Here's something that will come as a complete shock to a lot of you heterosexual "dudes" out there. You may want to sit down, you lady-lovin' studs, because what I'm about to reveal is pretty mind-blowing. (And yes, this is your cue, you clever cads, to spread your legs even farther than you ordinarily do, indicate the somnulent snake coiled between them, and say, "Fuck my mind, bitch. Blow this!")
So here it is, without further fanfare. Prepare to be blown away.
Admitting that another man is attractive does NOT make you a homosexual. When your girlfriend says, of ______ (insert the name of her favorite Hollywood hunk here), "Don't you think he's good-looking?" you don't have to pretend that you don't know because you don't look at other guys. You don't have to say, "How the fuck should I know? I'm not a fuckin' homo."
I've gone out with way too many guys who have reacted this way when I've asked them something similar. And not just about celebrities or athletes. Sometimes about waiters or other so-called "regular" guys who just so happen to be handsome.
"Our waiter could be a movie star," I'd say. "If I didn't know better I'd swear he was Johnny Depp."
"Huh?" he'd say. "I didn't notice."
"You didn't notice?" I'd say. "Please. You only had two minutes to look at him while he told us tonight's specials and took our order. When he comes back with our food, just take a look. Tell me what you think."
And then the waiter would, of course, appear, and set down our food. He'd walk away.
"So?" I'd say.
"I didn't notice," he'd say.
"But you looked."
"Yeah, I saw him. But how'm I supposed to know if he's good-looking or not? I'm not a fuckin' homo."
Uggh. And you're not fuckin' me, either, buddy boy. You're going home (no, not "homo") alone.
It wasn't that I would drool over or onto the guy I was indicating. My date's reaction was not based on the fact that I found our waiter (or whatever the other guy was) attractive. I did not gush or flirt shamelessly with the other guy. I merely pointed out that I thought the guy was good-looking. Just as I would point out another woman I thought was good-looking.
So listen, studs. Looking at someone of the same sex and appreciating his beauty, does not mean you're (literally) into guys. Admitting that you've noticed another man, and admitting that you think he's attractive, does not mean you are attracted to him "that way". Marco the Magnificent Magician isn't going to swoop down on you, black cape a-flappin', tap you on the dick with his magic wand, and -- *poof!* presto, homo! -- you're a homosexual! (Oh, the horror!) No. It just means you have eyes. Nothing more, nothing less.
I'm so glad I stapled my thumb today. Otherwise, I may have forgotten that tomorrow I have to return a book to the library.
Here's how it worked.
- I accidentally stapled my left thumb this afternoon.
- After I thought, "Duh, you retard," and "Oww" and "Fuck" and "You know what, blood is such a pretty color," I thought, "Say, that hurts! Can you imagine how painful a stabbing would be?" And then I reflected for a few seconds about "Death of a Cheerleader", a gripping Tori Spelling/Andrea Martin drama that I watched this morning on Lifetime.
- I lingered on the thought of stabbing as I pressed more blood from my thumb. Thought about how I would love to paint the powder room the same color. Or have someone paint it for me, since I have no patience.
- While in the other bathroom washing my flesh wound and marvelling at how much more copious and scandalous the blood looked when mixed with water, I thought, "If this is how much a tiny puncture hurts, I can't imagine a knife plunging into my body and rupturing my spleen." So I imagined it, and envisioned multiple stabbings inflicted with a variety of extremely sharp and gleaming knives.
- I considered the damage that could be done with a series of chainsaws, ice picks, and a stunning array of other household implements and garage tools that could also be adapted, quite readily, for use as instruments of torture.
- I thought, "Ow" as my little staple wound throbbed under the pressure of the tap water. I wondered if I could trick myself into identifying the sensation as pleasure instead of pain.
- I dried my hands and thought, "I don't think so. But you never know."
- I remembered the torture and murder victims in "American Psycho". I thought, "The movie was nowhere as disgusting as the book."
- I sucked my thumb a little.
- I realized "American Psycho", the book, was still resting on the little table by the front door, awaiting return to the library, and that it is due tomorrow.
And there you have it, in ten easy steps.
I think you may be on your own today. I think I'm going to just let you play in my archives.
You do know about my archives, right? (Lie and tell me you do. Vehemently insist that you've read everything on this site. And send me private email to say, "No, I really have!" when I question, in a public comment, the veracity of your claims.)
C'mon! Be a blogaeologist!
Puk Pull on your worn khakis, tattered light blue chambray shirt, dusty ol' hiking boots. (Leave the jewelry at home.) Roll up your sleeves, get down on your knees, and start digging and sifting.
If you don't know where to start, how about checking out some really vintage gems, dated pre-May 25, 2002 ("B.M.T.", which of course stands for "Before Movable Type").
Have fun. I am, like, sooo outta here, man.
Who among us has not received "spam" email from some enterprising company, promising us a bigger penis or fuller breasts? Promising us that if we use their product we can gain those few extra inches that are sure to be crowd-pleasers at our next social gathering? I know I've received my share. And let me just tell you right now to save your money. My penis is no bigger today than it was weeks ago. And my breasts? Well, my cups are not runningeth over either. (Here's where I urge you to resist the temptation to tell me I'm a "sucker" or "such a boob" fun references to the body parts in question.)
Well, all hope is not lost. I've found something that I'm confident will yield results. And although my male readers may think, at first glance, that the site I've linked to only benefits the ladies, rest assured that, as the site remarks, the activity endorsed therein, although only literally applied to women, is desired by men as well. So I don't think I'm stretching it when I say that everybody will be happy!
So go! Without further ado! And, as always, enjoy!
P.S. I don't want to hear no lip or nothin' from anyone about the inappropriateness of the link. You should know enough about the way I "work" here to know you should hover over my links before clicking on them.
Oy, how I love paranoia.
A delectable variety of narcissism, indeed.
(Please refrain from shoving an official lexicon of psychological terms in my face, pushing your glasses up onto your nose, and literally pointing out definitions with the finger of your choosing. I'll just tell you to take care of those horrid cuticles.)
See that huddle of friends talking on a street corner? The one that burst into laughter moments after you passed? Chances are, they're not laughing at you.
What does she mean "chances are"? That means there is a chance they're laughing at me!
Everyone's life does not revolve around you or yours. Really. It doesn't.
And no, I am not being passive-aggressive here. If I had a "problem" with someone in particular, I'd privately address that person. I'm just making a general statement.
I think she's just saying that. I know she's talking about me. I mean, my cuticles are ragged. She's laughing at me.
If there's one thing I can't stand (OK, so there are about 462,123,108, but really, who's counting?), it's when people don't do things for themselves. Now, I'm not talking about building your own house, or men opening doors for women, or babies waiting for their mothers to change their diapers. I'm not talking about people who hire housekeepers or landscapers or who take their clothes to the dry cleaner. No, I'm talking about people who would rather instantly ask someone else to do something for them rather than even try to do it themselves.
I'm talking about doing things with your brain.
I am a huge proponent of self-education. Of researching something you wish to learn. Of taking the initiative, digging in, and revelling in the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of discovery, and the joy in accomplishment. And it's all so much fun to do on the internet, when you can sort through an immense volume of information. Virtually anything you want to know ... can be found and learned. You don't have to ask for a librarian's assistance. You don't have to literally dig through stacks of papers and books. Everything you could possibly want is literally at your fingertips.
Yet still, with "internet" a household word and computers about as common as TVs in our homes, some people seem to approach the internet with about as much brain-power as they devote to television viewing.
