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!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

It's a hard knock flight, for us

I'm recovering from one of those horrid flu bugs that makes me hallucinate wildly and forget things (like the fact that I hate the word "bug" when used in reference to some sort of sickness, as it is generally utilized by the same people who say "you look tired" as you walk into the office on a Monday morning). I "forgot" I had already taken three pain relievers when I took two more, and therefore happily endured three consecutive Jerry Springer re-runs without having the slightest urge to throw my roommate's television out of the window or castrate my entire neighborhood. On a walk through Brighton Beach at the onset of my flu, I ate a dumpling filled with mystery meat without flinching, and actually thought I could read the Cyrillic alphabet as I wandered through a Russian bookstore.

I had to fly back from New York last night runny-nosed and achy. After nearly missing my flight, we sat on the runway for a half-hour before the captain announced that the plane had a "pretty big leak in the right engine," and that once the maintenance crew "signed off on some paperwork," we'd be off on a six-hour flight filled with a lot of "patches of turbulence" and a shitty Sandra Bullock movie.

We finally climbed above the Brooklyn lights into instant turbulence, which always forces me to practice labor breathing, even though I am childless and fully aware of the mechanics of flight. The beverage cart came around. The man in the aisle seat across from me was perplexed at the flight attendant's insistence that there was no food to be had in the coach cabin this evening, not even for purchase.

I ordered a ginger ale and a blanket, and was told that there were no blankets on the plane. No blankets? I looked across the aisle at the hungry guy who was curled and shivering under his leather jacket. He gave me a look of pity and motioned that he had another jacket in the overhead compartment as if he were offering me a spoonful of cold porridge. I smiled back, felt the Nyquil kick-in and curled up against the metal arm rest to dream of the riches that I intended to share with my fellow air orphan as soon as I acquired residence at the mansion of Daddy Warbucks.

After a half-hour of interrupted airplane sleep, I wandered to the bathroom and witnessed a man attacking a shiny red zit on his nose with the aid of his tiny medicine kit mirror. I walked back to my seat disgusted. Not by the fact that the man was picking a zit at his seat, but by the fact that he was hastily relieving the promise of an extensive and goo-filled operation in a dimly-lit and confined area. Which disgusted me.

I then got to thinking that they should really make portable zits. They could package them as band-aids, puss-filled squares that could be stuck to the skin, popped, then removed without the worry of scaring or redness. You would get all the satisfaction of popping a particularly ornery zit without the blemishing repercussions. They could market them to mothers with clean-skinned children, offering the joy of amateur dermatology in tiny adhesive squares.

Then the Sandra Bullock movie started, and I realized that pimples are not the only things in this universe that should be made temporary and optional. I think I still have a fever.

Best thing ever

Each morning on my way to work, I run into about 8,000,000 preteens stocking up on candy and slurpees and nacho cheese at the local 7-11 before school. This morning, I went into the smelly store to get a bottle of water and found the following note* that one of the kids must have dropped:

green ballpoint: I heard you did like L. That's what G said.
turquoise ballpoint: I don't like L besides as a friend.
green ballpoint: Then why does G say that? I think L thinks so too.
turquoise ballpoint: I don't like L, and I'm not telling who I like.
green ballpoint: But why don't you like L?
turquoise ballpoint: Why do you care? Are you her spy or something?
green ballpoint: No. I just want to know why you don't like her.
turquoise ballpoint: Because she doesn't brush her teeth and she wears weird socks, ok?

Yes!

* I was surprised to find a handwritten note, as I thought everything we used to write in elaborate notes folded 800 times and slid under desks was now communicated through text messages, which I find sad, as part of the fun of passing these notes was the thrill of potentially getting caught and being forced to eat a piece of binder paper with incriminating personal thoughts to save yourself the embarrassment of having your love life broadcast to the entire classroom by your middle-aged teacher.

