tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84216922024-03-07T14:26:25.864-05:00handbags and fagsThere comes a time. When we heed a certain call. When the world must come together as one...chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-2163683287764987562011-02-18T12:25:00.001-05:002011-02-18T12:26:42.839-05:00Thank god I wasn't wearing headphonesOverheard at the Teach for America conference last weekend:<br /><br />"Yeah, teaching's cool. Except for, like, the kids."chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-79203208090668112602008-02-29T14:53:00.002-05:002008-02-29T14:54:13.086-05:00Lunchtime OutrageDear Izumi Sushi,<br /><br />How many gastronomic injustices must one suffer in a day?<br /><br />Your “restaurant” just delivered my “sushi.” You forgot the soy sauce, a minor crime on most days, but a major one today: if I am to decide, due to extreme hunger, to eat slightly dodgy sushi, that decision must be based on an abundance of cute green and white Kikkoman packets. The large ball of wasabi and 10,000 napkins you did include is generally helpful, but no match for browned and chunky yellowtail, even when paired with avocado (surprisingly, not brown). <br /><br />While I hold you primarily responsible for my gnawing hunger and unhappiness, I also must admit that my coworkers have played a part by withholding my monthly bagel breakfast and purging the generally unruly condiment drawer, where I otherwise might have found soy sauce.<br /><br />Yours miserably,<br />Lunchless in a Cubiclechiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-42039222963801760052007-09-25T17:56:00.000-04:002007-09-27T18:01:33.229-04:00The nation's only organic chocolate waterfallI have a meme: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jeb51b6kGnQ<br /><br />I have a meme that repeats itself, day in and day out, in the form of a television commercial for No Idea Bar, a seemingly pedestrian bar on 20th and Broadway that can, suprisingly, afford prime television advertising each and every night. <br /><br />I have a meme that bares its soul during the Daily Show, with its kooky bartender pouring coca cola on the bar and its regulars dressed in Forever 21 evening gowns playing ro-sham-bo in the background; one day, I will visit No Idea with its ugly blue lights and obiquitous exposed brick wall and see if the infamous name night promises a night of free drinking for me. <br /><br />I have a meme that will one day be replaced in my mind by ads for Gallagher's strip club, where aliens travel all the way from outer space to Queens to get a lap dance and a Budweiser. <br /><br />I have a meme that one day I might witness firsthand: the organic chocolate waterfall that the bartender boasts of in the ad, that I might have my champagne wishes granted--"every bloody one of them"--every cocktail shall be pint-sized, the regulars massaging other patrons will be present and the glory of No Idea shall be revealed in a drunken evening. <br /><br />This is my hope. This is the faith that I go back to my neighborhood dive with. With this faith, I will dream of No Idea bar until I imbibe their promised liquor for myself.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-48204619431448840662007-09-17T18:12:00.000-04:002007-09-27T14:31:00.843-04:00Nabakovian Monday Wisdom<em>As far back as I remember myself (with interest, with amusement, seldom with admiration or disgust), I have been subject to mild hallucinations. Some are aural, others are optical, and by none have I profited much...I am pestered by roguish profiles, by some coarse-featured and florid dwarf with a swelling nostril or ear. At times hoever, my photisms take on a rather soothing flou quality, and then I see- projected, as it were, upon the inside of my eyelid- gray figures walking between beehives, or small black parrots gradually vanishing among mountain snows, or a mauve remoteness melting beyond moving masses.</em><br /><br />And I thought this was just because I drank too much coffee...chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-59417327093546636252007-06-27T22:25:00.000-04:002007-06-27T22:30:19.716-04:00P.S.Apparently, Bono is good for something. <br /><br />After a year-and-a-half of blog silence, he's managed to piss me back into action. <br /><br />So, in a half-assed tribute, half-resurrection of the "don't listen to this" series, I leave you with these lyrics from U2's (aptly titled) <span style="font-style:italic;">Bad Lyrics</span>:<br /><br />If I could throw this<br />Lifeless lifeline to the wind<br />Leave this heart of clay<br />See you walk, walk away<br />Into the night<br />And through the rain<br />Into the half-light<br />And through the flame<br /><br />After all, where would bad songwriting be without someone walking in the rain?chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-9794601090539934262007-06-20T20:41:00.000-04:002007-06-27T22:24:44.964-04:00Bono is the new black (red)He's more mysterious than Sting, but less smooth jazz. Equally tantric. If he were a meat, he would be salted pork housed in a dingy corner of an 18th century galleon. Film character: satyr. <br /><br />My first concert was the Oakland Unforgettable Fire tour. As I stood there at the age of 11 