When I wanted to know about Pilates before I started practicing it, I researched it on the internet. A simple Google search led me to article after article. When I wanted to find a friend I lost contact with, I found her through the internet. The search was a little more difficult, but I was successful. When I wanted to buy a graphics tablet so I could have fun drawing stuff like the cartoon "me" at the top of this page and cards for my friends, I did a great deal of research to find a suitable one, and when it arrived, I hooked it up to my computer myself, even though I didn't even know what the hell "USB" was. It took me much longer to do on my own than it would have had I asked someone to help, but when I finally got it up and running, I experienced such a sense of satisfaction that you would have thought I'd built the entire computer myself.
So much of what I learn I learn by trial and error. Rarely do I accomplish something outside my established realm of knowledge or experience on the first attempt. It is only through teaching myself, and making countless mistakes, that I learn anything. And yes, of course I get frustrated sometimes to the point of tears, and definitely to the point of cursing, due to my lack of patience and my daunting perfectionism but I get it done. On my own.
I cannot and will not tolerate mental laziness. I can't stand when someone instantly asks someone else to do the work because he doesn't want to expend the brain power to do it himself. (I also can't stand physical laziness or sloth, but that is another topic for another day. Maybe.)
Now before you tell me you don't have enough time to research anything or to figure anything out for yourself, well, take a look at how fallacious that is. You have a "blog". You have the time to post about how drunk you got last night or how stoned you are even now as you're posting. You have the time to complain about how out of shape you are. You have the time to tell the world about your "issues" and your angst. So don't even try to tell me you can't find the time to discover things for yourself.
Make the time. And don't waste anyone else's by asking for help just so you can sit back and avoid doing the work you should not only do on your own but that you should want to do yourself.
Just do it, for fuck's sake. And for your own, too.
Yesterday morning I received an email from Wouter de Winter, the assistant to Belgian artist Wim Delvoye. In March, I visited the New Museum in Soho for the express purpose of viewing Delvoye's installation, "Cloaca", and wrote an entry detailing my experience. If you haven't read that entry, you can see it here. (It originally appeared on my old site, pre-Movable Type.)
"That's what I love about the gym," he once said, back when I still allowed him to speak to me (but long after his other privileges were denied). "When I'm shooting hoops, everyone is equal. The gym is The Great Equalizer."
When pressed for a fuller explanation, he was all too eager to provide one, to show me just how gracious he could be.
"Well, it's like this," he said, all puffed up and proud. "On the court, it doesn't matter if you're a janitor or a truck driver, or a doctor or lawyer. You can't tell, from what we wear, what we do for a living." (For the so-called record, he was/is a successful suit-and-tie "professional".)
"So?" I said, no doubt raising my eyebrow.
"So I think it's really cool. I mean, sometimes I have no idea what the guy on my team is. And on the court it doesn't even matter. We're all just a bunch of guys playing the same game."
Such a charitable guy he was! So sensitive! And so democratic!
And such a fucking jackass!
Because he knew I wasn't impressed by the usual "trappings" that many of his colleagues used as bait to lure women, and because he knew I didn't give a damn about so-called status symbols, he wanted to impress me by making me think he was just a regular Joe, even though I know he considered himself quite a few cuts above the rest. Even though the spoon that he was born with in his mouth was closer to plastic than silver, and even though his hometown was regarded as being one of the least desirable in its county and his own mother refused to acknowledge that she was born in an even less savory town ... yes, even though he was just a basic middle-class schlub with a hairy back, he somehow felt he was above it all.
Sometimes, he said, he had no idea who the other guys on the team were. How about this, Jackass? How about: They're other guys playing basketball.
On the court, he said, none of that makes a difference. How about this, Jackass? How about: Off the court, it doesn't make a difference.
At the gym, he said, everyone is playing the same game. Well, how about this, you self-righteous, bombastic son-of-a-social-climbing-bitch? How about: Outside the gym, everyone is just playing the so-called "game" of "life" (and not the Milton Bradley version).
I've never given a damn what someone does for a living. I don't care if you're a lawyer, a trash collector, a teacher, a doctor, an actor, or a plumber. I don't care what you do to make your money. What I care about is not only how you treat other people on the surface, when others are watching, but how you regard them in your heart and, yes, in your soul.
I don't care if you make $40,000 or $400,000. What I care about is how much you value what you have, and how much you are willing to share what you have with other people in your life.
I know way too many so-called "rich" people who are stingy penny-pinchers. I've gone out with guys who've driven Porsches and made six-figure salaries who groaned when the dinner check was presented and joked (or so they pretended) that I should split it with them. I've known well-to-do people whose immense generosity extended as far as $10 gift certificates for their secretaries' birthdays. Of course, I've known quite a few men and women of "means" who were truly generous and giving. But for the most part, no.
On the other hand, I know many people who make way less money who are much more generous with what they have. I went out with someone a while ago who literally gave me the shirt off his back when I got cold and apologized because he couldn't afford to buy me something to keep me warm. A friend once shipped me a huge box of chocolate chip cookies (homemade, by him) via Federal Express because he wanted to make me happy, even though he barely had enough money to keep himself going. One of my best friends bought me a great little vase for my birthday last year, even though she didn't have the money to keep food in her tiny kitchen.
Of course, there are many more examples on each side of the coin. But each illustrates the same basic point. What you do for a living is not what or who you are. Rather, what you do as a person is what or who you are. Your so-called social standing does not define you. What you have does not determine your worth.
So when the jackass stated (with wonderment in his voice, even) that the gym was The Great Equalizer, intending to impress me with his democratic willingness to elevate the janitors/truck-drivers to his lofty level of status/success, he failed ever so miserably. He failed because he thought I would deem him a good guy because he was willing to place himself on the same level as guys I know he considered beneath him. He failed because he was guided by the notion that success is defined in terms of dollars and cents and not honor and sense.
And of course he failed because he didn't know me at all.
At least four times a week I pass by Janovic/Plaza, a paint store on Seventh Avenue in Chelsea. Through the big plate glass window, I always notice the little coffee set-up that is available for customers' use. And every time I pass by, I think all of the following:
- What would they do if I came in, poured myself a cup of coffee, prepared it the way I like, and then just left the store without so much as a "thank you" or any sort of acknowledgment of anyone in the store?
- What would they do if I came in, raised the pot of coffee really close to my face, lifted the lid, sniffed the pot's contents, crinkled my nose in disgust, and asked them, "Is this a fresh pot? Can someone please make a fresh pot?"
- What would they do if I came in, got a cup of coffee, yelled, "What? No half and half?" and then poured the available quart of regular ol' milk onto the floor and got down on my hands and knees and lapped it up like a parched kitten?
- If I go in and take a cup of coffee, how long do I have to pretend to look at paint swatches before I can leave the store without them thinking I'm just there for the free coffee?
- Can they tell I have no intention of ever painting anything myself? Do they know I'm a rabid caffiend?
- How many times a week can I come by and get free coffee? If I want more than one cup a day, do I have to disguise myself each time? How much does a blonde wig cost?
- If I do the free coffee thing more than once, do I eventually have to buy something so they don't think I was just there to mooch more kickamoo juice? If I do decide to buy something, does the item have to cost at least as much as the total amount of coffee I've drunk?
- If I do the fake browsing thing, do I pretend to be surprised that coffee is available, and then, after taking a cup, do I have to continue to browse? Do I have to drink the entire cup of coffee before leaving the store?
- What if I find out the coffee isn't free, but only after I've poured myself a cup? Do I just put the cup back down on the counter quietly, pretend to see someone I know outside, and then dash back onto Seventh Avenue and run into another store?
