Saturday, February 25, 2006


Check it out, boyfriend can spell! With his hands! Next he's going to do boobies. Watch this space.

Friday, February 24, 2006

sleep pretty in pink

I feel like it's probably unreasonable to have more than a certain amount of fun in a supermarket. And yet... have you tried the Personal Care aisle at your local Gelson's? Hey! Quick, what's the most ridiculous product you can imagine? A thing that, if you saw a commercial for it during Saturday Night Live you would think to yourself (until you realized Chris Parnell wasn't doing the voice-over): man, maybe all those cupcake fanboys are right and SNL really is getting funny again?

Here we have the lovely Shoshana, displaying what I can only assume is intended as a mockery of me and everything I stand for: ladygirl earplugs. Product name: Sleep Pretty in Pink. Richard Butler and John Hughes, I hope you're both preparing lawsuits. Also: let's cool it with the innuendo, hey?

Oh and:

Helen of Troy Hair Nets. Launch many ships while serving lunchmeat at your local high school.

I didn't buy either of these items. What I did buy today, is a pair of the plug-ugliest ski pants you have ever seen, no shit. They are camouflage, but with pink elements. To wit:

They were the only ones available in my size, okay? God. I do plan on wearing these in public this weekend though, when I, you know, go skiing. In public. In front of all the other ski bunnies. It's my first time skiing, and if the pants are any indication, things are not looking so good. Someone tell me to break a leg or something, will you?

Thursday, February 23, 2006

your thursday afternoon bronx cheer

  • Who out there still thinks Meg White is hot? She's going on the "dead to me" list soon if she doesn't do something about those teeth. They are a menace. The last picture is actually kind of cool though. She's still funny-looking, but I like the trees or whatever.
  • I have always found Morrissey to be a deeply suspicious character. Second only to, yes, that crazy gothy-terror neo-Victo team of Andrew Eldritch and Robert Smith.
  • Today I hate my boss so much that the only thing keeping me from murdering him with office ephemera is thinking of the time he said, "Man, if I had a brain, I'd eat it."
  • A moment of seriousness: if this is true, how is this not all over the fucking news? What kind of catfucker do we have running this country?
  • No matter how alluring it looks in the drugstore display, do not ever drink Tab Energy Drink. It is the worst ass you have ever tasted.
  • And finally: I'm goin' back to my roots here.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Here it is. I won't tell you what it is, you'll just have to listen to it.

But I got it from here and it is fantastic. Did anyone else know that song had a lyric about Hegel?

blogger, forgive me, for i have sinned

It's been five days since my last post.

People. I don't know what's happened to me. I just don't seem to be able to put words together anymore. In fact, I have a suspicion that reading this post over in a little while is going to be an experience remarkably similar to what happens to me when I wake up from one of those dreams in which I have totally written the most fucking beautiful poem that's ever been written. I haven't the mental resources right now to stretch that metaphor out so that it even sort of covers my thought, but what I mean is, I'm pretty sure that when I re-read this I'm going to realize I wasn't even writing words.

I have a perfect thing that I wanted to share with you all in this post, a thing that I find mysteriously absorbing, freakishly moving, and generally delightful, but which every last one of you will be able to feel warm and self-righteous about mercilessly mocking me for. But I can't get it to post right now, so it will have to come later.

In fact, I promise in general to give you more things to make fun of me for soon. I already gave you the MySpace link, and most of you have already made fun of me for that. Well, okay, only one of you. (You can't see this, Idler, but I'm hoisting my leftmost middle finger to the heavens in your honor.) I don't know why I even put it up there, it's not like anyone reading this other than the one person who is already my MySpace friend (shout out to Shoshie) would actually touch MySpace with a pole of any length. You all are tards. I am forever doomed to have only two MySpace friends, at least until I go back to school and meet a bunch of 18 year olds who I can convince to add me as friends in exchange for buying them beer.

It's just now occurred to me that I'm acting like everyone has been all sad that I haven't posted since Friday, when in fact no one has said anything at all to me. I'm just going to keep acting like you're all completely broken up about it and have been crying and crying, and crying.

Friday, February 17, 2006

perverse to a miracle

It's Friday night, and I'm at home alone because I didn't feel I could muster the social wherewithal this evening to play pool and make conversation of even the most desultory sort. It's raining like a motherfucker, and I keep thinking of this passage from Charlotte Bronte's Villette:

At that time, I well remember whatever could excite — certain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man — too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.

I did long, achingly, then and for four and twenty hours afterwards, for something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead me upwards and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it was necessary to knock on the head; which I did, figuratively, after the manner of Jael to Sisera, driving a nail through their temples. Unlike Sisera, they did not die: they were but transiently stunned, and at intervals would turn on the nail with a rebellious wrench: then did the temples bleed, and the brain thrill to its core.

They woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. So nice, don't you think? Villette inches closer and closer to an uncontested spot at the top of the list of my favorite books of all time. For me, Lucy Snowe is pretty much the platonic ideal of the female protagonist: clever and coy, perverse and acidic, witty and self-deprecating, touchy, vulnerable, and proud; she's full of convoluted emotion and tragic yearning, but she would desperately like you to think that she would like you to think she remains always logical and pragmatic. She's a bald liar, but she can't help it; she urgently wants you to know the truth about her, but she's absolutely unable to speak it, so she buries it in a shallow grave of denial and transparent misdirection. In all her twisted, contrarian glory — hiding to reveal, damning to praise — she's a shockingly fully-realized character.

Anyway. I guess what you should take away from this is, if Lucy Snowe was a real person, I would be so gay for her. Also, I like listing adjectives. That is all.

And now for something completely different: x-ray porn. Did I say that? I meant art. X-rayted art. Yay!

Aaaaaand also: snakes on a plane, dudes.

Thursday, February 16, 2006


Here you go, Idler. Coffee & coffee, sandwich, coffee & coffee, sandwich, coffee & coffee, I'm stuck in a feedback loop here, sandwich. For those who haven't already heard about this sign ten fuckbillion times, the Idler and I saw this place a few months ago while headed down Western in L.A. on the way to a concert at the Wiltern (probably Wilco if I had to guess, but that's just going by the odds). Apparently someone else noticed it, too. I love how the sandwich letters are all sideways. Wasn't it closed, though? Oh, maybe it reopened! Who's up for a fieldtrip? I'll buy you coffee, coffee, and a sandwich.

Now everyone go look at this cat bread thing singing about cuppycakes. I'm already having the nightmares.


So, no one has yet volunteered any positive facts about men to me. Instead, this morning I had a conversation with a male friend who insisted to me that when he goes to strip clubs — which he complained that his girlfriend won't let him do, then quickly said, "Not that I'm anxious to or anything" — when he goes, he is absolutely not thinking of the women as objects, he knows that most men are, but he totally isn't, because he knew some girls in high school who later became strippers and therefore he is able to think of them as people. I'm oversimplifying his argument, the guy is actually intelligent and had some non-caveman things to say (plus he dates a sociology grad student), but I'm still in a men-hate-women-so-I-hate-them kind of mood, and I don't really feel like being fair.

Plus, this happened. In Maryland. Even in Maryland, men are penises. Is nothing sacred?

Although. Here's something nice: sometimes men have dinner ready for you when you get home from the gym.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

brain .. . mushy

Savoy Truffles = wicked awesome salad bar. (Savoy Truffles website = kind of the suck.)

Having the urge to make so so many many pointless posts today, despite my brain having been turned into porridge. Wait, maybe because of. The porridge thing I mean. Squish.

Anyway, can you even believe this? Spotsylvania, Virginia police are claiming that the only way they can possibly get enough evidence to convict prostitutes is by having sex with them. And then leaving them $350 tips. Now that's a solid strategy, but I have an even better idea. Just grab the next woman you see who makes you go schwing, rape her, and throw a $5 bill at her. Then, because she accepted money for sex, you can totally keep her in jail forever, because she's a dirty whore.

Won't someone please tell me something nice about men? I'm sensing I might be getting only one side of the picture lately.

Oh, yeah, in conclusion: douche chill!

an allegorical tale

About half an hour ago, my boss kindly offered to buy me a cup of coffee at the coffee shop, since he was going that direction with our general manager. What a nice guy, right? So I asked for a single soy latte — that's three little words and five tiny syllables. Well, a few minutes ago, boss sent general manager back with a double regular latte, with someone else's name written on the side of it.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful for the largesse of those who don't give a shit about me: one out of three words is actually pretty bad, especially for the lactose-intolerant.

Monday, February 13, 2006

monorails, theoretical and actual

I had completely forgotten about this, but: Ray Bradbury's 43-year quest to get a monorail built in Los Angeles remains but a beautiful dream. L.A., what is your childhood trauma? Just listen to the man. If anyone can solve L.A.'s traffic problems, it's Science Fictioneer Ray Bradbury.

Meanwhile, Monorail Enthusiast James Horecka had a project of his own in mind. But instead of waiting for a municipality to approve it, he just went ahead and built — you guessed it (or no you didn't, actually) — a puppy monorail. I shit you not. And then he put some puppies in it and rode them around and took pictures. It boggles the mind.

I'm trying to be a more serious person, honestly. But it's just not possible when people keep doing things like this.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

you're not my brother, but you're my bro

Arrested Development, we hardly knew ye. I'm too depressed right now to discuss it, but there was a joke in one of the last four episodes which I am convinced has spoiled all other humor for me forever. I have touched the face of God, people. And at the moment I feel like the disciples must have felt right around the time Jesus came down off that cross.