cursing my parents for denying me access to the Purple Rain tour a year earlier, I had my first musical epiphany: people who don't give a fuck about making good music can actually perform. In public. To impressionable tweens. <br /><br />The problem with Bono is, like the status quo, he's just there. All the time. Achtung Baby, sunglasses, iPods, tight black jeans. He's like Madonna but without the reinvention part. And now, like Madonna, he's adopted Africa. <br /><br />His recent spot as guest editor of <span style="font-style:italic;">Vanity Fair's</span> Africa issue proves that Graydon Carter has officially lost his mind. Once the literary home to original voices like T.S. Eliot and Dorothy Parker, it has now allowed the mediocre rocker who borrowed a borrowed <a href="http://www.englishclub.com/vocabulary/figures-simile.htm">line</a> from Led Zeppelin take his red pen to an entire continent. From the editor of <span style="font-style:italic;">Spy Magazine</span> to a guy with hair like a <a href="http://www.kotex.com/na/products/maxipads.asp">maxi pad </a>who allows his magazine to turn into a giant ad on behalf of his "good friend" Bono's (Red) campaign, Graydon has lost sight of what journalism truly means.<br /><br />The issue, which features a 20 different covers with 20 different celebrities, is a glossy advertisement that tries to sell Africa as the new "sexy." While (Red) has raised millions to provide lifesaving AIDS medication to people who would otherwise be unable to afford it, it's spent far more in feel-good marketing the (Red) brand. <br /><br />The campaign has also spent far more in in continuing to manage, rather than beginning to prevent, the epidemic. While pictures of Bono with world leaders abound, there has been little evidence that he has actually met with Africans who are working on the ground in their communities to stop new infections. Or that he's met with Africans who suffer from the horrible side effects from treatment medication. Or that he's met with teenagers who don't know how to use a condom because U.S. funded "abstinence-only-until-marriage" prevention programs prohibit community educators to discuss contraception methods. <br /><br />Gender discrimination and weak health systems fuel the epidemic, and infections among youth and women continue to rise disproportionately. And while anti-retroviral drugs extend the lives of those living with HIV, they are hardly the "Lazarus Effect" that <span style="font-style:italic;">Vanity Fair</span> describes, particularly in countries where those living with the disease often refuse testing due to fear of stigmatization and violence. What is needed is more money for prevention, more money for reproductive health services and comprehensive sexual education for youth, and the political will needed to change faulty foreign policies (like the <a href="http://www.pepfarwatch.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=12&Itemid=26">President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief</a>), yet Bono's <span style="font-style:italic;">Vanity Fair</span> doesn't even touch on these points. <br /><br />The capacity to change the course of the AIDS epidemic is so great, and the power of celebrities today to mobilize political and consumer will is unprecedented. It's a shame that the whole lot of them, led by Bono, take the easy way out by marketing it as the 21st century celebrity burden.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1132774240170613722005-11-23T14:30:00.000-05:002005-11-23T14:46:01.433-05:00With the reigns to the world gripping a smokeThe other morning, I got slimed in my eye when some red headed redneck shouted a racial slur at my cabbie, then proceeded to spit at the cab. Somehow, his disgusting ball of spittle made it through the three inch crack of my window and landed square in my right eye. Unfortunately, my cabbie didn't want to back over his cracker ass then ship him to Pakistan like I suggested, so I cleaned out my eye and we drove off. All morning, I've been researching whether low intelligence can be transmitted through saliva, although the evidence I've found seems to suggest that I'll probably just wind up with hepatitis.<br /><br />Other than that, I'm listening to Electrelane wondering why offices bother staying open the day before Thanksgiving. No one is around, and the only thing that seems to get done is mass emails telling people to have a nice Thanksgiving, complete with a little smiling emoticon. I fucking hate emoticons and LOL. All of this abbreviated, feel-good language reminds me of peppy high school yearbook signers who used to embellish their messages with things like BFF (Best Friends Forever) and LYLAS (Love Ya Like A Sister). If adult emoticon freaks tapped into these memories, they would realize that BFF didn't actually ensure that people would remain best friends forever, and would therefore realize that their email probably won't make the recipient LOL.