Frankly, Mr. Skankly

Celebrities that resemble diseases:

1) Stephen Tyler- herpes
2) The Olsen Twins- anorexia
3) Demi Moore- lockjaw
4) Nick Nolte- shingles
5) Sandra Bullock- gout

I think I overdosed on the Smiths last night while cleaning my room*, and though it's nearly the end of the workday, I'm still trying to snap out of the haze by absurd measures such as comparing celebrities to diseases. I will accept any alternate theories regarding these stars, however, I will not accept arguments against the claim that Stephen Tyler is human VD in some form or another.

*Cleaning my room: (klēning mĩ rōōm)/ v.tr. 1) to rifle through one's grade school diaries, boxes of thrift store clothing and records while dancing to Madonna and making outfits under the pretense of organizing said possessions 2) making a bigger mess than you started with before "cleaning" room

Run girl, run!

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Miss Crankypants

I went to the Giants game last night, and besides eating nasty hot dogs and cheering intermittently for the team, I mainly like going for the cheap beer and people watching. Once I saw Dick Cheney's twin buried under a blanket in the upper level, a sighting that was only to be outdone by the guy sitting in front of us wearing a red satin jacket embossed with the logo of his rollercoaster enthusiasts club who constantly had to stand up and lift his right leg to get in a hearty air guitar session.

Last night, my friend spotted an old man with wireless headphones wearing ladies' blue jeans and hopping back and forth on his feet the whole time like he was about to piss his pants. He became caught up in a recurring high-five session going on two rows in front of him that was initiated by a portly redheaded family whose college age son was desperately trying to look cool despite the fact that he was dressed from head to toe in Giants paraphernalia and was at the game with his parents.

Had the high-five frenzy reached two rows behind the Old Man in Women's Jeans to our row, I probably would have been so excited that I would have completely missed one of the funniest things I think I've ever seen at the ballpark, which is The Express Bathrooms. Holy. Shit.

Who goes to the game and doesn't expect a line of people who have been drinking Budweiser all day and have endangered their bladders for the sake of the lazy game of baseball by waiting until the seventh inning stretch to take a piss? And what exactly makes a bathroom "express?" I picture a room where men run in, hurriedly unzip their pants then proceed to run across the length of the room while pissing on a long row of urinals before zipping up their pants and running out. Do they have people crouching behind the toilets, toilet paper in hand, waiting to wipe your ass, flush and get you out of there as fast as they fucking can? How do they screen out the menstruating, the constipated, the vain and the many afflicted with stage fright?

I thought Taco Bell Express was a disgusting invention (how can you make fast food even faster?), but this takes the American obsession with convenience to a whole new level. Why not construct an express baseball season ticket package that allows the ticket holder to run in, grab a hot dog, shotgun a few lukewarm Budweisers and run around the bleachers twice (while pissing) before leaving the stadium or settling in for a night at the ballpark drunk tank?

I'm just not an "express" person, especially when it comes to my personal business, which several creditors would attest to freely. But then again, I'm bitching about something I wouldn't use anyway when I should be getting my ass in gear to go to my friend's art opening, which I will do after I smoke one more cigarette...

Dude, where's my blog?

It's 4/20 today and I imagine there are stoners throughout the city either desperately trying to score weed before 4:20 pm, or looking for the *perfect* outdoor venue to celebrate this magical time that only happens for one minute once a year.

I don't even know where 420 comes from, besides an urban myth perpetuated by a death rocker from my high school which consists of a group of surfers going up on a mountain somewhere on April 20 and smoking, like, 420 bong hits each. And I just realized that I wasted about five minutes of my life rehashing a faulty theory perpetuated by someone who loved Slayer and would later get busted for breaking into a university facility to swipe some peyote, but then realized that in the past two weeks, I have wasted valuable writing time due to the following obligations:

Jury Duty: 12 hours (over five day period)
7 hours in deliberations of listening to juror who fancied himself Perry Mason and apparently had admitted imagined evidence into his mind, and then explaining to said juror that while he had an active imagination, that that wasn't what *really* happened
3 hours of listening to the lawyers fumble and call expert after expert who all repeated themselves
2 hours daydreaming about Cop Rock and thinking that at any moment the bailiffs would spin around one of the lawyers, break into song and initiate a musical rendering of the facts of the case.


Watching Eurotrip: 1.5 hours (not funny, even in the bad/good way)
People from the US are so cute, especially the male college-age ones who chase tits all day and refuse to contemplate the fact that some people in this world actually don't know and don't care to know English. And speaking of English, did you know that everyone in the UK is a huge drunk with fucked up teeth prepared to kill for Manchester United?