So, the boyfriend has pointed out to me that my last post contained a link (it's the first link in the item about the commas — I'm so not linking there again) to a woman who "write[s] 'inspirational' romance novels, which are love stories celebrating Christian values." Judging from the description of her newest masterpiece in the sidebar, it seems to be your standard-issue masturbatory godbag tripe. That's masturbatory not in the beautiful and natural way, of course, but in the way where, if you're into this sort of kink, you get to imagine that a scenario where a guy marries his dead brother's wife out of "duty" ends in happiness all around. I realize this is a plotline from Deadwood, but you know it will be unbearable without the swearing.

Anyway, there are two lessons to be learned here: (1) Sometimes crazy people have valid opinions on punctuation; and (2) Do not blog when you are moments from passing out with exhaustion. I regret the error, folks. If you followed the link and read anything other than the thing about the commas, I promise to make it up to you somehow, someday. I'll buy you a car. It's my dad's.

But wait, I'm not quite done with this nutbag. After spending like hours today playing with this, I decided to troll for some good crazy on her blog (a matter of seconds merely). And what should I see but a link to the very toy with which I had beguiled so many sweet hours earlier in the day? What with the comma thing, and now this, I don't mind telling you I got scared, and my defenses kicked in. To wit:

eaRadio City



O! (3 of 7)f

Pink DIneon c (wbrc)Koppartrans decalS

Single WiOne Letter / NGNThe 1cm cubeT

The best defense is a good offense. I always say. Is it too much? It's not too much, is it?

I actually have some fun stuff for you about last night, but it will have to wait until I've regrown all the brain cells. Just now, bedways is rightways, my droogs, before I break my own new rule about not blogging when I'm too tired to hold my head up. Pleasants.

Friday, February 10, 2006

some brief words before sleep takes me (against my will)

I don't sleep anymore. Who needs it? Glub glub. Bullet points, yeeahhh that's the ticket.
  • My love for New Order grows ever more tragic day by day.
  • This little bugger has mismatched eyes. I have no words.
  • I'm all about the serial comma. Represent.
  • I totally have a friend who has a cousin who ran off and joined the circus. How awesome is that? I get 10 bonus cool points.
  • Leaving work today, I got cut off by a cop with a giant buckwheat moustache who was flipping an illegal u-turn. Waah.
  • Big Brother Butterstick redux: I swear last time I looked at this site there was no manifesto. Or posse page. Check me out, I am in his posse times two.
  • From here on out, I'm calling all redheads "Ginger." I've said it before, but this time I really mean it.
Ah well. Sleep is a rose, as the Persians say.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

musical notes

Ha ha, do you get it? If not, just email me and I'll explain it.
  • You can listen to a song from Morrissey's new album on his MySpace page. I don't want to give anything away, but it contains the phrase "as I live and breathe." Do not read the comments on his page from Moz worshippers unless you feel like a good cry.
  • I am totally going to make friends with Morrissey on MySpace. I know once he sees all the things I said about him in my profile he will want to be my BFF.
  • Which is worse: that the Urban Outfitters in downtown Santa Barbara has a stack of copies of Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures by the cash register, or that I can tell you that from firsthand observation?
  • In related news, my love for New Order is helpless and pathetic.
  • I also cannot get enough Jose Gonzalez right now. March 21 at the Echo in L.A. Anyone else? This is a club which yesterday attempted to solicit my attendance at a wine-tasting event by sending me an email that began: "UNLIKE 'BUY A BEAR A BEER' DAY IN MONTANA, THIS CITY-SPONSORED VAGINAL REJUVENATION SURGERY INCLUDES..."
  • I figured it out: Interpol are the Editors of two years ago.
  • If you buy this t-shirt and wear it, you will immediately die, because I will immediately rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. Then you will ascend into Humorless Irony Heaven where you'll get free unlimited piercings and will get to play with Conor Oberst's hair all day. Ooh, Conor Oberst. I feel like I should be writing about him more for some reason.
This is unrelated to music, but this afternoon I stepped in dog shit for the first time in, I don't know, a decade at least. It was a nasty little atavistic thrill. Some of you will see this as some kind of sign that I've gone too far with the puppy love. But I know that if Jesus wants to tell me something, he always sends a skywriter.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

mary magdalene, the penitent whore of the new testament

Today's horoscope:
It's suddenly occurred to you that you haven't seen anything but your own neighborhood in many, many moons — and you're hungry to glimpse a distant shore. Well, then — find someone who's brave enough to just drop everything and go along with you. You know you won't have any trouble. In fact, while you have the travel agent on the phone, you might want to enquire about group rates. You know how you get.
Oh, I do. So who's going with me to Manchester for the Easter Morrisphemy? You guys, I don't know what else to do to convince you I'm serious. Do I have to get a passport or something? Cause if that's what it takes.

