror, the pain...the facial

2008-09-07T14:22:00.005-04:00

I write today of a story containing much woe and debilitating pain, a tale that will make you cringe as you read - it is also probably the most bourgeois complaint you will ever see on this blog.

It is the tale of the facial I received last Friday.

And perverts, let's get it straight from the get-go - it was a facial you get at a spa, not something that happens when 8 men profess their love to a woman in one of your XXX films.

But to be honest, after I stumbled home from the spa on Friday evening, I think I would have rather been on the receiving end of a bukkake than endured the assault on my face the facialist inflicted.

Early last week, I was looking at my face and running my fingertips along the t-zone - it was like a braille board, with dozens of tiny bumps festering under the skin. A summer of sweaty beach-going, camping, and blase skin care had left me with a face akin to the Yellowstone Caldera - about to blow at any minute with very, very bad results. Since I can't afford a dermatologist, a facial was in order.

I had never had a professional facial before, so I didn't know what was in store for me. I assumed that it would be a relaxing experience; the facialist would cleanse my face, rub some St. Ides scrub into my skin, and soothingly work out any clogs she came across (which would be many). My expectations were purported by clips I see on reality tv, like when the girls of The Hills, or Kate from John & Kate Plus 8, retreat to the spa for the ultimate in calm and rejuvention. I fully expected to come out of my facial with a new-found outlook on life.

It all started out fine enough. My facialist was eastern-European, which seemed totally appropriate, and after I told her it was my first time, she reassured me at every step. I undressed my torso and took off my shoes, laid on the spa bed, and allowed my body to de-tense as the facialist kneaded my shoulders and neck, and rubbed various ointments into my face. A sitar played from the speakers; the room was ensconced in low but warm lantern-light. This is nice, I thought, practically asleep. Why didn't I do this sooner? So what if it's an indulgence, I deserve an indulgence every now and then, don't feel guilty, just enjoy it, even if you COULD have given the money you're spending on this to charity, sshhh, sshhh, goddamnit would you just kick-back for once? Yes, this is how my mind works when I'm relaxed.

Just as I was about to drift-off into some warm, fuzzy nap state, my facialist said, "Ok, now ve vill begin vee ex-track-shun."

I didn't really respond, so she added, "Vis not so much fun."

"O-ohhh?" I was up, no longer lulled by the calming sensations of the room. Not fun? Like, when you're trapped in a boring college course not fun?

She placed a blindfold over my eyes. "How do you like ven you ex-track your blemishes at home?"

"Um, it's ok, I mean, I don't like it." I thought she was asking if I got my jollies by squeezing pus-filled whiteheads in front of my bathroom mirror. Indeed I do, but I didn't want her to think I was a freak.

"Vell, imagine vaht it feel like ven someone else do ex-track-shun."

Wait, what was going on? Why did she put a blindfold on me? The movie Hostel popped into my head.

"But don't vorry," she continued, as if there was an overhead projector connected to my brain that was displaying my fearful thoughts. "I use a needle to get out all vee hard stuff, and your face vill be smooth and beautiful."

A NEEDLE? But it was too late - the ex-track-shun had commenced.

She began with the nose, an uber-difficult place to push out blackheads if there ever was one. I tried not to squirm as she plied the cartilage, working the skin over the ridge of my nose, nearly breaking the fragile bone. At least she is starting with the nose, I thought. The nose is the most painful and frustrating area to pop zits - it should all be easy-peasy from here.

But I was wrong...I was so wrong. Imagine me saying that is a desperate, cracked whisper. I was so wrong. She moved to my problem area, my chin, and that bitch took the soft skin between her fingertips, gripped it like a vice, and squeezed that shit with all the mercy of Mussolini. Every muscle in my body tightened; the veins in my neck must have protruded two inches from the skin. Bullets of sweat sprang from my pits, and I'm not just saying this - I could literally feel pools of sweat cascade from my underarms. This was some serious pain.

And it only continued. With each new extraction, I prayed she would stop. My hands balled into fists and my toes curled like cheetos; my back had become a veritable swamp, since all the pain being inflicted on me had put my sweat glands into overdrive. Sure I was used to the brief sting of popping a zit, but the thing here was that she was extracting from bumps deep under the skin; many layers of epidermis had to be ripped open in order to deplete these potential blemishes. At one point she even said, "Your skin is so tight! Make for very difficult ex-track-shun."

Of course - only I would be someone with tight - yet clogged - pores.

Every millimeter of my face was pinched, and some areas had the pleasure of getting poked by her tiny needle. I think I now know what it feels like to receive Botox. It was so relentless, no time to breathe or recoup, just pain, grit grit git, GAH PAIN, grit grit grit, PAIIIIIIIN. People, I am not one easily provoked by the ache of the physical. I have always handled it well, and though I didn't scream out or tell her to stop at any time during our session, I have to say this was one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. Not the worst, but probably in my top five.

Throughout the facial, she kept talking to me. No, not idly chatting, but trying to engage me in conversation. She wanted to know about chemical peels I had had in the past and if they helped me or not because, wouldn't you know it? SHE had just taken a class on chemical peels and she wanted the perspective from someone who had actually had one... all this while she was facilitating fiery explosions from my face. I tried to be cordial, but all I could think was, bitch, shut-up! I really need to go to my happy place right now, and you are preventing that from happening.

And you know what made the whole thing even worse? I was having some stomach problems during the facial (translation: I had gas), and it was near impossible to not let one fly while I was writhing and gritting my teeth. The sheer fact that I did not A) cry like a baby or B) fart through it all puts me on the level of Superman.

Though it felt like a century, it was probably all done in 15 minutes. She applied a salve to my face then left the room as I reeled from the annihilation I'd just endured. Was it really over? Or was she about to return with a two-foot syringe in her hand and announce, "Oh you thought it vas OVER? You silly, silly American!"

But she didn't return for another 10 minutes or so, and when she finally did, she instructed me to get dressed. Ugh, gladly! I launched myself off the spa bed, got dressed, then spotted the wall mirror. I looked, but due to the low-lighting, I couldn't see the damage. Since my head felt like a hot, throbbing goiter, I knew it couldn't look good.

The walk home was hazy and a bit fevered; every inch of my face was prickly. I was happy for the darkness, since I didn't want passer-bys to be frightened by my boiling-red mug.

It is now a couple days later, and my face looks WORSE THAN EVER. It is dry and scabby. But the facialist did tell me it would look bad for a few days...le sigh.

So people, I tell you this story today so that the truth is known about facials - they are not enjoyable. They are not relaxing. They are, in fact, meant for masochists who enjoy the company of Easter-European broads. But as the old adage goes, no pain, no gain. It has yet to be shown if I gained the desired result, though - if my face turns out like the bottom of a newborn babe, then maybe I will visit my dominatrix-like facialist again in a few months. But I will do so after smoking two joints and imbibing a Volume.

David Duchovny, I wish you would fuck me (even now)

2008-09-03T14:29:00.006-04:00

I don't know what to make of this whole Sarah Palin fiasco, particularly the baby conspiracy that is straight out of a VC Andrews novel. I don't just mean the fact that her 17 y/o daughter is pregnant - I'm talking about the theory that Palin's newborn, Trig, may in fact be the progeny of her eldest daughter, Bristol, and the pregnancy debacle occurring now is all meant to cover-up the REAL pregnancy that happened a few months ago. Yes, click the link, Cajun Boy explains it so much better and in-depth than I.

I'm done thinking about all this Palin baby-drama (though this has really upped the ante as far as politico-family scandals go, no?). Now we will move onto to an even more DEEELISH scandal that has me all aflutter.

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Oh what sexual sparks this pic alone awakens...

The first time I can remember laying eyes on David Duchovny - I was 11-years-old and spending a Friday evening at my grandmother's house. The television flickered pale blue against the walls, a background accompaniment to the board game my sister and I were playing. A commercial came on; I looked up from the game, maybe because of the eerie music playing from the set. There, on the television screen, were a woman and man looking earnest, running to something, or away from it. They were cloaked in trench coats; they were searching. The commercial bade me to stay tuned for the premiere of a new FOX series, The X-Files.

The man in particular captivated me. I was only 11, but something was stirring - my imagination? My loins? Probably both. I tuned into the premiere and learned that this man played the male lead in The X-Files, Fox Mulder. The actor playing Mulder was David Duchovny, and I was in love.

From that day out, I was an avid X-File fan, and a precocious Duchovny lover. While most of the girls my age were googly-eyed for boys like JTT and Andrew Keegan, I was tuning in every Friday night (then later, Sundays), and watching as Fox Mulder (a man) cavorted with Jersey Devils, clandestine informants, Satan-worshipers, and of course, little gray men. Mulder was in search of the truth, a truth that was constantly being hidden by the government. And goddamn did he look for it in the sexiest way possible!

During my time as an X-Phile, I procured a rather large and diverse collection of memorabilia. Shirts, books, magazines, buttons, pogs - if it had something to do with The X-Files and David Duchovny, I owned it. I would have been a nerd* if The X-Files wasn't beloved by everyone else in my class, too - but no one loved it and Duchovny as much as me.

At night as I drifted off to sleep, Mulder and I would search for the truth together. We would meet by surprise - we had known each other during our FBI training and had shared a brief, passionate tryst. Since Scully was sick from the flu, Mulder would need a savvy professional to assist him on his next investigation, and I would grudgingly pinch hit (grudgingly because that's what makes for the best sexual tension. Did I mention I was also a 5'10" redhead? My fantasies were vivid AND drunk). Though we would be on assignment, our lust would overcome us, and inevitably...well, inevitably I'd start making out with my pillow. But anyways, this foray into my childhood fantasies is to say ZOMG I fucking loved David Duchovny and he is the only celebrity I ever truly pined for.

But here we are in 2008. These days, I pine for my bf (really!) And though Duchovny has been married for the past decade, turns out he's pining for lots of internet pornography. Turns out he's a sex addict!

I'm kind of turned on by him again after this revelation. Yeah, I know that's kind of skanky to say, but compound this real-life sex addiction with the charisma of his Californication character, Hank Moody - it's making me nostalgic for the days when I was a horny adolescent.

I leave you with a video that I saw only a few days ago - it sums up how I (and I guess everyone else) felt about David Duchovny in the 90's.

* Ok, I was probably a raging nerd.

In the company of old, misogynist men

2008-09-02T11:14:00.010-04:00

I like to consider myself a guy's girl. When in the company of men, I can hold my own; discussions about sports, boating, or tawdry sex do not bother me - in fact, I revel in the latter. When I'm talking about the lewd and crude, I've found my niche and am completely comfortable.

The bf and I went camping this weekend, and whadya know - I was the only chick there! Save for the female doggy that was limping around on a bum leg, I was the only creature with ovaries in the vicinity of our campground.

At first, this situation was fine. We're all human before we're our gender, am I right? So I smoked, drank, and in general caroused with the guys. While we imbibed Yeungling from a keg and toked our Parliaments, the conversation revolved around general "man" things (nary a discussion about lipsticks and nail polish was to be found. Not that they would have been had the group been comprised of mostly women, but you get my point). As dusk turned into night, the lot of us got drunker, and I took a small stroll around the lake with my dog. Upon my return, I was told by an older fellow that I needed to turn right back around - the conversation being had was not intended for a lady's ears. My boyfriend merely shrugged when I looked to him for instruction, and that was all he had to do - apparently he agreed that I should not be in the midst of whatever chauvinist, sexually-charged dialog they were having.

Being too drunk to produce a witty retort opposing my dismissal, I wandered away from the crowd, my dog in tow. My alcohol-addled mind began to debate what had just happened - I had just let a man talk down to me? I, Ms. Fuck-You-and-the-Misogynist-Horse-You-Rode-in-On, had allowed a dude to treat me like anything less than the autonomous, knowledgeable adult female that I am? Worse than that, my boyfriend didn't defend me, and I should have promptly commenced to making his life miserable for that infraction, yet I didn't! Well, these wrongs certainly had to be righted. I stumbled back over to the group.

"So what, are you guys talking about dirty sexual exploits over here?" My query was dead-on - yep, they were exchanging their most salacious bedroom stories. I knew immediately they were all just bullshitting each other. "Tell me some," I demanded.

"Oh we couldn't," one of the dudes said.

"Why not? I bet I've done filthier, more dastardedly things."

They all guffawed and exchanged curious looks. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I can't share my stories with him around." I jutted a thumb at my bf. "He couldn't handle hearing them." My bf's eyebrows lifted, then furrowed.

"Well he should leave, then!" All the guys were eager for my bf to take a hike. The bf gave me a look that said are you serious? "You should probably go somewhere else for a while," I told him. Taken aback, he did as I and the other dudes told him. That'll teach him not to have my back.