<br /><br />Instead of sending emoticon-filled messages, I've been surfing the Seventeen Magazine website today. A friend who was staying at my apartment for some time was a Cosmo subscriber. Since she hasn't yet changed her address, I've been flipping through the pages of the magazine, and am now convinced that its editors must think that all women are indeed retarded. One section with tips on "conversation starters" when talking to men actually suggested the following:<br /><br /><em>Tell him you like his jeans, then ask him what brand they are. This will surely lead to him asking you what your favorite brand of jeans is, and will provide an entry into further conversation. </em><br /><br />The only situation I could foresee whereby a straight boy would be interested in the brand of jeans I was wearing would be if <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">manufacturers </span>invented a pair that gave blowjobs or had breasts tucked inside the back pockets. The funny thing is that there's not much difference between the text of Cosmo (supposedly for adult women) and Seventeen (supposedly for teens). Both have advice columns with similar tones and text on similar topics ("how to deal with his ex"), beauty tips and "celebrity" interviews. Even the "holiday fashion" spreads are incredibly similar, which makes one wonder whether editors are trying to make teen girls dress like women or make women dress like teen girls.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1130181116368676532005-10-24T15:11:00.000-04:002005-10-24T15:35:21.016-04:00That your grandad had to sweat so you could buy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3784/570/1600/top_new.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3784/570/320/top_new.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />If you listen to Pizzicato 5's "Good" while staring at this photo, you will indeed feel as if there are about 500 kittens doing cartwheels inside your head.<br /><br />Which to me is calming, as I'm feeling very Absolutely Fabulous today. In addition to making me want to drink several Stoli Bolis, my imagined AbFabulousness is truly convincing me that I have the right to a car service and a huge puff of blonde hair could easily combust with a flick of a fag.<br /><br />Instead, I'm doing research on pay scales for returning veterans, which has been interrupted by a sucker email that almost made me believe that my lifelong dream of being an Italian restaurant lounge singer could be realized by forwarding an email from the Dhali Lama about a deaf kid in Burkina Faso to my entire address book.<br /><br />Right. Back to the kitten circus.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1129045349733402442005-10-11T14:52:00.000-04:002005-10-11T15:35:18.456-04:00Nuit of the Living Saag PaneerI was playing Scrabble with David Sedaris in a Turkish prison last night. I'm not sure what we had done to end up in jail, but I have to say that as far as correctional facilities go, this one wasn't half bad. The floors were dirty, but it was spacious and there was light sifting through the cell's stained glass walls.<br /><br />David was wearing a Franciscan monk cloak, and was sitting on his knees adding letters to my recent seven pointer "live."<br />"Liverly?" I asked.<br />"That's right," said David.<br />"Liverly isn't a word Dave."<br />"Yuh-huh it is."<br />"Do you mean livery, like a chauffeur's uniform?"<br />"No, I mean liverly."<br />"Use it in a sentence."<br />"Who's the writer around here? Why don't you go and <em>read</em> some <em>literature</em> before you go accusing me of making up words. Jeez."<br />"What, like your little stories about you being gay and riding around in a station wagon with your big Greek family are literature?"<br /><br />I remember saying that and feeling bad, as I love his books, and quite frankly, am not sure what defines modern literature anymore. So I let David Sedaris cheat and get the double word score, because, hey, he's a funny guy, and I figured letting this one slide would give me leeway down the line to remain unchallenged for putting down "fuck" or some nonsensical word like "monkeyjuice."<br /><br />Suddenly, the room filled up with bright marigold and turquoise light, and hundreds of mice shot through the stained glass and began scurrying around the room. David jumped up immediately and ran to a large tub of water while I stared at the Scrabble board wondering if David would contest the addition of "cant" to the end of "republic" for a 45 point political play on words.<br /><br />"What the fuck are you doing? Get over here and help me drown these things!"<br /><br />David Sedaris was on his knees in front of the tub, grabbing handfuls of mice and holding them under the water. They were shrieking and clawing, and when I went over to help him, he rolled his eyes at me and told me to hurry up, or they'd eat our Scrabble game. "David knows best," I thought, and got down on my knees and began dunking mice with America's favorite memoirist.<br /><br />I now have two competing explanations for last night's dream:<br />1) David Sedaris is a magnetic cult leader, and therefore allowed to cheat at Scrabble and kill baby mice<br />2) I ate Indian food a bit late, and finished <em>Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim</em>, which ends with a story about him dunking a mouse in a bucket of water in Normandy.