Don't listen to this vol.6

I wouldn't even know about Christopher Cross if it weren't for the extensive aural child abuse I suffered at the hands of my parents' crappy record collection. This abuse, initiated by Steely Dan's "Peg" and admirably continued by Phil Collins and Ronnie Milsap, was administered most harshly by Mr. Cross.

While I can't claim to be completely well-versed in Christopher's catalogue, I will admit that each time I hear one of his songs, I get a little teary. I would attribute this to anger at his lack of musical talent/castrated chipmunk voice in the company of my friends, but since I'm in anonymous blogger land, I will say that I actually tear up because his songs inexplicably move me. For example:

1) A few months ago, "Sailing" came on when I was in the produce aisle of my local grocery store. I immediately felt chills throughout my body, and found that I was standing in front of rows of green and yellow peppers experiencing this daydream for the duration of the song:

I am wide-eyed and staring longingly at the gorgeous expanse of blue sky from my sailboat. I am dressed in a sarong, with a tropical flower tucked behind my ear and my lover's arms tucked around my waist. Soon, we will retire from the deck to enjoy frozen strawberry daiquiris, a lengthy massage and a session of sweet, sweet tantric lovemaking before waking up the following morning grinning from ear-to-ear as our canvas brings us into another special port full of unexpected surprises.

This was so, so wrong for so many reasons including the fact that I despise the word "lover," would lose my mind from boredom during a lengthy massage session and feel that "tantric" love should only be discussed openly by people like Sting, as it gives the rest of us one more reason to hate those corny fuckers. Upon coming back to my senses, I discovered that throughout this daydream, I was stroking a bell pepper, which made me immediately drop my basket and run into the street where I began chainsmoking and desperately looking for a tailpipe to suck.

2) Everytime I hear "Think of Laura," I want to know her story. While I know that she's a"friend of a friend" and a "friend to the end," I'm not sure why she was "taken away so young." Or why I googled "Christopher Cross Laura death" to determine the meaning behind the lyrics of a song that I loathe. Yes, it's true. I think of Laura.

3) "Arthur's Theme (Best that You Can Do)." It would indeed be crazy if a female drag queen and a short British drunk got caught somewhere "between the moon and New York City," although I have witnessed basically the same characters getting "caught 69ing on the K-line" at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night. So why do the following lyrics, about a spoiled drunken heir, move me, a drunken member of the proletariat, to tears?

And deep in his heart
He's just (hey!) he's just a boy

I have no idea, but I do know that I am going to ask my parents for therapy money before I catch myself making sweet, sweet candlelit love to the sounds of Christopher Cross on a bed of rose petals.

Guilty pleasure rating: 8.5*
*with the exception of Think of Laura, which merits a perfect score of 10.

He's just not that into you (unless you use a lot of lube)

My friend Y is a twelve year-old straight white girl trapped in the body of a slutty, middle-aged gay black man. His weekend wear alternates between a plaid schoolgirl miniskirt and a leather kilt. He drives a cute car with the license plate "BLKBTTM." He lets his g-strings peek above the waist of his jeans. He listens to 50 Cent, wears lip gloss and carries a murse*. He giggles about boys on the phone at work, and has a heart of gold. Y is obsessed with finding a "good man."

A Monday afternoon conversation with Y usually goes something like this (a sampling of Y's multiple potential responses have been given for the reader's benefit):

"Hey, I met a man this weekend (sigh). I think I'm in love."
"Awww," I say. "Where (gulp) did you meet him?"

"Oh girl, it was so sweet. I was:
a) in a bad girl chat room
b) in the back room of the Powerhouse
c) at a work event

When:
a) this fiiiiine-ass brother
b) this sexy little Italian boy
c) this sweet Latino boy

Suddenly started:
a) writing me all kinds of nasty things that he wants to do to my mangina**
b) jerking me off while I was ordering a martini at the bar (gasp)!
c) telling me what beautiful eyes I have, and how eyes are the window to the soul. He thinks I have a beautiful soul. Awwww.

