When I was in second grade, there were two kids in my grade who were only two years old. At least that's the way a teacher introduced the two boys who stood in front of the classroom looking like they were going to sully the diapers I instantly envisioned them wearing.
Googoo and Gaga squirmed uncomfortably. It was clear they needed their dipies changed.
This is stupid, I thought. Those kids are bigger than I am. Maybe I'm secretly only two years old, too!
What the hell was all this about anyway? Didn't they just tell us in health class that girls mature faster than boys? Then why were these toddlers so huge?
Well, as it turned out, it was our school's way of educating us about Leap Year. Yes, the two boys were being paraded from classroom to classroom on February 29, 1972 for this madcap charade. They would stand in front of the class, the teachers would introduce them as two-year-olds, they would squirm and look at the floor, and all the kids who were four times their age would gasp and stare and wait for the overgrown babies to open their mouths and whine, "Me wanna see Ses'me Stweet!" And in that very sensitive and considerate fashion, each class in my school, in turn, would learn about the wonder and hilarity of Leap Year.
"So you see, class," my teacher said, "Goo and Ga aren't really two years old. They're eight years old, just like many of you in this room! It's just that they don't have a real birthday each year, because thanks to Leap Year, February 29 only comes around once every four years."
Someone (no, not I; I was too busy marvelling at the very tall and surprisingly alert ersatz two-year-olds) raised her hand and bravely asked the question the rest of us were too timid or scared to ask. "So ... uhmm ... when do they ... have a ... birthday?"
"Well, they really don't," the teacher explained, "since there isn't a February 29 every year. So they can choose between February 28 and March 1!" She looked around the room at our quizzical faces. "Isn't that fun!?" she said. "How many people get to choose their birthday!" (And how many get to choose to be humiliated in front of a bunch of real, bona fide eight-year-olds!?)
So why say that they're only two years old? I thought. They're eight. What's the big deal? And you know what, the February 28 thing doesn't really make sense. March 1 is really the February 29 of the non-leap years, if you think about it. This is so stupid!
I wish I could wish Goo and Ga a very happy birthday today or tomorrow, 31 years later, but alas, their birthdays don't exist until next year, when they will both be ten years old. Ten and paunchy and balding. And wishing they were 84 already so they could legally drink themselves into oblivion.
(But at least they'll be able to drive when they're 64! Just in time to start dating!)
Happy Non-Birthday, Goo and Ga, wherever you are!
I hate when I go out somewhere and am not having a particularly good time, and when I resort to entertaining myself with my little game of "What does everyone's body look like in painstaking detail underneath their shabby clothes?" no one gets any better, even with the help of my extremely vivid/lurid imagination. It's just not fair.
So by now, of course, everyone knows that Mr. Rogers (he of the scarily antiseptic Neighborhood) is dead. And now we're going to see and hear tributes to him, and maybe there will even be an increase in sales of skippy little sneakers and limp little cardigans. People will say stuff about how the world needs more people ("gentle souls", they'll say) like him. We should all learn a lesson from the way Fred Rogers lived his life, blah blah whatever blahhhhhhhhhhhh.
I never liked him very much. Never. He seemed like a "nice" fellow, but so what. "Nice" bores me. His show bored me. I didn't like his puppets. (They, too, bored me.) And I don't have to start acting like I did just because he's left the neighborhood.
Have a nice day!
All right. So I hate almost everything "bloggy". I don't belong to web rings or go to "meet-ups". You will never find me at BlogCon or doing the Blogathon or flashing my tits in the name of all that is good and blogarrific. Never.
But you will find me (well, not me, but some of my stuff) at "Geek Philosopher". See the pretty button over there on my sidebar? Click on that, and once you get to the Geek Philosopher site, select Philosopher Picks and then, in the pulldown list, select Geographical List. Choose my state (New York). And there you'll find me.
If you're not sure what I mean, look here. And then go there, using the button I mentioned above.
Now ... go!
There is a very good possibility that I will not be writing something fresh and fabulous today, at least not for this site. For Field & Stream, yes, or for Cat Fancy, yes, and maybe an item or two for Children's Highlights. However, I don't want to leave you high and/or dry, so I suggest you peruse my entry from one year ago today.
Tonight at 10:30, my hunky friend Christian will appear on "Chappelle's Show" on Comedy Central. For slightly more detail, visit his humorous site.
Yeah yeah yeah, we all know how annoying it is to have a song stuck in our head "IIIII'm saaaai-ling a-way ..." and how we pretend we're just joking when we say it's driving us crazy, but we really want to bludgeon anyone and anything related to that song, including those hilarious few people in the office who, days after we think we're finally over the song, remind us of it by purposely singing it in our presence or asking us if it's out of our head yet. Yeah yeah yeah. As some people (whom I'd also like to bludgeon) are fond of saying, "Been there, done that."
But how about when we can't get other words out of our head? Am I the only one who can't get a seventh grade Spanish dialogue out of her head to save her vida?
On the cab ride home tonight (I will not tell you where I was, but rest assured it involved stars brighter than the lights they stood under!), all of a sudden, without warning or fanfare or provocation, the following popped into my head:
¿Está Susana en casa?
Sí, está con una chiquita linda.
¿Donde están? ¿En la sala?