- What would they do if I poured myself a cuppa java, asked for a chocolate chip scone, and then acted all indignant when they sneered at me and said, "This is not Starbucks, you jackass!" and then I told them, snippily, "I know it's not Starbucks, I don't frequent Starbucks, why the fuck would I go to Starbucks when Chelsea Espresso is much better and closer?" and then they told me to take my business there, and then I told them well duh, they don't sell paint at Chelsea Espresso, and then they told me to just get the hell out, so I got down on the floor, on my stomach, and threw a tantrum flailing all of my limbs, frothing at the mouth and then, when they yanked me back onto my feet, all of the packets of Equal I'd jammed in my pockets and down my pants fluttered to the floor, and then they called the cops, and one of the cops arrested me and read me my rights while the other poured two cups of coffee, and the cashier handed them two huge donuts from a hidden stash for Janovic/Plaza preferred customers, and when I said, "Hey, what about me?" they just laughed, hauled me out of the store, shoved me into the back of an old-fashioned paddy wagon, and then forced me to wear horizontal stripes?
- Aww, fuck it. I'm only a few blocks from my apartment anyway. I'm sure my coffee is much better, and it's iced too. And stripes are so ... unbecoming.
The word is "cummerbund". There is only one "b", and that is at the beginning of the last syllable. Ergo, hence, and therefore, do not pronouce this word as "cumberbund".
However, if your cummerbund's design contains a pattern of whimsical cucumbers woven into the silk, you may call it a 'cumberbund (note the apostrophe). But only once, in an attempt to make a lame joke.
Still, you should know that cummerbunds with whimsical designs are just horrifying. Unacceptable. The correct pronunciation for that sort of cummerbund is simple: "wrong".
You should also know that any attempt to wear one in my presence will result in my absence.
Just so we're clear on the issue.
Thanks for listening.
Welcome to TackyTown, U.S.A.
Population: 3? 4?
Apartment 3F. Oh yes, Apartment 3F. What can I say?
I can say it's nice. One bedroom, nicely appointed kitchen and bath. Dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, spacious (by Manhattan standards).
I can say it's expensive.
I can say the guy who used to live there seemed like a really decent sort. Quiet. Polite. Sociable enough to offer a smile and a greeting whenever we met in the hallway. The sort of neighbor anyone would be thrilled to have.
I can say that the few times I managed to peek inside his apartment during our brief chats in the hallway, I liked what I saw. He seemed to have decent taste.
I can say I wish he'd move back. Pronto.
You see ... the new neighbors ... Well, just look at what they're using for a welcome mat. Look. Yes, that's right. It's a carpet remnant. But not just any old carpet remnant. A poorly cut, filthy, hey-I-just-vomited-a-can-of-creamed-spinach green carpet remnant, left over from the garbage that they actually installed over the beautiful hardwood floors when they moved in this past May.
I knew something was wrong with these new tenants before I ever laid eyes on them or they ever laid down the carpet. I knew something was wrong as soon as I peeked in during their move (I'm such a yenta) and saw the ornate gold-gilt chairs with pea-green cushions. I knew something was wrong when every piece that was brought in was more hideous than the one before it.
I expressed my sense of foreboding to the DOG.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm scared. I just saw the new people's stuff. It's objectionable. Shit that even my grandparents would consider hideous. I'm worried. Why the hell did S have to move out?"
Well, as it turns out, I wasn't just paranoid. As it turns out, I had every right to be scared. You see, my new neighbors are not what they told the landlord they were. They are not an interior decorator and her one lovely child. They are a psychic and her two or three obnoxious children.
Yes, a psychic. A palm-reader. A palm-reader who advertises that her services are $5.00. And that "walk-ins are welcome". Yes, walk-ins are welcome into a five-story building that houses only six units. Walk-ins willing to part with the lofty sum of $5.00, walk-ins with the intelligence to believe in the advice of a palm-reader, walk-ins fresh off of Broadway are welcome to just roam around the halls of a doormanless, rather high-rent building.
And how do I know about her advertising? Well, I know because it was all laid out in blue and white on a large two-sided sandwich-board sign that she placed just outside the front of the building when she first moved in.
Yes, nothing says, "This is a really classy joint" than a cheesy sign advertising cheesy services for the price of a block of cheese.
Well, that just didn't sit well with me and the DOG. And apparently it didn't sit well with the other neighbors or the building manager/landlord (whatever he is), because the next morning the sign was gone. However, she and her two (three?) screaming brats are still in 3F, as is the hideous furniture, and the pervasive, invasive smell of boiled macaroni and particularly odoriferous onions.
But what's a girl of impeccable taste and steadfast impatience to do about the filthy, unsightly carpet remnant? Is it so wrong for me to seriously consider accidentally dropping an open ten-gallon drum of acid, motor oil, or spaghetti sauce onto it? Is it so wrong for me to actually consider creeping down 35 steps at 3:00 a.m. and sneaking the vile thing back up to my apartment, stuffing it into a big trashbag, and then disposing of it in a Dumpster about a block and a half away?
But ... then again ... what if Madame 3F really is a psychic? Then she knows I've been considering these alternatives ever since the carpet remnant first appeared about three weeks ago. She knows, so that means she'll be peering through her peephole at 3:00 a.m., waiting for me to make my move.
The real question, though, I suppose, is this: Is she really a psychic? Or am I just psycho? Further, do I even have a big enough trashbag?
Calling all women!
Can any of you lovely ladies answer this question that led someone to my site?
I want to help this guy. I mean, he just wants an answer to a simple question, right? So can any of you ladies help him out? I'd hate to imagine him spending his entire day searching. And since my site did come up as #10, I figure the least I can do is accommodate him.
And sorry, boys, but this question is only directed to the ladies. (Although I would have asked for your assistance if I'd chosen to accommodate the person searching for "hairy penis gallery".)
Thanks for your help.
My treasured personal assistant, Chad, just directed my attention to his site to see his latest entry. I am now pissed off.
Well, just take a look, and then come back here.
* * *
The THIEF, in a post dated September 19, writes, "i have redesigned the site along with the generous help of Aralyra.org." Never mind that he completely ripped off Chad's design and some of his content. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that he didn't give Chad credit, but still I'm seething.
Yeah yeah, imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but this is pushing it.
Chad, by the way, not one to ever sit idly by, sent the schmuck a fantastic email. If the guy has any integrity at all, he will respond. (Yeah right.)
UPDATE, 5:40 p.m. EST: Chad received an email apology from the offender. The site (terrycloth.net), as of this writing, is not available.
UPDATE, 7:15 p.m.: The site is back up, with a charming little quizlet!
On the ground floor of Equinox, there is a "café". When I get to the gym around 5:45 a.m., it's not open yet except for the refrigerator. The food deal doesn't get going right away.
However, on the weekends, both the gym and the café open at 8:00. I usually arrive around 8:15. And by the time I do, the smells of the food are already wafting through the gym. Or perhaps I should say odors, because I am not fond of what I smell.
Or wait. Maybe that's not even accurate. What I mean is that I don't mind the smells themselves but the fact that they are out of place. I do not like to smell this when I am at the gym. I especially don't like smelling it when I am next to a, uh, well ... how do I put this gently ... well, a fat guy on the treadmill. When I smell sausage cooking in the exercise environment, I instantly associate that odor with the guy and wonder if perhaps it isn't sausage that I'm smelling but the guy's "pork" melting from his body. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's automatic!
What was even worse, or perhaps as distressing, was a recent occasion when one of my other senses was accosted, in the ladies locker room, by something that instantly made me think of this and this. I will say nothing more. I don't think I have to, do I?
Good. So I won't.
That is all.
P.S. When searching for the perfect breakfast sausage image online (you didn't think I actually sit around taking photos of sausage, did you?), using "breakfast sausage" as a search string (isn't that ingenious?) I came across this. (Yes, I suppose you could say I've supplied a "sausage link".)
All right. Move along. Nothing to see here ... or should I say there?
Addendum: An additional article (by the same reporter who wrote the article I linked to yesterday) can be found here.
Maybe you know what to say about this.
Maybe my speechlessness speaks for itself.
Found via Chad.
Listen. Just listen for a minute, OK? Stop doing countless Google searches for people you haven't seen in years ... or adding more things to that Wish List ... Just stop. Listen up.