But anyway girl, I said:
a) are you married?
b) don't mess up the leather.
c) Oh ____, you are so sweet. Where are you from honey?

Then he:
a) asked me if he could come over and "help a brother out."
b) pulled out his dick and said "do you'a want'a someof ah this-ah?"***
c) started stroking my cheek delicately

So I:
a) told him to come over, but gave him the address to the Jiffy Lube down the block- oh-kaaay!
b) Was like "honey, put that away" because you know those Italians can't hold it in with me. There was this one guy once in the spa, Marcello, and I swear girl, it was like as soon as I looked at it he had already started to...
c) asked him his name and then asked if he wanted to go to my best friend's wedding with me next weekend. Is that too soon?"

My response?
"Are you serious?
a) no way
b) no way
c) no way."

Now if I could only locate that special married, multiracial, nasty, romantic, exhibitionist with a penchant for Mandy Moore and mango body butter, I'll buy them the white picket fence.

*male purse
**male (yes, it's true) vagina
***Y's accent is always a cross between a Jamaican, Bronx and Mexican accent regardless of the person's actual ethnicity.

Chad and Irene

Last week, I thought I won a "free lunch" at an Italian restaurant after my business card was drawn from a fishbowl. I got an email congratulating me and informing me that American Express® would be picking up the bill for me and ten of my co-workers.

When we got to the restaurant, we were greeted by Chad and Irene from American Express® Financial Advisors and given menus that said "Congratulations on your free lunch K!" I asked Irene what her and Chad were doing uninvited at my lunch while she congratulated me with a lengthy two-handed chainsaw handshake.

"Just go ahead and sit down for a brief presentation on financial planning before you and your friends enjoy this special luncheon."

Since I am still unable to crap on demand, I sat down without responding to Irene. Chad, who looks like a tall 12 year-old boy, began his earnest sermon:

"How many of you think, man, with all of this money I'm spending on rent, I could pay-off a mortgage while leveraging equity for my IRA and garnering interest while..."

My co-workers were loving this, and puncutated Chad's unanswered questions about mortgages and retirement with questions about the fare on our limited, but free, luncheon menu:

"American Express®, can I at least get some shrimp on my Caesar you cheap bastards?"
"Chad, can you ask the kitchen if I this panino is lo-carb? Thanks, and could we get some more bread?"

I thanked the sweet, sweet lord for having such bitchy co-workers. Chad crawled through the rest of his presentation. Irene nodded supportively. We were handed contacts sheets. We wrote that they should email us further information at youpeoplefuckedupmycredit@yahoo.com. We stole their pens. Chad and Irene waved goodbye and sat at an empty table. Chad and Irene proceeded to consume mass qualities of red wine while we sipped our free soft drinks and complained about being reminded of our dismal financial forecasts by 24 year-old walking email spam.

Today, I opened my work inbox and found a "luncheon follow-up" email: the fuckers still had my real email from the business card I dropped in the fishbowl.

This is Chad and Irene from American Express Financial Advisors hoping you enjoyed your lunch at Cafeé Delle Stelle. I noticed that you had marked off some topics on your comment card, and would like to speak to you so that I could find out a little more about financial planning. Gimme a ring at 444-444-4444 and leave a message if I'm not available. Thanks and speak to you soon!

To which I replied:

Dear Chad and Irene from American Express Financial Advisors,

Both of you are typing together from Chad's address? Awww. That's so cute.

Or are you guys actually one person? I mean, at the beginning, you say that this is Chad and Irene, but later on you say "I." Is the "I" Chad? Or is the "I" Irene? It would make more sense if the "I" was for Irene, because, well, you know, Irene begins with I and Chad doesn't, but to tell you the truth Irene, since Chad did most of the talking during our luncheon, I don't think that I know you well enough for nicknames yet.

In any case, I'm not sure how to say this, but I don't think I'm the best person for you to speak to in order to "find out a little more about financial planning." I am honored at the request, Chad and Irene, but I would be a little scared to give you advice about your financial futures. I mean, that"s what you guys do for a living, right?