No, en la cocina.
(No, I will not translate it for you. Even if you didn't take Spanish in school, you should still know what it means. And if you don't, head on over to AltaVista and type it in really fast and then hate yourself for not being able to figure it out on your own. Go on. You know you want/have to.)
And it's not only lodged in my brain as obstinately as an elusive poppyseed trapped between my teeth, but doing so in a particularly cloying singsong tone, with all the exaggerated inflection of the tape on which I originally heard it almost 28 years ago (yes, in the womb, yes yes). And I'm not only silently reciting it to myself in Spanish, but in English as well.
I am never going to get to sleep now. Ne-ver. Which really really sucks, because estoy jodida.
Listen, I don't mind if you hate me because I'm beautiful, but don't hate me because I have great hamentaschen and you don't, all right? And please don't be jealous because I live within walking distance of Moishe's, one of the City's only remaining "old school" Jewish bakeries, and you don't!
And hey, if you do live in the City, I heartily encourage you to patronize places like Moishe's rather than some hoity-toity "café" where the pastries are as light and fluffy and sincere as the people eating them with extended pinkies. You won't be surrounded by the excruciatingly hip but by someone who's probably broken one.
P.S. Yes, I am aware of the vaguely erotic appearance of this hamentasch!
You know all that stuff you hear about how movies can change the way you think? Well, I used to think it was all just a bunch of poppycock, but now I have reason to believe that it may very well be true!
Yesterday afternoon I took myself to see Adaptation. Here is my review:
It is a very good movie! In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's really good! Downright very good! OK, so it's excellent!
I may have to start rethinking my long-held conviction that Nic(olas) Cage, whom I've mentioned previously, totally blows! And I may have to stop hating Meryl Streep too. At least while they're doing their jobs, acting as someone else. Once they're themselves again, I am still free to hate them.
What's next? Gangs of New York? Absolutely not. I am not ready to start unhating Leonardo DiCaprio. And I will never stop hating excruciatingly long movies where the actors affect bad accents and don't have cars to drive.
Today: Perhaps Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. Because I need to form an opinion about Maggie Gyllenhall (who had a small role in Adaptation!). However, I don't think I'll be changing my opinion about Julia Roberts no matter what. (I won't tell you what it is. You'll just have to guess and wonder.)
The police of Kent, Ohio gave lusty Busty the cold shoulder. Apparently the snow woman was too hot to handle!
This is a photo I took last night of a TV commercial for some product whose name I cannot even remember. It has something to do with cleaning between your teeth. It's electronic or battery-operated and comes with lots of parts and apparatus. I think it was described it as a "system". It may have been described as "revolutionary", but I'm not too sure. I didn't really listen. I was too fixated on this schmuck.
Apparently flossing one's teeth is a difficult undertaking. Apparently it involves some sort of struggle. A struggle so frustrating and all-consuming that the situation needs to be remedied by replacing it with a new, less stressful inter-dental system.
I don't know about this. I am quite possibly the least patient person in the world and very good friends with frustration. But not once, while flossing, have I wrestled with the floss like this guy. Not once has panic crossed my face as I flossed. And I have never thrown my hands up in defeat during a particularly stressful floss situation.
There's definitely something wrong with someone who lets floss get the better of him. When things get that bad, I suggest you take that floss, braid together as many strands as necessary to form a strong rope, and hang yourself from your shower rod. And then everyone can mourn your sorry floss of life.
If I were the kind of girl who wrote about things sexual, you'd no doubt be wetting your lips in anticipation of reading an entry entitled "Sourballs". You'd be falling all over yourself when you got to the part where I included a chart that laid out, graphically (in more ways than one), everything I'd ever done, including a shockingly honest listing of the different tastes of all my various paramours' penii and accoutrements. You'd either applaud me for my candor or condemn me for my brashness. And you'd wish I had comments enabled so you could tell me I had "balls" or tell me I'm a disgrace.
But I'm not that kind of girl, and that's not what this is about. This is just about hard candy. The kind that will forever remind me of my grandparents' (mom's side) house, where I always knew there would be fruit-flavored hard candy some with bold illustrations of the fruit on the wrappers, and others the ubiquitous sourballs in a variety of slightly washed-out colors and vaguely fruity flavors in a covered glass dish on a table by the sofa. I loved the way all the candy looked in the dish. Each piece individually wrapped in cellophane, with at least one end twisted. The "cliinnnggkk" sound the lid made no matter how carefully I tried to remove it when sneaking a piece. The squeak of the cellophane that belied my denials that I wasn't eating candy before dinner. I was such a good actress/liar that even as I had a candy hidden in my fist, I could almost make myself believe I hadn't taken anything.
When no one was looking, I would jam quite a few pieces into the pockets of my coat, so I could play with them during the ride home in the car and have my own private little stash. The last time my parents came up to visit, my mother brought me a jar filled with hard candy. The lid, although attached Mason-style, still makes a distinctive sound when released, and I like to "sneak" a piece late at night when the apartment is otherwise noiseless.
Anywhere I go banks, dry cleaners, other people's houses I feel compelled to take a hard candy (individually wrapped only!) if one is available. But I still like to think I'm getting away with something, and only take it when no one is looking.