Just because they make it doesn't mean ya gotsta buy it. Just because scads of manufacturers have a "We make it, you buy it" sort of thing going on, what with makin' a whole lotta nada in the form of hideous schlock, doesn't mean you have to buy it. Dig?
(For the so-called "record", I'm not talking about "kitsch", which I adore. Schlock and kitsch are not the same thing.)
OK. So what exactly constitutes shlock? Well, it's not an exact science, so I'll just provide a list of items that, although available in stores and online, should not be purchased. Ever. EVER.
- Tweetie Bird sweatshirts in sizes larger than a child's 8
- Coral lipstick
- Cowboy hats
- "Suntan" pantyhose
- Terrycloth headband and wristband sets
- Floral dresses with lace insets and self-belts
- Capri pants
- Thong leotards
- "Fanny" packs
- Mesh half-shirts
- Black lacquer bedroom sets
- White lacquer dining room sets
- Anything touted on TV by Victoria Principal
- Professional sports team jerseys (especially if intended to be worn to a game)
- Padded toilet seats (additional cringe factor if there is an embossed flower design on the lid)
- T-shirts with "Hottie" emblazoned across the chest
- Christmas sweaters
- "Rotary" phones with push-button dial
- Anything decorative shaped like a lighthouse
- Fabric flowers
- Fake plants
- Hummel figurines (just because they're expensive doesn't mean they're not hideous schlock)
- Any doll advertised in Parade magazine -- especially the baby "Michael" holding a baseball
- Decorative ducks with bows around their necks
Numbers 26 to 1,186,997 forthcoming.
There is no doubt in my mind that Thomas of "Sweetness in Absentia" and I are cosmically linked. And he is such a darling that he linked to one of my recent entries ... and on his site (right-hand column) included a passage from that entry that one of my best friends ever (no, this friend does not have a "blog") says is one of his all-time favorites.
If you don't read Thomas, you don't know what you're missing. Now go ... get outta here ... and go there!
I'm so excited. So thrilled I can barely contain myself. I haven't been this titillated since promotions for "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" flooded every available TV commercial break with all the preternatural superforce of a tsunami. Oh how I cherish sentimental, manipulative pap! Hurrah for manufactured celebrations of Woman Energy!
And now I'm all a-tingle with anticipation for the latest Hollywood "gal pal" effort, "The Banger Sisters", in theaters this Friday.
Oh look. A pair of old friends who, once inseparable as rock-and-roll groupies, now, 20 years later, couldn't be more opposite if they tried. The one who remains the same -- the cooler, hipper, funkier of the two (Goldie Hawn, struggling to retain her perky girlishness but coming off as a desperate, washed-out version of her radiant real-life daughter, Kate Hudson) -- suffers some sort of crisis and then seeks the help of her old friend (Susan Sarandon), who has since mellowed into a staid suburban shell of her former bad girl self.
Gee. What do you think will be the biggest challenge? Goldie ("Suzette") convincing Susan ("Lavinia") (why why why?) she needs to snap out of her conservative lifestyle and undergo a makeover and then, of course, giving her one, which consists of chopping off her hair, painting her face, and painting her into rocker-chick chic leather pants? Or Goldie and Susan convincing us that they're only old enough to have teenage daughters? Or someone convincing me that this tripe will last in theaters past the end of October?
"Ben", a technician at my ISP with whom I just "chatted" in a "Live Chat" session about the problems I was having accessing my site after my hosting company upgraded its system, had no sense of humor.
He helped me with my problem, yes, in a calm and efficient manner, and suggested I do several things in order to test something or whatnot or whozit or blahblahblahblahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well, after we tried some sort of "ping" thing, which Ben described to me was another way to "see" my site, I decided to see if I could actually PHYSICALLY see it. And lo and, yes, also, behold, I could. And do.
But he had no sense of humor about it. When I realized that I could see the actual site, I asked him if the "ping" did something, and asked, further, "Is it magic or what?" Ben still didn't join in my unsuppressed glee.
I am "firstname" in the following exchange:
firstname: I am viewing it as we "speak".
Ben: They probably just finished updating right now as we spoke.
firstname: Oh, they are playing a cruel joke. Well, thank you for your help anyway.
Ben: They probably didn't know.
I wanted Ben to smile or something. Give me an exclamation point. Play. Congratulate me. Tell me that it wasn't a cruel joke and to go out and celebrate by juggling three fiery bowling pins in Union Square. But he didn't.
Boring. Boring boring Ben.
I hate when people don't play along. Bah.
Today is the Jewish High Holiday of YOM KIPPUR, as you probably know. Today is the day we Jews are supposed to atone. See, we don't have those "confessional" things. So we have to save it all up for this one day. And for some reason we're not supposed to eat. Don't ask me why. I am a very bad Jew.
And it is that very bad Jewness that is causing me to be punished today. I am being punished by my HOSTING COMPANY. It is not allowing me access to my site via my computer. It is
now not [typo fixed 9/17] allowing many others to gain access to my site.
I attribute it all to the fact that I ate a small bowl of cereal with raisins (no milk, thank you) this morning, in defiance of the "no food" part of the holiday. So now I must suffer.
And so must many of my most ardent fans.
I apologize ... to those who are unable to access my site, and to whatever force I offended by eating a small bowl of cereal with raisins. In defiance, however, I just ate a banana.
Do you think I'm pushing it?
Heavy rain. Check!
Pounding the skylight. Check!
Me lying on my stomach on the bed reading "American Psycho". Check!
Cat curled six inches from my face. Check!
DOG and dog in the living room watching football or whatever. Check!
Less than zero desire to be on the computer. Check!
See you tomorrow.
I know it's late notice, but I just wanted to warn you that tomorrow you may not be able to access this fabulous site for a few hours. My "host" is performing a network upgrade.
They appreciate my patience, they say. (How presumptuous.) And I appreciate yours.
(Don't you just adore the elegant, reserved, understated, WASPy, Stepford Wife me?)
Why shell out all that hard-earned cash to sit in a dark, scary theater/theatre in back of Larry Loudmouth and his gigglesnort girlfriend, and in front of Dickie Seatkicker & Co. when you can watch a first-rate feature film in the privacy of your own home?
But please ... none of this during the presentation.
Something surely unnerved you today, right? Something was unceremoniously plopped on your desk with an admonition to get it done "ASAP" and then you spilled coffee all over it and all of the vital stuff was smeared into oblivion. You stepped on a banana peel with one foot and a rollerskate with the other and fell pell-mell down a flight of stairs, your poor keppie bouncing on each step along the way. Acch. One thing led to another, a la the game "Mousetrap", and here you are, wondering why why why. Why today, of all days, does everything have to go so abysmally wrong!?
What is this? you've been asking yourself all day. Why does everything just suck???
Well, cheer up. You can just blame it all on Friday the 13th. Yes! Even I someone who prides herself on being a rather sharp whippersnapper just realized it!. You'd think I would have done so sooner, though somewhere in between the big black safe falling on my head and the washing machine suds overflowing. (When brave safety monitor Bobby Brady magically appeared in his white undies, though, that was certainly a treat!) But no.
So tell me. What bad bad bad thing(s) happened to you today that you would sooner blame on the calendar and suspicion than on the whimsy of real life?
I promise I won't laugh. Remember? I'm the one who asked the ol' umbrella question back in May. OK? (For the so-called record, I inadvertently deleted the comments to that post a while ago. In case you care. Which you probably don't.)
That's right. Yours. And yours. And yes, even yours ... you, in the back of the room, sneaking peeks at the latest issue of "Hole" magazine behind your Social Studies book.
I need your help.