While I don't think I'd be of much assistance when it comes to life-changing decisions regarding financial planning, I can offer you the following tips on family planning:

1) There is never a "safe"time of the month for unprotected sex, even during a woman's menstrual cycle.
2) While baby names like Apple and Kumquat may seem trendy and appealing now, by the mid-21st century, I guarantee your kids will regret your decision. Go for something timeless like Montgomery or Linda, or Montgomery and Linda.
3) Planned Parenthood, does not, to the best of my knowledge, accept American Express® cards.

Chad and Irene, thanks again for the "free lunch" and your sweet email. If I can be of any further assistance regarding family planning, I would be happy to to answer any questions you might have over some red wine and a free lunch.

Sincerely,
K

O'er the land of the beans

The Governator was on the news last night saying that he wanted to ban junkfood from school vending machines and replace it with vegetables, fruit and milk. I laughed my ass off, and this time it was not because I still can't believe that Arnie is our governor*. I was laughing because each morning I walk past the 7-11 by my house and see about 800 backpack-clad pre-teens waiting for admission to the smelly sugar empire. They come out eating nachos and drinking Cherry Coke at 8 am, and set off for school with their reserve salt and sugar supply in a plastic bag hanging from their wrists.

C'mon Arnie. If you ban junk food from the vending machines the resourceful little fuckers will sell Skittles on the black market under the monkey bars at recess. Since kids are going to eat junkfood whether or not you replace Cheetos with celery, why not bring them into the joys of physical fitness through junkfood while raising corporate funds to save our schools?

Drain our public school pools and fill them with Cherry Coke. Replace basketballs with giant cheeseballs, thereby enticing Frito-Lay to sponsor our athletic programs. Construct a Taco Bell Land statewide physical fitness center in Sacramento that would feature the following:

1) Nacho cheese slide- Visitors to Taco Bell Land would climb a huge mound of taco chips and slide back down a river of nacho cheese before repeating exercise (good for leg toning and building strength)
2) Churro rope climb- Children would test their endurance and upper arm strength by climbing a giant churro
3) Ground "beef" run- Nobody knows what the fuck Taco Bell makes its "beef" filling from. In this exercise, children would have to run as fast as they could through the park while being chased by a Taco Bell employee carrying a huge vat of the beef and screaming "I know where Kibbles went when he died."
4) Chalupa row- Kids would use chicken strips to row their chalupa boat in a sea of "sour cream.**"
5) Bean and cheese burrito feed- Visitors would consume as many bean and cheese burritos as possible in one sitting in order to raise heart rate to healthy work-out level.
6) Crispy taco handball- Children would build strong reflexes by playing handball with a two week-old taco.

Go for the gold Arnie! And don't worry; you don't have to give this girly-girl any credit.

*For the record, I voted for Gary Coleman, the other Arnold!
**Cannot definitively state that the stuff Taco Bell employees "squirt" into burritos is actually sour cream.

Pimp my knight rider

I think I've just read the best thing ever. I'm sure you're thinking the same thing that Napoleon Dynamite's brother expressed in the film: "like anyone can even know that," but I implore you fine, fine readers to judge the for yourself (from The Sun):

Ice-T is to produce David Hasselhoff's first hip-hop album.
The rapper is said to be convinced that the 51-year-old for Knight Rider and Baywatch actor can take on the biggest names in rap, reports The Sun.
Ice-T added: "He's gonna come out as Hassle The Hoff - I promise you. The Hoff will surprise people with his rap skills and humour."

Hassle The Hoff. Holy shit.

