Monday, February 28, 2005
Great Moments from the 77th Annual Academy Awards
6:15 PM – Starr Jones wanders vaguely about in a tiara, mispronouncing people’s names and pretending she actually saw some of the nominated films. My friend Suzanne expresses the sneaking suspicion that Al Reynolds (Mr. Starr Jones) might be gay, shocking approximately no one.
6:37 PM – Reception on the TV Guide Channel is questionable at best, causing Joan Rivers to look even more like Skeletor than usual.
6:45 PM – Having vanquished Will Ferrell and Teri Hatcher, Barbara Walters turns to the all-too-easy task of making Jamie Foxx cry. Eyes botoxed to slits, soft-focus lenses creating a haze, she briefly appears to be high.
7:07 PM – It becomes difficult to believe that this shit has been going on for hours and not a single award has been given out yet. On the plus side, there is vodka.
7:32 PM – The opening montage is unbearable. At least they managed to fit that crotch-biting footage from There’s Something About Mary in there, though.
7:33 PM – Chris Rock’s opening monologue manages to be embarrassingly tame and uncomfortably off-putting at the same time. Michael Moore fat jokes are so six months ago.
7:55 PM – Robin Williams forgets that the function of a "presenter" is in fact to "present," and settles for doing some "hilarious" imitations and copping a feel of one of the spokesmodels.
8:04 PM – Cate Blanchett somehow gets lost in the audience, but decides to give out an award there anyway. Someone waves at the camera in every frickin’ shot of a nominee.
8:37 PM – Someone asks if the guy from Counting Crows is wearing a hat, but no, it is just his hair.
8:40 PM – I lose interest and eat half a bag of baked sour cream and onion Doritos. We flip over to HBO, but What a Girl Wants won’t start until 10.
9:18 PM – Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz really ought to make out already.
9:49 PM – Marlon Brando beats out Ronald Reagan to win the annual contest for most applause during the dead people montage.
10:04 PM – Sean Penn remains utterly humorless. I fantasize about punching him. Well, I’d probably have to send a larger friend.
10:05 PM – Hilary Swank wins Best Actress and nearly trips over her penis on the way to the podium. Annette Bening smiles warmly, imagining the thwacking sound Swank’s head would make when hitting the bumper of her limo.
10:27 PM – Jamie Foxx endorses the power of child abuse.
10:34 PM – Clint Eastwood wins best director; Martin Scorsese decides to just fuck it and sign on to direct Scooby Doo 3.
10:37 PM – Utterly non-famous people accept the Best Picture award for Million Dollar Baby. The local news leads with the story of a brutal slaying on the South Side, which quite frankly comes as a relief at this point.
6:15 PM – Starr Jones wanders vaguely about in a tiara, mispronouncing people’s names and pretending she actually saw some of the nominated films. My friend Suzanne expresses the sneaking suspicion that Al Reynolds (Mr. Starr Jones) might be gay, shocking approximately no one.
6:37 PM – Reception on the TV Guide Channel is questionable at best, causing Joan Rivers to look even more like Skeletor than usual.
6:45 PM – Having vanquished Will Ferrell and Teri Hatcher, Barbara Walters turns to the all-too-easy task of making Jamie Foxx cry. Eyes botoxed to slits, soft-focus lenses creating a haze, she briefly appears to be high.
7:07 PM – It becomes difficult to believe that this shit has been going on for hours and not a single award has been given out yet. On the plus side, there is vodka.
7:32 PM – The opening montage is unbearable. At least they managed to fit that crotch-biting footage from There’s Something About Mary in there, though.
7:33 PM – Chris Rock’s opening monologue manages to be embarrassingly tame and uncomfortably off-putting at the same time. Michael Moore fat jokes are so six months ago.
7:55 PM – Robin Williams forgets that the function of a "presenter" is in fact to "present," and settles for doing some "hilarious" imitations and copping a feel of one of the spokesmodels.
8:04 PM – Cate Blanchett somehow gets lost in the audience, but decides to give out an award there anyway. Someone waves at the camera in every frickin’ shot of a nominee.
8:37 PM – Someone asks if the guy from Counting Crows is wearing a hat, but no, it is just his hair.
8:40 PM – I lose interest and eat half a bag of baked sour cream and onion Doritos. We flip over to HBO, but What a Girl Wants won’t start until 10.
9:18 PM – Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz really ought to make out already.
9:49 PM – Marlon Brando beats out Ronald Reagan to win the annual contest for most applause during the dead people montage.
10:04 PM – Sean Penn remains utterly humorless. I fantasize about punching him. Well, I’d probably have to send a larger friend.
