Monthly Archives: January 2009

Hello, February–Don’t You Love Hangovers?

Isn't it terrifying?

Oh, hey!  It’s the last day of January!!  I’m not usually awake at this hour, but my roommate got a job and to celebrate we did what all employed people do–drank, danced, debauchered.  I scored a business card from a man named Angelo who is likely not the father of my future 14 children.  Woke up to eat a waffle, determine the level of my dehydration, and add Angelo on Facebook. 

You know what else happened last night? I was pooped on by a pigeon. For the first time ever! It really wasn’t surprising because I was walking underneath the above ground subway which is where loads of them sleep at night. There’s literally a carpet of pigeon droppings on the sidewalk beneath it. It happened to this middle aged guy who me and the roommate were hanging out with last weekend, but I didn’t know him very well so I didn’t tell him. Some landed on his face and dried there. I felt a little like a jerk for not informing him, but I was also jealous so it’s okay.

Here are some search terms used to find my blog that make up for the untimely death of Mr. Coffee:

Celine Dion t-shirts

My favorite Celine song is “Taking Chances.” I also enjoy that one that starts off “The whispers in the morning. Of lovers sleeping tight. Are rolling like thunder now.” She speaks my language, you know?

milf pixar

Bespectacled Aardvarks...every girls weakness.

Aardvarks are every girl's weakness.

I’m sexually attracted to lots of animated characters.  Bob the Builder. Patti Mayonnaise. Diego.  I just don’t remember many Pixar MILFs…I guess the kid’s mom from Toy Story was hot?


Keanu Reeves alcoholic

People are so mean to Keanu. 😦

back scratching chihuahua

That’s stupid.

dick embarresing

I don’t know how to spell, either.  Men who are illiterate are right up there with aardvarks.

פיונה אפל

A Google Images search concludes that that’s how you write “Fiona Apple” in…a language I’m not familiar with.

Tommy Lee Jones, Tommy Lee Jone, and Tomy Lee Jones are pretty popular, too.  Thank goodness my mom likes him.

Toilets, Moustaches, and Other Sexy Topics

Though it’s probably divulging too much, I want to set the scene of my thoughts: Occasionally I blog from the bathroom.  I don’t use it, but I do sit on a closed toilet seat.  Why?  Because it’s sexy.  And my roommate is sleeping and my typing is boisterous. 

Okay, the typing probably wouldn’t disturb her, and Freud might conclude that I’m stuck in the anal phase, but in case you were wondering, yes, yes I do write atop a miracle of modern plumbing.  Take out the shit and it’s just another room.  (Someone tell Andrews McCeel to publish that last bit in their next womanly calendar.)

Just now, before making my way to the toilet, I commuted home from work.  There are all these advertisements up in the subway for Tyler Perry’s new flick, Madea Goes to Jail.  Some smart aleck decided to draw a moustache on Madea’s face. 

Thing is, Madea is ALREADY a man.  It’s one thing to facial hair the New In Town poster’s Renee Zellweger  or the Canon ad’s Maria Sharapova, but Tyler Perry can grow his own.  Way to waste your time with ironic graffiti.  Time to take the magic marker back to the fourth grade, amateur.   

Finally, I never thought I’d find myself writing an obituary, but an important man in my life recently died.  His name was Mr. Coffee and he performed beautifully up until two days ago.  I loved the odors he emitted.  I loved the flirtateous little noises he made that let me know he was working.  Mostly, I loved the jittery feeling I got whenever I was around him. 

Bastard will be missed.

Bastard will be missed.

The World is scary and so is Zac Efron.


Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is more comfortable getting dolled up than I'll ever be.

It’s raining.  Normally rainy days put a smile the size of Dwayne Johnson’s left pectoral muscle on my face, but today I’m not feelin it.  Maybe it was all the chemicals brushed onto my scalp this morning, or having to sit on a backless stool for two hours while a group of stylists gawked at me and the two other hair models…

That said, I have orange and red streaks in my hair!  To match my fiery soul and flammable hair products. 

Talk about seasonal depression…this headline is so incredibly harrowing: “With no job and 5 kids, ‘better to end our lives’.”  I’m going to hide in a hole indefinitely.  Or I’ll go to work tonight and I’ll remember to be thankful and try to regain hope and faith and all those other elusive little words.