Well now I had to live up to my promise of delivering a sex story so demented it would make Caligula blush. I regaled them with a tale that involved multiple sex partners, but overall the story was a massive fail. They were all so disappointed in my tale and accused me of building up their hopes, but their attitude toward me had shifted - no longer was I a lady in their eyes; I had devolved to their gross male standards, and in this devolution, I found acceptance. Dare I say I had found a home?

Uh, no I do not dare. Because even though my refusal to be silenced (gosh I make telling sex stories sound so righteous!) had allowed me a spot in their male-centric circle, the lewd but fun conversation eventually spiraled into an out-and-out misogynist rant on one guy's part. Not only was it misogynist, but it was downright weird. The booze has fuzzed my memory, but somehow I found myself having a discussion with a man in his 60's, and this man could not keep his mouth shut about how much both of his sisters weighed. He was practically frothing at the mouth because his sisters, according to him, were "fat pigs." When and where is it ever normal to talk to total strangers about your sibling's weight?

At the beginning of the conversation, I thought maybe I could sympathize - maybe his sisters were dangerously obese and he was scared for their health. I asked him how tall they were, and how much they weighed.

"Oh, they're both about 5'11" and weigh like 180." I almost fell over upon hearing this revelation, because if what he said was true (and who knows? He might have been exagerrating their weight so I'd agree with him), this would give his sisters a BMI of 25.1, which is not problematic when you consider that a healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 24.9. Not to mention, his sisters have given birth to two children each!

Why was this douche's hate toward his sisters misogynist, and not just anti-fat? Because his younger brother was at the campground with him, and he was a chunky lard-ass if I ever saw one!

I started to lecture the guy about his ridiculous critique of his sisters, and it quickly escalated into a full-fledged "Gah you old men are so retarded!" tirade, so my boyfriend came over to calm me down. I was kind of wasted at that point, but I don't know if my reaction would have been any different had I been sober.

As I continued to drink, I also continued to talk - not a good combination. As punishment for banishing me in the first place, I made them all listen to my theories on the lives of heterosexual men when their significant others aren't around. I won't detail my theory here - but in a world of Larry Craig's and Mark Foley's, you can guess what it is I think heterosexual men do when the women are shopping or visiting their mothers.

In all, I was able to handle being a lone girl thrown in the mix of 10 straight, old-school, kind of uneducated, perverted guys. But I don't think I'd voluntarily choose such a situation, because seriously old men? You make me weep for the women of your generation who had to put up with your stupid asses.

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

2008-08-29T12:15:00.008-04:00

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).

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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

2008-08-26T14:29:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-24T21:33:00.006-04:00

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

2008-08-21T10:39:00.006-04:00

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

2008-08-20T22:06:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-17T23:36:00.005-04:00

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

2008-08-16T01:37:00.001-04:00

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...

2008-08-14T20:46:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-11T19:46:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-08-07T23:26:00.005-04:00

"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

2008-08-05T21:54:00.009-04:00

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?

2008-08-03T20:20:00.007-04:00

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.

If only he weren't a scientologist...

2008-07-30T19:48:00.003-04:00

Do any Beck fans read this blog? I'm a big Beck fan, despite the fact that an annoying ex-boyfriend, for whom I only have disdainful memories, introduced me to him.

Ok, he didn't introduce me - show me a person who's never heard Loser, and I'll show you my tits - but the first time I ever heard Sea Change (one of the best albums ever made), it was because of my ex.

I've been trying to build up my cd collection. Some may say compact disks are an ancient format, but I want a tangible form of music to pass onto my children. How do you share a moment with your child over an MP3 downloaded from iTunes? Also, the inserts, brimming with lyrics, liner notes, and artwork - the only thing that can match what you get with a cd is a record, and I can't download that to my computer and put it on my iPod. So you see...? Cds continue to be relevant in my book.

When I was a kid, I'd sit and go through my parents' modest cd collection, reading all the inserts and delicately studying the cover art (as a deeply religious child, this cover simultaneously confused and titillated me. Oy, if only my eight-year-old self knew the woman I'd become). Their library consisted of a lot of ZZ Top, Robert Palmer, Meatloaf, and Roxette. Eh, maybe they didn't have the best musical tastes, but it nonetheless helped create in me a deep love for music and music trivia (1960-Present. Don't ask me any questions about Handel or John Phillips Sousa).

My point: I like music, a lot, and only after seeing people who are "meh" about it do I realize that a love for music is not a given trait. I attribute part of my music appreciation to the fact that my parents always had something playing on the radio, and cared about it enough to invest in it by buying their preferred artists' work. So I would like to do the same for my children.

That was an ENORMOUS digression. Sorry. The real point of this post is to recommend Beck's new album, Modern Guilt. At this point in Beck's career, I'm convinced he can't disappoint. He's a genius, and who'da thunk? Maybe Loser was genius when it came out, but I don't know, as a seven-year-old it sounded like a silly ditty that used a funny language.

I'm not pretentious enough to try to compare this new Beck album to another artist's oeuvre, nor am I going to pick it apart and lament new Beck vs. old Beck like some Pitchfork-reading douche. I'm just going to say that I like it, and you should check it out:

I'm also recommending MGMT's album Oracular Spectacular.

Well Vern, to answer your question...

2008-07-29T10:55:00.003-04:00

It all went down last night - I told the roomie I was out of there in January.

And you know what? He was completely gracious and understanding.

I knew I was blowing the whole thing out of proportion, but I didn't know how much out of proportion. In the past, my roommate has over-reacted to things I've done or said, and no, never to the point wher I thought he was going to hurt me, but his attitude would turn from relaxed to intense in the blink of an eye. It always seemed like he lacked reason.

But he saw it coming. I've been dating my boyfriend for a while now, and that's just the natural progression of things - you meet someone, date, fall in love, then move in together.

Now that the hard part is out of the way...time to go apartment shopping!!!! Do other people normally get this excited over moving?

The new apartment must have these things, starting with most important to in my wildest dreams:

1. Dog-friendly
2. Two bedrooms
3. Ok, 1 bedroom, but is a reasonable price and has a large living and dining area.
4. A yard!!!
5. Alright, a roomy balcony.
6. A bay window?
7. Near the train.
8. On a block, not the avenue (actually, I don't care if it's on the avenue, but my boyfriend will have a coniption if it is).
9. A soda-pop machine.

If I don't blog again in four days, call the cops!

2008-07-28T14:41:00.006-04:00

So tonight is the night.

After work, I will briefly visit my boyfriend at his apartment, maybe even have dinner with him.

Then I will go to my apartment, and ask the roomie if we can have a chat.

Then it will be said: "Roomie, I am moving out in January."

!!!

Actually, I'm probably making a bigger deal out of this than I should be. I'm starting to psyche myself out. This is in no way a big deal...unless he ends up having some sort of nervous breakdown, which, knowing my roommate, there's a 75% of that happening.

I'll try to take pictures so as to best capture the moment then blog about it. No, I'm kidding.

But I will tell you all what happens (so long as he doesn't murder me when I tell him the news).

Keep me in your Thoughts and Prayers, folks!

Listicle Time: The Top Six Kids Shows that I had No Right to be Watching

2008-07-21T16:53:00.011-04:00

So there are plenty of kids shows out there meant for the enjoyment of children and adults alike. SpongeBob SquarePants is the main one that comes to mind, but you can look at any Pixar film and see that what I say is true - shows for kids have evolved since Hanna-Barbera.

But you know what? When I was younger, there were some kids shows that were really, actually, just meant for kids. And I continued to watch them well after the appropriate age, in part for kitsch value, and in part because I couldn't. stop. watching. There I was, a fifteen year old who had by most means let go of everything that connected her to childhood; the barbie dolls, footie pajamas, and stuffed animals all sat in a damp trunk in the basement. Yet I would watch these kids shows, all the while my thumb was stealthily on the "LAST" button should my sister walk in the room and I need to do a quick switch to TRL or some other "teenage" show (this skill would later prove useful while watching Real Sex with my mom in the next room). Below are some of the kids shows I watched way past my expiration date.

Doug

Great theme song. Inventive character names (Mosquito, anyone?). Fabulous wardrobe. And an anthropomorphic dog - how could you not love Doug? Nematoads! The Beets! Childhood, where are you?

Doug was one of those cartoons that I never admitted to watching, nor even made time to watch, but whatever station it was playing on (Nickelodeon, usually), that's the station I was tuned in to. My sweaty, smelly, 15- y/o self would traipse home from volleyball practice, grab a ho-ho and a glass of pop, and plop down on the couch to watch Doug Funny endure the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Since I was technically older than Doug (therefore wiser), I would sympathetically nod my head when he worried over how he looked in his school picture - I knew exactly how he felt, because, at one time, I too worried about how I looked in my school picture! Oh but wait, I still was worrying how I would look, and not just in my school picture, but in EVERY picture. I still worry to this day, but at least now I have the freedom to drink away my body-dismorphia . Yay alcoholism!

When it moved to the Saturday morning cartoon timeslot, Doug's shorts became longer and the show got lame. But the Doug memories of my youth cannot be touched - er, so long as I don't get brain damaged somehow (prime reason to stop doing drugs!).

Rugrats

What evil genius thought that kids above the age of 8 (let alone 14) would love this gem of a show? I'm betting the pitch wasn't that easy.

"I propose we make a show about babies!"

"But we're aiming for the 8-12 demographic."

"No shit - don't you know how cool babies are? They do a ton of crazy stuff when the grown-ups aren't looking. They are so cool that 12-year-olds - wait, nix that - 15-year-olds will want to be them."

Ok, maybe I never wanted to be Tommy, Chuckie, Angelica or any of the rest of the gang, but I did wear a Burger King Edition Rugrats watch when I was in the 9th grade (though I might have been trying to be - gulp - ironic).

Looking back, I'm slightly afraid that those of us who grew up with Rugrats have picked up parenting cues from the show, to which I say, lord have mercy on us all. Ever notice how often the parents in Rugrats ignored their kids? They would corral them in the backyard and leave them unattended for hours. That is when all the adventures happened, when the kids were alone, and there was an adventure every episode - that tells me that, were the Rugrats parents real people, they'd have been taken to court by CPS ages ago.

Wishbone

A confession: I have not read every classic that ever existed. Gah, I know! I'm a dolt. But sometimes these classics will come up in conversation, books like Rip Van Winkle and Don Quixote, and the reason why I know what these stories are about is because of Wishbone! Well, he's not the only reason, but Wishbone was my first introduction to classics which are thoroughly studied and often referenced.

Maybe it was because Wishbone was another anthropomorphic dog, but I'd tune in day after day, despite the fact that I was a teenager with sex readily available to her (I didn't lose it til I was 18, but I'm assuming that at least one of my classmates would have been willing to do the deed with me). While my classmates were making babies, I was sitting innocently in my living room humming the Wishbone theme song.

One time my sister - my younger sister, mind you - caught me watching Wishbone. This was a watershed moment for me - I had the choice to quickly change the channel and pretend I was just flipping, thus denying who I was, or I could toss the remote aside and proudly let the little dog show off his acting chops to my sister. I did the latter - I chose to be myself. My dumb, easily amused self. My sis made fun of me for watching a kids show, but it wasn't that big of a deal - I was older with the adroit ability to beat the shit out of her.

Arthur

Wow, this list is getting long. So yeah, I was a big fan of Arthur when I was 15, even moreso than when I was 8. I think because of the utopic society it represents. The more I think about that, the more it makes sense - I was kind of depressed as a teen, and instead of taking Prozac or cutting myself, I watched Arthur. Also, DW was my hero.

Can we please for a second ruminate on this picture? That's Arthur posing with a celebrity, an A-list celebrity. Can you guess who? Here's a hint: I used to have a slight crush on this actor, except now that I've seen him as a cartoon chipmunk, I'm horrified. Did that help?

Blues Clues

Ok, I'm not saying this is true, but I may or may not have had a crush on Steve. Whether I did or not is moot, though - I liked watching Blues Clues because of the fact that a human being was walking in a paper-machet house and interacting with a cardboard dog. The trickery fascinated me - like, how did they do that? I know, I know, green screen and whatnot, but the fact that a human person was acting on a set that he couldn't even see was mind-boggling (except for that huge orange chair - I'm pretty sure that was a tangible part of the set). Not only did he have to have a conversation with salt and pepper shakers, but he couldn't SEE the salt and pepper shakers. Truly astounding.

Teletubbies

This show I watched for pure kitsch value. Seriously. It would all go down thusly: In high school, my friend Carrie's dad would get us lunch, so me and about three or four of my other girlfriends would go to her house, flop our asses on her sofa, and mow down on some Taco Bell while these four aliens blazed across the television screen.