I've gone ahead and done him the favor of writing a few lyrics he can drop and get jiggy with on the mic:

My name's Hassle the Hoff and I am the man

I've got a mini-fro and an orange tan

I used to drive Kitt through the Hollywood Hills

trackin' down crimes, makin' them bills

Knight Rider got cut, straight outta luck

so i drove to auditions in a beat-up truck

But Lifetime movies just weren't for me

I had to get out and P-I-M-P

Dropped science on a record known from here to Cologne

now the German bitches won't leave me alone

Yeah, I got hoes from here to the beach

Pamela's silicone within my reach

Got too many hoes and not enough time

to some young ladies I have to decline

"Hassle the Hoff we think you're fly

you're such a great singer can we get in your ride?"

I said dear ladies, Kitt ain't free

if you want a quick ride call Tommy Lee

Uh-huh-huh-huh.

Today's random tracks spit out by shuffle

Queen Bitch- David Bowie
Seeing Other People- Belle and Sebastian
Erase You- ESG
Saturn- Stevie Wonder
You Belong to the City- Glenn Fry*
Heaven Up Here- Echo and the Bunnymen**
Shakespeare's Sister- The Smiths
Personality Crisis- New York Dolls
Astral Glamour- the Homosexuals
Dance- the Lovemakers


*I know. Although in my defense, I am not going to claim that I'm being "ironic" while listening to it as most people would do. There's nothing ironic about me getting in touch with my cheesy side, and people who use the "irony" excuse should get some balls and admit that they actually like to watch Dirty Dancing and listen to Lionel Richie. Liking something you "shouldn't" or liking something that's so bad it's cool does not constitute irony either. However, according to Alanis, a black fly in your chardonnay would be quite ironic. But I digress...

While I would not say that You Belong to the City is genius, I would highly recommend that you play this song as soon as you begin your descent down to your local subway (sunglasses on, of course) as your mass transit soundtrack while bound for home. Maybe it's the fact that the song was used in Miami Vice, but I always feel like I'm in possession of a giant stolen diamond, and that any second someone on the train will dive towards me and cause me to touch the side of my sandal, release my secret roller skates and skate away. (Although I haven't quite worked out how, even with the aid of rollerskates, I would be able to get through the mass of people that insist on jamming up the aisle and the exit by gathering near the door).


**Amazing album, and song. I especially like the lyrics:

Where are you now
We`re over here
We`ve got those empty pockets
And we can`t afford the beer
Smoking holes and we`ve got only dreams
And we`re so damn drunk we can`t see the stairs


I miss Echo and the Bunnymen. J and I went to see them last year and couldn't shut up about it for weeks. Watching Ian McCulloch come on stage through manufactured fog with his sunglasses on and a cigarette dangling from his lip is an image that will never leave my head, and yet another cruel reminder of how unfair it is that I was not a teenager in the early eighties.

Now I'm listening to Mogwai, which is reminding me of Gremlins and the fact that much like Gremlins, I should never be fed after midnight, particularly if it comes in powder or liquid form. That's all. Back to hallucinating wildly at my desk.

Three more reasons

I keep a running list of reasons I have to move to Europe filed away in my mind. Most of them are reasons I formed several years ago such as the lack of interest in art in this country and the amazing plethora of delicious luncheon meats found in most European countries.

I thought of three more this week. While some might argue that Europe has its own Pop Idol and its own advertising machine, I would argue that pop culture in Europe is viewed with a bit more scrutiny and humor than most US residents are capable of. And that's because people in Europe read books. And vote.

1) I was eating sushi with a friend last week when my phone beeped to notify me of a new text message from my service provider (and American Idol sponsor) telling me to go ahead and dial 1800FUCKOFF to vote for my favorite American Idol as the performances had just ended. I texted them back to say that no, I wasn't watching American Idol or even remotely near a television, and that my current American Idol was the waiter who was steadily replenishing my sake and wasabi, and that while I didn't know if he was a singer or not, he still had my vote above the wanna-be Ushers and Beyonces that perform a glorified form of karaoke each week for an audience that cast more votes for their favorite singer than for the president of this country. I then wrote back to ask if I would be charged for the impertinent advertising they fire off to all their customers. I was ready to send one more regarding their sponsorship level of American Idol, when my friend took my phone away and made me go outside to smoke before I worked myself into even more of an indignant mess. I have yet to receive a response from AT&T, and my phone sounds fuzzy.