In other, not quite as disturbing (and probably not even worth talking about) news…there’s that upcoming not-original-in-any-way/shape/form film, 17 Again, hitting theatres in April. Recently I caught the trailer and I was like, who decided that casting Matthew Perry as an older Zac Efron was a good idea? And I’m not going to brainstorm any middle aged actors who would’ve made a better choice because Zac Efron makes me uncomfortable. So does Vanessa Hudgens. Here’s the sophisticated reason why: They’re icky. I don’t care if you make Disney lots of money and you sing impossibly catchy songs…you guys are icky. And this movie will be too! I can just imagine the field day the screenwriters had inserting incest jokes throughout. Experience the ick:

Pre-Haircut Buzz

Tomorrow I will be pimping myself out for a free haircut.  It’s going to screw up my whole schedule–I have to be there at 8am.  I’m normally just getting around to going to sleep a few hours before that ungodly hour.  And in addition to waking up early (during the predicted snow) I received a confirmation call instructing me to dress “fashion forward” and wear high heels.  WHAT?  Don’t they realize I’m pursuing a free haircut because I’m not the kind of girl who wears high heels with any frequency or spends much time debating the fashion forwardness of her outfits? 

But really I’m super excited.  I haven’t had a haircut since September, so it’ll be good to get rid of the weird asymmetrical thing I’ve got going on (if only to replace it with blue hair or a rat tail or something equally awesome).  As long as the new ‘do doesn’t require a lot of aerosol hair products I’ll be happy.

Meryl Streep Wears Trousers…

Long YouTube clips are a drag, but Meryl Streep’s acceptance speech at the SAG Awards last night was so cute that you just have to watch it.  Skip ahead to 2:20 for her speech.  She runs to the stage waving her hands in the air, plants a kiss on Ralph Fiennes, and exclaims, “I didn’t even buy a dress!”  Then she says “GIRL POWER!” and she’s like, “Fuck off, there’s no such thing as the ‘greatest living actress'” and the whole world falls in love with her.  And I still haven’t seen Doubt

A Friday Night with Joan Crawford and Big, Burly Greek Men

Joan Crawford is so hot!

Friday night I went on a dinner and a movie date with myself.  It wasn’t an official date because really I was just trying to do something productive before I had to go to work.  And that’s not romantic.  But official or not, it was a very good date.  It started at the Museum of Modern Art where Friday evenings are free and so are the film screenings.  It’s pretty much the perfect activity for money strapped lovers…money strapped haters, too.

In conjunction with this cool exhibit of hand-painted film posters by Batiste Madalena, MoMA is showing some of the silent films advertised in the work he did for the George Eastman Theatre in Rochester, NY between 1924-1928.  Turns out, silent films are AMAZING.  Watching them has been on my to-do list for awhile (I keep seeing City Lights at the library and I keep not bringing Charlie home with me).  Anyway, Friday I saw 1927’s The Unknown with Joan Crawford and Lon Charney.  I could go on and on about how ridiculous the story is, but this pretty much sums it up:

A wanted man binds his arms and takes on the identity of an armless, knife-throwing carnival freak. After killing the father of the woman he admires in order to protect his secret, and then having his own arms amputated to prove his love for her, he discovers that she is engaged to the carnival’s strongman.

I couldn’t believe how beautiful Joan Crawford was!!  The only other film I’ve seen her in so far is 1954’s Johnny Guitar.  So I was expecting a younger version of this:



I highly recommend these film screenings at MoMA if you’re around Manhattan.  They fill up with a fun mix of people.  The intellectuals, the snooty Upper East Siders, the trendy Brooklynites, the college students attending purely to meet a course requirement, people like me (?), and of course, the token bag lady. 

The token bag lady was a source of great entertainment before the film began.  She sat on an aisle seat and she had a terrible cold.  It literally sounded as though her lung was about to find its way into her lap.  And when she wasn’t hacking, she was blowing her noise with the gusto of a bugle player waking up a summer camp.  She really wasn’t bothering me (not much bothers me), but the rest of the audience?  Oh boy, it was on.  A man in front of her turned around and muttered something.  I wish I could hear what he said.  He was pissed off.  Maybe because she smelled like piss?  I don’t know.  Then there was a middle aged woman a row or two in front of me who just kept looking around in aghast bewilderment and saying things like, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”  This roughly translates to: “I paid absolutely nothing to be here, and that woman has just as much a right to be here as I do, but I have a huge sense of entitlement and the bitchy scowl to prove it.” 

In the end, as soon as the silent film started, the maybe bag lady was equally silent.  So all that huffing and puffing by certain audience members was in vain. The bag lady proved herself more dignified than the stylish, attitudey man who wore out his VHS of Mommie Dearest and has since upgraded to the blu-ray version.

After the film screening, I walked down to one of my favorite Midtown diners. I love diners in New York–they’re all run by big, boisterous Greek families. I sat at the bar where the creepy Greek cousin with the chain and the chest hair and the slick hair chatted me up. And the Greek grandfather sat next to me eating a slice of pound cake and drinking coffee while occasionally smiling and nodding at me. Not sure how I gained his approval, but it was nice.

I also saw Paul Blart: Mall Cop this weekend.  To take in that bit of culture I had company.  As much as I like going to movies by myself…Kevin James is where I draw the line.