Monday, February 06, 2006

then again, maybe it's just a really hard sugar crash

I can’t recall most of last night’s dreams, but this morning I feel sad and drained. I do remember one thing: staring at my own front teeth, which had turned gelatinous and translucent. I think I either need to go to the dentist or get psychoanalyzed.

A good friend and co-worker just emailed me that her grandmother is dying. It seems to me at the moment that this is how the past three days have gone for me. Sorrow piled on top of sorrow — some of it trivial, some of it not; some of it mine, some of it belonging to friends or family. Songs in my head this morning: Richard Thompson's "Shoot Out the Lights" and R.E.M.'s "E-Bow The Letter." Song in my head for the past week: The Shins' "Gone For Good."

My weekend, in reverse date order:


The boyfriend and I watched the Puppy Bowl (maybe you’ve heard of it?), then the Super Bowl, then the movie Junebug. Junebug was unexceptional, except did you know that Will Oldham acts? It also featured a massively pregnant woman tearfully masturbating with the aid of a smiling snapshot of herself and her husband, which strikes me as pointlessly tragic (and hugely uncomfortable to watch, thanks). The Super Bowl involved football and titty beer commercials and that’s all I have to say about that. The Puppy Bowl? Well, you know what happened there. I’m not going to apologize for it. It was a bold move, and I favored it. No regrets.


Saturday morning, I received an email from my father saying that my uncle Vendon had died. I met him only once and don’t remember him.

Saturday afternoon, at the request of one of my very best friends, I served a summons and petition for dissolution of marriage to another very good friend. Both of them suggested that I make a silly comment when serving the papers. While in principle I fully support cracking wise in the dark, it didn't feel like a funny moment to me. No difficulty of any kind was involved, and I was glad to do a favor for two people I care about as much as I do these two. But it was a sad errand, and I didn't enjoy it.

Saturday evening, the boyfriend and I watched Broken Flowers. It was Jarmuschey... and sad, and unsatisfying.

Saturday night, I couldn't sleep. All night, every night, trains pass by my apartment, shrieking and shaking the building. There's one with a particularly haunting whistle — reedy, atonal, ephemeral, and deeply unsettling. It half-woke me one night last week and I thought the world was ending. On Saturday, lying awake at 4 a.m., I heard it again. This is the sound I expect to hear at the moment of my death. It won't feel real otherwise.


After I left work for the day, my friend and co-worker called to tell me there had been an announcement that one of the brothers who owns the company I work for was resigning. It wasn’t a surprise, and I can’t bring myself to care, even though there may be significant consequences for me.

Friday evening, I played pool with the boyfriend and the Idler. It wasn't all bad: apparently my pool game has actually gotten better. But the asstards at the bar were worse than usual. We later watched the movie Thumbsucker, which was mostly boring, except for Keanu Reeves’ role as a trippy dentist. He managed to achieve Kyle-McLachlan-in-a-David-Lynch-film heights of inscrutable woodenness. By the way, what kind of lunatic chooses the Polyphonic Spree to replace Elliott Smith in a film score? Although I must say the Polyphonic Spree did seem to fit better. That was an insult to the movie, and anyone who liked this film should now be sharpening their pens for a strongly worded letter.

After the movie, the three of us discussed how we feel that we've wasted our lives. As usual, I won this little competition handily. They keep trying, but they'll never catch up.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

liveblogging the puppy bowl

Welcome to Puppy Bowl II! Are you ready to rumble? You guys thought I was joking but I was serious. Serious as a heart attack.

It turns out I'm not really liveblogging this afternoon, I'm blogging with a 5 minute delay at the request of the FCC. So in case a puppy says something obscene I can edit it out.

The puppy bowl is held in Downtown Silver Spring, Maryland! The great state of Maryland! I grow more and more convinced that everything good in this country comes out of Maryland. Like me, for instance.

12:01: We're introduced to part of the starting line-up:
  • Sheeba is the CUTEST! Sheeba is a Shiba Ibu! I've never heard of a Shiba Ibu! I want one!
  • Barry the poodle is so not cute.
  • Cha Cha and Disco are Springer Spaniels. Pretty cute, and extra cute points for the names.
  • Agatha is a Whippet/Beagle Mix. Awwwww...
12:05: Barry the poodle is on speed or something. He's attacking everyone. Go on Sheeba! Teach that fucking poodle who's boss.

12:06: Water bowl cam! That wasn't so interesting.