I hated this show, but my friend Leanna thought they were cute, so we'd put it on the screen and make fun of it while Leanna drooled over the little one (Po). Teletubbies earned some points in my book when Christian fundamentalists started getting all angry that the purple one was promoting homosexuality to kids. The Teletubbies were way too androgynous for me to discern a gender, let alone a sexual preference, but it was funny to see the Funds holding up signs of protest and marching in the street over something so stupid. Way to be a rebel, Tinky-Winky. Screw DW - Tinky is my hero now.

The Art of Topless Sun-bathing

2008-07-21T11:54:00.005-04:00

The bf and I went to the beach on Saturday. Although it was windy, and a zillion dead jellyfish littered the sand (and the choppy water), we had a really nice time.

We went on a small hike prior to our beach-lounging, a sweat-soaked aperitif if you will. On our hike, I noticed many a lady sun-bathing and swimming with her top off. I won't say I was shocked - I'm no prude - but I was a little bit jealous. Here they were, their bare breasts basking in the glow of the summer sun, free and uninhibitied. But because I'm shy (or have too much shame about my body instilled in me - thanks a lot childhood Catholicism!), I would never have the guts to flounce around bare-breasted. I cried for the cool breeze my boobs would never feel.

But you know what happens when you drink a bunch of beers on a beach without a nearby toilet? You skip down to the ocean to do your business. And if the water is rough, and waves keep knocking you over as you command your urethra to just open up already, there's a good chance that your bikini top will get torn off your body. And that's what happened - after several minutes of struggling to keep my top pulled over my breasts while simultaneously trying to urinate, I finally said fuck it, and pulled the drenched and twisted top from my torso.

People, for the first time in my life, I felt alive. No, wait a second, it wasn't that big of a deal. At all. And that's the key to topless sunbathing - don't make it a big deal. If there are any ladies out there nervous - yet eager - to go out in public sans top, here are a few tips to keep in mind.

1. Don't Make a Big Deal Out of It. The more squealing, himming and hawing you do about exposing your breasts will only make it worse. Be comfortable, but don't be annoying. Silently debate your choice, because analyzing the situation with your boyfriend or any other companion will make you that much more anxious.

2. Like I said, Be Comfortable. Goes without saying - or does it? Look, if all those toddlers scampering down by the water are making you nervous, stay covered, because who really wants to deal with an offended parent with their bare breasts exposed? If you'd really rather not deal with that group of frat guys leering at you, don't do it. If some dude with a zoom-lens camera is staked out nearby, don't do it. Really, make sure the beach isn't that crowded. Oh yeah, and make sure it's allowed. Take your cue from the people around you - are other ladies topless? Are many other ladies topless? This will make for the best topless sun-bathing.

3. Draw the Line with Your Boyfriend. The only person who wanted me to go topless more than me was my boyfriend. Why? All I can guess is that he never gets tired of seeing my boobs. Well that's cool. But it wasn't cool when he tried to grope me as I sat there, sunning, smoking a cigarette, all while the girls showed their faces for the world to see. Even though he's seen my breasts a bazillion-katrillion times, he couldn't keep from try to tweak and touch. But I deftly combatted his advances, and called him out on his lurid creepiness. "Stop being a lurid creep," I told him. He got the point - the last thing I needed in my vulnerable state was to be sexually harassed by my boyfriend. Then again, maybe you ladies out there don't have hyper-sexual, immature boys for partners - let me know where I can find one of those.

I can't think of much else besides the always-poignant and cliched advice to 4. Have fun! Go ahead, let it all hang out, bounce around, go for a swim, take delight in the fact that people - men and women - are stealing glimpses of you. If your boobs keep popping out of that bikini top, might as well - besides, it'll help prevent a skin rash!

Are all the straight men of the world rejoicing over this post? Marcie, that requires you to have a straight male readership to begin with. Gee, thanks for the reminder, voice in my head. Lunch at 2? You betcha.

The Perry Bible Fellowship

2008-07-17T11:07:00.009-04:00

Am I the last to know about The Perry Bible Fellowship? Slut Machine included a comic strip in a Jezebel post a couple months back, and when I followed the link, I damn near read about every strip. Here are some of my favorites:

I wish I could draw hilarious - yet adorable - comic strips! Ah well, one thing at a time Marcie.

The Yard: Epicenter of Hipsterdom

2008-07-15T14:14:00.010-04:00

I've been a bad blogger. To the five of you who selflessly humor me by reading my site, please accept my heartfelt apology. You see, I've been busy. And even a little lacking in inspiration. I think of about 20 different things to blog every day, but after giving said ideas a little thought, I realize that no one really wants to read about the inane minutia that I encounter.

But I think I've found something that will forever haunt me if it's not written in a cohesive thought, hence...to the blog cave! (Quite an accurate description of my room, I must say).

I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.

Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.

Hipster:

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR

A lot of people in these parts, who aren't hipsters, don't really like hipsters. When I first moved to NY, I didn't get all the hipster hate - so what if they dress differently? Who cares if they are pretentious and parade around posing as "artists"? Hipster-haters complain that they drive up rents here in the city, thus driving out lifelong residents while they laligag and let dad pay the rent. But, after attending The Yard this past weekend, I have realized there is more to it. These hipsters are kind of a bane on society and give hard-working, honest kids like myself a bad name. Allow me to explain.

First off, I didn't realize what I was in for before the show. As my bf and I drove to the venue in Park Slope, I noticed many many bikes chained to fences and street signs. "Wow, it feels like we're in Williamsburg," I noted. For anyone unfamiliar with Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the streets are INUNDATED with bikes and the hipsters that own them. Chrome litters the sidewalk in that neighborhood, and it's like you are walking in a scrap yard, and the bikes are all consumed in this metal-painted orgy, piled on top of each other and toppling into the streets, prepared to ruin some innocent driver's day.

So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.

When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.

The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.

And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.

As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:

We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).

Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:

For more anthropological studies on hipsters, visit www.diehipster.com

You cannot hide your mired past from me, reality star!

2008-07-08T21:48:00.007-04:00

Ugh, my landlord just let me into my apartment after being locked out for 2.5 hours. It sucked balls, mainly because I had to do a #2, and I didn't want to do it in my bf's apartment while his roomie was there. See, I do have a little shame.

But the bright side is that, in my boredom, I watched an episode of Beauty and the Geek - not the first time I'd ever seen it, but the first I'd seen from this season.

I was struck by the fact that this time around, not all the beauties were female, and not all the geeks were male. Allow me to demonstrate:

Nicole, Female Geek:

Sam, Male Beauty:

Novel idea! (sorta) But as I watched, Sam kept making me think that I've seen him somewhere before. The Beauty and the Geek site lists him as a club promoter, but his face was too familiar, like I knew him in a different life...

And then it hit me (note: I did not see all the episodes, and maybe his previous career was broached in one of them, but if not - Sam, I know your secret!)

Does anyone remember the Disney movie Brink! ? It was about this kid who was a tubular rollerblader, and in an effort to help his family financially, he joined the rival "sponsored" team, headed by his arch-nemesis Val.

Please tell me someone remembers this movie. I think I was like 14 or some shit when it aired on the Disney Channel. Well who do you think played the obnoxious scumbag Val? None other than Sam Horrigan, who's very same IMDB picture in the one shown of beautiful Sam above.

Sam the Beauty is actually an actor with many credits to his name. Guess where else I recognized him from? He played the son on Grace Under Fire. Yeah! Just check out the IMDB page that I linked above.

Hmm, it just occurred to me that no one probably gives a shit about my discovery. And I'd use a Brink! quote to illustrate how I feel about your apathy, but none of you would get it and you'd further think that I'm a retard. Humph! So I won't. Way to rain on my parade!

PS Big meeting tomorrow - the producer and I are meeting with an actual hypnotherapist. Oh yeah, and I got a free Capricorn key chain today. I think I'm gonna make a buck (literally) and sell it on ebay.

The voices in my head commanded me to write this post

2008-07-07T22:48:00.004-04:00

I can't really think of anything cohesive to write at the moment, but I don't want to let the blog go another day without posting...so I'm just going to write a bunch of random shit I've been thinking. You can do the same in the comments.

- I quit smoking, or rather, I have gone all of today without smoking, not because I resolved to quit but because I was too lazy to take my ass to the store to buy some. Well. Maybe the fact that my laziness trumped my addiction is a good sign.

- omigod I have to wake up at 5:15 am to take my roommate to the airport. Gah! He's so fucking cheap, I know he has the $30 to get a cab to the airport, but he still had the gall to ask me to drive him. Eh, small price to pay for one blissful week without him. I am going to walk around naked every day until he returns.

- speaking of the roommate, it's getting to that time when I need to tell him I'm moving out. How will I do this? What will be his reaction? I kind of hope he reacts badly, because it will give me an excuse to be a raging bitch and let loose bottled resentments.

- sometimes I wonder if I hate men. I'm talking vehement hate - I hate religion, but really, I can chalk up that loathing to a hate for men. I don't want to hate men, namely because I like having sex with them. But wow, so much heartache and pain in this world comes from their hands.

- I have been afflicted by some serious stomach problems lately, and when I started thinking about it, I realized that I have had stomach problems for quite some time now. Do you think I have ABS? Or Crohn's disease? (Sidenote: I once f'ed a guy who had Crohn's and he was soooooo annoying, and partly a psycho. I hope psychosis isn't a side effect of the disease).

- Ugh, I did E again the other night and I'm done. At my bf's prodding we did too much (again), and though the recovery wasn't as bad as last time, I DO kind of feel stupider after taking it. Maybe that's because someone warned me of the ramifications of Ecstasy...? If I do it anymore, I'm sure I will become a vegetable, and that's pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

In my absence, I charge you with a task

2008-06-28T22:24:00.004-04:00

I'll be MIA for maybe this entire week - I'm on vacation, hence the boyfriend is taking me camping. But don't worry! I like camping. Then a little Six Flags action on Thursday, and on the 4th I'm heading to the Hamptons with my roomie to take advantage of his mother's summer home (I guess there are upsides to sharing an apartment with him, specifically his mother's wealth).

Even though I'll be on vacay, that doesn't mean you guys should slack off - here's your task: I've recently started working with a producer, and currently we're developing a show for A&E based on hypnotherapy. But he's always open to other documentary ideas, and he's always prodding me for my opinion about what I think should be developed.

Aside from the fact that it's fucking weird that anyone would take me seriously, I'm really trying to provide him with the "young" and "hip" material that would be a ratings hit. Not as easy as it may sound. So! Do you have an idea for a reality series or a documentary that you think is original and interesting? Something fresh, something weird? If so, send the idea my way. If your idea gets developed you will be handsomely rewarded (and no, Vern, I will not dole out blow jobs).

I personally think a doc on people with Morgellons would be fascinating - ugh, or vomit-inducing. I haven't thought it through yet.

A question for anyone with a face and a body (take a seat, floating brains)

2008-06-25T19:26:00.009-04:00

I have a mild form of adult acne. It's nothing too bad - I really only break out when I'm about to start my menses.

But a while back I discovered an interesting phenomenon occurs when I break out. First, I get a pimple, then a day or two later, I will get another pimple...on the exact spot directly symmetrical to the spot where the original pimple popped up.

In case I'm not explaining this well, I drew a picture:

Day 1

2 Days later:

See what I'm talking about? 99% of the time, my zits receive a doppleganger within days of their arrival.

And it doesn't end with the zits - I've noticed symmetrical hair growth on my face as well. I'm not growing a Grizzly Adams beard or anything, but I do have a couple of hairs that I pluck every few weeks. At first, it was just one hair on the right side of my chin, but within a few months, another one sprouted - in the exact place on the opposite side.

This type of biology makes sense. Humans are bilateral, meaning that if you were to evenly fold us in half vertically, we would match up - two arms, two legs, eyes, eyebrows, etc. Our physicality is very symmetrical.

But I've never read anything regarding the symmetry of zits or random hair growth on the human body. In the days of the internet, you would think this phenomenon would be discussed, somewhere, but a google search turned up nothing.

Maybe that's because it only happens to me. Does it? Am I the only one affected by twin pimples and identical chin hairs?

You know the drill: your welcomed answers can be left in the comments!

Remember when you read this blog post? Those were good times, man

2008-06-24T17:40:00.006-04:00

I Love the New Millennium is playing on VH1 as I type this, and I have to say, it really fucking blows.

VH1 really couldn't wait another 1.5 years for the decade to be over? (I know, technically the decade wouldn't be over until 2011, but the rules of time aren't recognized by VH1) Just saying, I would find I Love the New Millennium infinitely more interesting if I wasn't living in the same decade that is being profiled.