Oh, and I couldn’t fall asleep last night, but I didn’t want to get up and turn on my computer to blog, so instead I wrote down a couple notes, and I think they make a rather nice poem:

silent movie, diner dinner date.
joan crawford, sneezing bag lady.
humanity? no arms.

Every Day is Earth Day: Sea Kittens and Six-Pack Rings

In the past two days, while walking the New York City streets, I’ve found two of those plastic six-pack holder rings on the ground.  The first one was on Park Avenue, and the second one was just up the street from my apartment.  I picked both of them up because, well, I feel bad about plastic.  Also, I just finished reading Yes Man (no, I haven’t seen the movie, yet, and it’s like…who really takes the time to read books adapted into Jim Carrey vehicles?, but…I’ve been on a non-fiction kick and it was written by this British guy so there’s the occasional “bollocks” and “loo” and lots of tea drinking).  Anyway, I’m kind of impressionable, so I guess the thought has been, YES, I will pick up more trash.

I ❤ gills.

As I was picking up the second ring, I got to thinking…this is probably one of those things that got blown way out of proportion and doesn’t even make a huge difference.  And according to the one, decade-old source I bothered to find, I was right!  Cecil Adams says:

The fact is…that the six-pack-ring threat has been greatly exaggerated. According to the Center for Marine Conservation, only 50,000 of the 10.4 million items collected during the 1998 cleanup (0.48 percent) were six-pack rings. Between 1988 and 1998, U.S. cleanups uncovered 1,089 instances of animal entanglement, but only 72 (7 percent) involved six-pack rings. The real offenders were monofilament fishing line, fishhooks, and lures, implicated in 461 cases (42 percent). Add in crab and lobster traps, nets, and related equipment, and we find that fishing gear accounts for almost half of all entanglements.

Oh, and this is a fun fact: “All rings currently made will degrade in sunlight in a few weeks or months, depending on the season.”

But yeah, I’m still going to pick them up and stretch each ring out until it’s just a big floppy piece instead of a potential deathtrap.  And you know, at first that whole “Save the Sea Kittens” campaign by PETA seemed really ridiculous, and it still does, but they really are adorable.  You can even make your own sea kitten by selecting the type of fish (trout, salmon, tuna, or flounder) adorning it with hair, ears, sunglasses, a unicorn horn, et cetera, and then giving it a name.  It’s a pretty amazing experience.  I made a flounder with surgically enhanced lips, a fu manchu moustache, and a tiara that I named Meg Ryan. 

I read some AP article about the sea kitten campaign and it was kind of awesome because they interviewed children in a small Alaskan fishing town where a girl replied, “I don’t think of fish as sea kittens, I think of them as food.”  That may just be her mercury poisoning speaking, but sounds like my kind of girl: no nonsense with a hearty appetite.

Illegal Art! Poster Boy and Ron English

While looking for a video of a violent scene from Law & Order (naturally), I happened upon this:

Reminds me of Ron English who is the topic of an awesome documentary called POPaganda:

Don’t you love artists who break the law?? I wish I was ballsy like that. Defacing public property. Interfering with the agenda of corporate America. Being all kinds of controversial.

I think Poster Boy’s razor may have tampered with an ad in the subway station by my apartment–half of Toni Collette’s face as one of the characters in “The United States of Tara” turns into half of the dog from Marley & Me. It’s very Sphinx-like.

Speaking of being a self-hating consumer, I was reading this book about consumption and Buddhism earlier today (click on the link to buybuybuy!), but I didn’t get very far with it because I have a $10 fine on my library card. They won’t lend you any materials once you hit that $10 mark. One part I did have a chance to read mentioned something about one of the Dalai Lama’s trips to the US. Something about how over the course of his stay he repeatedly passed a strip of road where street vendors were selling electronic gadgets. And despite the Dalai Lama being the Dalai Lama, and despite him not knowing what the gadgets did, he found himself wanting them.

Note to self: Move somewhere serene and barren of gadgets and advertisements in order to save soul.

Very First Post-Inauguration Post!

Kind of intimidating deciding what to write about in this new Obama climate.  I racked my brain and I racked my brain.  I thought maybe I’d write about Garth Brook’s performance at the We Are One shindig.  (There was this big chorus of super excited children behind him and it made me feel fuzzy.)  Thought I’d complain about how my dad kept yelling “Nobama!” during the inauguration ceremony.  (Decided not to even spread his negative energy.)  Anyway, in the end, I just decided to focus on late night television.

Despite ranting about Jay Leno one week ago, I caught the show last night and I’ve come to a new conclusion or two.  There were two Hooters waitresses featured.    They traveled from Denver to meet Mo Rocca in D.C. where they proceeded to reinforce popular stereotypes about attractive women with…the type of breasts and booties that fill out a Hooters uniform.  So that was kind of disappointing.  They compared the rotunda of the Capital Building to a big boob, which, okay, was kind of funny.  And one of them mistook the  Watergate scandal as somehow having to do with Julia Roberts and Erin Brockovich. 

