I <3 Next Year

Passive aggressive moment of the day: The boss at one of my part-time jobs (the one that doesn’t give us holiday pay) came by to say goodnight and Happy New Year’s.  He asked when my coworker and I were staying until, and I said, “I’m leaving two hours early.  I have to get to my other job–they’re paying me double time.”

Okay, I may not have put enough emphasis on that word to warrant it being italicized, but I still feel like I stuck it to the man.  A little.

These two dashing men were hanging out on my block this afternoon.  Their potato mouths and eyes are ingenious, I think.

Happy New Year!

It’s nice to exist.

I was driving around in the rain earlier.  I had just left my friend’s house.  A friend who lives five minutes from my house.  It would’ve made the most sense to go home–temperatures were just above freezing.  The roads had been sanded, but really it was the fog that was the main hassle. 

But I didn’t feel like going.

It was nothing dramatic.  It was just that it was a little after one in the morning and I felt like singing.  The car with the radio was the place to be, not the house with the sleeping family.

Driving around the town where I grew up.  Feeling introspective.  Up roads my school bus used to rumble each morning.  Down streets where things happened to me–things that shaped me. 

Just before I left my friend’s house, the friend who has been my friend longer than anyone, I said to her, “It’s weird to start this new year.  So much has changed.  Is changing.”  This past year was one of struggles and then realizations, and this coming one…I sense it needs to be one of action.  Which is exciting, but it’s also a lot of responsibility.  Part of me just wants to be lazy, but probably that’s the part of me that’s afraid. 

Anyway.  All I really am getting at here in all this sentimentality is that Keith Urban is an existential genius.  I was listening to the country radio station.  I was driving past the softball fields and then past the entrance to my elementary school.  And the station was airing an interview with him.  The interviewer was talking about how Urban moved to Nashville seventeen years ago.  And how that sounds like so long ago, considering that Urban’s only been really big on the scene for the past eight years or so. 

Then the interviewer asked him if it felt like it’d been that long.  Urban said, “Yes.  It does.”  And they were talking about how time goes fast, and that as we get older time seems to go even faster.  And this is when Keith Urban blew my mind.  He said that when we’re 10-years-old, one year is one tenth of our lives–and that’s a lot.  Then, when we’re 20-years-old, one year is half that, and at 30 years, even less of our lives.  So it stands to reason that years feel faster.  “It’s relative,” he said.

And that was when they stopped playing the clip from the interview.  It was as though the interviewer had gotten more than he’d bargained for–he was looking for the regular fluff and had ended up with kinda sorta intelligent stuff. 

So, yeah.  Time.  I intend to make the most of it this coming year as we all float through it.  I’ll love; I’ll laugh; I’ll cry.  I’ll stay true to myself.  I’ll take action.  I’ll drive through the rain singing along to the country radio.

But for now I’ll go to sleep.

(The Inevitably Vagina-Related) Search Phrase Free Write!

I don't know who this is. It doesn't matter who this is. He is pretty cute, though.

People don’t get tired of searching the net for vagina stuff, and I have not yet gotten, nor anticipate getting, tired of writing about vagina stuff.  Today’s search phrase free write, courtesy of two aspiring ornithologists, is: “bird vagina”.

The closest I’ve come to seeing two birds having sex is the male pigeon’s courtship dance.  Beyond that, it’s easy to forget that birds are sexual.  It’s kind of like when you see your mom and dad flirting.  Or Santa and Mrs. Claus giving each other eskimo kisses.  “Oh yeah,” you think to yourself. “They have urges, sexual and otherwise, just like the rest of us. Weird.”

Hey, remember how last year my dad bought my mom Predator on DVD?  He accidentally did that again this year. 

Other noteworthy Christmas gifts: our cat (my dad) bought the entire family a copy of Terminator: Salvation.  My dad let me open it.  When he handed the present to me I asked him why the tag (To: Family, From: Critter) was taped onto the back of the gift instead of the front.  And my dad said, “It’s from the cat.  He’s stupid.” 