It's a shame that they have ruined my inevitable nostalgia for the early millennial years. Even though the talking heads can get annoying, I have thoroughly enjoyed watching Michael Ian Black, Hal Sparks, and the various other I Love commentators regale me with tales about the 70's, 80's and 90's - omg it was all so crazy, fun and kitschy! Sure, there might have been wars, riots and drug epidemics happening throughout the latter part of the 20th century, but when Michael Ian Black talks about "new-fangled" inventions, like Post-Its, I'm in awe of just how easy the peeps of yore were entertained by something so simple and stupid. OMFG, people back when must have been retarded! Not like us millennial geniuses who have made Flavor Flav and Paris Hilton national icons.

No, I kid. But it is interesting to experience the pop culture your parents did when they were growing up, and it's fun to revisit events that happened when you were a wee child so you can go, "Hey, I vaguely remember that! Wasn't Uncle Harold super-pissed about that New Coke stuff?"

But I Love the New Millennium takes a look back on stuff that happened, like, two hours ago. Their witty commentary falls flat when they discuss American Idol because how in the fuck can you wax nostalgic about something that is still on the air and viewed by millions of people? You can't really make any "historical" opinions about it because you don't know its fate. People might say "Wait a second Marcie! People wax nostalgic about SNL all the time" but the vast difference there is that SNL has been on for 30 years and launched many a career, as well as many an untimely death. It is steeped in much lore and wonderment. American Idol needs time to mature, its contestants need time to succumb to debilitating drug use and/or a gay sex scandal before we can look back on it and determine what its existence says about that time in American culture.

I Love the New Millennium is a show I could have enjoyed if they made it, say, in 2012. But to watch it now is stupid. And since HBO On Demand can't seem to get its act together and make that Polanski film available, I'm going to keep watching it since there is nothing better on, and its easier to zone out than read a book.

I am the problem in America after all. Yikes.

The boss-lady has a complaint

2008-06-18T16:39:00.006-04:00

I found this NY Times Social Q's column via Jezebel, and if it weren't for all the circumstantial differences, this article would be about me.

In fact, I'm half-convinced it is about me.

But that doesn't make sense. The sender is from Milwaukee; I live in New York (hence, so does my boss). But what if my boss used a fake city just to throw me off?

I am not completing my MBA (um, ever), but what if my boss said that to throw me off too? Because I am looking to expand my horizons, and it explicitly said in the question, "she wants to move out into the business world." My boss knows I'm looking for another job, ergo...

Why does EVERYTHING have to revolve around me? I am getting really sick and tired of being the anonymous feature in advice columns. First my bf asks Eye Weekly about his bukkake fetish, and now this.

The assistant described in the query is me, verbatim (except for all the crazy business aspirations). My office is laid-back - no fancy clothing necessary, so I usually wear jeans, tennis shoes or sandals, no make-up, and 90% of the time my hair is pulled in a loose knot on the back of my head. Though I shower every morning, sometimes I won't wash my hair, and it can get greasy, I guess...and I've been lazy and haven't painted my nails or toenails. Ugh, I'm disgusting, no wonder my boss wrote in asking about my appearance! I don't know how I can expect her to work when my cracked, brittle feet are in her sightline.

Ok, so maybe it wasn't my boss who sent in this question. Nonethless, I've started straightening my hair every night to ensure it is straight and luxurious for work. And I'm only wearing tennies until my toenails grow out and I paint them a bright summery color. And I'm eating Altoids three at a time in case my breath smells, and wearing 8 different types of perfume, and douching with candy-cane flavored Summer's Eve to cure all those "down there" smells.

But no way am I wearing make-up everyday. That only comes out on special occasions, like for job interviews, or Jim Morrison's birthday.

When rabid dogs take over the world, only one man can save us...

2008-06-16T11:29:00.015-04:00

I'm not trying to denigrate Cesar Milan - his contributions to the dog community and humanity are infinite.

But who was the photographer that imagined the post-apocalyptic dog hell pictured here? Whoever came up with this concept is the next Stephen King I tell ya. Really, if this were a movie poster, I'd totally see it in the theater. They should have used this advert for that wretched Costner movie, The Postman.

And how did they get that blonde dog on the left airborn? Did they put him in a slingshot?

And the dog in the background on the right...why is he just chillin when all the other dogs are freaking out?

My questions may never be answered, but I thought I'd share his DVD cover with you, since it had me giggling for a good 5 minutes.

And a bonus: More dreamy pics of Cesar!

Swoon!

Work it, you Bitchy Brute!

Ladies and gentlemen, you are welcome for today's installment of hot Latin, dog-loving eye candy.

The 12 y/o Boy inside Me rears his music tastes

Ew, I hope I didn't break any decency laws with that title.

Anywho, have you guys seen that awesome GTA: Liberty City commercial? Well I have, and I'm now obsessed with the song in the commercial, "Vagabond" by the Greenskeepers.

It doesn't really make sense that a 24 y/o lady such as myself would be into a song used to sell a video game, but it's got a sinister vibe, and I'm all about that (I used to be a HUGE fan of that Smiths song "How Soon is Now," then Charmed cheapened it. Shannon Doherty ruins everything!)

For a listen, click here.

Hey look - a roommate-bashing diatribe!

2008-06-15T19:21:00.003-04:00

This is a post I've been hesitant to write, though the urge to write it has hit me many, many times. Before, my reluctance was out of an unsaid loyalty, a respect to not air the dirty laundry of the people you know, especially the people you live with. The sheer fact that you share a household with someone makes you privy to private aspects of their lives, and if you have any morals (or sense of karma), you refrain from telling the rest of the world about their bathroom habits and annoying foibles.

But my fuse is burnt. My roommate has gotten on my last nerve, and I need to vent, despite the fact that people who know him may or may not read this. Despite the fact that he might read this.

Let me preface by saying that he has blogged very private things about my life on his livejournal. Things about my sex life, and although these walls are thin, I expected a little more respect for my personal life. His blogging wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't being read by people that know me. Furthermore, though I don't know for a fact, I'm 99% sure he still blogs private things about my life on his livejournal - only now, he's smarter than to let it slip that he has been busy publicly writing all the dirty details that I prefer kept private.

Thus, I feel entitled to vent in a very public forum.

So picture Dom Deluise, but not as funny. Now forget anything cool and delightful you know about Dom Deluise, and imagine he is awkward. And weird to be around. And so socially inept it KILLS YOU to be out in public with him. There you have my roommate, and it is no joke that just going to grab a beer with the guy will make you want to gag yourself on 30 shots of vodka; you almost have to just to tolerate his presence. It used to be that, when I'd venture out with him, I worried how others would react to his non-sequitirs, his ill-informed yet strong opinions, his tendency to comment on conversations that he wasn't even a part of in the first place. But now, I just ignore him, as do most of the other regulars at the local bars. My roommate is a weirdo; just chalk him up to that.

When I first lived with him, I tried not to get down about the situation. At least he pays his bills and rent, I thought. At least he knows better than to lay a hand on me, because I'd bash his fuckin skull in. Though in the beginning his crush on me was palpable, his romantic affection for me waned; after about 5 months of living together, it finally felt like we were really becoming friends, and the giant elephant that was his crush evaporated.

But everything I have ignored, all his quirks, his awkwardness, his cheapness, his ability to mooch off his mom while simultaneously despising her, his unwarranted touching (not as weird as it may sound, but still), his laziness, his arrogance, his talk of doing great things with his life
yet sitting on his ass playing video games and watching anime, his rudeness toward my boyfriend, and most of all, HIS SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT - it has all come to a head.

What has set it off requires another long and involved story, so I'm not going to get into it. I will sum it up as this:

The lease for our apartment requires us to pay our gas bill separately. In two winter months, the bill reaches $750 (the rent is $1500). After a huge hassle, we discovered our bill is so high because the boiler is severely outdated. We asked the landlord to compensate us, and he refused.

Ok, so folks, what would you do in this situation? You've found out you're not at fault for the high gas bill, and that in fact your landlord has been scamming you. Get pissed? Sure. Get a lawyer? Quite possibly. Bitch to anyone who will listen? I totally recommend it.

But, above all, the one thing you would do that makes perfect sense, is move. You. Would. MOVE!!!! And you know better the second time around, when looking for apartments, to ask for a two-year record of all the utility bills.

Yesterday we got our gas bill. Only $100, but still high when you consider the fact that we don't even have the heat turned on. My roommate and I commiserated over it, then I said, "There's no way we can live here next year."

"Why not?" my roommate asked.

"Because we can't afford the gas bill," I replied, rather feeling like I was speaking to a retard. "And I don't want your mom taking care of the $1700 balance like last time." (Yeah, that happened)

"Well we don't have the choice to move," he said.

"Umm, why not?"

"Well because," he mumbled, trying to think of a fake reason. "The landlord already replaced the boiler. Now all he has to do is fix the plumbing."

Digression: The landlord did not replace the boiler, and do you know how long it will take to replace the ancient plumbing? Months, and it would require us to vacate the apartment in that time. Not gonna happen.

"Also," my roomie continued,"I just don't feel like moving."

You fat, lazy, mommy-mooching piece of shit. Maybe you like your mom paying your credit card bills, car loan, and insurance payment, but I wasn't raised that way. Yes, it will be a pain in your dimpled ass to haul your shit and move, but when you consider the fact that your mommy will hire you movers and the most you'll have to lift is your ass from the couch, why in the fuck are you reticent?

My roommate is the reason I'm glad I grew up poor. I know the value of a dollar, and I know that the worst thing to take for granted is that life is easy. Life is not easy. Your normal, day-to-day, just-trying-to-survive life is not easy. Shit is going to fly at you, and you will moan and groan and go why do I have to deal with this? But you deal with it because you don't have money to throw at it, and you deal with it because you know it's the right thing to do.

It's not right that our landlord is scamming us, yet my roomie lacks the sense of pride that makes me want to move. I don't like being scammed, and I HATE the fact that his mother, though fairly rich, paid our fucking gas bill. But the roomie is fine with this set-up. Whatever you pussy piece of shit, go read some manga and jerk-off to Sailor Moon.

But hey, happy ending: I've decided to move in with my boyfriend! Let me make it clear, I'd been wanting to move in with him for a while, and not because I can't stand my roommate, but because I love him and want to make a life with him. So yay for me!

I'm sure my roomie will be fine - his mom will cover my share of the rent.

Just a reminder...

2008-06-11T10:44:00.003-04:00

My play opens tonight, at the 78th Street Theatre Lab, 236 78th St on the Upper West Side. The festival starts at 8 pm. If you're dying to go (c'mon, I had to have gained at least one stalker! If not, why am I even blogging?), please visit www.theatervision-playtime.com for ticket info.

It's also playing tomorrow night, and possibly Friday night (if it's chosen as the best out of the festival). Here's to hoping.

An abbreviated rant concerning SaTC: The Movie

2008-06-07T21:25:00.003-04:00

This post was once a seven paragraph long diatribe against the Sex and the City movie, which I saw Friday night. But then I read everything I wrote and it depressed me - if I hated the fucking movie so much, why did I feel compelled to blog about it? Ew and I wasted at least 20 minutes bitching. So Select All, delete, yep that's what I did.

I will sum my experience watching the Sex and the City movie as this: If I were a less respectful movie-goer, I'd have heckled that piece of shit excuse for cinema the entire 14 hours it was on the screen (ooops, I mean 2.5 hours - whatever, that's an easy mistake to make).

At one point, a girl directly behind me was talking on her cell phone (something I always thought was an urban myth - who knew that people could be such raging douchebags!) Just as I was about to turn around and tell her to STFU, I thought, wait a second, I don't even care about this movie, it sucks! I'm gonna listen to this girl's conversation instead...

If you have yet to see the "biggest cinematic event of the year," take my advice and don't bother. Get a bootleg copy and watch it at home - I wouldn't normally advocate watching bootlegs, but that fucking movie had so much explicit product placement, the producers/actors/director/crew/catering people can afford to have you not pay them to see it.

As a sidenote, I want to draw your attention to a movie trailer that I saw during the previews of the SaTC movie. I will not be seeing this movie, because wow, I rolled my eyes so many times as it played, I thought my eyeballs would disconnect from their retinas. I was actually embarrassed for it, like when I went and saw The Matrix:Reloaded with my friends, and that scene where all the Zionists are going crazy, jumping around and dancing, came on the screen. You watch it and can't believe how utterly ridiculous it is, and you go wow, I have no training in film or editing, but this is just egregious...what in the hell were they thinking when they filmed this scene?

So here it is, the trailer for Nights in Rodanthe (omg, the name alone screams "lame"), starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane. Please tell me how many times you wanted to gag while you watched (note: I am not responsible for dry cleaning bills).