<br /><br />The second interpretation makes more sense, but I vote for the first: David Sedaris is a fucking meme. Prior to reading his books, I would see people with acne and get an unbearable urge to walk up to them and immediately operate on the offending blemish. Once, on a Greyhound bus, a man with a huge shiny pimple on his nose emerged from the bathroom blemish-free. I had been plotting the demise of his nose zit since we had left Oakland four hours ago, and now, it was gone. I spent the rest of the bus ride turning around and scowling at him instead of studying Geography, and ended up describing sleet as a rift in Pangea on a quiz the following day.<br /><br />This morning, I was riding the train and noticed a woman with a ripe zit on her chin, and now I can't think about work, or even blog without wondering if she popped it, and if she did, did it squirt amazing distances or merely ooze down her neck? Was it a blackhead hidden in a sea of pus or was it simply not ready to burst and therefore left alone?<br /><br />I don't think I would still be this consumed at midday had I not read about David's ongoing compulsion to touch people's heads on airplanes, and while my prior fascination with acne led to a less-than-satisfactory quiz grade, this morning's obsession could lead to the termination of my employment, and me sitting in Grand Central with a tin can and a sign reading "David Sedaris made me think of acne for an entire Tuesday and now I'm hungry and unemployed. Oh, and he likes to kill baby mice. Spare change?"chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1128721618698044312005-10-07T17:46:00.000-04:002007-08-30T18:52:14.551-04:00The smells of New YorkI've decided, after watching The Warriors for the 500th time, that smells in New York are similar to gangs. Like the Lizzies and the Baseball Furies, each smell seems to claim its own territory. On 28th Street, near my office, the Barfs dominate the scene. Closer to home, in Hell's Kitchen, the Sharts run the streets, and Times Square sees ongoing battles between Bad Chinese Food, Overcooked Hotdogs and General Skank. Even my hallway has a new crew, the Chicken Fried Rotten Tampons that seems to be taking over our building from the basement.<br /><br />The Baseball Furies used to scare the shit out of me. Even walking through Central Park the other day, I was terrified that Yankee-clad gang members were going to spot me, and slowly build a spooky gallop after me while carrying baseball bats.<br /><br />And now, the MTV is set on remaking a perfectly fine movie to utter shit. The Warriors "2006" will be set in LA, where there is no Coney Island or late-night subway service, and will probably star Lindsey Lohan as the leader of the Lizzies and Robbie Williams as Cyrus. Instead of having the Warriors tear through NYC on the subways trying to get home, maybe Warriors 2006 can have these wannabe singers run through LA in town cars trying to get to a studio and a real producer to make a decent record. Or maybe, they'll all just die at the hands of Morrissey playing Meat is Murder on reverse from his Los Angeles abode.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1127357257677152272005-09-21T22:47:00.000-04:002005-09-21T23:13:46.416-04:00Internal Revenue Service Gone Wild, Volume 1I finally build up the nerve to call the IRS today about the back taxes I owe, which to me is akin to allowing a Sumo wrestler to give me a Brazilian wax with turpentine, an exacto knife and a roll of duct tape.<br /><br />After a long string of automated commands, such as “if you make more than $100,000, press 1 for your instant direct deposit refund and free round-trip tickets to safe and sunny Simi Valley” and “if you make less than $30,000, please push 5 and donate all of your savings, or first born, to Karl Rove,” I got a *human* voice. <br /> <br />“This is agent 4584952.”<br />“Hi agent 4584952, this is Social Security number 22-222-2222.”<br />“Right…(sound of keyboard tapping) 22-222-2222, it looks like we have some things to discuss.”<br />“Affirmative agent 4584952.”<br />I pause to hallucinate that I’m actually Grace Jones about to parachute off the Eiffel Tower to escape the evils of the members of Duran Duran, who are intent on blowing up the landmark with a Casio keyboard, but then I remember that the only mission I’m on is to stop the IRS from seizing my wages and sending me fat letters that come in handy when one is looking for doorstops and instant nervous breakdowns. <br />“Hello…22-222-2222…would you like to make a payment today?”<br />“Well, 4584952, it appears that I do. May I do that with a credit card?”