Explaining to my mom (for the fifth time) why I refuse to read The Da Vinci Code: 30 minutes

Pausing from cleaning my room when I realized that my roommate was listening to the new Mariah Carey album in the other room: duration of entire album, plus five minutes spent thinking that she truly is a golden, human koala bear

By the way, I love Rufus Wainwright. I've loved him for years, but I think it's growing stronger and stronger every time I listen to Memphis Skyline or his lyrics about not wanting to be John Lithgow. I think my love for him is growing at such an exponential rate that it will soon eclipse my long-harbored admiration of Morrissey, as he does live in LA and his last album was a bit disappointing.

Worst thing ever

Is that I actually think I can *do* computers. On my last entry, I thought I had successfully posted a photo of ELO, which shows up on my blog at home, but shows up as a red X everywhere else.

For the benefit of the two or three readers I have out there, it was a photo of pink blazer clad, mulleted human penises.

That is all. Thanks for listening.

Best thing ever 2

Outside of Moby Dick's on $1 Margarita Monday:

"Drama Queen" T-shirt Guy: And I saw his cds and was like, who the fuck listens to ELO?
Smoking Dog Collar Guy: ELO is a totally underrated band.
DQTG: Electric? Light? Orchestra?
SDCG: Yeah. They're totally gay.

Hmmm.

Oh what a world we live in

Thank god I'm a complete tech moron, as when I came home last night after imbibing numerous substances, I fancied myself a comedian and tried to post on my blog, which resulted in me waking up on the floor dehydrated this morning to a black screen and my cheek resting on my mouse.

I probably would have typed about how fucked up I was using the z,q and v keys only, and talked about how much I like the new Belle and Sebastian track "Your Cover's Blown." Puppies, legwarmers, Eddie Izzard and pralines would have also been mentioned, as they were also very much on my confused and fragile mind.

I could have instantly posted all that crap, which is strange to me, as I remember sitting in a college journalism class not too long ago reading about the Information Superhighway, and contemplating its possibilities and evils, and here I am, barely able to send email, yet with my own little space out there, which makes my hungover head spin even faster, particularly when I think of Umberto Eco's theory that text is created as much by the reader as it is by the author, and that assholes like me are instantly able to gauge their level of depression and google their new love interest with the click of a mouse (if said person has indeed managed to retain control of their muscular system).

So who does all this shit belong to anyway?

Girl, you'll be a woman again

Today I saw a dog do a double-take on a human from the passenger seat of his owner's car which made me nearly piss myself laughing, but then again, I'm walking around like Julianne Moore in Safe thinking that I am acutely feeling the effects of chemical poisoning. There was a fire in the building adjacent to my work, and despite the fact that our entire building was filled with rancid, thick smoke, we were expected to sit at our desk and breathe this shit for the entire day. I asked the building manager what had burned, and he replied "oh, you're probably just smelling chemical smoke from the insulation that caught on fire. It's fine, just go back to work." Whatever girlfriend! I ain't giving birth to no hairy, pointy-eared child unless it's a mogwai or Alf.

Like any good American, my ass was out the door with a headache and a lawsuit on my mind. I added Weird Pyromaniac Construction Firm to the list of people I regularly forward to my counsel for possilble litigation, which includes Phil Collins and my parents, and checked a medical reference website to see which disease I was suffering from as a result of this trauma. I ruled out scurvy, as I haven't recently spent a year on a 18th century galleon subsisting only salted pork, and also felt confident in checking rabies, the gout and malaria off the list.

Yet I discovered, through my medical expertise and diligent research, that I am suffering from puberty as a result of this incident. Yes, it's true. I am becoming a woman for the second time. I didn't know that puberty was a disease or a condition that needed to be identified through a list of symptoms, yet according to wrongdiagnosis.com, the following are the official indicators of that special, special change:

Increased appetite
Clumsiness
Irritability
Secrecy
Maturation of internal reproductive organs
Menstruation

I've been ravenous for about a week, tripped over my alarm clock this morning and have been quite irritable all day. I can feel my ovaries and Fallopian tubes maturing by the second, and am expecting to menstruate in about three weeks time. And I've been quite secretive about my desire to perform an interpretive dance to Spandau Ballet's "Gold," at Radio City Music Hall, as well as the time machine I'm building in my closet to send myself back to the eighties.

So, you may never hear from me again, as I am quite confident that Weird Pyromaniac Construction Firm will be forced to award me millions for my puberty, as, sadly, it is a condition with no known cure.