Of course, now there is no need to sneak anything. And back then there really was no need to be so furtive about it either, because my grandparents would have given me an entire brown bag of the stuff if I'd asked. But for some reason, it was more fun to think I was getting away with something, even if it was just taking candy from a Bubby.
As anyone who knows me at all can attest, I'm not the bastion of propriety or political correctness. I frequently use what is commonly deemed "foul language" (but only in appropriate situations, of course), and I can't stand when people get bogged down in nitpicky arguments over semantics. However, one thing that really irks me is the way people employ inappropriate simile to describe horrific events. (I'm not a big fan of simile anyway, but that's another story. Maybe for another time. But probably not, so don't get too excited.)
For instance, during the Gulf War, newscasters were fond of saying that the night sky "lit up like a Christmas tree". What the fuck? Last time I looked, Christmas trees were, like, pretty 'n' stuff. Tacky, yes, in some instances, but the general impression most people get from Christmas trees in all their tinselly, twinkly-light enthusiasm is one of celebration. So how does that translate into destructive forces shattering the sky?
And now, this morning, during a newscast concerning the nightclub fire in West Warwick, Rhode Island, someone being interviewed (I think it was Jack Russell of Great White, the band playing at the club last night) said that when the back wall of the club went up in flames, it was "like the Fourth of July". Hmmm. I don't know. Isn't the Fourth of July a happy holiday? Isn't it, like Christmas, a day that people generally celebrate? The last time I looked, fireworks were kinda pretty (although annoying) and an element of the day's celebration. Unless, of course, Mr. Russell was referring to people who cause fires by improperly using fireworks. Which I doubt.
Come on, you cretins. Think. Please. I know it's excruciating to do, but I suggest you try. Try to come up with something just a liiiiiiiittle more appropriate. Something less ... festive. I want to see that little cartoon lightbulb hovering just above your head!
Why? Why must I bring this to your attention on a Thursday afternoon when you pretend you have better things to do?
Because we need proof that bowling is asinine. Because we must be shown that bowlin' 'n' beer go hand in hand. Literally. Because studies show that those who bowl have more than enough disposable income to afford the finer things in life.
Because its very existence affords me the opportunity to say things like, "Spare me" and "This is right up a bowler's alley" and "Let's nip this in the Bud". Because I like to ridicule the schlubs who insist that bowling is an actual sport and not just an excuse to shove their puffy, rotten hooves into disgusting shoes that have housed way too many fetid feet.
No, this isn't where I confess to a whole bunch of stuff that would leave you slackjawed. This isn't where I tell you all about my sordid past and all the scandals in which I was involved (or caused!), or tell you about that thing I did that's so bad that even I can't believe I did it. No. Not tat tall. This is just where I say the following.
Why do shows such as "20/20" and "Dateline" insist on having interviews with people like Scott Peterson (the guy who we all know killed his pregnant wife Laci)? Does anyone really think he's going to finally break down and confess either covering his handsome face (he is sooo good-lookin'!) with his hands and blubbering, or staring directly into the camera with a raw leonine machismo? In the first scenario, red-faced and sobbing, "Blrrrbb blaahh grrllbbrhh blaah waah i did it blrrrbbb i loved her brrrahhhhbbhh" and in the second, training his steely (and handsome!) gaze on an audience he cannot see, and boldly confessing, "Yes. 'Twas I."
It's not going to happen. It's not. Really. Just like the Ramseys will never come out and fess up, at long last, to murdering their daughter. "Yes. My wife was jealous of my daughter's exquisite beauty. We had no choice!" Or OJ. "Why, yes, I did kill Nicole and that young fellow. I forgot!"
Actually, I don't follow these stories. At all. But enough trickles down (my leg, like pee?) (Did I just say that aloud?) (No. I wrote it, though, which is just as bad.) that I do know enough to say that all of these people are guilty. Guilty. Guilty as "sin".
Stop interviewing them already. There's about as much likelihood of getting them to confess, "OK, so I did it! Yeah!" as there is of Michael Jackson admitting that he had more than two plastic surgeries and doesn't actually sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag when the kids stay overnight at Neverland.
As for me, I will confess nothing. I didn't do it. I wasn't there. I saw nothing.
Ages and ages ago, I compiled two lists of words and phrases that repelled, repulsed, disgusted, or otherwise made me cringe audibly and/or bleed from the ears. The time has come to present another list, this time containing 48 less than sparkling gems.
As with all my other lists, this one is by no means complete. I know I always say that, but that's because someone I barely know is bound to send me an email in which he doesn't identify himself but just launches into a little discourse where he attempts to show me how clever he is by adding words to my list that I may have forgotten.
And now, without further ado, I present the next 48 words. Enjoy! (But do not avail yourselves of them in my presence, whether in person, via an instant messaging service, or email. And don't think I'll think you're cute if you send me an email in which you demonstrate how you can use all of these words in one sentence.)