You see, I've been out of "whack" lately. (No hilarious masturbation comments. Believe me, I've already thought of 'em. So I beat you to the punch. And yes, I realize that "beat" can be construed as masturbatory, too, so ... don't even think about it.)
Anyway, as I was saying ... I have been out of whack. What's been happening is that I've been staying up waaay too late. Sometimes as late as 2:30 a.m. And it's not because I've been out PARTYING or CLUBBING with all the cool kidz, shaking my fabulous boo-tay and tatas and whatnot with all the hip 'n' swingin' groovesters who stumble down my street at 3:30 a.m. singing loudly and thinking they're cute. No, it's because I've just been "off". My energy, man. My energy is out of sync. (Don't make a Bass out of yourself and say I need to get back *NSYNC, OK? Thank you.)
I need to get back into my Benjamin Franklin mode. "Early to bed ...". You know the deal. I must make sure I'm in bed no later than 11:00 p.m. so I can wake up at 5:00 a.m., get my fiiine ass (and the rest of me) in gear, and start my days earlier. Get to the gym at 5:45. The old routine. Not this alternate version that has me feeling like I'm wearing someone else's shoes. (P.S. Wearing someone else's shoes is kinda gross. Something about it just makes me feel a little green in the face.)
So you can help me by doing this: If you see any indication that I am online late into the night a/k/a wee hours of the morning a hilarious new entry "fresh-baked" at 11:52 p.m. or a comment on someone else's site, or, for those of you who have my AIM or MSN screen names, if you see I have not yet signed off please send me an email telling me to get the fuck to bed. Remind me that I'm going to hate myself the next morning when I wake up "late".
Because, you see, if you help me, you'll be helping YOURSELF. That's right. If I get myself in gear early, I can get back to the apartment by 7:45 or so and have a fabulous new entry waiting for you when you get to work. And I ask you ... what better incentive is there?
Thank you. Thank me.
Oh come on. Please. No one really works on Friday. Stop pretending you're really doing whatever you keep pretending to do whenever Someone Important officiously walks by as if he really has somewhere to go, when everyone else know he's just doing a loop around the office so they think he's Important. As soon as he makes his rounds, he's going back to his office, shutting the door, pulling out a coloring book, and coloring outside the lines using burnt sienna and cornflower blue.
So why should you "work"?
Go here instead.
And for those of you who work at home, well ... give yourself the day off. C'mon. No one's looking. But just so you don't feel guilty, you may want to officiously walk around your house once and look Important as you scowl at the sofa and the blender.
Guess what! That thing your parents always warned you about not the apple trees growing in your stomach if you swallowed the seeds or babies growing in your tummy if you swallowed other kinds of "seed" ... but the thing about having wet hands when you plug something into an electrical socket well, it's TRUE!
I recently took a few days off from directing my smash Broadway hit, "Gym Dandy", at the advice of my producers. My dedication, although certainly admirable, was wearing me out, so instead I focused on my one-woman show at a smaller, off-Broadway venue a few blocks away in Chelsea.
Although those few days away provided some much-needed rest, I was itching to return. So I am now back on Broadway, where I've been supervising matinee rehearsals on those days when I just don't feel up to participating in the early-morning sessions. And let me tell you, boils and gargoyles, that it's pretty hilarious stuff, working with these second-rate understudies.
Most of the matinee sessions are not very well-attended, so my notes are scarce. In fact, most rehearsals have been so unremarkable that I think I may have merely dreamed them. Please note, however, that although the notes I am posting today are few, the quantity should by no means detract from their importance.
Director's Notes (Tuesday, 9/3 through Thursday, 9/12)
- Counting Crones: Congratulations on learning your lines. I was thrilled to hear, literally, that you learned not only to count up to 15 but to do so while lifting weights that were about as taxing to lift as the donut you will no doubt consume tonight in celebration of your strenuous workout (you need to refuel, after all!). However, I must remind you that your lines are silent. They exist as suggested material for an internal monologue and are for your edification only. So please refrain from saying them aloud. And remember, too, not to move your lips. We can all see it. Knock it off.
- Schlubby Schlubberman: Although your part calls for you to be a sloth and not to exert yourself much during your so-called workout, I would really appreciate if you would pick up the pace just a little. I mean, come on. Never in my life have I seen anyone move his baggy chino'd flat ass through a turnstile on his way out of a gym with even less energy than he displayed during his workout. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but this play is not a study in surrealism. Pick. Up. The. Fucking. Pace.
One nice touch, though, was the way you stayed in character and didn't hold the door open for anyone else as you exited, and then prohibited those behind you from exiting by standing on the sidewalk and looking around as if you were completely lost. Excellent ad lib!
- 20-Somethings #2, #3, and #5: Fantastic work. I love the way none of you exerted yourselves in the least yet plodded down the stairs on the way down to the main floor as if you'd just run the New York Marathon. Keep up the very good work.
One final note: Anya from Wardrobe just informed me that she needs to make quite a few changes to most of your costumes. Although we did originally tell you that you could choose your own wardrobe, we realize that our trust in your judgment was misplaced. We will fill you in on the changes when we meet next.
Once again, thank you all for coming. If I don't see you again tomorrow (I may be at the early-morning rehearsal with the real cast), have a lovely weekend.
C'mon, Jodzie. Just say it!
C'mon. You know what I mean.
No. Not that either. Although that's just adorable!
Wrr-rrr-rrr ... wrr-rrr-rrr ... wrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrr ...
Whoa. Maybe I was wrr-rrr-rrro-o-o-o-ong.
Wrong? About what?
Don't push it, Cunningham. Maybe I was, you know ... that. About today. About everyone hatin' each other again. Dig? I think maybe we all dig each other! Whoa! Aaay!
(And here's the part where Jodzie pulls aside the nearest poodle-skirted chick with a kerchief tied jauntily around her tender neck [hickies, anyone?], and plants a really hot kiss on her sweet trembling mouth.)
So c'mon. What are you waiting for? Don't you want to plant one on someone today, too?
Be there or be square!
Now we can all stop pretending we love each other and get on with real life!
... why I am with him and not anyone else ... and why tonight when he comes home from work I will run to the door with the dog and the cat (both pictured here!) and greet him rather than stay back in my little office and chat with someone else on an Instant Message as I take him a bit for granted, forgetting that at least four times a week he sets aside everything else he's doing to send me his hilariously child-like drawings that move me to tears and laughter simultaneously, when he certainly has better things to do just to make my day. And he does.
A mouthful, yes. I left myself breathless. And so did this drawing, which he sent to me this morning.
In case you're wondering what this even is, it's Taxi and Shana (dog and cat, respectively), saying they "reember" (yes, it's ridiculous, misspelled pet-speak! shut up! you know you do it too!) September 11. That's a stars and stripes bandana on Taxi's head and a police dog badge on his collar. Those are tears on his face. They are both holding flags above their heads and their paws over their hearts. And yes, those are wings on and halos above the Twin Towers.
I didn't cry at all today until I saw this.
I think I may when he comes through the door tonight.
Oh, stop worrying.
I know you're sitting there with your coffee/tea/chai/sheep's blood and your Krispy Kreme/bagel with cream cheese/Slim Jim/baby fingers, panting ever so prettily (yes, even the boys) (especially the boys!) for my next entry. And I appreciate it. I really do. I just love how you cling to my every word as if it were your mama's breast/teat. I do. And I don't want to wean you. I don't. And I shan't.
So don't fret. I promise I'll pamper you with some powdery prose and milky musings later. I am, after all, going to the gym today, which, as you know, provides much of the fun fodder for this fabulous site. (For those of you who have my workout schedule memorized or catalogued, you may be interested to know that today my regular Pilates session has been cancelled; thus, the gym beckons.)
Now go back to your greeezy breakfasty food thing and your big cuppa whatever, and wait for me. Do so breathlessly!