Nights in Rodanthe Trailer

Just what, exactly, is Alyssa Milano doing in this scene from Fear?

2008-06-04T21:44:00.006-04:00

Jump in your time machines, folks, I'm revisiting the childhood classic movie, Fear.

Fear came out in August of 1996, starring Mark Wahlberg and Reese Witherspoon. I was 12 at the time, and Fear instantly became staple movie-watching at slumber parties, or while I was babysitting (after I had put the brats to bed, natch).

I have to admit, though, there is a scene in Fear that has always perplexed me. No, not the part where Wahlberg's character blithely breaks some dude's neck, or the part where Wahlberg's gang chops off a dog's head and drops it through the doggy door - I'm talking about this scene where Alyssa Milano is, uh, "entertaining" a fella (I possess neither the know-how nor the utilities to cut this video to the one minute clip I am referring to, so just fast-forward to 7:14 and stop it at 8:17).

I beg of you, explain it to me. Every time I watch this freakin movie I come to this scene and am simultaneously embarrassed and confused. Are they having sex? Is she just gyrating on his lap? She's wearing underwear and his pants appear to be on, and he's smoking out of a pipe - even the most hardcore of stoners put down the bong whilst getting laid (though he might be smoking crack, in which case...wtf, is he smoking crack or weed?)

Is Alyssa having some kind of ecstasy-induced seizure? Is she trying to scratch an itch? WTF IS GOING ON?

I blame this scene for any misconceptions my virginal mind had about sex, men and relationships, because even if Alyssa is just gyrating, um.....WHY? Even my adult, sexually experienced head can't make any sense of it. Please leave your explanations in the comments.

Update on my play

2008-06-03T11:10:00.005-04:00

My play, When Turtles Fly, opens in about a week. IF anyone reading this is interested, it's playing June 11 and 12 at the 78th St Theatre Lab (236 West 78th St, NYC). The festival starts at 8 pm, and you can get tickets at http://www.theatervision-playtime.com/

I went to a rehearsal for the play this past Sunday, and I was thrilled at what I saw - it's really something to see a piece of work you penned brought to life - like, actors were speaking and living the dialogue I wrote. Not to be too sentimental, but my heart swelled when I saw this. It's just a small form of validation, I guess.

The play will be great when the actors get completely off-book....yeah. I now know how every director I ever had must have felt when his/her actors were struggling with lines. Like, it's so close, it could be so good if these motherfucking actors would get their heads out of the clouds and remember this goddamn stuff. As a former actor, I can empathize, but I also know from experience that memorizing 20 pages worth of dialogue in two hours is entirely possible.

After the rehearsal, the director and I met and cut some more of the play. Here's the sitch: When I originally sent my play to TheaterVision, the company that is putting my play on, they intimated that they were looking for one-act scripts between 30 min and an hour long. I knew mine fell just short of 60 minutes in length, so I sent it to them.

They are now telling the director that my play, which at it's very shortest and speediest can only be performed within 45 minutes, that it can go no longer than 30 minutes. Not to mention, the director has had to eat a lot of the costs for the rehearsal space fees, and is constantly bothered by TheaterVision seeking updates on the day-to-day minutia of the play's production. At $20 a pop for tickets, TheaterVision is reaping a tidy sum on the performance of the three one-acts together (my play is part of a festival - two other one-acts will be performed the same nights).

Apart from pairing the writers with the directors, covering the fee of the spaces on the nights of the performance, and some minor publicity, I really don't know what role TheaterVision is playing, but whatever. Oh yeah, I almost forgot: I got invites printed up for the play, with the intention of inviting agents, and then I found out that I can't use them unless they have been approved by TheaterVision, and have their logo on them. Sooo, guess I won't be sending those bad-boys out to any people who can influence my career! That sucks!

What was I talking about? Oh yes, so the play can't exceed 30 minutes. We cut out some more dialogue, but odds are the play will run 45 minutes. But what can they do? Once it goes up, it goes up, and there's no way they can stop it from completion.

But let's focus on the positive. My director, Christopher Cohen, is really smart and innovative. He's my age, but I can see already that he has a promising career as a director ahead of him (despite his refusal to take my advice on a prop - if you're reading this Chris, you should know that my direction of a scene from Cowboy Mouth earned me an A in Intro to Directing! I know a thing or two about this thing you call directing!) Also: According to Chris, looks like there was a scramble amongst the TheaterVision directors to take on my script - during an initial orientation with the directors and actors, the actors got to talking, and when my actors expressed that they were doing When Turtles Fly, all the other actors and directors whined that that was the play they were hoping to get slotted with.

Did you guys follow that story? Maybe if I explained the whole TheaterVision process and how my play got a director, you'd comprehend what I am talking about....meh, but I don't feel like it.

Sorry if this post was completely incoherent, but I have a lot on my mind (oh yeah, and I'm at work, blogging on my boss's dime - makes me nervous and quick to wrap things up).

More later!

Does having a middle-aged mom feel me up mean I have the ass of her 14 y/o daughter?

2008-05-30T13:32:00.002-04:00

A brief story.

Last night I was at a local department store shopping for shoes (none of which I bought). As I was bent over, defeatedly scanning the boxes for a pair in my size, a foreign hand layed its claim on the small of my back and snaked up my shirt.

I shot up, and defensively reached to my lower-back; of all the things to think, I thought someone was going to give me a wedgie (deep adolescent fears rearing their ugly head, I guess). Prepared to punch the lights out of the perp, I whipped around, and made eye-contact with a 40-ish woman.

"Oh my God!" she yelped. "You're not my daughter!"

She apologized profusely, her hand clenched to her mouth in mortification. Her 14 y/o daughter rounded the corner at the sound of her mother's pleas for forgiveness.

"It's ok," I told her (repeatedly). "Don't worry. Stuff happens."

In all, no harm, no foul. It had me chuckling to myself for a good 15 minutes afterwards. But because I was mistaken for 14 y/o, does this mean I still have yet to leap that bound from looking like a child to looking like an adult? I thought those days were behind me when the clerks at the stores stopped carding me for smokes. Curse this supple skin! Damn this nubile body! I am condemned to a lifetime of looking like I am ten years younger than my actual age.

Haha, who am I kidding? At only 5 foot 4 inches tall with the posture of a pile of laundry, it's no wonder I get mistaken for a child. I'm lucky people don't mistake me for a hobbit.

Is this retarded?

2008-05-27T20:11:00.005-04:00

This is the business card I designed for the premiere of my new play (the invite will be featured on this blog soon). Ignore the smudging; pertinent personal info had to be redacted, just in case weirdos came across it and decided to, you know, do weird things to me.

I kind of felt like a fraud when I got them printed - do I really have the right to call myself a playwright ~ freelance writer? Hell, I don't even want to make a career out of playwrighting, but since the production of my play is the biggest thing I have on the career horizon, it seemed appropriate. "Hopeful Television Writer" didn't seem right for a business card.

I wanted it to look poor, as odd as that may sound. I wanted it to come across that I am a struggling young artist, because in my ignorant and confused little head, "Young and Poor" rings as "brimming with vast amounts of talent." That little doodle is from my own hands as well - does it have some kind of avant-garde, provincial cache?

Does it stand out from the other cookie-cutter business cards you see on a regular basis?

Even if it doesn't and popular opinion concludes that it is the least-effective business card to ever be created, oh well - too late now! This is what I have, and this is what I will use should anyone (karma-willing) ask for my information in order to contact me.

College - why I wouldn't go back

2008-05-27T11:34:00.012-04:00

So my mom veni vidi vici'd NYC this past weekend, and overall her presence was quite enjoyable. She'd never been to NYC, save for the weekend she helped me move into my apartment, and even then we stuck close to Brooklyn - nary a glance of the skyline was seen.

But this time we Bob Fosse'd all over Manhattan. She took photos, but I was lazy/forgetful, and I have none to share - maybe later, when my mom sends me the thousands of bridge, bank and bum pictures she took, I will share our winsome adventure with the eager public.

We did the usual tourist stuff which included the enjoyment of the Broadway show Avenue Q. I'd never seen it before, but I was familiar with the soundtrack, and it was nice to finally put the story to the songs. One song in particular, I Wish I Could Go Back to College, struck me.

The first time I had ever heard this song, I was in college, and I can remember thinking, "awww, I'm gonna really miss this place." The lyrics lament all those happy, carefree times you enjoyed during your undergrad years - sitting in the quad and dreaming about all the great things you'll do with your life, having an academic advisor to point you in the right direction, never wondering where your next meal is coming from because you have a meal plan - the things you take for granted until you're out of college and realize how good you had it.

When I saw the show this past weekend, after they sang College, reflexively I thought, "ohh college, how I miss thee." But then I pondered that sentiment, truly ruminated on my college days, and I came to the realization that in fact, you couldn't pay me to go back to college, that in fact I don't really miss it at all.

I suppose the schism is caused by the class dynamic in college. If you are a rich kid, you have no reason to ever want to graduate. Everything monetary is taken care of - you don't need to work a real job (like bartending, like I did) to pay your tuition, because mom and dad had the means and the know-how to set you up a college fund when you were young. If you're a rich kid, you undoubtedly have a nice car for which mom and dad pay the insurance and car payment, and you have in your possession a credit card that you use to fill up its tank, which mom and dad also make the payments for; hence, you never worry about how you're gonna run errands, make it to work on time, or deal with the degradation of begging your pals to borrow their vehicles. Need a $200 book for a math course? No probs, mom and dad will pick up the tab. And just when those beads of sweat start to form on your head because you don't know where you're gonna get the money for the coming weekend's drinking extravanganza, a tidy sum of moola appears in your bank account, courtesy of mom and dad.

If you're a poor kid, like myself, college life is much different. Much of your free time is devoted to working, and not just the rinky-dink work-study gigs that require you to sit in an office and do your homework. I'm talking bartending and waitressing, standing behind a bar counter slinging beers for locals with an allergy to tipping (some kids also strip, and I've known others who work fast-food). Your cell phone often gets shut off because you can't come up with the $40 to pay it on time. The beer you drink is the finest you can afford at $10 a case. And you are always, always aware just how much YOU are paying for college. You never really bother to call home for extra bucks because, really, home doesn't have much to give.

My college years were filled with variations on that last paragraph. As well, I was always busy - though I only partook in two extra-curriculars (acting in plays and heading an activist group), they monopolized the free time I didn't spend working, studying or excercising. Yeah, I partied, but in comparison to some of my college friends, I was a saint, mainly because I didn't always have the time and/or cash-flow to participate in said partying.

I was always exhausted. My acne got out of control because of all the stress caused by my academic deadlines, extra-curricular responsibilities, and despondent financial situation. A good-night's sleep was a rare treat. Looking back, it's amazing how I hardly let it get to me - I just took it all one day at a time and hoped for the best.

And though I miss my college friends a lot, that is the only part I miss. The life I'm living right now - answering to myself, living life by my deadlines and my standards - is better than any I have ever known. Sure, I'm not rich. Of course it sucks to pay bills, and sometimes you wonder why you even bother at all. But paying bills and being poor is nothing new, and in fact, these days my creative endeavors pay out bigger, like paving the path to a fruitful career, instead of earning an A in some retarded college course.

So, fuck you college - I'm glad I went (well, I had to), but there is no way in hell that I would ever go back to my undergrad days. Fuck the stress, fuck the homework, fuck the fucking which, looking back, I wonder what about it I found so appealing. If you are one of those people who are often nostalgic for your college days, well lucky you, you musta had wealthy parents who made the road cushy, but goddamn that sucks that you plateaued at 20, and the only thing you have going for you now is the remembrance of your glory days.

I shudder to think how pathetic I would be if all I had going on in my life were annual visits to my alma mater, where'd I'd get together with old chums and reminisce about the times we each got drunk and fucked that loser who sat behind us in FS 102.

Mama AndSheWas comes to town

2008-05-21T11:45:00.004-04:00

In case you are pining for another delightful and insightful blog post from moi, sorry suckers, you'll have to wait (please wait?) Mi madre is coming into town, and for the next four days I will be living life as a tourist - look for me in the background at Good Morning America Friday morning. I'll be the girl with the dark circles under her eyes, commiserating and smoking with the bums.

I'm actually excited for my mother's visit - it gives me the excuse to do all the fun New York things I haven't done in a long time. I'd regale you with the details, but I'm pretty sure you can guess what, as tourists, we'll be doing.

I'll report to you later (complete with pictorials) on how the whole visit went down. Remain on the edge of your seat until further notice.

Who'd have thought - I had a really good time at a club brimming with hipsters

2008-05-18T18:14:00.009-04:00

Last night I went to Southpaw, a club in Park Slope, Brooklyn, that made me want to purchase a teener just so I'd fit in with the cokey, hipster crowd. Or maybe so I'd be able to tolerate the cokey, hipster crowd.