- flat (for apartment, used by Americans)
- The States (for USA, used by Americans)
- a whole nother
- pick [someone’s] brain
- rip [someone] a new one
- shits and giggles
- shit-eating grin
- keepin’ it real
- “addy” (for address)
- “a little birdie told me …”
- props (not the kind that are used in a play)
- The Shrub
- coming of age
- scrotal sac
- warp speed
- de rigueur
- crack (only when ass-related)
- wet dream
- brain fart
- monkey love
- bling bling
- Anything Batman-related, i.e. “Holy [whatever], Batman” or “Same bat time, same bat channel”
I stumbled upon a site called "Tiny Pineapple" quite some time ago, and instantly added it to my bookmarks. I liked the name because it wasn't trying hard to be clever or catchy (like a few I could name but won't), and I liked the site itself because its owner/writer/author/father/whatever-the-hell-you-call-it wrote intelligently and didn't appear to be part of the whole "blog" scene, with the links and the web-rings and the in-joke comments.
So, anyway, today Grettir (not his real name; don't worry) devoted an entry to me. I don't know if its title ("Jodi Jodi Jodi") is a play on the ol' Cary Grant "Judy Judy Judy" (which C.G. supposedly never said) or the old Jan Brady "Marcia Marcia Marcia", but it doesn't really matter. He wants to lounge around like a bum and watch bad TV, and that's all I need to know.
That, plus he lives in Utah, and I needed to add that state to the list I keep of States Where I Know Someone, Maybe Not In Real Life But Online, Which Kinda Counts, Doesn't It. And I think he may know Donny Osmond!
On one hand, I think this is kinda sorta maybe just a little cute, and that whoever made it is a lovely lovely human being. On the other hand, I think it's more kaka than cute, and a waste of perfectly filthy snow and nappy red felt that could be put to much better use. And on the other hand, I want to be able to walk by it and not worry what I think about it, because, really, who cares. (Yes, I do know that makes three hands.)
I see faces in many things. It beats hearing voices. (Not that I would know, of course.) (Really?) (Yes.) (You sure about that?) (Yes. Get out.)
This perfectly face-shaped plop of snow, complete with saucy wink, reminded me of one of those porcelain masks that people hang on their walls. Except it wasn't repulsive and hideous and cheesy, and I didn't want to smash it with a hammer.
(C'mon, Jodi, go back and jump on it.) (No.) (You know you want to.) (No I don't.) (Yes you do, you liar.) (No. Get out. You need a shave! And stop winking at me! Don't mock me! Don't mock me!!!)
This time last year: Fire Thrill.
It's been deemed a "classic" by some of the more erudite among you. See, this is the beauty of not relying on topical subjects for entries. Just think: What was happening in the "real" news on February 18, 2002? You can't remember, right?
(Must post NOW before the clock strikes midnight!!!) (Must get in just under the wire! Although I could LIE, and adjust the entry accordingly, I just can't! I have more in common with George Washington than I thought! Wooden teeth, powdered wig, mysterious all-knowing smirk ... and now this!)
Why Yum? Well, just look at it. LOOK at it, damn it! Whatever the Indian words are for "lip-smackin' good", that's what this was. Although I don't smack my lips. (That's disgusting.)
Why Dumb? Well, because the guy who delivered it didn't have change. So either I gave him $30.00, thus yielding a $1.50 tip, or $40.00, thus yielding an $11.50 tip. And while I did appreciate his delivering me this fine food on a cold 'n' snowy evening, I didn't appreciate what I have lovingly come to know as the old "I don't have change" ploy. Sorry, but you can't pull the papadum over my eyes, my good man.
OK, ladies, now I don't want to tell you how to dress (yes I do, I'm lying) and I know you have the right to wear whatever you want to wear (even if it looks retarded) and I know that you like to be free and creative and expressive (even if the message you're sending is "Hi, I have no taste!") and I know that you really don't have to listen to me (but really you should) (I insist) (really) ...
... but ...
... well, I only have one thing to say (at least right now).
If you're still wearing COWBOY HATS, or anything that closely resembles one, well ... stop it. I insist. That goes for any variety straw, leather, wool knit, pink fuzz, denim, suede, furry animal print, snakeskin, foreskin and any size. Petite and perched prettily atop your pate: bad. Oversized and "ironic": bad. Traditional Stetson-style and actually bought "Out West": just as bad. I don't care if it cost you $3.00 at some schlock shop on Lower Broadway or 100 or 1,000 times that much on Rodeo Drive. Bad, bad, bad, and, oh yes, P.S. bad.
Last night, while watching the "Joe Millionaire" finale (yes, I felt strangely compelled to watch it, even though I'd never seen an episode before), I saw that one of the unchosen harridans was sportin' a straw cowboy hat, and I gasped, turned to myself in disgust, and said, "Are people still actually wearing those fucking things?"
Who ever decided that this was a cute look to begin with? Did it have anything to do with this movie? It's like a chicken-and-the-egg thing. I just don't know. Or really care. I just want it to end.
Oh, and P.S. It's not cute when men do it either. Or when country-n-western stars do it. Just so you don't think I'm biased against fashion victim bimbos in downtown nightclubs.
The above is the closest I've come to the snow during what is already being touted as "The Blizzard of '03". Because it needs a name, after all. Because it's, like, snow, and it's big snow. So it's a big deal and big news. It's big, big, big! And there' snow way out!
So that's why I stayed in. That's why I stayed in and ate Happy Herbert's pretzels (extra dark) and drank Diet Coke (pre-lemonated) and watched "The Brady Bunch" (the Bradys get a pool table and Bobby's quite the shark, followed by Greg's hair turns orange after using tonic he bought from Bobby) and let my fabulous friend Daniel take pictures instead. Yay!