12:07: Oh my god there are soooo many puppies. Some of their names I don't know yet. Another bowl cam shot of a puppy drinking. Animal Planet, a note, this is really only interesting when the puppies are trying to climb in the bowl. OOOOH there we go, somebody stuck a paw in.

12:08: Everyone's getting Barry. The boyfriend: "I'm starting to feel a little bad for Barry." Me: "Barry shouldn't have stirred up all the shit." Our first instant replay, as Disco or Cha Cha tackles Barry and takes him down.

12:10: One of the puppies wants to climb out of the stadium. ALL of the puppies want to climb out!

12:11: As a black puppy tries to sniff its butt, a beagle/dachsund mix who we haven't been introduced to yet stares at the camera, head cocked, moving back and forth to try and get a better angle on it.

12:13: PUPPY PENALTY! Intentional grounding! I.e. a puppy peed in the end zone and a guy dressed in a referee's outfit came out, blew his whistle, called the penalty, and cleaned it up.

Commercial break.

12:17: More of the starting line-up:
  • Domino is a black retriever mix.
  • Louie is a brown retriever mix. When the boyfriend first saw this one he went, "Ooawwwhhhh!"
  • Bessie: hound mix. Beagle-like with stubby little legs.
  • Tab: lab/retriever mix. Looks like Louie, but bigger.
  • Belle: black retriever mix. Fluffy!
12:19: Agatha is sleepy.

12:20: Barry just defeated Tab by barking in his face viciously. Instant replay. We hate Barry.

12:21: Barry allows Tab to sniff his butt.

12:22: They're now playing some kind of banjo picking song in the background. What?

12:24: Belle took Barry down and the fake crowd noise in the background went, "ooohhhh!" Everyone is getting bored with Barry's antics.

12:25: Instant replay of Barry hopping on his hind legs in frustration that no one will play with him. His feet look like little claws. The poodle is altogether kind of a bird-like dog. Maybe that's why I don't like them. At least he's not shaved. I can't abide a shaved poodle.

Commercial break.

12:31: More puppies.
  • Mickey: "a hard-hitting hound, ready to mix it up on the gridiron." This is satire at its finest, folks.
  • Zena: beagle mix.
  • Badger: an australian cattle dog. My favorite freaky-looking dog of all time!
  • Danny: beagle mix.
12:33: Puppies like to chew on their toys.

12:34: Puppy penalty. Illegal procedure. 45 yard line. First down. The puppies want to play with the ref.

12:36: They've taken Barry out for the moment. It's really not that interesting without him, actually. Sometimes we need an object of hatred as contrast in order to properly appreciate what we love.

12:38: A little floofy dog has appeared. In its first 10 seconds on screen, it starts yapping. What was I just saying about an object of hatred? That's not cute.

12:39: Instant replay of Agatha trying to catch her tail.

12:40: Locker room shot. Puppies eating. Commercial break.

12:44: Agatha pig-dogs what looks like a stuffed frog with troll hair.

12:46: Sheeba takes Barry down and pig-dogs his throat! Awesome!

12:47: Puppy penalty. Illegal use of paw. 15 yard penalty. Repeat second down. Actually this was some puppy crap, I don't know what the illegal use of the paw thing is about. The ref has to rescue his flag from the puppies who are trying to play with it.

12:48: The boyfriend: "Is the puppy bowl meant for women? Women watch the puppy bowl and men watch the super bowl?" Me: "Women watch the puppy bowl because they appreciate satire."

12:51: The boyfriend asks how I think they choose the puppies to go in the puppy bowl. Wouldn't I like to be the one to cast the puppy bowl? Oh yes I would. Like in Martin Amis' Money, when John Self holds a casting call just so he can sleep with the women who show up. Only I'd be playing with the puppies, not sleeping with them. Shut up, you.

Commercial break.

12:58: Love the instant replays of puppies tackling Barry. Can't get enough. Get 'im fellas!

1:00: Barry graps the nape of Disco or Cha Cha's neck (they're twins) and tries to pig-dog him. Um, that didn't work so well.

1:05: The puppies appear restless, are milling about.

1:06: Subaru Drive of the Hour: Barry breaks away from the pack to take it all the way down the field.

Commercial break.

1:10: Three way tug of war over a stuffed ... I don't know what that is. It's white and fluffy and has a tail.

1:12: Sheeba and Barry: clash of the titans. It's funny because Sheeba is about half Barry's size. Sheeba still wins. That's right, those are the wages of being an asshole, Barry.

1:14: Agatha is SOOO barky. Hush your mouth Aggie!

1:16: Sheeba for the second time this afternoon attempts to stand up at the edge of the stadium but is too short to rest her paws on the top of the partition. She opens her mouth and rests her upper jaw on the top of the partition.

