Category Archives: Rave

You exist!

Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life’s quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result–eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly–in you. —Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

That same, shockingly, goes for all of these people:

Nuns: What the fuck?

I was patiently waiting (in the cold New England temperatures) and this nun flew past me.  And I was shocked!  What kind of person, nevermind nun, has chutzpah to pull that kind of stunt? 

The bus had just pulled up to its gate and she walked almost all the way to the front, and asked, “Is this bus going to New York?”  And upon hearing an affirmative, she just stayed there. 

Every human being inherently knows that you ask the last person waiting in the line any question related to that line if you intend to begin waiting in it should it be the line you need.  Ya know? 

Anyway.  It wasn’t, in the end, a huge deal.  No jihad was fought.  No back of the liners were turned away.  But what if?  What if.

Madame Librarian does it better.

Last weekend I was sitting in a hair salon (which is one of the places on Earth I feel most awkward), and I overheard an interaction between an employee and a customer that rubbed me the wrong way.  So much so that I told my diary.  And now I’m telling you.

The customer, a woman, was telling the employee, also a woman, what she was thinking for her hair.  She explained that she’d been blonde for a long time, and had just recently gotten married and had gone back to being brunette because she wanted her natural look in light of the occasion.  She said she wouldn’t mind going back to blonde now. 

And that was all fine.  I thought that was kind of a nice thing to do for your wedding.  But then the employee laughed and said, “Oh, your husband’s going to be so happy with you as a blonde.”  And all the women around them in the salon laughed as if to agree that ha ha men are such predictable creatures who just want to bang a chick with big tits and platinum hair! 

Can we stop with these generalizations that fail to serve anyone?   I recently caught an episode of “Sheer Genius” on Bravo.  It’s a terrible show about hair stylists competing for money and the chance the style hair in an issue of “Allure Magazine”.  Anyway, one of the challenges on this episode involved all the stylists working with a group of blondes who’d done terrible damage to their hair–to the point that some of these women would be bald soon if they kept doing whatever they were doing.  So the whole challenge was to tone down the bleachiness to make the women look, well, less damaged.

Only thing was, the show is filmed in LA.  And more than likely, these women had been sent to the “Sheer Genius” set by their modeling or acting agencies because it would give them a day of work.  Not because they were interested in changing their hair.  And that’s exactly how it was–once the women got into the chairs they ALL said, “I’d like to stay blonde.” 

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a blonde.  I’m not writing all this just because I have brown hair.  It’s just annoying that being “a blonde” is such a thing.  They have more fun, they have more sex, they have less brain cells. 

These damn t-shirt companies are making money by pinning people against each other!  I don’t think it’s as silly or harmless as it can easily be brushed aside as being.  Like, I get being proud of your heritage, but are these really necessary on multiple days of the year, never mind as regular components of your wardrobe?:

That vampire shirt is pretty funny, though…  That one can stay.

Not much to report, except–

In the photo below, a convenience store clerk was using a claw to try to retrieve a package of Trojans for what felt like five minutes:

In the video below, Kenny Loggins has one of the best venues ever:

In my Chinese astrology horoscope below, I have a pretty good outlook:

Strutting your stuff at a party, you could be the cock of the walk, attracting attention from all corners of the room and just generally being a star.

It’s hard to exist.

I’m struggling with existence again. As usual. It’s so lame. And it’s also the least lame thing ever.

An old friend texted me a few minutes ago saying, “I hear you’re some kind of comedian now.” And I texted back, “I’m not sure what I am. What are you these days?”

I was riding the subway on Monday, and I was eating a turkey sandwich. The turkey sandwich part isn’t so important, except that the train was crowded and I was dropping lettuce on myself and I felt sort of bad, but not that bad because the woman sitting next to me was eating an apple.

In an attempt to avoid eye contact with any Q Train passengers who might be watching me eat, I started studying advertisements. One in particular caught my eye. For a few reasons:

1. It was for a book and I like those.

2. The concept for the book turns the author into a whore.

3. I’ve long thought about writing a book just like this. Well, sort of like this:

“Publisher’s Weekly” ascribes this book to the “stunt-blog memoir genre”. There is a gimmicky feel to this genre, but it can be done really well! I don’t care if Oprah plugged it, I really enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia. Shit was inspiring. I also enjoyed Danny Wallace’s book Yes Man that inspired the Jim Carrey movie I didn’t see.

But as far as stunt-blog memoirs go, this has gotta be one of the most stunt-bloggy of them all. Maybe I’m just upset I didn’t think of doing it myself. I mean, how can you really go wrong when the backbone of your stunt-blog memoir has these kinds of stats:

IF OPRAH WERE… A NATION her 51.4 million weekly viewers and magazine readers would equal more than the population of Canada (33 million), Spain (40.3 million) or Argentina (39.9 million).