So, bird vagina.  One of my favorite things about home is that outside of our big kitchen window, right in front of the sink, my mom hangs a bird feeder and suet from the tree.  So it makes this perfect bird-watching spot!  In the comforts of the kitchen!  It’s really great.  Sometimes I can see their vaginas.

Some people are probably sexually attracted to birds.  I started to write more on this idea, but decided it wasn’t worthy of anyone’s time.  One of the sentences may have posited: “Women like a nice beak.”

Anyway.  I’m thankful for a lot this holiday season.  I’m pretty ecstatic about where I am, who I am, and the people who are surrounding me.  And I’m especially ecstatic about bird vagina.

Melissa Joan: Ready for all that Mario jelly?

Forgive me.  I don’t want to get too contentious or topical on this blog, but…

I just watched the ABC Family original romantic comedy “Holiday in Handcuffs” from 2007, and I just find it difficult to believe that these two people could ever have a healthy, mutually satisfying relationship together:

Not buyin' it.

That said.  It’s a great film (by ABC Family original movie standards).  Find the time.

Search Phrase Free Write

Two people used the search phrase “steak vagina” yesterday to find my page.  Those two people, or that one person who searched the same phrase twice, are/is to blame for what follows.

Steak is good when properly prepared.  I’m still deciding how I feel about A1 Steak Sauce.  I think I like it.  I like steak when there’s that bit of pinkness (not redness) right in the middle–I guess that qualifies as medium?  Medium well?  I used to always request my meat cooked medium well, but the meat usually comes back completely well.  Which is a bummer.

Advertisers love to use backyard barbecues as the setting of commercials in the summer.  Men manning grills.  And tongs.  And lighter fluid.  There’s something so American about it.  There’s this commercial Jim Gaffigan is in right now in which he makes some snarky comment about a grill being a thoughtful gift.  I bet he doesn’t actually want a grill for Christmas, though.

My supervisor just came around and told my coworker and me that we could eat the chicken in the fridge.  I don’t think it was prepared on a grill.

I like those steak chew toys that dogs sometimes have.  If I were a dog I would love one for Christmas.  It need not squeak though.

Some people don’t eat steak, but they eat vagina.  Some people don’t eat vagina, but they eat steak.  Some people eat neither steak nor vagina.  Some people aspire to eat vagina and see no correlation between that and eating steak.  Some people eat three times as much steak in a month as they eat vagina.  Some people are morally opposed to eating steak.  These are probably not the same people who are morally opposed to eating vagina.

“Steak vagina.”

Times Square is terrible, and lots of people get depressed this time of year, but…

If you find yourself lost in that throng of angry pedestrians taking pictures of themselves in front of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and electronic billboards, I recommend walking on the south side of W 43rd between 9th and 10th Avenues.  It will provide respite from the chaos, and it will remind you of one of the simplest pleasures in life–smelling stuff that smells good.  Specifically, the good-smelling scents of these two things:

Pi Pie! (Not necessarily available at this particular pie shop.)

Trees! (Beer can ornaments probably sold separately.)

You may also get a whiff of urine.

Remember that time in Forest Gump when Forrest hangs out with Lt. Dan on New Year’s Eve?  And they end up back in some room with those women they picked up at the bar?  Then Lt. Dan falls over in his wheelchair and the women laugh and leave?  I hope your New Year’s is JUST LIKE THAT.

Or, you know.  I hope it’s awesome.

Now I can’t buy these.

This ad really, really disappoints me.  They couldn’t think of a less obnoxious way to advertise these stupid sneakers besides making us all stare at this woman’s ass??  I know that’s the point of the sneakers–to tone asses, but come on. 

OMG, WTF this never happens (Third post of the day)

I like when profound things are explained in simple, unembellished terms.  Such as, “It’s a beautiful life.  Oh, oh, oh, oh.  I just wanna be here beside you.”

Or when seemingly simple things are explained in a long, detailed way.  Especially when they’re things that don’t usually warrant an explanation.  The kind of stuff that we brush past because they’re included in that “just how it is” category.  Stuff that doesn’t always get asked, and if it does, it gets scoffed at and cast aside–“Why is the sky blue?”  “Why do I have to go to college?”