<br /><br />4584952 then puts me on hold to get me the toll free payment number, and I’m expecting Musak like Whitney Houston belting out some Olympic drivel or a snipet from the Bruce Willis blues concert in Iraq. Instead, a recording informs me that the caller may be subject to delay, as many IRS operators “are busy providing support to the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA, for victims of Hurricane Katrina.” <br /><br />As I contemplate how amazing it is that advanced communication technology, which didn’t seem to function during the hurricane, has now reached such a level of efficiency that front-of-the-line disaster workers are simultaneously able to perforrm tax audits, 4584952 emerges fresh from the trenches of Operation Trent Lott Residence Rescue to give me two toll-free numbers I can call to make payments. While I could not pay my back taxes on the first number, I was given the option to furnish my credit card number and talk to horny, wet co-eds. In addition to pegging me as a tax evader, 4584952 must have thought me a bit of a MILF lover as well, as the second number offered lusty housewife action @ $2.99 a minute. <br /><br />As neither of the toll-free numbers offered me the opportunity to make a steamy hot monetary injection into the IRS’s bureaucratic tunnel of love, I called 4584952 back and got 6783553, who apologized insincerely and gave me a third number that landed me with a carpet cleaning company whose receptionist basically called me a moron and hung up. <br /><br />I called the IRS again, and spoke to 0045123, who apologized for 4584952 and 678553 and gave me the correct number: 1-800-2PAYTAX, not to be confused with 1-800-HOTMUFF or 1-800-CLNSHAG.<br /><br />See you in Canada Alanis! By the way, isn’t it ironic? Dontcha think?chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1127141947557539782005-09-19T10:58:00.000-04:002005-09-19T10:59:07.583-04:00I feel like the floor of a taxicabEarly Saturday evening near Bryant Park, I saw my first menacing New York sky, which immediately made me think of Ghostbusters. As I looked down the block for the Stay Puft marshmallow man, I mentally plotted Ghostbusters III as a fashion week terror-fest ending with ripped hemlines and Karl Lagerfeld's wrinkled, orange body submerged in a pool of green slime.<br /><br />There was also the botoxed gentleman hosting a garage sale on the stoop of his Village apartment who claimed that Warhol never impressed him much. We bought the diaries from him for a buck anyway, even though he said that Warhol was boring at clubs, and that all he wrote about in his diaries were cab fares. If that is indeed true, I can understand why as I've already gotten into tiffs with several New York cabbies who "forgot" to turn on the meter then proceeded to try and overcharge me, which usually ends in me sputtering obscenities in English and the driver swearing at me in mystery languages. <br /><br />The burning canine paw smell of New York streets is slowly dying, and this morning I actually smelled something *pleasant* on the streets of New York. Nonetheless hard to identify, the change in smells must mean the leaves will change soon, and flip-flops will be replaced with scrunchy boots and long scarves, and for once, my time will be marked by seasons rather than the ever-present San Francisco fog.<br /><br />Winter is also when I will faithfully and poetically describe the lives of pedicurists in such a fashion that I will finally be published in the New Yorker for my witty and incisive prose. Or, I may find myself holed up in the tiny apartment armed with whiskey, 80s records and a sewing machine and finally create the lovechild of Cyndi Lauper and E.T. for the good of humankind.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1126104488851230302005-09-07T10:48:00.000-04:002005-09-07T11:01:33.646-04:00Blah, Blah, Blah<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3784/570/1600/PICT0081.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3784/570/320/PICT0081.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Larry's still gone, Aunt Flo is in town and the bad, bad drag queen from Saturday night has been hauled off to the pen.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1125440875849343262005-08-30T18:27:00.000-04:002005-08-31T10:47:09.110-04:00RIP Larry: December 2004- July 2005Due to extenuating circumstances involving several varieties of muscle relaxants, a bottle of Maker's Mark, precariously positioned speakers and a lot of Style Council, my Ipod Larry fell in the dishwasher and subsequently ran through a washing cycle several months back. Needless to say, Larry did not survive.<br /><br />I used to hate the concept of Ipods, and being a somewhat anally dedicated vinyl hound, I was wary of this new technology for quite sometime. I finally found that my desire to carry around every song ever (and my jealousy of those who were already doing so) was so strong that I gave in to convenience and technology and got an Ipod, which I named Larry.<br /><br />Initially, Larry was a bit like crack. I would sit at my computer in burning and downloading frenzies, obsessing about how many days of music I had succeeded in downloading, and how many playlists I had composed. Larry eventually became my best friend and my confidant. He knew me so well that when he was on shuffle, he would play something cheery like The Avalanches and avoid the Pet Shop Boys during my darkest times, and always knew when to go for the guilty pleasures.<br /><br />I am going to try and take Larry to a trusted doctor in a store bearing the symbol that Larry so faithfully wears on his back, even in his rest.<br /><br />I implore you fine, fine readers, pray for Larry and pray that my bullshitting skills are enough to bring Larry back to life free-of-charge.