2) On Monday night, I was at Route 101 drinking Manhattans with my friend in an attempt to avoid all things Oscar related. Apparently, even the 101 isn't safe from the sudden Oscar mania that somehow manages to capture the minds of people who had better things to do than see another crappy movie that should have been an interesting documentary on someone's life, as the tv above the bar was tuned in to the ceremony. Luckily, the sound was cut-out, so the boring proceedings were set to the jukebox soundtrack of the Clash, Aerosmith and Southern Culture on the Skids.

A few years back when everyone was enraptured with the theory that if you played Dark Side of the Moon while watching Wizard of Oz, it actually meant something more than a stoned coincidence, I was experimenting myself with playing things like Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life during La Dolce Vita. And it worked- when I was high off my ass. I thought of that last night when the Oscar for best short film was presented in the fucking aisle. The jukebox was playing Black Sabbath's NIB, and while I tried to pretend that the anger I felt was generated by Ozzy's screeching vocals, I realized that it was killing me to watch this guy accept his award from a makeshift microphone four feet from his seat while they let P-Diddy on the Oscar stage to present an award. AT&T will be receiving a text message regarding this classless behavior as well.

3) A professional dancer was just awarded damages from a New York City jury because he let The Doctor with the World's Shortest Attention Span operate on his knee. The dancer described discomfort in his left leg, The Doctor with the World's Shortest Attention Span marked the area with an X, then proceeded to cut into his healthy right knee twenty minutes later.

I'm not saying that medicine is a perfect science, and that this incident couldn't have happened almost anywhere else in the world. But I do think it's brilliant that it happened here, where nepotism and networking rule our university system over actual education, and our educational system often awards grades on the strength of our short-term memories.

There were a few courses that I took in college and did fairly well in, despite the fact that I chose to first open the books the night before the final examination and absorb an entire semester while on a psychotic Skittle/No-Doze high. While I remembered the information for the exam, I couldn't speak to the cause of cold fronts or the prediction of data mining with any semblance of intelligence today.

In fact, it wouldn't surprise me in twenty years if every American industry operated in the same manner as the Doctor with the World's Shortest Attention Span. By the time the internet/MTV generation goes through college, we're going to be stuck with a population that will change our oil when we ask for new brakes and give us a tonsillectomy when we go in to give birth. Maybe by then, I won't even remember what I went in for in the first place.

Gone under sea

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Listen to this, vol. 3

Electric Renaissance- Belle and Sebastian

Monochrome in the 1990's
You go disco and I'll go my way
Monochrome in the 1990's
You go disco and I'll go my way
Monochrome in the 1990's
You go disco and I'll go Funkadelic, man
Is the way to go
So drop a pill and then say hello

I don't like Mondays, part II

because today was a public holiday and i have to work tomorrow, because a certain boy who makes my stomach drop is flying over utah in a plane bound back to new york as i type, because the united states is engaging in "psychological warfare" with iran, because i thought authentic psychological warfare existed in the restrooms of junior high girls, because i would rather have a junior high student making decisions about psychological warfare than the individual who is currently waging war with my mood swings and sensibilities, because i am listening to the magnetic fields and tomorrow i will listen to the whir of printers and bureaucracy from my miserable desk, because people are not meant to spend their lives in cubicles, because i feel stagnated, because even my stagnation is stagnated by my anal sense of responsibility, because i know procrastination will be unavoidable this week, because my mind is racing and i have to go to bed now even though san francisco smells of fresh rain and I would rather wile away the night pining and listening to mix tapes and drinking maker's mark and chain-smoking and gluing things onto other things and reading sometimes a great notion while watching the lights slowly dim into morning fog, but instead i will settle into bed because these are the things that we do.