Note: If you want to see photos that I took of the last substantial snow we had here in NYC, you can see them here.
Damn those dead Presidents. Damn them and their mattress sales. I can't believe people think they have to reserve their mattress-buying for one specified day a year. Don't they know that if they truly love mattresses, they won't care if they're on sale? That if they truly love mattresses, they'll willingly pay full retail price?
Some of us don't CARE if it's Presidents Day. Some of us are happy on our old mattresses. Some of us don't need new mattresses to make ourselves feel worthy and special.
And damn those mattress commercials too. All those happy couples smiling at the prospective purchases. Don't these mattress companies know that they make single people feel really bad for not having someone to share that mattress with?
Am I the only woman in the world who doesn't have the slightest desire to celebrate her "womanhood" by engaging in a lively dialogue (or monologue, as the case may be, and is, in the lauded Eve Ensler book/production) about empowerment gained by appreciating the ins and outs of the sacred flower that blooms between her thighs?
Maybe it's because I discovered the joys of my 'gina when I was but a wee girl, but I just don't see the need to sit in a circle with a hand mirror and sob as I finally get a gander at what's "down there", thus unlocking a mysterious Pandora's Box and unleashing decades of pent-up woman energy on the Universe.
Oh, look. So you have a cunt. A twat. A pussy. A vagina. A flower. It's all so stunning and marvelous and beautiful. Big deal. You can acknowledge it. And you can even say it! Cuntgratulations!
Let's all hug, and weep, and make a quilt together, panties-less and pantsless. We are women, hear us bore!
Not everyone reviled Valentine's Day. Some reveled in it. Taxi wanted bonbons, but had to settle for yes bone-bones.
1. All babies are not beautiful.
2. Neither are all brides.
It has come to my attention that some of you are coming to this site dressed inappropriately. I will not say who told me, and I will not divulge details about what the offenders purportedly were wearing. What I will say is that as of this entry, you are not permitted to read my words unless you are dressed not only to the nines, but to the tens, elevens, twelves, and beyond.
Gentlemen, jackets are required, as are ties. Ascots, monocles, and pocket watches neatly tucked into the pocket of your vest are encouraged. Black tie is optional, but certainly welcome.
Ladies, please dress like one. The current trend of harlotry does not amuse me. Likewise for slatternliness.
Mouth-stained pajamas, Star Wars T-shirts, chenille robes with baby spittle on the shoulder or evidence of wayward lactation, and "my birthday suit, LOL!" are not only unacceptable but grounds for dismissal.
Rest assured that I will treat you with the respect and dignity you so richly deserve if you show me you have earned it by dressing for the occasion.
Remember, a little effort goes a long way.
So what if three or four of these are hovering in my neighborhood, and one is just above my building?
They're just hovering to make sure people aren't fornicating too heartily on Valentine's Day, is all.
I feel so safe! I hate public displays of affection! (They're better than public infection, but still.)
No words have ever instilled so much dread in me as, "Class, move your chairs into a circle" or the similar "Everyone, stand in a circle (and join hands)." Nothing good ever comes out of it.
I was far away from home today. Very far indeed. In another state, in another city. I may as well have been another world away. Still, I managed to keep an eye on my neighborhood.
On the ride back into the city, my friends and I were stuck in traffic for what seemed like an eternity. Of course, behind my usual yelling about the idiocy of the buses that tried to cut us off and everyone else who was in front of us hid a lurking, low rumbling fear that we wouldn't make it through the tunnel because the city didn't exist on the other side anymore.
And no, this fear is not based in anything having to do with code orange. That sort of thing does not change my world.
Now I can afford that cup of coffee I've had my eye on for the past month. Thanks, State of New York! I you!
Product 1: Audiophase Portable Compact Disc Player with Ultimate Skip Protection (45sec+)
A raging disappointment. The package told me this product was ideal for use while running. Apparently "running" means "standing completely still in a state of catatonia while holding unit parallel to the floor and not breathing or blinking; also, please do not look at the unit while it is in operation because it is shy and easily embarrassed".
But before anyone points out, "Well, look, it's not exactly the highest-end portable compact disc player you could have stolen," let me just say that this was my first experience with a low-end player. Ordinarily I buy supposedly more reliable brands and spend only the prettiest (bordering on downright gorgeous) of pennies on these things, but with the same dismal results.
But it is a nice shade of red and looks nice with my hair and black outfits. It is also pretty. And sometimes it deigns to do what it promises to do. Just like the person who uses it.
Oh no. What now? you ask. What else can't she stand? Is it possible for her to hate something else? Hasn't she covered just about everything on this, or any other, planet?
No. No, she has not. Not by a mile or the equivalent in kilometers, for those of you in other countries, or the equivalent in x*&.JP-2y!k/5, for those of you on other planets.
She hates when people refer to themselves in the third person, so she will stop doing so now and thus stop hating herself for the infraction. But that's not what
she I'm referring to in this entry.
What I'm referring to is this ridiculous practice of standing ovations. I've been meaning to write about it for some time, but it seems someone beat me to it and said quite a bit of what I wanted to say. (Now I hate her too.) So before you continue here, you may want to read that article.