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1125079856806772842005-08-26T14:10:00.000-04:002005-08-26T15:08:51.816-04:00The oldest living girl in New YorkSo I did it. Packed up the station wagon, threw in some New Order and drove across this god-forsaken country to New York. <br /><br />At least that's my romanticized version. The drunken packing the night before with my friends as psychotic packers/whythefuckareyoukeepingthisyoudumbbitch naggers and the frantic runs to UPS are better representatives of what my move was actually like, but now that I'm here and relatively settled, I can say safely say the following:<br /><br />1) I love my fucking job. I actually <em>like</em> coming in to work in the morning (and not in a sappy, shuffly lying way). I'm doing what I like to do best (write) for an organization that actually helps people and pays me for what I do (as opposed to the other copywriting jobs that expect you to be a copywriter, salesperson and graphic designer for below minimum wage). And, my boss wholeheartedly shares my love of the colon (the punctuation mark, not the organ).<br /><br />2) I love the neighborhood where I work. The intersection of E. 28th Street and 5th Avenue is this strange mix of Kenyan vendors peddling sparkly purses, 20 year-olds with lego-like hair running to 5th Avenue in power suits and old men sitting on milk crates smoking in early morning sun. The street smells like coffee, falafel, shit, mothballs, sweat and perfume, which helps to mask the pervasive parmesan encrusted foot smell that seems to permeate the sidewalks of New York.<br /><br />3) My Woody Allenesque moments of sheer panic and self-deprecation somehow seem all the more justified when I'm in the front of yet another "world famous" New York diner or underground on the R line.<br /><br />4) New York supermarkets and delis still carry Tab Cola. And everyone here loves bacon.<br /><br />5) Fashion. Music. Art. Fashion.<br /><br />6) My inner monologue has changed its voice from a fake British/Jamaican accent to a full-on Queens slur. It gets me places quicker.<br /><br />7) My only regret thus far seems to be my recurring anger at being born so late, and not being a teenager during the early 80s. Especially in New York. I keep meeting people that were glammed out teens who got to see the early days of the Talking Heads and run around the Chelsea flea market looking for cookie jars with Warhol.<br /><br />8) There are little doggies in the window at a pet store on the corner of Gay Street. Unfortunately, while I can confirm that they are indeed doggies, I do not know how much they cost.<br /><br />9) I actually feel like I could run into people like Neil Tennant or Fidel Castro in an elevator or a greasy diner. <br /><br />10) Did I mention the bacon? <br /><br />Stay tuned for more handbags (not too many- my wardrobe isn't that large) and fags (a lot more- everyone here smokes).chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1120866366741214732005-07-08T19:46:00.000-04:002005-08-26T15:02:52.146-04:00AGGGGGGGHHHHHAppols to fellow bloggers and the two readers I have out there. I. Have. Too. Much. To. Do. Right. Now. And. Therefore. Have. Temporarily. Abandoned. My. Blog.<br /><br />Will. Write. Soon. Please. Send. Food. And. Money. And. Shoes.<br /><br />Chiacchierechiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1118209369507467552005-06-08T18:29:00.000-04:002005-06-08T19:32:12.243-04:00Eternal sunshine of the spotless marketing mindI've been hiding under my bed amongst old Vogues and stray socks since my last posting, only to emerge to an ad for a new energy drink called <a href="http://gayfuel.com/main.html"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline">Gay Fuel </span></a>.<br /><br />After stuttering "gay fuel" about 100 times while picturing some wormy, white Midwestern marketing exec/adulterer pitching the crap in a cheap suit ("the gays will love it: think Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, Judy Garland, circuit parties, rainbows..."), I sat down at the bar and wondered what would happen if I, a straight woman, were to imbibe the fuel of the gays?<br /><br />I asked my roommate if he would like to participate in a weekend-long Freaky Friday experiment whereby he drank <a href="http://www.tealand.com/FemaleToner.asp"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline">Female Fuel</span></a> and I guzzled Gay Fuel, but he declined. He also refused my alternative Straight Man Fuel® creation (Jaegermeister, warm Budweiser and spit tobacco), so I faced the experiment alone.<br /><br />Friday: Gay Fuel tastes like Red Bull, only fruitier. No noticeable changes.<br /><br />Saturday: Will faithfully recount the tale of dinner party when I am able to do so without the aid of atavan or the fetal position. I am pretty certain that the wonderful course of that evening's events was due to the Gay Jewel who dared to mix San Pelligrino Limonata, tequila and lime, and not the Gay Fuel. No noticeable changes.<br /><br />Sunday: Had hetero sex. Walked into my kitchen and was greeted by my roommate, my roommate's out-of-town houseguest and a friend of mine that I hadn't seen in some time. The three proceeded to burst out laughing, after which my friend said that he thought I lived here as he recognized my voice due to the series of moans he heard from my room earlier that morning. My boyfriend blushed, my friend laughed even harder. I fake laughed, then commented that that was really funny since it was coming from a man who just turned a random trick on my living room couch with the houseguest. No noticeable changes.