1:17: Puppy penalty. Puppy holding. Half the distance to the goal. Automatic first down. The puppies are swarming the ref. I can't tell what the real foul was here, the ref appears to just be removing a hotly-contested toy.

1:21: Puppy scrum!

1:22: Sheeba on the water bowl cam. She pats the water delicately with a paw. The boyfriend, who earlier encouraged her to climb into the water bowl, says: "Not yet ready." That's okay, boyfriend. It'll happen, don't worry.

1:24: The boyfriend posits the existence of ADPD: Attention Deficit Puppy Disorder. Or PADD.

1:25: Sheeba playing with the water in the bowl again. She's just teasing us now. Dang it.

1:26: Louie has very fetching wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. Floppy triangle ears, too.

1:27: The ref heads out to the field. It's time for the Bissell Kitty Half-Time Show! According to the announcer, he has found some major damp spots and he is using the spot remover device they keep advertising to remove them, in order to make sure the field is clean for the kittens. Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure he's cleaning astroturf. What have I been saying about satire?

Commercial break. Back with kittens!

1:32: Awww kittens. They've brought out a very elaborate stage for the kittens to play on, plus there seems to be some disco ball action. And disco muzak too. There's a little grey kitten with the funniest widdle face. Awww he's got some YARN! Fuck me.

1:49: Not much to say about the kittens, honestly. Little spazzy balls of fur. Don't get me wrong, I love kittens, but kittens are a one-trick pony. Bouncy bouncy.

1:51: Oh holy crap, hang on. Some human broke out the LASER POINTER to play with the kittens. Oh I love it.

1:53: A kitten's in the water bowl. It's reaching a fever pitch. Some of them are falling asleep sitting up.

1:55: Rabbit fighting! Now I've got the T. Rex song in my head. In spite of the boogie woogie muzak. Oh wait, disco ball has been put into overdrive. Kittens look terribly confused.

1:58: Time for the Bissel Kitty Half Time Show Finale! Confetti comes floating down from the ceiling, buckets and buckets of confetti. Felling kittens left and right beneath its weight. Some finale, burying kittens alive in shiny paper. The kittens don't know what the fuck to do. They're hunkering down in fear. Haaaah. Poor kitties.

2:02: Let's head down to the field for more hard-hitting fun! Err, butt-sniffing fun.

2:07: A crazy white muppet-looking puppy entered the mix a little while ago. I think he reminds everyone of Barry, so they're all attacking him.

2:12: Subaru Drive of the Hour: "Even under extreme pressure from Agatha, Barry stops at nothing to get the extra yardage." Wait, that totally happened before half-time. They're not being very rigorous here.

Commercial break.

2:17: An observation: they've somehow got the rights to the Super Bowl theme music, which makes the satire that much more biting. Are you feeling me, people? Satire.

2:18: Bowl cam. A puppy drinks lustily. Three separate times he is so engrossed in drinking that he plops a paw into the bowl as if trying to hold the water in place so it can't get away from him.

2:20: Trot, puppy, trot!

2:22: A little black pup briefly appears to be trying to bite fluffy muppet-pup's package.

2:23: They're still all going after fluffy muppet! And what has he ever done except remind them of Barry?

Commercial break.

2:28: Unrelated to puppies: the boyfriend just confessed to me abashedly that he looked at vacuums last time he was at a department store. He's slightly obsessed with vacuums recently because he cut his hair (which is so powerful that it made short work of our last vacuum), thus enabling vacuumage of our apartment. He's even been to the vacuum store. I may have to buy the little man a vacuum for Valentine's Day.

2:32: Puppy penalty. Blocking the puppy passer. 30 yard line. First down. Ohhh it's a poopie puppy penalty. What a good sport the ref is. Kind of cute, too.

2:33: Sheeba's back! Sheeba is the tiniest and scrappiest puppy on the field. Sheeba is fierce. Barry's back too, though. And still obnoxious.

2:34: Oh yesssss! Badger the cattle dog is finally out there! I love this piebald little guy.

2:35: Puppy clusterfuck. They're all in a big clump, snarling and fighting. So hard-core.

2:39: There's a toy on the field that we haven't been able to figure out. It's made of something resembling shearling but has a big old flat brown tail. What kind of mutant toy are they giving these impressionable young pups.

2:42: A puppy just made a noise like a tasmanian devil. Chills.

2:42: Subaru Drive of the Hour: It's Barry, Barry, and more Barry.

Commercial break.

2:45: There's a commercial for some kind of baby bath products in which babies say "This is my buddy!" The boyfriend has just pointed out that it sometimes sounds like they're saying "This is my body!" as if they were the baby Jesus, "offering us the eat of them." Wow. Boyfriend, you have issues. Plus he has just repeated to me the worst joke his father has ever made, about how there are now computers that can "do a petaflop" and how if you have one of those you probably have to register as a computer offender. Seriously, men, you can cultivate a sense of humor. Try it.

2:48: Another three-way tug of war, this time with a squirrel! Tab wins and begins intently plucking the fur from its tail.

2:50: Some of the puppies are getting cranky. Snarling, growling, whimpering. We're headed into the home stretch, guys. Rub some dirt on it, walk it off.

2:53: I love it when a puppy jumps over another puppy. That's what they mean by pageantry.

2:58: Two minute warning. You can see the exhaustion on these pups' faces, but they're hanging on. Putting their last ounce of determination into it. What great sportsmen.

2:59: 20 seconds left. Announcer: "This has been a sportstacular day. No doubt the fans will take home lasting memories of the outstanding competition and unrivaled pupsmanship. Until we meet again next year."

Well, I did it, folks. I made it all the way through. It was touch and go for a while around hour two, but I soldiered on. And if you're reading this, you stuck with me, or at least skipped to the end. You've seen me reach tiresome, David Bowie-like heights of irony. I am satirical and in deadly earnest at once. You now realize you don't know me at all. I am inscrutable, unfathomable. There are depths of my personality you have no hope of plumbing. And because I made the boyfriend sit through the Puppy Bowl, now I have to sit through the Super Bowl. Speaking of which, what is with Aaron Neville's facial tattoos?

Most Awesome Puppy: Badger, the australian cattle dog.
Cutest Puppies: Louie and Sheeba. Honorable Mention: Agatha.
Most Annoying Puppy: Barry, no contest.
Now everyone vote for Most Valuable Puppy! Go Sheeba!

Saturday, February 04, 2006

I know, I know

I keep writing about cute animals. I can totally stop anytime. I just don't want to. This isn't exactly a cute animal, it's more of a scary, fucking, huge bunny. I don't understand it. That photo has to be fake, right? I mean it's like Night of the Lepus. Anyway, this is German Giant. He hails from Berlin, he is 17 inches tall (or 3+ feet when standing on his hind legs), he weighs 17 pounds, and his favorite food is lettuce. Look at his feet. I think we might be looking at the real Bigfoot here, actually. I bet he's going to make somebody a couple of really lucky keychains someday.

yup, still talking about it

I just had the best idea: LIVEBLOGGING THE PUPPY BOWL. Oh my god, you guys, I will even get up at least 10 minutes before noon tomorrow so that I have time to pee and turn on my computer before it starts. I'm unclear on exactly what the logistics of liveblogging something are, but I'm sure a smart person like me can figure it out. And you know, I am making big sacrifices to do this, namely the getting up before noon thing, and it's all for you, readers, so you are obligated to come to my blog and watch it. Because I'm totally doing it. Unless I flake.

An observation: WFTM = Waiting For The Miracle. WFTM also = What Fuck The, Man?

Friday, February 03, 2006

it's the year of the puppy!

I know I'm supposed to wait until I can recollect my emotion about something in tranquillity before I try to write about it, but I am just so goddamned excited about this I can't wait. Fucking Puppy Bowl II motherfuckers!!!! You can't see it but I am throwing the biggest goat ever. Who is coming to my Puppy Bowl Party? Nachos! Beer! Special Half-Time Kitten Show!

Oh my god, my ovaries hurt.


Well, this is a far better response than I had any right to hope for. I harbor a secret suspicion that the Idler King is the greatest writer of our time. Of any time, really. There is no one else like him for getting into your mind with the fine line. So foursquare. If you don't all immediately read his blog and devote your lives to him, you have no taste. Also, bug him about his novel for me, will you? He can dish it out but he can't take it.

The boyfriend, by the way, is OUT THERE WATCHING TOO but he refuses to make comments. Boyfriend! Boyfriend! You're such a voyeur! Yoo hoo, boyfriend! Oh by the way, congratulations to him for passing, a week ago, the last exam he will ever have to take in school. It's all dissertation from here on out, baby. Wacca wacca!

doubleplus awesome links

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

a meta moment, or, welcome to my blog!

Hi there. Welcome! As you probably already know if you're reading this, I have made the decision &mdash after much quailing and beating of my brow &mdash to tell people that this blog exists. Yes, okay, so every time I look back on what I’ve written so far, I become more and more convinced that I’m a mildly retarded twelve-year-old boy. I don't feel like I'm doing very well with this, and in fact I’m consistently breaking every single rule I’ve tried to set for myself after reading other people’s blogs (e.g., don’t talk about yourself constantly, don’t talk about your blog at all, don’t be too wordy, say interesting things, blah blah blah), but whatever! I don't care! Because I am really fucking enjoying it!