P.S. If you are a first-time reader and deem me disrespectful for being so inane on September 11, you may want to read this entry dated September 6. Cheers!
Today after mat Pilates class (don't you just adore me for my trendiness?), I stuck around to talk for a while with C (whom I know well) and M (whom I just met today). The topic of discussion was Turkish/______ (I forget) baths.
M mentioned a spa she went to that included a a set-up consisting of three steam rooms/saunas/whatevers and a pool of near-freezing water situated in the center. Apparently the participants go from one place to the next, varying between the extremes in temperature. M said she did it and found it quite exhilirating. I delicately deemed the mere thought of it "absolute fucking torture" and my indulgence in the actual physical implementation a complete impossibility.
I told them I had no desire to do something like that because I don't like heat under any circumstances. I loathe hot weather, and the few times that, for whatever reason, I subjected myself to saunas and/or steam rooms, I questioned my sanity for voluntarily indulging in an enclosed, indoor version of something that I despise in the wide-open outdoors. Anguish, indeed. No thank you. I'll pass, avoid passing GO, and pay you $200 if you don't make me do it.
"So what do they wear," I said, distaste already curling my upper lip, "when they're doing this ... this ... this thing ... running back and forth between the hot rooms and jumping into the icy water? Are they oh god please don't tell me, no nude?"
C looked at me and grinned impishly. Even her eyes smiled. She knows how I feel about floppy body parts flapping en masse like a flock of seagulls escaping the maniacal chase of a Fudgie-Wudgie-faced three-year-old on the beach. She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. (I, you, he/she/it, we, they laughed.)
All right, so only she and I laughed. M did not.
"Yes," M said, somberly. "They're nude." (At least she didn't pronounce it "nyooood".)
"Oh god, please. So never mind even more then!" I said. "No thank you!"
M looked at me as if I'd said, "I hate this thing they call breathing. It's such a bother, isn't it? I mean, oxygen schmoxygen!"
C laughed again. I said, "C knows how modest I am. She knows I'm not into the big group nudity thing."
M looked at me as if I'd said, "I would like to eat a puppy for lunch. Shall I order you your own, or would you just like an appetizer?"
I think she said something about how marvelous it was. I don't know. I stopped listening. I sat there wishing she would just vaporize into thin nude air. Silently mocking her as I pretended to listen. Picturing her nude. Tits flopping, little "belly" jiggling, ass jumping. A big, tangled, out-of-control "bush" scurrying like a crazed forest creature. All with a very serious face. Running around, tits-a-poppin', saying, joyously, "My woman energy extends out into the universe and back to me!", her arms raised above her head, and then leaping into the air and plunging ass-first into the icy water. And dying immediately from the shock.
You see, here's the thing. I don't mind nudity at all. I am not a prude in the least. (I can produce quite a few witnesses if necessary.) I just think most people look better with their clothes on. (I can produce Exhibits A through ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.) I also think that no matter what anyone says, a nude body is still regarded sexually. Anyone who tells you that he can play a game of nude volleyball and not think about his dick or the effect the nude woman who just spiked the ball (THE ball, not HIS) had on his dick is lying. Anyone who tells you he can have a conversation with a topless woman without getting a good gander at her jugs is lying. And this goes for the ladies too. Please. (Just so no one accuses me of generalizing about men.) (For the so-called "record", women are just as "bad" as men are.)
Nudity is, above all, hilarious. Especially considering the variety of parts involved, none of which I care to discuss but all of which make me laugh when they stare me in the eye or elsewhere. It's all FUNNY.
So of course when M went into the changing room to get back into her street clothes, I didn't avert my eyes as she removed her yoga pants and T-shirt. She gabbed about something, and I didn't hear a word she said. I pretended to listen, but all I could picture was me as a three-year-old chasing after a flock of seagulls.
And then I ran out of there. I just ran. (I ran so far away.)
Well, not technically. I didn't technically lie. I mean, it would only be a lie if I intended to deceive, right? (Damn it, where's "Trey" when I need him!?)
Oh, whatever. (And here you must picture me on Maury, "dissing" the audience as I parade out onto the stage giving the audience the ever-popular "double finger".) I suppose I just told a mistruth. But at the time, I meant it.
What is it, you wonder? Well, it's just this: This weekend, I told several people that today was going to be the day I finally released myself from my self-imposed exile. Today was going to be the day I stayed outside for a period of time longer than it takes to get to the gym and/or Pilates and back. Today was going to be the first day in a long time that I spent a great deal of time outside to do something other than run a few errands. Today was the day I was going to stop being a hermit and waiting for the weather to cooperate. Today was going to be the day I took my camera and myself on a little jaunt and then came back here and uploaded/downloaded/whatever (!) all of the gorgeous/stunning/riveting/thought-provoking pictures I'd taken and write something really meaningful/inane about what I did.
Well, it didn't happen.
Instead, I went to Pilates (shut up it's fantastic!) and then to the nearest branch of the New York Public Library, where they actually had a copy of "American Psycho" on the shelf. Sure, it's dog-eared and filthy and looks like someone read it while sitting on the toilet. And sure, someone probably turned its pages with fingers that lingered perhaps a little too lovingly on other appendages. And sure, hundreds or thousands of other people may have handled this book before me and licked its pages or tucked it down their pants just for the sheer delight and thrill ... but ... I ...
... still ...
... took it ...
Oh no. Do you think it's safe to read? Should I wear gloves if I read it? I'm fresh out of latex gloves, and I discarded the yellow Playtex pair a while ago because, well, it turns out that aortal blood does stain them ... So do you think a pair of regular ol' cold-weather gloves will do the trick? (Not the luxe cashmere pair but the mismatched set that I put together when two other pairs lost their twins.)
So anyway ... I do intend to do all that I was supposed to do today. But I will do it tomorrow. Really. I will.
At the very least, I will take "American Psycho" with me to the park and read it there. I just hope no one looks at me askance when they see me turning the pages wearing mittens and a "HAZMAT" suit.
And with that, I bid you all the very fondest of adieus. The book, she beckons me. Ahhh, how I glove a good read.
This may be all I give you today, so ... make the most of it!
All right, all right. I can't do that to you.
Have some of this too.
Ohhh ... this is just so tender. Or should I say legal tender?
Funny money, honey?
This swell link provided by the ever-uplifting deliah!
IMs? Sure they're neat!
But transcribed on your blog, cat?
Oh man, is that beat!
Or at least some do ...
Well, today is MINE!
It's mine. Aaaalll mine.
Thanks to the delectable Hot Soup Girl for the recognition and hono(u)r.
If I say nothing else today, let me just say this:
There is no such thing as "reverse discrimination". Discrimination is discrimination. Period.Thank you.
Tell me about your dreams.
(Or try to.)
It's that simple.
No need to fix me a glass of warm milk. (I detest it anyway.) No need to parade sheep in front of me. No need to turn on C-SPAN.
Just say, "Let me tell you about this dream I had."
(You are not Martin Luther King, Jr.)
That is all.
Minor Disclaimer: There are, of course, exceptions. For instance, a month or so ago, Aaron told me about a dream he had that was quite entertaining. But it was hilarious and didn't involve school, missing an important test, or forgetting to put on his pants.
This morning I noticed that the glass from which I was about to take a sip of lemonade had a large crack down its side. Not deep enough for anything to leak, but large enough to elicit a gasp from my pretty, pouty lips. I knew that this meant I'd have to toss it, because, well, like, glass could damage those pretty, pouty lips, not to mention do quite a cute little number on my internal organs, including that charming spleen of which I am so fond.
Anyway, when I brought the glass crack to the attention of my manservant, he advised me to toss it. We are of one mind, the two of us. At least on the weekends, when we are in such close proximity that having two would be superfluous and require more energy than either of us is willing to expend.
So I tossed it.
But not without apologizing to it first.