<br /><br />Monday: Got up late, dressed in a green vintage dress, big sunglasses and silver and black shoes as if I were going to a cocktail party in a Fellini film, chainsmoked and drank coffee and cursed my way to work on the stuffy underground. Went home, tried to exorcise Queen's "Bicycle" from my head via a green tea bath, but to no avail. No noticeable changes.<br /><br />After a Gay Fuel weekend binge, it turns out that I'm not gay. Maybe that's because I drank it straight.<br /><br />(Following my experiment, I read one of Gay Fuel inventors quoted as saying he came up with the idea after he and his father "had found out about an energy drink targeting the black rap community, called Death Con3," and thought "'why not develop one specifically for gays?'" I have now decided to focus my science on developing a machine to erase all memories of and presence of advertising campaigns.)chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1115454100272756732005-05-08T13:21:00.000-04:002005-05-08T12:31:55.410-04:00Happy Mother's Day!I was on About.com’s women’s health page (don’t ask), and found the following informational sidebar:<br /><br /><strong>Women's Health Issues: What's Hot<br /></strong>Vaginal Discharge and You<br />10 Things About Fibroids<br />Women Talk About Ovarian Cysts<br />A Lifetime of Fitness<br />Abnormal Pap Smears<br /><br />Abnormal pap smears have apparently joined the likes of dogs that look like rats, remakes of movies that were pretty damn good to start with and metrosexuals in the current and ever-changing world of "hot." However, if vaginal discharge is in, are sanitary napkins out?<br /><br />In the interest of providing a more well-rounded view of the relative hotness and nothotness of women’s health, I’ve compiled (in consultation with the ladies from The View) a list of women’s health topics that are decidedly “not hot.”<br /><br /><strong>Women's Health Issues: What’s Not Hot</strong><br />Run a Tight Ship with Labiaplasty<br />Reusable Menstrual Cups*<br />The Female Condom-WTF?<br />Period Farts: Isn’t Activity in One Hole Enough?<br />Girl, What the Fuck is<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><em>this</em>?<br /><br /><br />* I'm not shitting you: <a href="http://www.birthwithsol.com/keeper.html"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">It's The Keeper! </span></a>chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1115350476949591572005-05-05T21:34:00.000-04:002005-05-05T23:51:37.333-04:00She's fantastic, made of plasticGoddamn, but that last post was so preachy. I got off my soap box, but I still can't do the laundry because I am not a<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/NPEETE%7E1.AGE/LOCALS%7E1/TEMP/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /><br /><br />As I am pretty sure that that image didn't take, it's a publicity shot from the show Small Wonder, which is probably the best show ever and one of the strongest arguments for the cultural benefits of long term drug use. Who else could so brilliantly and nonsensically realize the powers of a sassy pre-teen robot into a lighthearted family drama?<br /><br />A mile and a half on a bus takes a long time, but it takes even longer to figure out if you're insane, or if the upload image blogger function is permanently fucked for you, and you alone. Or maybe I'm just a mor-an.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1115165084202059982005-05-03T20:04:00.000-04:002005-05-05T23:29:49.723-04:00If nobody speaks of unremarkable thingsI look like a fucking taxicab today, dressed all in black with banana yellow heels, and my hair is doing its best to impersonate Brooke Shields in a Sasoon ad circa '82. I'm walking down the street smoking, sunglasses falling off my head, and there's this older man in head-to-toe acid wash standing on the corner smoking a cigarette and scoping me out.<br /><br />"Hello lady with yellow shoes! You look crazy!"<br />"And you sir, look like a fucking redneck standing on the corner waiting for a cockfight."<br /><br />He was right. I am crazy, but I'm also sick of the honesty people on the streets of SF feel so confident in sharing with complete strangers. It's not the compassionate kind of honesty either, where someone might say "you look a bit sad today. Are you all right?" The honesty found here comes in the form of numerous random comments I hear directed at me, my friends or strangers, including the following, which I have directly experienced:<br /><br />"You look like you need a good clit licking missy!"<br />"Excuse me ma'am, but those shoes are brothel walking shoes."<br />"You look like you have about as much sense as my little finger."<br /><br />A few months ago, I read about some hippy-dippy group that was going around the country saying nice things and giving hugs to random people on the streets. At the time, I thought it was rubbish, as I am a cynical bitch. Now, I'm thinking of googling them and telling them they have competition, and that they better rev up their peanut butter powered VW engines and take back the streets of San Francisco.