... I'll wait. Really. Read it.
... Come on. Don't be a jackass. READ IT, and then come back. You have time. Stop pretending you're busy.
* * * * * * *
So, anyway ...
I don't understand the need for unwarranted, obligatory standing ovations at all. I only stand and ovate (not to be confused with "ovulate") when the performance I've just witnessed/experienced stirs up so much energy inside of my body, heart, soul, and viscera (not to mention pants) that remaining seated would require more effort and energy than springing to my feet and applauding so hard my hands sting 15 minutes after I've stopped. A standing ovation should occur because you are boiling water in a tea kettle and must be poured before you whistle yourself into vapor.
But to stand just to stand, for any of the reasons outlined in the article? No. I won't stand for it.
Thank you. You may sit down now.
Link found over at my lovely friend Cas' site. Go say hello.
Because everyone else is doing it, and I just can't miss a moment of the group fun, and because I want to scoop everyone up in a big jangle of tangled limbs and flopping appendages and squeeze the stuffing (Stove Top) out of them en masse to show them how much I love, adore, and appreciate them. Because I want to joyously and shamelessly acknowledge, several days in advance, the most asinine widely-recognized "holiday" ever created. (Note the qualifier "widely-recognized". Yes, I'm all too aware of holidays such as Sweetest Day, Secretaries Day, and SendMeGiftsAndCardsBecauseTheCalendarTellsYouSo Day.)
And because I like purple. That's why the little heart candy.
If you can't resist the urge to create your own hilarious special heart, go here. Or if voodoo is more your style, go here. Both messages can be sent anonymously, so the object of your affection/infection doesn't have to know you're too much of a pussy to express yourself directly.
Enjoy! I love you all!!!
Why oh why oh why. Can someone, anyone, please, tell me WHY the motherless flying fuck trash collection must be performed on my street after midnight? "It's New York City" is not an excuse. "They're only authorized to dispose of dead bodies after hours" is not an excuse.
This is bullshit! This is nonsense! This is rubbish!
I am seeing all shades of red right now, ranging from fire engine to blood. I am wishing excruciating, screeching, mauled-by-a-tiger, torn limb-from-limb death on everyone involved in scheduling trash collection for midnight.
Is this the reason why this city supposedly never sleeps? Not because it doesn't want to but because it can't?
Years ago, my sister (yes, I have one, and no, she will not go out with you) and I used to ask each other all sorts of very pressing questions. We would give each question serious consideration, despite the fact that we were sure (almost) that no one would ever really ask it or any of the others. Invariably we struggled with the answers and got mad at each other for daring to pose such idiotic questions.
"That's not going to happen!" the questionee would yell. "But what if it did?" "Well, it's not!" "Yeah, but what if it DID!?!?!?" And then one of us would call the other an asshole and that would be the end of it.
The following are some of the questions that caused such strife. (There were many others that I'm sure I'll remember as I'm tossing in bed at 2:30 a.m.) I plan to call her sometime this week and launch into a question and answer session without even saying hello first.
- If a robber came into the house, and said he had to kill either Mommy or Daddy, who would you pick?
- If you had to have a small head on a big body or a big head on a small body, which would you choose?
- If a robber came into the house and said he had to kill Mommy or you, who would you pick?
- If you tried out for a part on a really great TV show, and they said you would get it but only if you gained 60 pounds, would you do it?
- If a robber came into the house and said he had to kill either A or B (our dogs) (not their real names!), who would you pick?
- If someone gave you a really cute car [it varied -- it was either a Mercedes 450, some sort of Fiat, or a Karman Ghia], but said that the only way you could have it was if they painted MARY KAY COSMETICS across the trunk, and you were not allowed to cover it, would you take it?
I don't remember most of my answers to these questions, but I think I passed on the sportscar with MARY KAY painted on the trunk. I'm sure I killed off my dad and spared my mom. The dog question was more difficult; I don't think either of us ever answered it. It was probably at that point that we deemed the entire game "retarded" or "gay" and got mad at each other.
And then answered the question, "If a robber came into the house and said he had to kill one of us, which one would you pick?" quite easily.
One of the best things about being a professional Wandering Jew is that I get to go on all sorts of seemingly frivolous jaunts about town in order to gather material for my project. Because I'm not shackled to a desk job, and because my two-year-old son is responsible enough now to take care of himself at home for a few hours without supervision, I'm free to do whatever my little spleen desires whenever it desires it.
So the other day I took the F train down to the Second Avenue stop, exited at First Avenue, and made my way south en route to my destination. A friend of mine had raved about the product, and I happily skipped south in search of the perfect pickle, preferably proferred by Peter Riegert just beyond this particular point.
Alas, the young man who manned the pickle buckets bore no resemblance to Peter Riegert, but he was nice enough to let me come around back so that I could get a better view. I bought three, but didn't devour them right away, because I thought they deserved to be photographed in a more flattering pose and in a prettier setting.
They were so accommodating. So jocular. Not once did they make any off-color jokes about alternative uses. And not once did any of them leer at me and say, "Eat me!" So when it came time to actually do so, I felt a little sad. But I couldn't have just put them in a jar, like a medical oddity, and observed them, could I?