"I'm so sorry!" I said to the glass as I placed it into the empty dog-food bag that was serving as a trash-bag that the manservant would soon be taking out for collection. "You served me well ..."
And I had to walk away quickly before I retrieved it quickly and kissed it goodbye.
I'm already getting sad thinking about what I'm going to tell the dead glass' twin the next time I open the cabinet they shared.
Yes, I am that ridiculous.
"What are you doing for September 11?"
I'm seeing it everywhere. Hearing it everywhere. Everyone's planning something or thinking about planning something. Or deciding if they're going to think about planning something. Thinkplandecideplanthinkthinkthinkplandecide. Yeah.
As for me, well, I don't know what I'm going to do. Probably my regular stuff. Because, you see, I don't believe in setting aside one day to remember something. I remember September 11, 2001 every day. Every morning when I look down Fifth Avenue and see the enormous blank space in the sky a mile and a half away where the towers used to be ... 130 Liberty shrouded in black, adorned in a huge American flag that stares back at me, almost defiant in its pride ... I can't help but remember.
The other day, I stood on Broadway on the west side of Madison Square Park and waited for the light to change so I could cross Broadway and then Fifth Avenue (they converge at that point). I looked left (south), down Fifth Avenue, and immediately gasped and actually staggered backward a step or two as I realized that it was from that exact vantage point that I witnessed the collapse of the first tower almost a year ago and heard my screams echoing in my head along with those of everyone else around me.
But I don't have to actually see the indescribably vacant space in the skyline to be reminded of what happened that day. Although I have been down to "Ground Zero" several times, I don't need to go there to be reminded of what used to be. Just as I don't need to see the events rehashed on television. And I don't have to, or even want to, talk about it. Some things, for me, are better left unsaid. The sound of silence is golden indeed.
I will say this, however: I fear that "September 11" will eventually go the way of other recognized days. It will only be remembered on its anniversary, remembered only when the calendar says so. If you truly want to remember September 11, remember it every day. Don't just set aside one day a year to remember what happened.
I fear that September 11 will become as commercialized as Valentine's Day, when people "love" each other because they are told to do so on that specific day. I don't celebrate Valentine's Day at all. I love those I love year-round. I do not need a calendar to remind me that I love someone or that someone loves me. I'm just happy there is love.
So yes, on September 11, I will remember what happened. But I won't remember just because it's September 11. I'll remember because I haven't forgotten about it every other day. And I never will.
If I met you in real life, do you think we'd get along? Do you think we'd have anything to say to each other, or would we sit across the table (I imagine us having lunch at a bistro somewhere, surrounded by people full of joie de vivre) and glare at each other over the tops of our huge fruity drinks, each of us secretly hoping the other would poke his or her eye out with the little paper umbrella?
Would we be part of the aforementioned joie de vivre? Or would we be the pair with the menacing dark cloud hanging over our table, glowering down at us as we glowered across the table at each other?
Would we get along? Would we talk? Would we laugh? Would we be having such an absolute blast that we would want to order dessert (one for each of us -- we can split, but I won't share mine if you don't order one -- and please, I don't want to hear that you don't want dessert ... because that will just answer the question for me instantly, right here and now!)? Would we linger over coffee? Or would we just order cold appetizers and leave it at that?
Or maybe one of us would get to the jaunty little bistro first and sit at the table waiting in nail-biting anticipation for the other, glancing at our watch every two minutes, not even really checking the time at all but doing it out of sheer nervousness, the time not even registering but the feeling that we've been waiting way too long registering deep in our soon-to-be broken heart? Because the other chickened out somewhere along the way to the fun little bistro and decided it wasn't worth it, after all, to finally meet the other person who hitherto was only known via the comfortable anonymity of the internet?
Or would we meet and have a yabbadabbadoo time, a dabbadoo time, we'd have a gay old time?
P.S. Would we split the check? If so, would we argue over who had the extra shrimp on his or her plate and insist that that person pay the pro rated amount? Or would one of us graciously offer to pick up the tab for both of us?
If you visited this site sometime between 9:00 last night and 2:30 or so this afternoon, you probably read an entry entitled "Adorable", in which I included the text of a disturbing comment I received yesterday evening. Several readers left comments in response/reaction, many of which were funny, some of which were more serious, and most of which were quite passionate. I appreciate all of them.
However, this afternoon I chose to delete the entire entry, including the comments. When I originally considering publishing it at all last night, I did so knowing that I really "shouldn't", but then cast aside any aspersions, said, "Why the hell not," and just went ahead. Still, it bothered me that I did so.
The decision to ultimately delete it took about as long as it did to click on "DELETE".
Still, I want to thank those of you who, uh, "rallied" (not my favorite word, but who cares, I'm using it anyway). You're a great bunch of kids! If I were your mom, I'd treat you all to ice cream for dinner.
Happy Rosh Hashanah!
It's not "officially" the year 5763 until sundown, but who cares.
So go on. Blow a shofar.
I said shofar. Leave the chauffeur alone. (Unless he asks nicely and tips generously.)
Actually ... come to think of it, if he looks like this, I won't blame you if you ditch that horn thing.
(After all, Rosh Hashanah, in Hebrew, literally means "head of the year".)
L'chaim! L'shanah tovah!
For quick, easy-to-read information on Rosh Hashanah, go here.
The damsel? Yeah. That'd be "yours truly" (uggh, how I hate that).
The distress? (See below.)
This plea for help goes out to anyone who has Movable Type and knows how it all works. I posted this on the Technical Support/General Problems board, but no one has responded yet. I am impatient, and I want help now.
Here is the challenging question I posed in the forum:
Everything was just groovy until sometime last night when all of a sudden ... POOF! ... I stopped receiving email notification whenever I received a new comment on my fabulous site.
A friend of mine checked my MT paths and all that jazz (you will note that I am not "techy"), and said that everything is configured properly. Still, no email notification.
There is nothing wrong with my email otherwise; I'm receiving outside email juuuust fiiiine. But the MT stuff? Nyet.
Can anyone help me?
So ... can any of you help a poor delicate flower in her time of need?
- Healthy: Fat. * Example: "I haven't seen you in a while. You look really healthy!" ** Translation: "Where the hell have you been, you fat fucking pig!?"
- Strong: Fat.
Example: "You're here all the time. You're really strong!"
Translation: "You come here all the time, but you're still a fat fucking pig!"
- Tiny: Fat.
Example: "Shut up and stop telling me you're fat. You're tiny, you moron!"
Translation: "You ARE fat. I'm just telling you you're tiny so you'll shut the fuck up, you fat fucking pig!"
* What they say
** What I hear
This is the only beggar I will indulge.
My cat, Shana, extending a dramatic paw for some bonito flakes (delicious treat for which she would sell her soul to the devil, if only she had his phone number).
To all the rest, I offer Shana's stock response: "Fuck mew!"
Update, 11:00 a.m.: I just received word that my dog is a little pissed that I didn't include him. Knowing him as well as I do, I know he'll find a symbolic way of showing me just how pissed he is. (For the so-called record, I indulge him too. Remember?)
I hate them all! I hate them ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OK OK OK OK OK ... deep breath ......................................................
deeeeeeep breath ..........................
Fuckers. Hate 'em!!!
Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep ................ breath .......................
Hate. Them. Want them all to fucking hold hands and jump off the nearest bridge. I will GLADLY push them if they need a little help!!!!
Don't say it. Don't write it.
That is all.
Google searches baffle me.
And no no no no no, I'm not talking about the usual shocking search strings, such as "Mom wore a cape" and "pictures of chocolaty hands" (what ... you were expecting sexual references maybe?) I'm talking about this. As you can see, that search string yielded "about 76,500,000 results", and this site came in at #2.