<br /><br />The good thing today is that the SF Human Rights Commission found the owner of a local gay bar, Badlands, guilty of violating numerous local civil rights codes. Fuckface Owner not only admitted to saying that black patrons were "non-Badlands customers," but also required black patrons to show multiple forms of identification and adhere to a dress code not required of white patrons.<br /><br />While I can't claim to understand where discrimination of any form comes from, I've always been especially dumbfounded by hypocrisies such as homophobia in the black community, sexism in the gay community and female racists. The Stonewall Rebellion, the Watts Riots and pro-choice protests should carry weight for all marginalized groups as attempts to forward the civil rights agenda, and discrimination is discrimination, despite historical and tactical differences.<br /><br />Whew. I have to go look at pretty shoes now.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1114818321670904532005-04-29T19:45:00.000-04:002005-04-30T03:03:40.093-04:00Frankly, Mr. SkanklyCelebrities that resemble diseases:<br /><br />1) Stephen Tyler- herpes<br />2) The Olsen Twins- anorexia<br />3) Demi Moore- lockjaw<br />4) Nick Nolte- shingles<br />5) Sandra Bullock- gout<br /><br />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.<br /><br />*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" roomchiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1114497210309766202005-04-27T20:33:00.000-04:002005-04-27T20:43:16.840-04:00Run girl, run!It's getting chilly here again, and I'm frustrated as I have nothing much to rant nor rave about, besides the fact that grammar errors continue to be abound in this world and Mariah Carey continues to be a colossal skank with no fashion sense.<br /><br />Since writing my last posting, I've been thinking a lot about the baseball park drunk tank, which I've only visited during rescue missions I executed in order to save my brother and my friend Momma. While Momma is neither a Momma nor a woman for that matter, he felt compelled once at a baseball game (after ingesting a third of a bottle of vodka) to use the women's restroom when I went in, and proceeded to crawl under his stall (with cigarette in hand) to mine because he felt "lonely."<br /><br />I was more disturbed by the fact that he made body contact with the restroom floor than I was by the presence of him in my stall, but there must have been quite a few women who didn't want Momma in the ladies room at all, as when I walked out shortly after his swagger to the stadium, he was laughing hysterically while being handcuffed by stadium "cops."<br /><br />I didn't quite know what to do, so I stood there for a second before Momma yelled "run girl, run," which I did. I'm still not sure why I was running as I was a lady in the ladies' restroom. Subconsciously, I think I was running to find our friend so he too could see the spectacle of Momma going to the pen for using the women's restroom at a sporting event.<br /><br />In any case, I don't think Momma minded the experience much. He said the drunk tank was just like this porno he saw once, only the guard gave him a cheese sandwich instead of a handjob and nobody was speaking German.chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1114216885761832972005-04-22T20:41:00.000-04:002005-04-23T00:41:57.746-04:00Miss Crankypants<p class="MsoNormal">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <i>makes</i> 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?<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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...<o:p></o:p></p> <span style="font-family:arial;"></span>chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1114036187683016542005-04-20T18:29:00.000-04:002005-04-22T18:43:29.806-04:00Dude, 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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />Jury Duty: 12 hours (over five day period)<br />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<br />3 hours of listening to the lawyers fumble and call expert after expert who all repeated themselves<br />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.<br /><br /><br />Watching Eurotrip: 1.5 hours (not funny, even in the bad/good way)<br />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?<br /><br />Explaining to my mom (for the fifth time) why I refuse to read The Da Vinci Code: 30 minutes<br /><br />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<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><strong></strong>chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8421692.post-1112834002945992632005-04-06T20:33:00.000-04:002005-04-06T20:33:22.946-04:00Worst thing everIs 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.
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<br />For the benefit of the two or three readers I have out there, it was a photo of pink blazer clad, mulleted human penises.
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<br />That is all. Thanks for listening. chiacchierehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18060387439674930599noreply@blogger.com1