Instead of snorting a bunch of rat poison up my nose, I drank Bud Lite and Red Bull (I don't think Red Bull tastes good, nor do I think that Red Bull is "cool" and has any form of cache, but these days, it's hard for me to stay up past 1 am without some sort of energizing drug). As I drank, I started to get loose and have a good time, and then the bands started playing, and I actually began to feel like a 24 y/o, instead of a 50 y/o post-menopausal woman trapped in a 24 y/o's body.

I have never blogged about a band I have seen at a club because A) I am not a music critic, and B) Who the fuck really cares what bands I have seen and think are awesome? No. One. Or maybe someone does; I dunno, I've never asked.

But I'm breaking that tradition by reporting to you on two musicians I saw at Southpaw, one fantastic, and the other so mind-blowingly tubular and geigh-tastic that to not write about them would be a travesty.

First, the former. Yo Majesty is a dykealicious rapper who's snatch I wanted to mow down on as soon as she came onstage. Seriously. The vitality and passion emanating from her was hard not to fall in love with. All the lesbians pushed their way to the front when she stepped onto the stage, and all the chicks went crazy when she rapped about "That kryptonite pussy." I'm not a big hip-hop fan, but I became a believer in the female presence in hip-hop after seeing Yo Majesty jump around onstage and spit lyrics that made me forget myself. It was a gleeful, powerful atmosphere she created.

I backed out of the crowd when a lesbian in front of me kept shooting me dirty looks. Seems my raucous dancing caused me to keep bumping into her girl - my bad.

And then there was Supahero Gogo Starz. How to describe them...? Well, when they first came on the stage, no one knew what the fuck was going on. Or maybe it was just me - I often mistake avant-garde innovative things for being really retarded and a waste of my time. Their entire schtick seemed like a huge joke: Two black guys, channeling the likes of RuPaul and David Bowie, and not really singing, but more like talking in pitch, lyrics discussing I don't even know what. They crawled and creeped around the stage, one of them wearing a pink fro wig, the other decked out in glam-rock sunglasses and a bandana.

But their fabulosity grew on me. Their futuristic sound, coupled with the flamboyant garb, was a breath of fresh oxygen, as well as somewhat nostalgic. I don't know how I can be nostalgic for a time I never even lived in, but their set made me think of a 1970's circa New York, when glam and disco, gayness and Paris is Burning, sex and excess ruled the scene. I can't say I'm gung-ho for hedonism, but that is a time we may never get back, and part of me wishes I hadn't missed out.

After the set, my bf and I saw Supahero Gogo Starz outside smoking. He snapped a pic of me with them, but alas, I do not possess the necessary tools to extract it from my phone. Maybe I'll post it later, when I have the money and time to buy phone accessories destined for the landfill.

A question for the ladies - but dudes, feel free to chime in too

2008-05-14T22:46:00.003-04:00

I hate to gross out any of my male readers (wait a second - I love doing that), but I need to ask a question: Does anyone ever get random shooting pains in their vagina?

Some could argue that this is an urgent medical question that needs to be addressed immediaetly, so that's why I'm asking you guys (with no health insurance, you beyotches literally are my best form of medical advice).

Just now I was wasting away in my computer chair, watching a little Sex: The Revolution, when the triton of Satan forked its way into my birth canal. I shot straight up in my chair, let out an audible, "yow," and waited three-to-four seconds for the crippling pain to pass.

Since I know you're all worried - I'm fine. Don't be such worry-warts! (Worts?) But this isn't the first time this has ever happened to me. From time to time, I'd say every few weeks, said twat-twinges befall me. I haven't ridden a bike recently, nor douched with Drano, nor had sex with John Holmes's stand-in. So what is the cause of these unwarranted pussy-pangs? Am I the only one afflicted? I really need the ladies to speak up on this.

And do dudes get random, shooting, debilitating pains in their nether-regions as well?

No answers based in fact are required - any hogwash, old wives explanation you've got is welcomed!

Holy crap - something I wrote is going to be produced

2008-05-12T19:50:00.003-04:00

Sorry I've been lax on the posts - I found out last week that a one-act I wrote is going to be directed and produced.

I'm flabbergasted and flattered - it's a play I wrote on a whim and only sent out to a few places. One company, TheaterVision/Playtime, has decided to incoporate it in their Domestic Disturbances Festival, June 6 - 13.

This will be very weird, yet totally motherfucking awesome, to see something I penned interpreted and staged. I'm meeting with the director tomorrow so he can pick my brain, as they say. Here's a synopsis of my one-act, When Turtles Fly.

During a wait at his doctor's office, Robert casually picks up a magazine and starts reading a piece of fiction. When he finishes the story, he's stunned - the piece of fiction so closely resembles a part of his childhood, he's convinced it is about him.

Seeking answers, Robert tracks down the author, James Penwau, and poses as a reporter for the very same magazine he read the story in. During the "interview," it comes to light that Robert is not who he pretends to be, and he demands to know how James knew such intimate parts of his life. After a violent struggle and threats of murder, the two men discover that they once dated the same girl; she dated Robert, then later on, told James the tale of Robert's past.

But Robert wants more - he needs money from James to pay the medical bills he's incurred in his effort to fight testicular cancer. But James is poor, a guy who's last shot as a writer is the book of short stories he has just written.

In the end they come to find solace in each other's tough life - neither of them has had it easy, and it was glib to think that they were the only people who's ever had to suffer. In this shared trait, they see each other's humanity.

I was also going to say that both Robert and James find redemption, but I think that's for the audience member to decide.

If you will be in the NYC area June 11th and 12th, please join me at TheaterVision Playtime (1133 Broadway, New York, NY 10010) at 8 pm to see my show (and other one-acts as well).

God, this is crazy.

I Like it - I like it a lot

2008-05-06T08:00:00.005-04:00

In an effort to make this blog as self-centered as possible, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite things. Ever.

The Doors Cover of Van Morrison's Gloria

If you ever want to delight in a rock song that is overly sexual and just plain disgusting, check out this version of Gloria. Originally written and recorded by Van Morrison's band, Them, in 1964, The Doors later covered it in concert and shattered any sexual subtlety that Van Morrison imbued in the song.

In the concert recording, Mr. Mojo Risin (Jim Morrison's alter-ego for all you squares who might not know) begins the song in its written fashion and stays true to the lyrics. But as the song continues and the band improvises, Morrison takes the song to overtly sexual, then perverse, then "oh my god is he really singing that?" levels.

Lyrics like, "I'm gonna eat you honey," and "I'm gonna rip you in two," combined with the band members yelling "Suck it!" in the background, further combined with odd noises that can only be described as the sound a deaf-mute retard would make while getting a blow job, make this song something to be relished. I recommend popping this in your car CD player on a warm day with the windows rolled down, and then driving through neighborhoods where old people live. Ahh, to be sixteen again!

Driving in the Middle Lane

There was a point in time when driving was second nature to me. But then I moved from Ohio to Brooklyn, the land of public transport. Now, something that was once so simple can be a daunting task due to the fear that can consume you when you're on the road with a bunch of impatient, thoughtless motorists.

But never fear - the middle lane is your best friend. The left lane is full of assholes who get pissed if you drive a hair under 80 mph, and the right lane could turn into an EXIT ONLY turn-off at any moment. The middle is a calm comfort - it gives you access to both lanes should you need to navigate unknown roads or dodge a burning SUV, and it has less urgency. All the right-laners are anxious for their exit; all the left-laners will run you off the road and spit on your mangled corpse so long as they can drive obscene speed limits. Embrace the middle, I tell ye.

Taking a Poo with the Fan On

I enjoy this particularly when anything explosive is happening below the belt. I don't know why I'm deluded enough to think that the soft whir of the bathroom fan masks any sounds coming from my asshole whilst taking a dump, but it is a small comfort. It's like I can relax, let it all hang out when the fan is on, and no one is the wiser that I am annihilating the toilet bowl. When I'm older, therefore super wealthy and able to afford anything in my wildest dreams (right, American dream?), I am going to install a bathroom fan that plays loud heavy metal.

Taking a Poo

Universally one of the more enjoyed activities, no? There's nothing quite like that moment when you're headed home and the urge to poo hits. You squeeze your butt cheeks together, walk kind of funny and/or avoid bumps on the road, and then as soon as you hit the door to your house, you run up the stairs to the bathroom (or back to the outhouse, for my Amish readers). Varied grunts and white-knuckled gripping of the toilet seat follow. I like to read the Listerine bottle during my poos - yourself?

Lars and the Real Girl

Cute, sweet, fun movie - check it out!

How long would you wait before peeing in the elevator corner?

Gawker posted on this last week, but it was so funny that I have decided this is one of my favorite video clips. Ever.

In short: Nicholas White, a BusinessWeek employee, got trapped in an elevator for 41 hours. 41 hours!!!! But it doesn't end all giggles: he was caught up in a media storm that inflated - and later destroyed - his sense of self, and was eventually fired from BusinessWeek due to his diminishing work ethic. White sued the magazine, but the settlement he received was hardly large.

Here is the Gawker link to the time-lapsed video of White's ordeal. Watch it at your own risk, claustrophobes.

Now time for the giggles - the sped up video of White in the elevator resulted in many spoofs. Here's one that I watched on Gawker last week, and I about shit myself I was laughing so hard. For me, the litmus test for a hilarious video is if, while I'm watching it at work, I have to stop it five or six times to recover from my mounting laughter, and that's exactly what happened. And I'm warning you - if you watch this clip, do it when the corporate overlords are away at lunch.

Max Silvestri gets trapped in an elevator

Frig, maybe I should make time to see Apocalypto

2008-05-04T19:39:00.005-04:00

Throughout time, earth-dwellers have been convinced that the end of the world is near. I could list some examples of Chicken Littles, but frankly, there are too many. So here's a link - click it and see just how often humans have been convinced that the world's demise was on the horizon.

That mentality kind of makes sense - the thought that the world could all of a sudden blow up, or be hit by a comet, or succumb to plague is freakin' terrifying, therefore gripping. But all this apocalyptic fear is further proof that humans are by nature raging narcissists. Really? You think that your society is so special as to require God's wrath? Your society is that much more perverse, gluttonous and immoral than any other society that ever existed to deserve obliteration? Gah, get over yourselves already!

That said - did you guys know that the world is going to end in 2012? For real this time! The History Channel says so!

The Maya were a nation of people that lived in what is now Mexico, Guatemala and Belize between 300 and 1000 AD. They had very advanced concepts of time and astronomy (far more than the Romans or Egyptians), and had designed their own calendar that not only documented their existence, but extended all the way into the 21st century.

But their calendar curiously ends in the year 2012. This may be because the calendar designer got tired - hey, it happens - but there is an astronomical event taking place in the year 2012 that is backing up the belief that the world will end.

On December 21, 2012, the planets will align, an occurrence that has yet to happen during the time of man.

No one knows what will happen, but even scientists are convinced that something will happen. Perhaps on catastrophic levels, perhaps not.

Many believe that this proven astronomical occurrence compounded with the end date of the Mayan Calendar is evidence that our time on earth is near an end, and how typical - the world is going to end right before Christmas and my birthday. Boo-urns. Yikes, this narcissism is hard to keep in check.

So what shall we do? I'm sure that as 2012 approaches, you all will be hearing more about this "prophecy" as well as this planetary phenomenon, and you will start to get antsy, much like the Y2K scare. Stock up on water and food? Guns? Gold? What WILL be the desired commodity when humankind is uniformly under fire?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that on December 21, 2012, the desired commodity will be the latest Tickle Me Elmo. Or the PS5! I'm standing in line for mine right now. Stupid apocalypse better not ruin my Christmas!

USA Today article, "Does Maya Calendar Predict 2012 Apocalypse?"

History Channel, "Decoding the Past"

Hey kid, why are you looking at that furry porn?

2008-04-28T19:40:00.008-04:00

Here's the skinny on what I do to pay the rent: I'm an assistant copy editor with a lot of side jobs. Along with proofreading and researching all of the copy we create, I am also my boss's sole IT support, both business and personal.

My boss has two boys, a 9 y/o and a 12 y/o, who share their own desktop. Because the chance of them seeing a woman eat yogurt out of a donkey's asshole is just a google search away, my boss had me install Web Watcher on their computer; now, not only can they not access pornography, but everything they type, every email they receive, and every web site they visit (or try to visit) is recorded and available for my boss and me to see.

Or I should say, me to see. One of my work duties is to check-up on the Web Watcher and see what the boys have been viewing, and alert my boss to anything suspicious I find.

I've been pretty good about this; when I discovered that her eldest disabled the Web Watcher by stealing the password and hacking into the account, I told her. And when I found emails her eldest had been sending that sounded threatening in tone (though they really weren't - the kid just needs to brush up on his writing style), I felt as though I'd diffused a hostage situation - my boss was, and still is, eternally grateful.

But then one day, I found this (warning: NSFW!!!):

Ok, full disclosure: This is not the exact image I found on the boys' computer, but it is something like it. I got so tired of looking at furry porn (did you guys know that "Yiff" is now the common name for furry porn lovers? Well I do NOW), that I just picked something that resembled the pictures I saw.

Wow, I don't know if I can ever come back from that two-hour excursion I had on the internet trying to find the right picture. I'm sacrificing myself for you, folks (mom I hope you appreciate this!).

ANYWHOO, so yes, I found furry porn on my boss's sons computer. At first I laughed - like, wtf? Of all the things to find - no naked chicks, no guys with eight balls, no trannies blowing themselves - I found furry artwork.

I guess I had an obligation to tell my boss what I found, but guess what folks? I didn't say a goddamned thing to her! Here's why:

1. Can you imagine how horribly embarrassing that would have been for her, and more importantly, me? How would I have even approached her about this? "Hey boss, remember how you were afraid that your son was looking at naked ladies on the internet? Well don't worry, he's too preoccupied looking at weirdo art of animals with detailed genitalia to even wonder what a human woman would look like naked. TOTALLY NORMAL."

2. The kid is 12. When I was 12, I probably would have looked at the same shit too. Not because furry porn gets me hot, but when you're 12, anything related to sex piques your curiosity.

When I was in the sixth grade, I bought the Sophie B. Hawkins cd Whaler. After several weeks of owning it, I realized that if you turned the cd case upside down and squinted real hard, you could see Sophie B. Hawkins's nipple. A nipple!!! I would listen to her cd whilst staring at her nipple, because I just couldn't believe how blatantly sexual it was, AND because there I was, staring at a nipple, and my mom had no clue I was staring at a nipple. Just reading the liner notes, ma!

So really, I don't think the kid is a furry or into furries - he happened upon something on the net that was sexual in nature and wanted to see more out of curiosity, and he doesn't deserve to be humiliated and punished because of it. There's no need to worry about the pics unless he starts begging his mom to take him on a trip to Disney World.

Her son must have accessed the furry porn during that three week interval when he disabled the Web Watcher and I didn't realize it.

Should I have told my boss, guys? Even if you tell me I should have, there is no chance in hell that I will. I do have a strong work ethic and try to complete every task my boss gives to the best of my ability, but I'm sorry, I can not tell her about this - I would have to move back to Ohio from the sheer mortification.

Television "Friends" You Would Never Be Friends with in Real Life

2008-04-24T20:57:00.014-04:00

I'm a big fan of Best Week Ever (both the blog and the show), and I previously sent them an idea for a list post, or a "listicle". A listicle details the top so-and-so of something, such as The Top Twelve Sandra Bullock Movie Titles that Could Also Describe her Recent Head-On Collision.

My idea was for them to list the Top 10 (or whatever) Television Friends You Would Never Be Friends with in Real Life. Well, I guess they're really busy right now, because they never picked up on my awesome list topic. So I have taken it upon myself to compile the douchiest and worst friends in all of television. Without further ado, I present...

Television "Friends" You Would Never be Friends With in Real Life

Charlotte York

A Carrie/Miranda friendship makes sense. A Carrie/Samantha friendship makes sense. A Samantha/Miranda friendship makes sense. But Charlotte York, with her stuffy, judgmental ways and naivete make me wonder not only how she got involved with the likes of Carrie, Miranda and Samantha, but how the hell did she survive New York?

All of the other three ladies have arguably an equal amount of wit, cynicism and savvy to find pleasure in each other's company, and I find it hard to believe they would waste their time with Charlotte and her privilege-laden assertions about life. The proof is in the series how much they dislike (or pity) her - Carrie, Samantha and Miranda constantly berate Charlotte for being an old-timey "Rules" loser.

I think the real kicker is that Charlotte is an idiot. Remember the episode where she gets mad at her dog for getting pregnant? And also, the fact that she, a 30-something non-virgin, married her first husband without sleeping with him beforehand, only to endure a sexless, unhappy marriage? Would anyone normal and fun actually be friends with Charlotte in real life? I know her character is there to serve as the conservative factor in the SaTC equation, but every time I watch the show, I can't help but roll my eyes and wish that the other three ladies would get up from the lunch table and ditch Charlotte with the check.

Blanche Devereaux

You know how everyone always compares the ladies of Sex and the City to the ladies of The Golden Girls, and inevitably Blanche = Samantha? Sorry my friends, not so - Samantha Jones is not a rude, insulting beyotch quite like Blanche Devereaux is. Well, she could be, but she rarely hung her friends out to dry like Blanche did.

Maybe it was because Blanche was so vain and insecure that she needed to ridicule Dorothy and Rose on a daily basis, but that is no excuse. Whenever someone insults me to make themselves feel better, I say, "Shut the f*ck up you stupid whore," and I don't ignore their actions "because deep-down they are crying out for help."

Blanche never really says much to Sophia, but she constantly calls Dorothy and Rose old, ugly and unsexy, and rubs it in their face that they can in no way compare to her beauty and man-catching prowess. Some may say she's doing it in jest, as if The Golden Girls are "yo' mama" type joke slingers, but it would get pretty tiresome if someone consistently "jested" you for being old, wrinkly, and looking like Bea Arthur.

Just how expensive was Floridian rent back in the early 90's that it forced Dorothy, Rose and Sophia to room with this snotty bitch? Sure, her wicker furniture was something to be reckoned with, but I think anyone in their right mind would rather bunk at Shady Pines.

The Entire Cast of Friends

I know - it's painfully obvious that this is the douchiest cast of television characters that ever existed, so obvious that I shouldn't even include them in this listicle. If Chandler, Rachael, Ross...oh whatever, I'm already bored with listing their names, which YOU ALL KNOW DON'T LIE - if these people were real life characters, they would be ostracized by all of society. Hence, it makes perfect sense that, not only did they stick to their douchenozzle clique, but 2/3 of them married within their douchenozzle clique.

Ok, so they all were self-absorbed assholes, I don't know why I even brought it up. But I'm singling one character out, and that is Monica. I can find redeemable qualities (though minute) in all of the characters except for Monica, who was too anal, too high-strung, too shrill. Remember that episode when Chandler had to tell her that she gave the "best" worst shoulder rub, just so she could feel better and stop assaulting his shoulders with her death-grip hands? Just what kind of a shell of a person was Monica Geller that she always needed full control and complete validation? Maybe I'm coming at this all wrong - I think Monica experienced severe emotional trauma as a child.

Kevin Arnold

Surprised by this one? Well you shouldn't be! Beneath Kevin Arnold's boyish good looks and charm lay an overly-sensitive - yet insensitive - punk.

Let me preface by saying that, yes, it was integral to The Wonder Years plot that Kevin not be a golden boy; he had to be a betrayer to Paul in an episode, or cavalier to Winnie in another, to demonstrate the lessons learned when coming of age.

The best way to come at this is to look at how loyal of a friend Paul was to Kevin throughout his bipolar-like ups and downs. Throughout the series, Paul was unduly allegiant to Kevin, and what did Kevin do? He freaked out when Paul's Bar Mitzvah was scheduled the same day as his birthday. He flipped his lid when Paul's working-class dad got rich off of some investments (only to later lose it all).

I guess most of all it was Kevin's demeanor toward Paul - they should invent a drinking game where you watch The Wonder Years and drink every time Kevin says, "That's so stupid, Paul," or some other like condescension, because I guarantee you'd be drunk by the time that awesome Cocker version of "With a Little Help from My Friends," comes on. He could be a rude little pig, but Paul stuck by him. Although I have to admit, Corey Matthews, who was most definitely wrought by his predecessor Kevin Arnold, was the shit.

That's all I can think of at the moment, and I am kicking myself for not being a Dawson's Creek fan, because it makes sense that one of those kids in that group of "friends" would be a heinous beast.

So last night I took Ecstasy for the first time...

2008-04-22T19:11:00.005-04:00

Excuse me if this post isn't full of my usual witty observations and clever jokes, but I am not totally with it today, since I spent all of last night rolling on Ecstasy.

It was about 9:30 pm. I was on the internet, reading blogs and stalking people on Facebook. My boyfriend sat down next to me and started talking. As anyone obsessed with the Internet knows, you generally do not pay attention to your loved ones when you are engrossed in a riveting blog post about ass-crack hair, but when he casually asked if I wanted to drop some Ecstasy, I was intrigued.

Or incredulous. "On a Monday night?" I asked. "Shouldn't we wait until Saturday?"

He laid out his reasoning for taking it on this particular Monday night. I had planned to only work half a day on Tuesday, and if we took it at that very moment, we would be done rolling by 4:30 and asleep soon thereafter. But I was hesitant. "We'll just take half a pill each," he suggested.

That seemed reasonable. We each took a half, and 40 minutes later, his pupils were the size of saucers and he was feeling good; I was feeling nothing.

"Maybe I'm immune," I mused. "Maybe I'm not a mere mortal, therefore your human drugs can not affect me."

"Maybe we should take another one, a full pill each," he said.

If you're keeping track, that would make it 1.5 pills for each of us. I don't know why I agreed to it - maybe that half was starting to kick in - but I shrugged and said "sure."

I waited. My boyfriend was feeling the E full-throttle. He kept touching me and rubbing my body, but I was definitely not into it. I tried, really, I started making out with him and mimicking his behavior, but all I wanted to do was roll over and fall asleep. "Sorry," I said.

He didn't mind. He left the room to go to the bathroom, and I was left to my own devices. It was somewhere during this time, alone on his bed, that I started to feel something. It's hard to explain - I didn't feel particularly good - but something was taking over my body.

Whoa, I'm back. I started this post at around 7:30 pm yesterday, and right after I finished the last paragraph, I had to lie down because I was so exhausted. Side note: my recuperation from taking the Ecstasy required at least 20 hours of sleep. No joke.

Ok, so I'm starting to feel something, and my boyfriend comes back in the room and he looks at my eyes. "Your pupils are huge!" he says. I looked in the mirror, and it was true - though the E had taken quite a bit longer to affect me, it was clear that I was no deity afterall; I was rolling.

What followed afterward was a lot of feeling good, and that's all I can say. It felt like what I expected pot to feel like before I ever smoked pot - warm and happy and loving everything. At one point, while I was on my way to peaking, I asked my bf if he had anymore. "A pill and a half," he said. "Should we take it?"

"Yeah, fuck it," I replied. I knew I needed to be awake and ready the next day, since I had a 12:15 doctor's appointment, but I will tell you one thing about this drug: you don't ever want to come down while you're high. Often times when I smoke pot, it will get to a point when I'm tired of being high, and I'll just fall asleep. But not with Ecstasy.

So we each took a half and a quarter - that brings us up to 2.25 pills each.

Another thing about this drug: you're completely lucid. Even though I was already high, I knew taking the other pill and a quarter was not a smart idea, especially for my first time, but I was so afraid that the high was going to end that I wanted to preserve it any way I could.

So in the early stages of our rolling, there was a lot of body rubbing and telling each other that we loved each other and professing every good thing we had ever felt about each other, and then we started peaking...and all we could do was lie there. No talking, no touching, just in our own heads and feeling good. I could barely move. And I wasn't scared.

The most screwed up in the head I have ever been was when I was seventeen. It was after my dad's wedding to my stepmom, and my sister, all my stepcousins, some friends, and I went back to my dad's house, since the house was devoid of parental supervision for the night. We all sat around and played Quarters with Jim Beam, and then we proceeded to take hits off of a gravity bong. Shortly thereafter, stoned and drunk, I stumbled onto the couch and laid down, completely wacked out of my mind. I didn't know where I was - I didn't even know I was awake - until some little voice in my head told me that everything I was experiencing wasn't a dream, that indeed I was majorly fucked up. I was scared and freaking out, and I only got back in touch with reality when my gag reflex started to go off and I became best friends with the toilet for the night.

Being high on E was kind of like that in that I was definitely wacked out, but I wasn't scared, not for a second. I guess I just rode the snake, or whatever, just went with the flow.

At about 5 am I started to come down, but I knew there was no way I'd make it to my appointment or work the next day. Every time I attempted to move from the bed the following morning, my pupils were so dilated that the light would cause my vision to go black and I'd have to lay back down. After three failed tries to get up and function, I decided the best thing to do was to sleep until I could move. And that's what I did - I slept until 6 pm. And then took another nap at 8:30 pm. I woke up from the nap at 12:15, and then fell asleep from 2 to 9 am the next morning.