Only reason I have trouble finding too much humor in the whole thing: I know there are some Hooters waitresses out there with more to contribute to the world than their bodies and their lack of knowledge.  So, rather than blame society and America and all of man and womankind…I’ll just blame Jay Leno. 

I <3 pornographic structures.

I ❤ pornographic structures.

That said, Jay Leno made me infinitely happy because in addition to the Hooters waitresses who broke my heart a little, he had the CUTEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD on the show, too!  I hadn’t heard of her, but she runs an antique business with her husband in Fresno and she discovered the oldest baseball card in a box. 

Bernice Gallego YAYYYYY!

Bernice Gallego YAYYYYY!

At the end of the show, the lead singer of Buckcherry gave Bernice a prolonged hug.  Which was this amazing combination of bizarre, awkward, and wonderfully adorable, because, you know….he looks likes this:

Plus he sings that whole, “Hey, you’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good I’m on top of it.  When I dream, I’m doin’ you all night…” 

Maybe it was just the overall beautiful feeling of inauguration day, but something about the elderly woman and tattooed man above embracing one another–it still makes me want to cry tears of joy.

What’s Wrong With Me? Part II

In the off chance that you dont know what Samuel Johnson looks like.

In the off chance that you don't know what Samuel Johnson looks like.

Samuel Johnson did lots of stuff. He published a dictionary in 1755, he wrote all sorts of things, in short, he was “arguably the most distinguished man of letters in English history.” I don’t know all that much about him to be honest, but I once dedicated a poem to him. Then today, I was thinking about habits because I recently came to a revelation about a sort of bizarre one that I’ve developed. Anyway, upon doing a Google search for quotes about habits, I found this quote from ma’ boy:

The chains of habit are generally too small to be felt until they are too strong to be broken. 

There was also this one:

To fall into a habit is to begin to cease to be.  –Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

Think I’ll pick up The Tragic Sense of Life from the library for the next time I’m feeling intellectual.  I get what Miguel is saying about habits.  That’s how I used to feel when I worked at McDonald’s or in factories or filing for a law firm.  Once you get in the habit of doing monotonous labor, yeah, you begin to “cease to be” a little bit. 

The habit I’ve noticed myself doing, though, isn’t all that dangerous…except maybe to my social life.  So here goes.  It’s kind of like those jokes where people yell “Your mom!” only completely different.  My thing is, I find myself telling people about my mom…all the time.  And it’s not interesting stuff, either.  I just tell people stuff that my mom loves.  At work last week, a coworker and I were talking about how Heidi Klum waxed Ross the Intern’s arm on Leno and how funny it was.  Then, for no reason (except to unintentionally kill the conversation), I go, “My mom loves Heidi Klum.” 

Other examples.  My roommate brought a humidifier back to our apartment: “My mom loves humidity.”    My Bulgarian neighbor offered me dried cranberries: “My mom loves The Cranberries…you know, that Irish band.”  And comments like these, not surprisingly, receive no more than a blank look or an unenthusiastic, “Oh, really?”

This weekend I visited home.  My mom and I watched In the Valley of Elah on HBO last night.  And I got pretty excited because she provided me with a new conversation piece when she announced, “I love Tommy Lee Jones.” 



My roommate said, “Your mom would be really happy if she knew.”  And I was like, nah, she’d probably tell me to stop.  You know, something like, “Stop telling people the least interesting facts you know about me.” 

Anyway, if Samuel Johnson’s quote is true, this habit, now that I’ve felt it, is too strong to be broken.  So, I apologize in advance if I happen to tell you all about how my mom loves cucumber sandwiches or how she loves to sculpt lifesize likenesses of Saint Michael. 

Oh, and here’s that poem I dedicated to Mr. Johnson (I especially urge you to use the photo I provide above to help you visualize him in the south of France):

For Samuel Johnson

Not to toot my own horn playing the theme from Rocky
(soundtrack no longer available on Virgin Records),
but according to Philadelphian folklore, men with
high tolerances for confined spaces and neutral colors
are more likely to succeed in life, i.e. cubicles,
which of course all depends on one’s definitions
of success, life, and men.  Everyone is entitled
to their own dictionary, but my predilection belongs
to Webster.  Yeah, yeah: we all want to make babies
and vacation on a nudist colony in the south of France with Samuel Johnson,
but what about the creator of 
Don’t try to tell me that women and men alike don’t dream of built-in thesauri,
translators, and words of the day, especially the kinky ones.
Take that, you abridged bastard!  I know who your
mother is and word at the water cooler is everyone short
of Stallone knows her, too.  I won’t mention word at
the vending machine (soda, not candy), but let’s
just say I wouldn’t want to be a product of
her poor excuse for 21st Century lexicography.