Now, I'm not so vain (oh shut up, and continue reading the sentence, all right?) that I think that people searching for the word "because" are looking for me. That's not my point. The point is this: What exactly is someone looking for when they choose such a broad search term? Or are these the same people who look up the word "the" in the dictionary, just to see what it says?
At least when someone looks for "sleeveless+turtleneck+high+(collar+OR+neck)+(hot+OR+warm)" or "post-tonsillectomy voice change in adults", you know that person knows what he wants.
When someone looks for "jodi" (I'm #3), I like to think he is looking for this Jodi, a/k/a ME (yes, I am that vain) and not some generic lower-case variety. (P.S. to the person looking for "public speaking Jodi": You'll find it at Toys R Us, just to the left of Malibu Barbie.)
But really. I have had so many people visit this site via a search for "because". Are they looking for some sort of higher truth? And do you think they are elated when they find that they have, at long last, finally found it, here on "Because I Say So"?
Why do vitamins smell so damned putrid?
What is that?
I'm not talkin' Chocks Chewables. Or purple Freds or pink Dinos, with or without that little iron coating that I used to scrape off when I was an enterprising, crafty youngster oh so many moons ago.
I'm talkin' regular vitamins. Good old-fashioned horse-pill sized vitamins with a new-fangled "vegetarian" twist (no gelatin, sugar, or starch). Multi-vitamins. Chock full of goodness and chock full of nauseating malodorous vomitatiousness.
What's the deal? Why the big stink?
... doesn't mean it's too late for you to participate in the funfest that is "Two for Tuesday". (That's, uh, the "meme" that I took over for Kelly this week while she's taking a well-deserved break from the rigors of BLOGGING.)
Scroll down a little and find it. (Yeah, that's me teasing you. Isn't it sexy?)
C'mon. Do it. You know you want to. (Even sexier.)
(And even if you don't, well, do it anyway.) (Sexiest!)
What's all the buzz about?
I would say something like, "I'll bet there'll be a lot o' bzzzzy beavers clamoring to get a hold of one of these things," but I'm not that crass.
Be sure to scroll down to read the Amazon "Spotlight Reviews" for some real gems.
This link came to me courtesy of the stunning and fabulous Susie Felber.
So I'm walking to the post office with my snappy little sidekick the other day (I'll bet you didn't think I even had a sidekick, let alone a snappy and/or little one) (and no, she does not look like the Great Gazoo), and we're talking about postage stamps. I'm telling her about the cute fruit ones, and she's oohing and aahing because she wants to get cute ones too instead of the ugly ol' standard American flags she always buys. I'm looking at her in amusement because she's actually getting a little excited about cute stamps, and I'm telling her I hope they have something even cuter. But I'm worrying because I don't know if they've come out with the cute 37-cent stamps yet, given that postage only increased a few months ago.
So we're laughing because we're on 19th Street instead of 18th, and we're making fun of her pregnant stomach (yes, my sidekick is pregnant and just beginning to "show"), and I'm telling her she looks cute, which she does. We're just a coupla crazy kidz on our way to buy cute stamps, strolling around Chelsea and squinting into the sun, when out of nowhere this not so cute/very sweaty 'n' slimy guy passes by and says, "Now there's some niiiice pussy."
What's a girl have to do to get a moment's peace? Can't my sidekick and I just casually stroll down a quiet street on our way to the post office, converse gently about something as innocuous as the miniature flower or fruit portraits we want to press onto our mail, without having our sweet, brief moment invaded?
For five minutes, she and I were feeling like we were in Anytown, U.S.A. circa 1954, passing white picket fence after white picket fence, no concerns looming over our heads other than the stamps we were on our way to buy. Why must the rudenesses of Bigcity, U.S.A. circa 2002 confront us everywhere we go?
So when the guy behind the window at the post office slid me the colorful "LOVE" stamps, I didn't bother telling him I'd rather have fruit. I figured that even if he just passed the LOVE stamps to me without thinking, I'd interpret it symbolically and take whatever innocent little bits o' love someone in the city cared to give me.
(In case you're wondering, my sidekick came away with three large teddy bear stamps, which I actually "awww"d.)
Since Kelly is taking a "wee break" from her blog, I have the honor of providing questions for her weekly funfest, "Two for Tuesday". Even though I ordinarily
dislike "memes", I offered to step in for Kelly because I like her. What can I say? I'm extremely self-sacrificing.
So now, without further fanfare, here are this week's questions. Let's just think of this as the "Trouble Standard" edition.
(Please post your answers on your site, and leave a comment here with a link. If you don't have your own site, you may leave your answers here.)
- Do you have any double standards? Something that you indulge or tolerate in yourself that you won't tolerate in other people? If so, what?
- Has someone ever entrusted you with a secret, and then you violated that trust? If so, did that person find out, and what were the consequences?
Really really really quick question. Help me out.
How long must I wait before turning around to check out the rear-view of a really good-lookin' dark-haired, fair-skinned chick/dame/broad/skirt/babe who passes by wearing a little black dress and cowboy boots?
Must I count to ten before turning around? Must I wait until half a block separates us?
What's the protocol?
All right. It's time.
Put them away.
I'm ashamed at you for even wearing these things in the first place. I mean, really white shoes? Please. Unless you're a bride ... and even then, who are you kidding, honey, with the white dress, let alone the white shoes.
You can leave these out, though, OK? It's all right. You won't be wearing them outside anyway.
Walking home in the rain, a plastic bag in each hand, the umbrella shoved into one of them. Treats in the bags for everyone at home. A perfect day to cry in the rain, but no reason for tears.
Rain is always welcome on my parade.
All right, so I didn't provide a September song as background music for the entry that precedes this one. I don't like "September" by Earth, Wind & Fire. And "See You In September" just seemed too pathetic.
So here, instead, is a tribute to the day of the week.
Ahhhhhhh. A new month. A new month that starts on a Sunday.
A perfect time to make some sort of resolution. Go on a diet. Vow never to do something again. Or vow to take up something new.
It's like a fresh, smooth page in a crisp, new notebook. A notebook that's waiting for the first day of school ...
Which reminds me of how much I used to hate Labor Day, because it meant that school was sure to follow, a la Mary's little lamb. Even though I excelled in school, I despised it especially the first day. Just thinking about starting a new school year made my stomach jerk around like a marionette operated by a caffeinated spastic. And once the school year started, every Sunday was sheer torture especially at 7:00 p.m., when the ticking of the "Sixty Minutes" clock reminded me that I was a mere sliding board ride away from the start of another school week.
Even now, 22 years since the start of my high school senior year, my stomach still flops at the mere sight of the words "Back to School" as they scream at me from advertisement circulars or mock me in store windows. I still dream that I'm in school and I've forgotten to study for a test, or I've completely forgotten to attend math class, or, of course, I've neglected to switch my towel for actual clothes.
However, as much as I loathed school, and as much as my stomach still refuses to settle down, I now regard September with a fair amount of excitement a good kind of excitement. I consider September the start of Fall, even though it doesn't "officially" begin for several weeks. It makes me want to run outside and wait under a tree for the leaves to change color.
As much as August enervates me, September energizes me. I feel like doing something.
I love feeling like I am "back" not to school, thank god, but to "cool".
Poor Kelly. She's temporarily without the use o a certain key on her keyboard, thanks to an adorable little vomit incident courtesy o one o her dogs.
So that she won't eel like a reak, I propose that everyone who reads this and chooses to "blog" today somehow avoid using that letter in his or her next post. Just as a show o solidarity. Don't use blanks. Just omit the ucking letter rom your post.
I eel or you, Kelly! I really do. Those o us who are your real riends will do without that ucking key, i only or one post.
Am I the only person on the face of this or any other planet who didn't watch the MTV Video Music Awards last week, and who has no desire to watch no matter how many times I'm sure they'll rerun?