P.S. In case you're wondering (and I know you are), I got two "half-done" and one "spicy".
I just licked the finger (mine, left ring) that grazed across who-knows-how-many-days-old smeared chocolate on a manila file folder that was resting on a corner of my desk. Given that Shana recently discovered that the desk is yet another surface on which she can perch cozily, and that at times she expresses her dissatisfaction that she does not have a new-fangled electronic self-cleaning litter box by pointedly ignoring the old-fashioned one she does have, I don't think it was the wisest of ideas.
I am like sooo outta here. When I started this site over a year ago, I hoped it would get me through some really tough times and help me sort out a lot of conflicting feelings I was having about my life and my purpose on the planet. I started it so I could have an outlet for all these crazy feelings I've had inside my heart and soul, so I wouldn't have to keep on throwing vodka down my throat to dull the pain of the many needles I had to shoot into whatever veins I could find that hadn't already collapsed, so I could finally float off into sweet, sweet peace, without a care in this rotten, cruel world. But it hasn't helped anything. In fact, I'm even more of an abuser than before. I'm worse off now than I ever was.
I've been lying to all of you. I don't live in a fabulous apartment in Manhattan. I don't have a DOG, a dog, or a cat. I'm not even pretty. And I most certainly don't do Pilates. Fuck. I don't even know what the hell that is, anyway.
So I'm outta here. I have nothing left to say. I ...
OK, so that's all a bunch of crap. And I make you a bet some of you believed it. "Wow," you whispered reverently, your eyes (teary) riveted to your monitor as you brought your soup can/cup to your lips (the newfangled kind that you only need one hand to operate!). "She's finally doing her dramatic goodbye. It's so sad. I think it's a cry for help! I wish she had comments on her site, so we could all plead with her to stay!"
Well ... no. I hate that.
I'm just takin' a nap, is all. After a while all that wacky working out stuff (lots of Pilates! running! weights! it's all good!) beats a girl down. So I'm going to take a nap, prettily, in my nice big Manhattan apartment. And when I wake up, I'll have a Diet Coke.
Have a stunning afternoon.
P.S. Click on the above images for better viewing. (It's just that they look better bigger.) I know I shouldn't have to say that, but, well, hey.
This time last year: Don't You Forget About Me
Just a note before the big deal two-hour "exclusive" Michael Jackson interview this evening:
Saying "Jacko is wacko" is the equivalent of going outside in subzero weather and saying, "Wooo! It's cold!"
I hope the baby who vacated this stroller read the signs. Otherwise, he's gonna be pretty googoo-damned pissed if he doesn't get back by 10:01 a.m.
One of the "perks" of being an important celebrity is getting free tickets to all sorts of shows and events. Today, on my way home from Pilates (yes! you know you love when I mention Pilates!), a big shot friend called and invited me to join him for a matinee of the Broadway show "Take Me Out" at the Walter Kerr Theatre. Of course, I went, and had a gay old time (in addition to the traditional yabbadabbadoo time). I wasn't dressed for the theatre, but hey, even in my casual ensemble, I had the matinee crowd beat by a mile. It's appalling, really, the way people dress. Don't tourists know that fanny packs and sneakers are just not acceptable?
So, anyway, I'll be brief about the play. It was ... ehhh. Most of the performances were subpar and couldn't hide behind the considerable amount of full frontal nudity (in an all-male cast!). One person of note, however if only for his relative recognizability (even though I didn't realize it was he until I got home) was David Eigenberg, who showed us that even though on "Sex and the City" he may only have one ball (for those of you who don't watch, Steve, his character, had testicular cancer), he clearly came to this game more fully equipped. Go, team!
I could write more about how matinee performances seem to be largely "phoned in" and how people shouldn't really chow, during the show, on the two-pound Hershey's bars they just bought at the Hershey store (corner of 48th and Broadway). Or chew gum. But I won't.
For once, I didn't let that stuff bother me too much. And I had a ball.
Dear Mr. Schvantz:
Thank you for your generous, albeit unsolicited, offer to share some of your prized photographs with me. I have a few comments to offer you in return, as follows:
- If you send something in black and white rather than full color, I will immediately assume it's because there's something horribly wrong with your skin, i.e. mottling or a hideous rash. I will recognize this ploy immediately. I will not think you're artsy. I will think you're trying to mask a deformity. I will be right.
- Contrary to what you obviously believe, I do not want to see your dick, and I certainly won't be swayed by your vehement assertions that you are "hung". Your insistence that you have an enormous dick only shows me how much of one you are. And the only balls you have are those that compel you to still send me that kind of garbage over the internet. Do you honestly think I'm not going to be showing at least one friend your not-so-goodies during an afternoon lull when we both need a good laugh?
Please believe me when I tell you that all I want to see is your face (if even that). As it appears sometime this century. Send me something you would be proud to show your mother (unless, of course, you're an incestuous piece of filth). And don't be cocky about it.
cc: Mrs. Schvantz
This year makes it five since Kerry died from exposure after drinking and spending an entire night in the freezing Vermont air. That day in March 1998 when my mother called and broke the news, my world broke into more pieces than I ever thought made it up in the first place. He and I were the closest of friends, and at one time were more, but never made the leap into “lovers”. And back when we were at our closest (in the mid '80s), I, a girl who never really put much stock in the whole "happily ever after" thing, actually daydreamed and hoped we would be together forever and the marriage quilt his mother had shown us one night would be ours one day.