That’s just how it is.

We all want to feel smart.  And often it’s easier to pretend to know all about something then to belly up and ask to be enlightened.  Maybe it’s part of that American philosophy of doing it one’s self–I’m loading my shit into the back of this wagon, I’m driving it through dust, rivers, and mountains, and no one’s going to stop me or help me along the way.  In other words–I’ll Wikipedia whatever this prick is talking about when I get home.

Anyway.  I didn’t mean to talk about any of that.  I just meant to talk about this theater review in the NYT for the play Matthew Broderick is in right now, The Starry Messenger.  I haven’t seen the play, but the review talks about its themes, and they’re ones that fascinate me in this indescribably powerful way.  The kind of stuff I want to go mad trying to wrap my head around, but only if it’s with someone who’ll go mad with me.  You know, a John and Yoko type of thing.  Madame and Pierre Curie, too.

Fragments from the article I especially like, and for which I am willing to go mad:

accepting the built-in limitations that come with being mortal

dialogue that laments the inadequacy of human communication, while quietly celebrating the valiance in trying to overcome it

“Nobody knows anything. We’re all just guessing.”

the lines between love and hate, affection and resentment are eternally blurred

ambiguity

juxtaposition of the mundane and the infinite

Flaubert said about the heartbreaking limits of words: “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while longing to make music that will melt the stars.”

Sticking it to the waiter man.

Not all that much makes me angry enough to vent about it in a public forum, but something happened earlier tonight that really rubbed me the wrong way.

Okay, I’m at this restaurant.  There’s an open mic going on, and my turn to perform is coming up.  I leave my seat to order a drink, only I don’t know where the bar is, so I look lost.  And this waiter sees me.  He’s at a table of patrons taking their orders.  And he’s young–no older than mid-20s.  So he looks up, and in a pretty loud tone that lets the whole restaurant hear him, he goes, “You trying to order a drink, sweetie?”  And I go, “Yeah, I just want a Coke.”  And he’s like, “The bar’s downstairs, sweetie.”

Like I said, not all that much ruffles me, but MAN.  That just felt really crappy.  It’d be a totally different story if this waiter was a few decades older, or if the restaurant wasn’t in supposedly one of the most progressive cities in the world.  It seems like such a small thing, to be addressed as sweetie, but it’s huge.  It knocks the wind right out of your “I’m equal” sails.  And this is a restaurant that regularly hosts improv and other comedy shows–why you gotta be a douchebag?  I don’t know.  It caught me so off guard that I didn’t do anything.  I just walked down the stairs and ordered my soda.

I’ve got a few theories as to why this dude did this condescending thing, though.

1. He’s stupid. He simply has no idea what effect his using this form of address has on the majority of women.  And I do think it’s fair to say the majority of women.
2. He’s mean and bitter in his ripe young age. He’s a waiter at a place where other people regularly come to live out their dreams and make other people laugh and bring joy to the masses and themselves.  And he feels like he should be somewhere else…which leads me into my final theory…
3. He’s been watching a lot of “Mad Men” and has delusions that he’s either an ad man in the 1960s, or as desired as Jon Hamm. It’s funny because every time I hear one of the male characters on that show address one of the female characters, one of the secretaries, as honey or sweetheart, I’ve been thinking to myself, “Gosh, I’m so glad men don’t do that anymore.”  And this really gets to the heart of the matter–status.  When you use one of these words to address someone who’s basically a stranger, you are, in a very obvious way, letting her know she’s beneath you.  And that feels crappy.

That said, I got my drink, got on stage, performed, and felt pretty fucking empowered.  So fuck you, waiter.  Use your tips to buy some class.

Elizabeth Berkley is talented, and so are bands from Sweden.

This Ace of Base song came into my head earlier today, and the video is kind of amazing.  It’s one of the most spastic things I’ve ever seen.  When I was 12 or so, a lot of my time was spent choreographing dances to Ace of Base songs in particular.  At the house of a bad influence I was friends with.  The choreographing was fine, but it was the watching Showgirls late at night for inspiration that was questionable.

An ode to my 12-year-old self: