the ocean

On Wellness

So as of today, September 30, 2004, I am supposedly 100% parasite-free. I have finished my full course of insanity-inducing medication, I need not again submit to my doctor's inappropriate carresses for another month or so, and I have a cocktail awaiting me. I haven't been this happy since Wheel of Fortune changed over to the letters Vanna only has to point at rather than manually turn. I mean, come on, the woman works hard enough already.

And yet there is some apprehension at the thought of facing the world alone. I mean, what if it turns out that the parasite was the source of all my powers? What if I can no longer think of completely random and trivial things to endlessly ruminate upon online? What if I suddenly find myself unable to perform important work duties like making personal phone calls and wandering the halls in search of free candy? What if I can't muster sarcasm any more? It's simply too horrible to imagine.

I'm hoping I can keep the weight loss, at least. Something looked different to me in the mirror this morning and I realized it was that I suddenly had abs. I'm not sure if they're abs of steel, exactly -- they're more earth-toned than metallic -- but they are there, regardless. Maybe this can be the hot new Hollywood diet. I'll get Anna Nicole on board and we can market the hell out of it. "Parasite, baby!" The unpleasant side effects are what small print was made for.

All right, I'm off to have that cocktail...

It’s Debatable!

So the first of the presidential debates is tomorrow night, and while I will most certainly be watching That’s So Raven! reruns or USA’s thousandth airing of Bring It On instead, I do feel a certain social responsibility to bring my immense political acumen to bear on this important event. I was, after all, the person who correctly predicted the outcome in 2000, namely that Jim Lehrer would be vaguely creepy and someone from Iowa would ask an incomprehensible question about family values. Valiantly bearing the awesome weight of my genius, therefore, I have prepared the following computer-generated simulation of what will undoubtedly be the most mesmerizing event ever to hit Coral Gables, FL. Get excited, because this is democracy in action, people!

JIM LEHRER: Good evening, and welcome to the first of the presidential debates. I’m Jim Lehrer, and no, I am not a robot. The technology just isn’t there yet to make someone this stiff and uncomfortable. Perhaps someday. We’ll start with opening statements from each of the candidates. President Bush?

GEORGE W. BUSH: Thank you, Jim. The American people crave leadership, and on September 11 we gave it to them. Wasn’t that awesome? That was me. I did that. I also gave all of y’all a whole lot of tax money back, which has absolutely nothing to do with the ballooning federal deficit or the slashing of government services. So that digital camera you got at Best Buy, the one with the red eye reduction and easy download capability? You owe me for that. And if you reelect me, I think we should go back and get a big screen TV.

LEHRER: Senator Kerry?

JOHN F. KERRY: I believe that America deserves stronger leadership, specifically from someone who was wounded on a boat during an unpopular war. I believe America ought to be represented on the international stage by someone who can pronounce the names of most major world leaders, if properly coached by a team of aides and clinical psychologists. I believe America wants a leader who speaks in awkward, run-on sentences. Did you notice that my initials are JFK? And if you look at me from a certain angle I kind of look like Lincoln. Not that I’ve freed any slaves or anything. I tried to grow a beard, but it came in all patchy.

LEHRER: At this point in the debate, I will ask a series of softball questions penned by representatives from each of your campaigns, and you will respond with meaningless sound bytes. To you first, Senator Kerry. Do you like kittens?

KERRY: There’s nothing my lovely wife Teresa and I love more than cradling an adorable kitten in our mutually loving and respecting arms, in a completely non-awkward and accessible way that is also not at all feminine or indecisive. Why, that’s the American Way.

LEHRER: President Bush, your response?

BUSH: See, it’s the same old trick with Senator Kerry. Now he’s saying he loves kittens. But in 1992 he voted against an appropriations bill containing funding for heartworm medicine for underprivileged latina kittens. He needs to get his story straight.

LEHRER: President Bush, your question is about the Iraq War. Wasn’t it awesome when you flew that plane onto that aircraft carrier? That was like a real flight suit and everything, wasn’t it?

BUSH: Yes it was, Jim. And that’s what George W. Bush is about. Flying things. And wearing things. I believe that children are our future, and that if we all join our hands together in the spirit of peace and brotherhood we can accomplish anything. Even the Jumble on the comics page of the Washington Post. And that’s some pretty hard stuff.

KERRY: I think America’s ready for a less arrogant approach to the Jumble. Teresa and I have been finishing it for years, but we don’t have to take on the world with it. And it’s much harder to captain a boat than fly a plane, by the way.

LEHRER: Okay, let’s move right on to the lightning round. Please respond to each word with the first word that pops into your head. Mr. Bush, your word is "deficit."

BUSH: D-E-F-A-S-I-T.

LEHRER: We’re not spelling the words, Mr. President. Just saw whatever other word it brings to mind.

BUSH: Cheese.

LEHRER: All right. Mr. Kerry, your word is "indecisive."

KERRY: Strong. No, wait . . . leadership. No, wait . . . strong leadership for tomorrow’s America.

LEHRER: Again, you are limited to one word.

KERRY: Cheese.

LEHRER: All right then, it’s agreed. Let's just adjourn for the evening and I shall be the president. Now to build myself a robot bride!

Literary License

I have been reading, or attempting to read, Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past for over a month now. This is not like me. I typically dust off a book every few weeks, even if it's something I find physically uncomfortable to read. For instance, last January I downed Dickens's massive Bleak House in a few bleak weeks, telling myself that A) once I had finished it, I would never have to look at it again and B) I really did want to know what happened to all the characters, if only because I hoped the answer would be that they all died. Which they did not, although I take some small comfort in the fact that Dickens himself is indisputably deceased. But the point is that I finished the book despite minor, self-inflicted adversity, and that I actually ended up enjoying it and learning from it, just like one of the Cosby kids would have. If only I had the sweaters, I could totally be a modern-day Theo.

But I'm beginning to doubt my stamina on this one. It's very much stream of consciousness, which I typically don't have a problem with, but there are some idiomatic phrases where the translation is so obviously botched it's ridiculous. I'll be reading along and it will suddenly say something like "and she wept as the queen of walruses does," and I don't know whether to laugh or weep myself. In terms of plot, there really ain't much, just some guy remembering shit, including shit that happened to someone else. The last thirty pages I read all had to do with a guy being hurt by a woman who did not adequately return his affections. Thirty pages. I just explained it in one sentence. Dr. Phil could do it in two words.

Anyway, I'm not a quitter, so I'm going to finish the thing, but there will probably be some suffering involved. I'm thinking I need to just take one day and make it my ROTP boot camp and get it over with. Then I'm grabbing myself up some Danielle Steele or something for a nice, mindless break.

Caffeine is the New Booze

One of our favorite recurring plotlines here at the blog goes something like this: it's a Friday night/formal occasion/church bake sale and Jay has something/many somethings to drink, resulting in an inappropriate outburst/uncalled for disrobing/five-state murder spree. It's a pretty simple formula, really, but it works. You take an insecure, verbose lightweight and add a fifth of vodka, and voila, comic gold.

(We also have a long-running plotline concerning the parentage of Monique's baby, but that's a whole other story.)

But thanks to Frank the Parasite, I am on medication all week that will not allow me to drink without major and immediate vomitage. A bummer, to be sure, but I figured it would allow me to get back in touch with my functional, non-drinking personality.

(And now a brief but necessary digression to note that Frank the Parasite is NOT named after Frank My Neighborhood Panhandler from an earlier episode of the blog. Real-life Frank is so much more than a parasite to me. He's also a person I fear will kill me, and of course my secret lover. I am his anchor, and he is my wings. Now back to the truly compelling narrative.)

I have now discovered, however, that large amounts of caffeine can make me every bit as socially inappropriate as booze. After a couple of Red Bulls and some Coke (the kind that comes out your nose when your friend Stacy makes you laugh, not the Olsen up-the-nose variety) last night I was bouncing off the walls. I read whole portions of the Quiet Times Bible out loud in a vaguely Irish accent. I ate half a box of goldfish crackers, despite not liking goldfish crackers. I called every name in my phone book in sequence.

Clearly, I need to be stopped. People don't go to the Promises Center for caffeine rehab, do they? Because I really feel like Courtney Love and I could be friends.

Medical Miracles

I found out today that I have an intestinal parasite.

Now perhaps this is not the sort of thing that I should be sharing with the world at large. Perhaps the topic should be assiduously avoided in recognition of the fact that it inevitably leads to graphic discussions of undeniably unpleasant symptoms and potentially defamatory allegations towards certain family restaurants in Lakeview. Perhaps I ought to just cower in my apartment, clutching my bottle of incredibly powerful antibiotic and watching the Mean Girls DVD repeatedly.

But for some reason I think it's hilarious.

I have told my parents, my friends, my coworkers, random people at my doctor's office, and Barbara Walters, as part of her grand send-off from ABC's 20/20. I have named my parasite Frank and announced that he is responsible for practically everything I do, from my decision to eat a half-pound bag of M&M's to my sudden lack of interest in reality television. I have made repeated, poorly-received cracks about how I'm "eating for two now." And now I am telling the world.

It's not so bad, really, aside from the searing intestinal pain. I've lost fifteen pounds in the past month and a half. I can eat whatever I want. Occasionally, I have visions in which I believe that I am the newest incarnation of the Son of God. They look a little bit like the Mel Gibson movie, to be honest.

So yeah. I have a parasite. And I don't live in a third world country. And I wash regularly. Almost compulsively.

But I'm taking pills that will kill it in a week. They may also kill me, because I can't drink while I'm on them. It's a calculated risk.

Goodbye, Frank.

Let the Little Children Come to Me

Last night as I returned from the grocery store I ran into some of the moppets who frequently roam my block entirely unencumbered by parental guidance of any kind. Although they generally spend their time striking my neighbors' retaining wall with a baseball bat or throwing rocks at people's expensive European automobiles, on this particular occasion they determined to practice their conversational skills.

"Hey, man, you got a lot of bags there. You need some help with those bags?" the head child confidently began.

"No, I'm fine, thanks." I was shooting for indulgent but hurried.

"How 'bout you give me some chips? You got some chips in there? I want some chips."

"Nope, no chips today. Sorry fellas." I accessorized this remark with a sad smile. By this point I had reached my front door.

"I want to see your crib, man. Come on, let me in."

I politely demurred, at which point the child-in-chief began to feign crying and the others quickly followed suit. For my part, I went upstairs and put my orange juice in the fridge.

So now I can count both children and the homeless among my neighborhood stalkers. Am I putting some kind of weird stalk-me vibe out there? If John Hinckley shows up, I may have to seriously reassess some things.

Critic's Corner

So I saw La Dolce Vita last night.

First and foremost, let me say that I did not realize it was going to be three hours long. I am all kinds of cultural, but three hours in the dark on any given weeknight is too much for me, unless I am spending those hours sleeping or . . . yeah, generally just the sleeping. I mean, Titanic was over three hours long, but that was a very big boat. And Schindler's List at least had a war.

But regardless, I genuinely enjoyed the picture. Beautifully shot, lots of fun little thematic nuggets to grab on to, decent acting (well, it was in Italian, so it was hard to tell, but I was highly convinced that these were real Italian people) from pretty people, nicely lush score.

Some interestingly dated aspects as well. For instance, all the women in the movie were pretty much either utterly vacant, deeply crazy, or neutered and matronly. Physical violence against women seemed to be frowned upon in only the most cursory fashion. Gay men literally either wore dresses or at a bare minimum kept their wrists fully limp and their lisps flying. It makes me laugh, actually, when older works of art are so casually offensive. How far we've come, sort of.

Anyway, I recommend it. But be aware it's three hours long beforehand. And don't put any gum in your mouth ahead of time, because it will start to taste really bad and get kind of thick and you won't have anywhere to put it. I'm just saying.

For Study and Discussion

-- The Emmy Awards. So militant about cutting off speeches I thought someone was going to smack Elaine Stritch with a tire iron. I'm not sure it would have fazed her, though.

-- Desirability. I though I was being hit on the other day, but it turned out it was just a twitch, not a wink. Still, I'm not saying I'd turn it down.

-- Judicial Process. It's so much less like Matlock than I thought it would be. Nobody ever solves any damn mysteries, for one thing. And I spend most of my time thinking about getting litigants different haircuts.

-- Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. I actually hear it's pretty good, but I have a problem with any movie whose title sounds like it was come up with by a stoner focus group. Although it is good to see Angelina Jolie embrace her inner pirate.

-- Fruit Roll-Ups. In a major reversion to the fourth-grade version of myself, I've begun packing them in my work bag. I draw the line at applying the moustache cut-outs to my face, though. Usually.

-- Everwood. Dirty title aside, this show is amazing at combining Seventh-Heaven-style family values with Dawson's-style smut. And, apparently, at hiring washed-up former teen drama stars now married to hot former Real Worlders.

An Amusing Exchange

So my friend and I went to this play up near Loyola last night, which resulted in us riding the red line back south late at night with a rather large crowd of drunken college students. This allowed us to make friends with a progressive-thinking young fellow who was drinking directly from a box of wine (a fine white zinfandel, I believe).

"If anyone's got a problem with it, they can go to hell," he slurred. "This is a democracy, and I get to do whatever I want."

"Actually, that sounds more like a dictatorship," my friend countered. She's small and cute so she can say whatever she wants to drunks without getting punched.

"It's freedom. The Tenth Amendment, motherfucker!" came the reply.

"Are you a political science major?" I queried, ducking.

Fortunately, the alcohol took its toll before things could escalate, and an irritated-looking girl in a dress way too slutty for her build came to retrieve our new debate partner.

"She seemed happy," my friend said.

"Well, they've got a long night ahead of them," I posited. "He's still got to take her home and prematurely ejaculate on her before bed."

And a good time was had by all.

The More You Know

There are a lot of things I know that I probably shouldn’t.

For instance, it somehow came out in a conversation at work today (and I defy even Noam Chomsky to explain what linguistic perversion caused it to happen) that I happen to know all the American Sign Language to the Michael W. Smith classic "Friends." This led to a discussion of my illustrious career as a child star of the community theater, an explication of the various insane habits of the overreaching, borderline delusional BFAs who fed me over-the-top line readings and dramatic arm gestures through the years, and, eventually, a demonstration. And yes, my performance killed. But it couldn’t explain away the sad fact that, yes, I know all the American Sign Language to the Michael W. Smith classic "Friends."

I also know some ASL for "From a Distance" by Better Midler and "You Are My Sunshine," but I’m a little rusty. If I ever meet a deaf person who inexplicably likes decades-old pop classics, though, I’m in good shape.

Other shameful knowledge? The life histories and personal aspirations of the cast members of The Golden Girls. The names and major story lines of the girls in the Baby Sitters Club books (Kristy was my favorite). All the combo meals at McDonald’s by heart.

This has all got to be good for something, right?

Behind the Music

So I read this thing in the paper today, and admittedly the details were a little sketchy since I was reading it off the back of someone else’s copy from about ten feet away on the train, but the whole point of the article was that they were trying to figure out what this summer’s "summer song" was. And I swear to God I had not heard of any of the songs they were suggesting. I know I don’t have a working radio in my car, but am I that out of touch? Aren’t Sugar Ray and Creed still pumping out the hits? The world as I’ve known it is dead.

Or maybe not, but it did get me thinking about fun songs and the truly weird associations I have with them. For instance, every time I hear Nelly’s classic summer song "Hot in Herrrrrrrrrrre," I tragically flash back to an office bar outing where my friend mistook a supervisor for a waiter and, much worse, proceeded to demonstrate the "running man." The eighties classic "Come On Eileen" will forever bring to mind any number of sorority formals I was dragged to, where phalanxes of girls who had already abandoned their vastly unworkable shoes would invariably squeal and march together Third-Reich-style to its dulcet tones. And early Alanis, frankly any early Alanis, brings back a whole complex of memories from my senior year of high school, from skipping study hall to head to the Burger King to taking a band trip to the Dixie Stampede in Branson, MO, where they reenact the Civil War with the stated possibility that the South will win this time, to winning a really retarded desk lamp in the senior raffle while practically everyone else won cars and major household appliances. For better or for worse, that’s the soundtrack of my life.

But anyway, I’m not at all sure what I would choose as the "summer song" for 2004, although I’m pretty sure it isn’t a legally or morally binding decision regardless. Let’s just throw the damn title to Hilary and Hailie Duff and get the hell on with our lives.

It’s Time for a Breakdown

Wondering where all the blog entries have been lately? Confused as to how exactly I must be spending my clearly ample free time if not on composing half-hearted jabs at Hilary Duff? Don’t worry, I haven’t been squandering my precious time on family, friends, or career advancement. Here’s a handy breakdown of my activities the past few weeks:

– Sending tear-stained letters to N*Sync in hopes of speeding along their inevitable reunion.
– Winning a free car on the Oprah show; meticulously buffing mysterious image of Stedman off of hood.
– Being civilly committed to the Cubs Fan ward at mental health clinic.
– Writing tell-all autobiography; becoming depressed upon realizing there is really nothing to tell.
– Losing pie-eating contest to Kirstie Alley.
– Losing fat-joke-writing contest to Kirstie Alley.
– Lying on my bed in the dark listening to "From a Distance" by Bette Midler and crying my eyes out.
– Self-medicating.
– Carefully mapping out plan for world domination; taking plan to Kinko’s for copies; giving up on plan due to shortage of goldenrod copier paper.
– Declaring things to be "the new" other things.
– Crocheting a sexy top for fall.
– Videotaping and minutely dissecting each and every episode of Trading Spouses, convinced it is in fact "the most important television program of our time."
– Discovering penicillin; flying into a rage when others mention it has, in fact, already been discovered.

But now that those things are out of the way, I can return to just being lazy and not having any good reason for not posting. Isn’t the status quo wonderful?

Bits and Pieces

– The Apprentice. You’d think watching poorly-dubbed Trump voiceovers and members of minority groups edited to look crazy would get old, but it just doesn’t. If the next season is looking to top this, they’re probably going to have to get one of the contestants to spontaneously combust.

– Joey. Not nearly as bad as I had every right to hope that it would be. My only suggestion? Fire the guy who plays Joey. He’s bringing the whole thing down.

– NBC. Despite all appearances, I have not been paid to endorse them. I simply receive a steady stream of remaindered Suddenly Susan merchandise. I’m using a Judd Nelson mousepad right now. And don’t forget to watch Father of the Pride on Must-See Tuesdays, only on NBC!

– Brilliance. I spent at least part of the night last Friday passed out on the steps up to my apartment. Because the problem with beds has always been their lack of jagged corners. Next time I drink I think I should hire a nanny.

– People’s Best and Worst Dressed List. Here’s a hint, guys: when Bjork dips her face in glitter, she probably isn’t thinking she’ll be joining Charlize Theron on your hot list. I’m just waiting for U.S. News to put out their list; if Kofi Annan isn’t on it, I’ll just die.

– Modern Convenience. Is it just me, or is it retarded that when you take pictures to the one-hour photo center, they ask when you want them back? I mean, I don’t want to put them out or anything, but a week from Tuesday seems a little bit far away.

Workin’ It

So I’ve been working on my resume lately (I bet you didn’t even know that indentured servants have resumes!) and it’s made me realize that many of the employment experiences I have had were such that it is best I not report them. Here are fun-filled descriptions for some of my favorite actual jobs I have held that are, sadly, being sent off to the great big resume in the sky:

Historically Costumed Docent. Guided visitors through the wonders of architecture dressed in a wool suit, speaking in an old-timey accent that quite frankly made me sound insane. Occasionally performed period songs and dances for elderly, angry women with the help of lazy-eyed female guides. Got caught drinking a bottle of white zinfandel stolen from the exhibit-opening reception and sniffing the smelling salts from the first aid kit. Retired.

Minor League Baseball Videographer. Squinted into an ancient, cracked video camera, fitfully pivoting it on a taped-together tripod to semi-capture the semi-majesty and semi-drama of a baseball team apparently cobbled together from group home residents and Mama’s Family extras. Huddled under a tarp when it rained, enduring the jeers of ten year olds and slowly suffocating. Took a line drive to the crotch and suffered the indignity of having a fifty-something male trainer ask if I’d like him to ice it for me. Politely declined.

Public Radio DJ. Planned hours of entertainment centered solely around organ music or Flemish composers. Fielded phone calls from local crackpots who wished to express their views about zoning ordinances or complain that A Prairie Home Companion was sometimes dirty. Taught social skills to staff of pale, overweight compulsive talkers. Participated in a pledge drive, resulting in first stay at Promises Clinic in Malibu.

Development Assistant. Listened to various babysitting woes and marital spats of university development staff. Made copies. Ate stale leftover crackers from fundraising events. Periodically filed and refiled things. Checked e-mail.

Music History Tutor. Explained to marketing majors that Amadeus was not a documentary. Tried desperately to care about motets and madrigals. Pretended that twentieth century music where people break violins and belch the Gettysburg Address is awesome. Made up answers to questions I did not understand, usually including the phrase "there are many ways to look at it." Cried myself to sleep at night.

See, work totally is what defines a person! That’s why I’m still such a big historically-costumed, baseball-filming, copy-making fool.

Miscellany

The new Real World debuted last night. I like the Real World, sometimes, because I'm basically a 12-year-old girl. I always lose interest about five or six episodes in, but that's pretty much true of everything, including my own life. This Real World is in Philiadelphia, so I'm sure it's going to have a whole "birth of our nation" feel to it, in addition to the fourgies. Anyway, there's two of everything in this Real World: two black people, two girls who claim to be "bad" but merely seem to be trying too hard, two gay people, two insanely muscular guys with identical David Hasselhof haircuts. They were actually thinking about having this Real World on an ark, but they couldn't get the right permits. Write your Congressman!

I've decided that my favorite food is any food smothered in something else. Think about it. French fries are okay -- sort of tasty, apparently less supportive of the war effort than tuber products ought to be, nothing too special -- until you smother them in cheese and, wow, they're amazing! Or ice cream -- it's fine, kind of fun to purchase from a truck, perhaps not worth the cold headache -- until you smother it in chocolate, and damn, that's some good eatin'! And I don't believe there's any food that can't be improved by smothering it in gravy.

I'm told the effects of smothering are somewhat less favorable with people.

The biggest news in my corner of the world is that I brought my viola back to my apartment with me. Yup, just when you thought I couldn't get any sexier, I'm a viola player. Plus I speak German. Isn't that cuddly? But anyway, I'm very excited to think that I can retaliate against our downstairs neighbors for their constant loud sex noises by playing me some out-of-tune Handel at high volume. If they're really annoying, I'll bring out some atonal shit that makes Bjork look like Cole Porter (I'm not talking physical resemblance -- clearly, that is already there). Short of actually burning down the building, I'm not sure they can top that.

The Weekend that Was

Sometimes my life is so glamorous I can’t stand it. While the rest of you peons spent your Labor Day weekends barbequing, playing ultimate frisbee with your cousin Veronica, and drunk driving motorboats, I experienced true luxury (as in my mom bought me a new comforter and repainted my bathroom) in one of the resort capitals of the world (so long as the world is defined to include only Quincy, Illinois). And it only took a five hour drive in a non-air-conditioned, radioless, hubcapless 1995 Dodge Neon for me to do it.

Shall I point out some of the highlights of my agenda? How about shouting over Wolf Blitzer on CNN while lunching on corned beef sandwiches and bacon crackers with my 93-year-old grandmother? How about playing lawn badminton with my parents? How about going to Wal-Mart? Yes, there was something for everyone, or at least everyone who enjoys the elderly and the thrill of a good value. Everyone else I really just pity.