A little while ago, while still trying to decide what to do, I made a list of the pros and cons of coming out as a blogger. But logic is quite foreign to my decision-making process and so it all seemed a little beside-the-point by the time I was finished. Then I asked myself, what would Jesus do? No, seriously, I asked myself that. My answer to myself was, “I’m guessing glow faintly and stare at you all creepy-like with his laser eyes. Probably also not swear as much as you.” That motherfucking Jesus is never any help.

Anyway, at some point during all this horsing around, I decided to tell people, largely because it's ridiculous not to, if only because no one really cares enough to justify me being all top secret about it. So... welcome, friends! Don’t feel like you have to read all the archives about how shitty that one day was for me and how cute I think Jude Law is. (Although FYI I'm totally over him now. It was the stripper that did it. He's not exactly dead to me now, he's just no longer allowed to speak to me.) Just one request: please try not to desert me completely when you realize what a fucking idiot I really am, okay?

DJ I Am Funny When I'm Drunk

The following, presented without any kind of editing, are my drunken ramblings from last Friday night, when I went to a Dead Kennedys show with several friends from work and their 13-year-old daughters. We were actually all there to support one of the opening bands, which is fronted by the 15-year-old son of another guy we all work with. Got it? Anyway, I wrote this stuff down on Friday night when I got home at 10:30 (we ended up leaving after the fourth opening band) and found the boyfriend asleep already. I rediscovered it this morning and thought, what the fuck! I will just go ahead and post it as-is because my drunken ramblings are actually funnier to read than any cohesive description of the evening I’m capable of writing would be.

* * * [begin drunkenness] * * *

My friend Debbie got me all drunk. Then at one point she turned to me and shouted, “You know that band Social Distortion? These guys [one of the opening bands] sound kind of like them!” It was true, they did. I wonder why.

The mosh pit: it was so fucking cute that if I had a picture I would send it to Cute Overload. The kiddies were basically just skipping around in a circle and every so often shoving one another gently. I’ve hurt myself worse running into the coffee table. There was one kid (wearing a Bad Religion shirt) who I watched spend about 20 minutes screwing up the courage to enter this whirling vortex of death. I left before he did anything other than gaze wistfully into the maelstrom and gently push a few kids a little bit closer to making polite contact with other kids.

The audience consisted mostly of kids wearing pants so tight you could see they didn’t even have pubic hair yet.

About 35% of the audience (70% of the jailbait contingent) was wearing the exact same Dead Kennedys t-shirt. Some other t-shirts I saw:
  • Bad Religion
  • Black Flag
  • Ramones
  • Circle Jerks
  • Vibrators
  • Dr. Know (the opening band I was too drunk to form an opinion of)
The main singer of the band I was there to see (the friend’s kid) was wearing a homemade-looking t-shirt declaring “EMO MUST DIE.” But? He had emo hair. It was so confusing. Still, kind of loving him in spite of his jailbait status, mostly because his first words to the audience were an explanation of how his band isn’t really punk. Plus, totally fucking ripped for a 15-year-old.

Why is every 13 year old girl in the world mocking me? When I was 13, I was barely aware that it was possible for adults to be pathetic. These girls are very advanced.

This is the first concert I have ever been to where I didn’t smell pot even a single time. I did smell cigarettes, though. Wow those kids are daring.

Everyone working at the venue appeared to be under 18 and working the first night of the first job they’d ever had. The guy who tore my ticket dropped the stub on the ground twice and the girl who looked through my purse explained nervously to me that she would need me “to move stuff around in there” and giggled nervously when I did.

My friend Kim’s daughter Nicole and her friend, Taryn (!!) talked on the way home about their classmates, who have names like “Summer,” “Bubba,” “Hunter,” and, well, “Taryn.”

Kim told me about the guy she’s dating, who owns a Harley, has a miniature train track running through his house, and plays the didgeridoo. She was not going to take him to the disco party at the Carriage Museum Saturday night, because that crowd might disapprove of such an artsy fellow. I love Kim, she’s so completely awesome.

On the drive home, we listened to some radio station featuring one “DJ Hectic.” What a stupid DJ name. Hello, this is DJ Swamped At Work. DJ Where The Fuck Is My Other Shoe I Have To Leave Right Now. DJ Running Around And Around In Ever-Tightening Circles. DJ Brownian Motion.

* * * [end drunkenness] * * *

By the way, the band we were there to support is actually really good at what they do, especially for high school kids. The drummer is fucking 13 years old! They’re the new Silverchair! Anyway, it’s not really my thing, but they’re surprisingly talented. I don’t want to link to them or even give their name because I’m paranoid that the kid’s father will do a search for them and discover my blog, and I don’t really want people I work with to read this. So you’ll have to ask me if you want to know who they are.