So today it's raining and I'm listening to all sorts of sappy music, and wishing he were here so we could make granola (no, that is not a code word!) and laugh like there was no tomorrow. So today I will remember yesterdays with Kerry, because that's all I have.
And then I'll go to the gym, someone will piss me off, I'll be back to the raving raven-haired stunner you know and love, and everybody will be happy. Don't worry!
At long last I have an answer to a question that for ages has gnawed at my soul like a carrion-obsessed vulture.
It's not personal grooming or self-massage that keeps people in public restrooms for such extended periods of time. It's deep, probing philosophical thought, produced in the most appropriate of places. And then the expression of those thoughts, flowing freely onto the door via an indelible marker. For example:
What a perfect venue to share and air a bunch of shit.
Because your day blows and stop pretending it doesn't ... I mean, you're at work, aren't you, and no matter how much you like to kid yourself that it's not that bad, really, and you should just be thankful you have a job, because there are plenty of underprivileged people out there (some even in your own town!) who would give their right arm to be doing what you're doing right now ... that is if they hadn't lost that right arm to gangrene or frostbite or just plain ol' sold it on the black market in exchange for some generic cigarettes and you don't feel like being there, and your boss is a dick and that lard-ass in the next cubicle is chewing loudly (like she really needs another HoHo or SnoBall) ... well, I'm here to help.
Stop working. Or pretending to. Stop reading about the space shuttle. Stop composing poetry, because, let's face it, your poetry sucks. And nothing rhymes with "Columbia" or "February" anyway.
Go here instead.
And while you're at it, say the word warp aloud a few times as you play with this thing. (The thing I linked to, you jokester. Not your "thing" hahaha LOL ROTFLMAO.) You'll sound and look really smart. Really.
So this is it? No high-tech igloo-shaped stainless-steel pod floating above the surface of the planet, accessible only by jetpack (for the cool kids) or monorail (for the terminally dorky), with invisible doors that whisk open noiselessly via each space-student's special telepathic code?
This is it? The School of the Future is just another filthy, run-of-the-mill, boxy building, anchored to the pavement, with a facade that could generously be deemed non-descript? With regular old doors that actually have to be physically touched in order to gain access?
And what the hell is that ... that ... that thing peering out the middle door? A flesh 'n' blood, real live person talking (smiling???) into one of those old-fashioned cell phones, and not a self-powered automaton fashioned out of NuSkin6000 (pat. pending)?
If only I'd known about this sooner, I wouldn't have sent in my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter's application last week. Great.
Enough already about Nicole Kidman's nose in The Hours. Yes, everyone knows it was prosthetic. Everyone knows that Nicole's own nose is much more pert 'n' sassy 'n' delicate than the porky proboscis that she sports as Virginia Woolf. Everyone knows Nicole is pretty damned good-lookin'. Even my mother, whose aesthetic usually doesn't embrace pale skin, had to recently confess that she saw some photos where Ms. Kidman was absolutely exquisite. So yeah. Now that my mother's been converted, I think it's safe to say that yes, Nicole Kidman is a looker!
So can people please stop marveling about how bold and brave it was for her to dare to be filmed looking less than spectacular? "Brave" is Kathy Bates appearing nude in About Schmidt. It takes more courage for a woman who is not generally regarded as perfect to reveal her imperfections than for a woman who is to put on something false to make herself appear imperfect. We all know that Nic's nose is lovely. We all know that at the end of the day, she can pull off the prosthetic and go back to being a stunner. So yes, she can, quite literally, pull off looking unattractive for the duration of a movie, because the Nicole we ordinarily are treated to is glorious.
The same thing goes for dearest Gwynnie in Shallow Hal. All the claptrap about how brave it was for her to put on the "fat suit" for the few scenes where her face was needed for the shot. What courage! What daring! What a woman!
How about a little applause for the woman who didn't remove the fat suit at the end of the day? The actress (actor, whatever) whose real body was used for the rest of scenes, including the one where she ascends a ladder to the diving board? The one that had everyone saying, "Ewww!"
When she and Kathy Bates go home at the end of the day, they're faced with the same bodies they brought with them to the set and showed us on the screen. Turn up the theater lights, and there they are. And most of us are thinking, if not outright saying, "Oh god, can you believe she did that?"
What I want to see is Nicole pack on sixty pounds and then show us her courageous, enlarged ass on a very large screen. Outrageous!
Much ado was made about nothing when Renée Zelwegger gained quite a bit of weight to play Bridget Jones. I read somewhere that she said she felt more feminine and womanly with the curves that the poundage afforded. And Celine Dion, who should never be allowed to open her mouth (even to sing), has said that she felt fantastic when she was pregnant because at long last she had a womanly figure. Yet both have reverted to their Original Thin.
Put your money where your mouth is, honeys. Or where your nose is. Or something. You are not courageous. You are not bold.
P.S. Nicole Kidman is going to play Samantha in an upcoming big-screen version of Bewitched. So we're going to have to hear about her nose again. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. Her nose, and all the media attention it gets, can blow me.