I am recommending E above any other drug I have ever done - pot, coke, shrooms. But if you're a first-timer, here's some advice:

1. Do not take more than 1 pill. In fact, do not have more on hand than enough for everyone taking it to have one. If you have more lying around while you're rolling, you're going to want to take more, and THEN you'll be so high that you can't move, like I was.

2. Do it with someone you're comfortable with, like a boyfriend or girlfriend. Do it with someone you trust. If I had done E with anyone but my boyfriend, it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun.

3. Make sure you don't have to do anything the next day. Maybe if you only take one pill, you won't feel the rough after-effects I did, but still, do it on a day where the next day you won't be required to be a functioning member of society.

4. There's a lot of stuff I didn't go into, mainly because it's kind of private and, um, I can't remember everything completely, but do whatever feels good, and DON'T DO whatever feels bad. Listen to your gut, because even though you'll be high, you will know what is ok and what's not.

5. Stay inside. After rolling, I don't know how all of those club kids can dance and whip glowsticks around while high. I certainly couldn't have, so I'm recommending you don't leave the house or apartment.

So there's my story, and all that I have to impart. I don't know if I'll ever do this drug again - as a writer and a glutton for experience, I felt kind of required to take it at least once - but it was really a good time overall.

The "sexy" "rockers" I just do not get

2008-04-21T18:29:00.004-04:00

I've decided to get all crazy with the blog and add a poll, and it's not just for fun - it's something I'm genuinely interested in.

Maybe it's because I'm a child of the 90's, but geez, I just don't get how some older women swoon over today's aging rockers. Rod Stewart was once a sex symbol? Seriously? And Steve Perry inspired many a lady to throw her panties onstage during a 1980's Journey concert? Blows my mind.

I can understand certain aging rockers being panty-soaking studs during their prime. Mick Jagger, James Taylor, David Cassidy - I've seen the pictures from their rocker primes, and my god, I can understand any girl wanting to roll around in the hay with one of those fellas. Or I don't know, cover their face with kisses (did any girl really want to do that to their crush when they were 14? My adolescent fantasies were full of unbridled sexcapades, but maybe that's just me).

But Rod Stewart's tight-panted mole-faced physique does not do it for me; neither does Steve Perry's angular nose. Ugh, and Keith Richards? I thought it was a joke when my aunt confessed that she had a thing for Richards back in the day. Poor Pete Doherty, if he'd only been a rocker back in the 70's, his dirty fingernails and crackpipe-burnt lips would have been coveted and loved by millions.

SO vote (even if you're a heterosexual dude - pick based on which one you'd rather be, I guess), and if you feel compelled to explain the ultra-sexiness of the young Stewart, Perry and/or Richards, please do so in the comments.

Because let's face it - this post is coming from a chick who's main girlhood crush was on David Duchovny, savior to geeks and conspiracy theorists across the nation.

So this play I saw got me thinking...

2008-04-20T18:21:00.007-04:00

Last night, I went to see a a new play by Liz Flahive at the NY City Center called "From Up Here," about the aftermath experienced by the family of a boy who brought a gun to school. It was good, with an innovative set design, capable direction, and riveting performances by the players, especially from Julie White (the mother) and Tobias Segal (the gun-wielding son).

I'm recommending it, but I'm not going to get into it. That introduction is for something, I'm guessing, Flahive wanted to facillitate, and that's a discussion about gun control.

It's amazing that in the recent debates, neither Obama nor Clinton have said much about gun control, especially considering the recent tragedy of the Virgina Tech shootings. WTF makes this discussion so off-limits? Are both of the Democratic candidates so afraid of alienating that middle-America demographic - since the current debate is who is more elitist than the other - that a reasonable approach to gun-control would be the death knell of their candidacy?

I grew up in a family that owns, uses and appreciates guns. My grandfather, father and uncle are all big hunters; I was firing a BB gun by the time I was seven; I used to regularly practice shooting targets with my father's shotgun every summer when camping on my family's private land. That said, whenever I think of the typical gun owner, that visceral image of Charlton Heston declaring in front of a crowd at an NRA convention, "From my cold dead hands!" pops into my head.

I get that. The Second Amendment was put in place for a reason, and it should be the right of any mentally-sound, responsible, crimeless-past American to own a gun reasonable for use for protection and hunting. In order to verify that a person passes all of these qualifications, yes, restrictions will have to be put in place. If you are a psycho with a history of depression, or have a police record, or are in college (sorry college kids, your track record for deadly psychosis omits you from gun-ownership eligibility), you shall not be allowed to own a gun.

SO why can't Obama or Clinton just say to all the NRA members who get their panties in a bunch at the slightest mumble of gun control, "You, who are members of the NRA and presumably responsible gun owners, should not have a problem passing the restrictions that I plan to put in place for gun ownership. The restrictions will not hinder the responsible gun-owner - they will prevent criminals, the mentally unsound, and children from getting their hands on a deadly weapon." No responsible gun-owner would balk at that, right?

When in doubt, buy generic

2008-04-17T19:27:00.003-04:00

I'm only 24, but I often think about what I want to impart on my future children. Hopefully I won't be having any kids for another ten years or so, but from the way my heart softens every time I see a baby, my body is probably subconsciously willing my ovaries to fertilize at this very moment.

I will take my kid(s) into the booth when I go to vote; I will teach them the importance of empathy and compassion. And even though I'm a feminist, I'm not going to force all of my feminazi boner-killing opinions on them - I will simply lay out the facts (oh who am I kidding? My bias will ultimately lead to my daughter rebelling and becoming an anti-choice, bible-thumping Republican cheerleader).

Also? I'm going to teach them to buy generic.

At the grocery store the other day, I went on the search for my favorite "part of a balanced breakfast"cereal, Reese's Puffs. When I couldn't locate it, I considered other peanut butter flavored cereals, but they were like $5.50 a box - wtf!?!? Good god, with the price of food increasing, I'm going to have to start sucking dick just for a can of soup and a Kraft single.

After staring at the cereal shelf for ten (or twenty) minutes, my eyes drifted down and landed on a box of Foodtown Cocoa Peanut Butter Spheres. For only $2.19, I was sold.

The name might be a little clunky (spheres? I guess 'balls' has entered the realm of "too much innuendo to be family-friendly"), and there certainly is no prize waiting for me at the bottom, but the generic cereal is just as good, if not better, than the name-brand stuff.

And this happens all the time - salad dressing, pasta, ketchup - the generic form is just as good as the name brand. Why are we all so retarded as to pay $3.00 more for a name and a prize? If you base you grocery purchases on the fact that your kid (or you) wants that chinsy piece of plastic that is promised to be mingled in with your cereal, put a quarter in the toy dispenser on your way out.

Now, there are some generic foods that actually DON'T taste as good as the name-brand...but the only one I can think of at the moment, I'm not even sure if it's a generic food. Or drink.

Yes folks, I'm thinking of RC Cola. That stuff is nasty, in no way is it as good as Coke or Pepsi, it's not even as tasty as crab juice (guess where I lifted that from!), but is it a generic soda, or just a plan old shitty soda? Hell, it might not even exist anymore. Does someone want to check? You know you've reached the pinnacle of laziness if you don't even feel like doing a 30-second Google search.

SO what other generic foods are just as good as the name-brand? And what generic foods suck big fat donkey dick? Comments people, comments! (I'm talking to you, Mom)

Acne Sufferers, I have found the Answer

Acne is a common annoyance when you are a teen. Well, when you're a teen, it's a huge fucking crisis, but everyone else is pizza-faced too.

The myth that once you become an adult your face will magically clear-up is what got me through high school, but in fact my acne got WORSE when I got to college. It was probably a mix of stress, bad food, increased smoking, and spending too many nights passed out with hooker make-up caked on my face that exacerbated my pimple outbreaks. And even though I've corrected most of my acne-causing behavior (still smoking - I gotta put an end to that one day), the adult acne is still a fat, volcanic blemish on my social life.

Or WAS.

Over Christmas, my aunt, who also has skin problems (at 45!), gave me a tube of facewash prescribed by her dermatologist.

Now I have tried everything to cure my acne - pills, medicated OTC facewashes, birth control (though I never took a condom to my face...er, I mean - oh whatever, make the joke, pervs), but the wash my aunt gave me is the only thing to make a significant, long-lasting difference.

The wash is called Sodium Sulfacetamide 10% and Sulfur 5% Wash, made by Glades.

My acne is not fully gone, but it is definitely less severe. Whereas before, there was a new pimple (or 5) on my face every morning, now I only get a pimple right before I start my period, and I don't get acne cysts anymore.

It's only available with a prescription, and you should definitely ask your doctor if it is safe for your skin before using it, but bring it up next time you see the dermatologist. Here's to hoping it works for you!

Aristocrats = Rorschach Test?

2008-04-16T21:39:00.000-04:00

So here's something I always wanted to blog about before I had a blog.

About five months ago, I watched an HBO documentary called "The Aristocrats." In short, 'The Aristocrats' is the most disgusting, profane, politically incorrect joke...that a comedian can invent. It's an ad-lib joke, that generally begins like this:

A man goes to see a talent agent, and he tells the agent that he's got a great idea for an act.

The agent says, "Alright, tell me about it."

The man then proceeds to describe the act for the agent, which involves public sex, incest, bodily fluids, murder, and bestiality.

The agent is shocked but intrigued. "What do you call this act of yours?"

"The Aristocrats!"

There were some revolting but hilarious examples of this joke from a wide spectrum of comedians. I'm no comedian, not a good one anyways, but I'm going to take a crack at creating my own 'Aristocrats' joke.

A woman goes in to speak to an agent. She tells the agent, "I have a great act that you're gonna love. We've thought about posting it on youtube, but we'd like a man of your expertise to manage us. It's gonna kill."

"Alright," says the agent. " What's the act?"

"First, I go onstage, and I'm wearing a skin-tight bodysuit made of fruit roll-ups. I do a little dance to get the crowd warmed up, and then comes in my husband, naked, riding a black stallion. He jumps down, I straddle his face, and he starts to eat away at the fruit roll-up covering my snatch. Once he's eaten it away, he starts to go down on me.

"At this point, my son walks on the stage, and walks the stallion over to us, and the stallion starts gnawing away at my tits, eating the body-suit. My son stands under the horse's asshole, and it takes a huge dump on my son's head. Hose in hand, my daughter comes on stage and washes all the shit off of my son, but then she takes the hose, shoves it up her twat, and fills her twat up with water. Once filled, she uses her kegel muscles to shoot the water into my son's gaping mouth, making beautiful arcs with the water that cast glorious rainbows in the stage lights.

"She fills up two more times, shoots water in my mouth and my husband's mouth. After this, my husband and son partake in some mutual masturbation, using the stallion's leftover shit as lube, while my daughter proceeds to eat the rest of my body suit off of me. Then we all take turns sucking off the horse, and when the horse shoots its load, we use it to slip n' slide off the stage onto a bed of rusty razor blades, from which we die bloody and painful deaths."

The agent is shocked but intrigued. "What's the name of this act?" he asks.

"The Aristocrats!"

There's my Aristocrats joke. It could have gone on a lot longer (I could have brought on the grandparents), but it needed to end sometime. In the aforementioned documentary, it was said that Chevy Chase would host 'Aristocrats' parties, during which the host and guests would attempt to invent the longest Aristocrats joke they could ad-lib. It's rumored that one Aristocrats joke lasted for two hours.

But I wonder, is an Aristocrats joke a glimpse into the psyche of the person who invented it? Some of the stuff I ad-libbed (and I really did ad-lib it - all I typed was what popped into my head, with little self-editing) was pretty disgusting.

Of course, that's the point, to be really gross and shocking, but where in the hell did that part with the water and the kegel muscles come from? (I'm asking myself, naturally.) That's not a joke I keep in my back pocket, it just came to me and I went with it.

If I over-analyze and over-reach, I can reason that the kegel part is ACTUALLY my homage to sprinklers, because I loved running through the sprinkler as a kid, and I was always fascinated by the fleeting rainbows they would cast in the summer sun. Aww, childhood!

Now that I'm reading my joke again, that all makes PERFECT sense. I talk about slip n' sliding too!

Anyone want to share their own Aristocrats joke? I.e. CHALLENGE ME? I know I have no readers, but maybe someone will see this a year down the road and get the urge.

I've decided to do it

2008-04-16T21:11:00.000-04:00

No, nothing great. I haven't decided to stop smoking, like I've been saying since the first time I took a drag off a cigarette. I haven't decided to join a softball league, or hack into my roommate's livejournal account to see all the private things he writes about my life (but if anyone has suggestions on this, please send them my way).

I think it's pretty explicit what I've decided to do.