IF OPRAH WERE… A PILE OF GOLD she’d be equal to 24,000 14-karat gold bars. reported in January that Oprah ranked second only to Google as the biggest brand newsmaker of 2006. Behind Ms. Winfrey were Amazon, eBay and iPod.

IF OPRAH WERE… A NATIONAL ECONOMY what she’d pump into the U.S. economy would be slightly more than the GDP of the Bahamas. See more here.

The only thing left to do now, now that I’ve accepted I’ll probably never figure out the big existential questions, is figure out what to spend 365 days of my life doing that I can convince a publishing house will make a memoir and make them money.

Actually, my old friend texted back to tell me what she is these days, and it sounds like the perfect title for a stunt-blog memoir: Nomadic Barista.

“If you touch me you’ll understand what happiness is…”*

*That’s a mighty claim, Andrew Lloyd Webber…

Yesterday I went to the Salvation Army. My plan was to buy a coffee table. The thing that’s so great about thrift stores like the Army, though, is that you never know what you’re going to find. For instance, in the electronics department I found these:

TWO televisions simultaneously playing “Cats”, paired with one television playing J. Lo and Matthew McConaughey’s “The Wedding Planner”. These three screens distracted my attention for at least five minutes. (Five of the best minutes of my life.)

In the end, I didn’t go home with a coffee table.  Nor did I go home with a TV or a VHS copy of “The Wedding Planner”.  (I already own it on DVD.)  Instead, I went home with a pair of rollerblades and a plaid shirt that was in the men’s department even though it’s clearly a woman’s shirt.

Updates on future failed attempts to purchase a coffee table to follow.  I wrote a poem about a coffee table when I was in college.  It was just a list of stuff that had been left on the one in my dorm room after a particularly drunken weekend.

Poets are so pretentious.

Please experience 3:00:

I feel angry!

New York seems more abuzz than usual tonight.  Part of it was probably that there was a Rangers game tonight.  Hockey makes people crazy.  And hockey especially makes drunk people crazy.  And that drunk hockey fan energy carried over into the people in the general vicinity of Madison Square Garden, the setting of all Rangers home games. 

Here’s the only example I’m sharing: 

  • Inside of a deli getting money out of an ATM.  There’s a guy behind me as I’m leaving, so I hold the deli door for him.  And it was like he made a conscious decision to be weird.  Because first he just gave me a docile smile.  But after I’d taken a couple steps down the sidewalk he yells after me in a sarcastic tone, “I feel so special that you held the door for me!  Thank you so much.”  He sounded like a feminist pissed off at a dude employing chivalry on a date.  If I had been a drunk hockey fan I would have told him, “Fuck off, Nancy. You’re not special. You were just there.”

Later, I was walking down the sidewalk singing LeAnn Rimes’ classic, “How Do I Live”, when I noticed some loose pages on the ground.  I walked by them at first, but then I thought, those could hold vital information for me that I’ll have no way of accessing unless I pick them up.  So I turned around and picked them up.  I haven’t read them yet, so I can’t tell you if they’ve helped me, or if they hold a message from God for me, but I will tell you that they are pages 219-226, as well as pages 231-236 of David Baldacci’s book Saving Faith.  

Perhaps my faith will be saved.  I just wish it didn’t have to be by David Baldacci.  I don’t know anything about the guy except that the publishing house for his political thrillers pays to have really obnoxious photos taken of him and then plastered on subways ads.  I made a collage of them for you: 

I get it, Baldacci. You comb your hair and know how to button up your tailored shirts. The only thing less thrilling than you is your most recent book. That I haven't read.

See?  The angry, drunk energy has penetrated me too.  David Baldacci is probably a really nice guy.  He probably writes really nice books, too.  He wrote one bestseller and then he decided to write a variation of that same bestseller 17 times!   

Maybe David Baldacci isn’t the douchebag he looks like in all of his photos.  Maybe he really does believe in every book he writes and maybe he doesn’t spend the majority of his advances on prescription drugs.  Maybe he isn’t exactly like the husband of that Kate Winslet character in Little Children, putting strange women’s panties over his nostrils when no one’s looking.  But just in case, I’ll go on record saying I’d rather hang out with a bunch of testosterone junkie Rangers fans than a bunch of David Baldaccis. 

And secretly, so would these women.

Note: After venting about my imaginary version of David Baldacci, I took a moment to skim over the Wikipedia entry on the actual him, and I learned this: “David Baldacci serves as a national ambassador for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society and participates in numerous charities as well as founding his own foundation for literacy, Wish You Well Foundation.”  Well, that doesn’t sound like a douchebag at all.  My bad.