In all honesty, however, I have to admit that it was really good to get away from the city, if only for a few days. Not that I don’t love homicidal cab drivers and scary crazy people who masturbate on the train, but I find that trees and cornfields have their charms as well. (And those gun lobby propaganda signs along the highways? So hilarious. If only there were Pulitzer prizes for signage.) I like paying $1.50 for a beer and being able to drive to the Walgreens without selling my kidneys in exchange for a parking spot. Country music makes me laugh. And after three months without seeing my parents, I think they’ve really grown up a lot—there was hardly any hair pulling or food throwing this time around, and I didn’t even have to put in a Disney video to calm them down. I mean, they say you can’t go home again, but I’m pretty sure they really just mean that you probably shouldn’t, because I swear I was just there, and I escaped with only minor badminton injuries.

Three Day Weekend!

I’ll be spending my big holiday weekend off in Quincy, IL, home of poorly-spelled coffee shops and cultlike devotion to high school sports. Before I take off, however, here are some tips to help you make the most of your Labor Day festivities:

- Don’t forget those Americans whose selfless deaths led to the establishment of Labor Day, namely Jeremiah and Margaret Labor, the nineteenth century midget pornographers killed in a tragic cotton gin accident.

- When planning the guest list for your backyard barbeque, it’s best to keep it simple. Invite only those you feel have wronged you through the years; then serve the hot dogs with a side of insane accusations.

- Remember, it is considered unfashionable in some circles to wear white after Labor Day. Being white, however, is perfectly appropriate, especially if you are Michael Jackson.

- If you’ve got a car trip planned for the weekend, make sure to honk your horn every five minutes. Not only will this ward off evil spirits, it will also ensure that other drivers notice how spectacular you look in your Chrysler LeBaron Convertible.

- Water sports are lots of fun for everyone, and also a great way for your rich Aunt Enid to "accidentally" drown.

- To avoid a sunburn, simply lock yourself in your apartment all weekend, watching Family Matters reruns and eating Oatmeal Creme Pies and expired cans of green beans. When the Romantic era returns, people will be so jealous of your creamy white complexion!

- After Labor Day, it is no longer appropriate to have "hot fun in the summertime." Instead, substitute "pleasantly crisp fun in the early autumn" or simply "fun with light jackets and sweaters."

Lots to report, I'm sure, when I return!

Your News Now

In case you didn’t know it, bloggers have been given press credentials at both the Democratic and Republican National Conventions this year. Of course, bloggers have always had full access to the Star Trek Convention, but that’s another story. Now I wasn’t lucky enough to be invited to either convention (Which seems unfair, because although I may be light on posts with regard to, say, US trade policy in China, I think my posts on US Weekly, Trading Spaces, and Chinese food are roughly the equivalent.), but since I make up most of the things I write here anyway, I’ve decided to go ahead and provide some coverage. So here, in a nutshell, are the things I learned from my fake trip to the DNC:

– John Kerry is very old.
– No really, seriously, dude, he’s old. His head looks like someone deflated one of the Macy’s balloons. He’s concave where he ought to be convex.
– John Edwards’ accent really does get old after a while. He’s starting to sound a little bit like Charlize Theron in Monster. Let’s just hope he doesn’t kill any johns.
– Democrats really like black people. And gay people. And black gay people? Possibly the best people of all.
– Public celebrations of all kinds are sort of uncomfortable unless the alcohol is flowing freely.

And the RNC isn’t even over yet, but already I have these super-accurate observations:

– Dick Cheney often looks like he wants to eat your children. Maybe he does. It’s not like they’d just come out and put it in their commercials if it were true.
– Rudy Giuliani is just never going to have good hair. I don’t care if they put all five of the Queer Eye guys and the entire E! network to work on it, it’s just never going to happen.
– Speeches are a lot more fun to make than to listen to. Like that speech I gave about how to repair a bike chain in 8th grade? That one was great.
– Apparently, there was this thing known as September 11.
– Republicans may actually manage to be worse dancers than Democrats. Ain’t none of them exactly Usher in the moves department, though, I’ll tell you that.

Stick with us for non-continuing and utterly non-comprehensive coverage of the November elections.