10:05 PM – Hilary Swank wins Best Actress and nearly trips over her penis on the way to the podium. Annette Bening smiles warmly, imagining the thwacking sound Swank’s head would make when hitting the bumper of her limo.
10:27 PM – Jamie Foxx endorses the power of child abuse.
10:34 PM – Clint Eastwood wins best director; Martin Scorsese decides to just fuck it and sign on to direct Scooby Doo 3.
10:37 PM – Utterly non-famous people accept the Best Picture award for Million Dollar Baby. The local news leads with the story of a brutal slaying on the South Side, which quite frankly comes as a relief at this point.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Annual Report
Today is the one-year anniversary of my first post.
So far I am celebrating by lying on the couch and watching The Surreal Life, which I'm pretty sure I don't even like. I am getting kind of involved in Da Brat's emotional journey, though.
The obvious thing to do at this point would be to "take stock" and figure out what this past year has meant for all of us. Maybe I could shed a tear as I relate how writing about parasitism helped me to come to grips with it or how a paper cut to my left index finger nearly sidelined posting for a week. Perhaps I could get readers to share their favorite moments from the blog, which would likely be moments that actually came from old Dilbert strips or episodes of Happy Days. To clarify the differences once again, the blog has neither a talking dog nor the Fonz. Although we are in talks with a Pomeranian with a bad cough and a leather jacket.
It has been a pretty good year, though. Sometimes I had such witty thoughts about the shellshocked troglodyticness of a flight attendant or the unspeakable fashion sense of a hapless Apprentice contestant that I couldn't wait to put them on the blog. Other times I could think of absolutely nothing to say, which in the best-case scenario actually kept me from attempting to post rather than combing the recesses of my mind for a Everwood plot summary or junior high math team anecdote to share. I have almost quit more times than I can tell you, but I guess there's just way too much out there that really bears being written about for me to leave it all to the Ann Coulters and Dave Barrys of the world. Of course, the Jeff Gannons are another story.
In the end, I think blogging is a lot like reality television or voting -- it may not amount to much, but it makes you feel good, and keeps a lot of crazy people off the streets. So here's to another year of PG-13 stories about my personal life and Leno-reject Ashlee Simpson jokes.
Today is the one-year anniversary of my first post.
So far I am celebrating by lying on the couch and watching The Surreal Life, which I'm pretty sure I don't even like. I am getting kind of involved in Da Brat's emotional journey, though.
The obvious thing to do at this point would be to "take stock" and figure out what this past year has meant for all of us. Maybe I could shed a tear as I relate how writing about parasitism helped me to come to grips with it or how a paper cut to my left index finger nearly sidelined posting for a week. Perhaps I could get readers to share their favorite moments from the blog, which would likely be moments that actually came from old Dilbert strips or episodes of Happy Days. To clarify the differences once again, the blog has neither a talking dog nor the Fonz. Although we are in talks with a Pomeranian with a bad cough and a leather jacket.
It has been a pretty good year, though. Sometimes I had such witty thoughts about the shellshocked troglodyticness of a flight attendant or the unspeakable fashion sense of a hapless Apprentice contestant that I couldn't wait to put them on the blog. Other times I could think of absolutely nothing to say, which in the best-case scenario actually kept me from attempting to post rather than combing the recesses of my mind for a Everwood plot summary or junior high math team anecdote to share. I have almost quit more times than I can tell you, but I guess there's just way too much out there that really bears being written about for me to leave it all to the Ann Coulters and Dave Barrys of the world. Of course, the Jeff Gannons are another story.
In the end, I think blogging is a lot like reality television or voting -- it may not amount to much, but it makes you feel good, and keeps a lot of crazy people off the streets. So here's to another year of PG-13 stories about my personal life and Leno-reject Ashlee Simpson jokes.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Short Subjects
– The Academy Awards. At this point, I think Chris Rock pretty much has to say something controversial enough to not only shut down ABC and the entire film industry, but cause the FCC to spontaneously combust. I’m guessing J. Lo’s booty will somehow be involved.
– Paris Hilton’s Sidekick. It’s so unfair! I left my phone in a cab like a year ago and no one reported on that. Of course, I didn’t have footage of Fred Durst’s genitals in there. Now Urkel’s genitals, maybe.
– Jeff Gannon. A gay hooker with a heart of gold makes good in the White House Press Room? They should totally turn this one into a Disney animated feature, with Rob Schneider as the voice of Ari Fleischer.
– Performance Evaluations. My boss told me I’m a "delight" to work with. Maybe she’s referring to the time I hugged her at the office Christmas party? It’s probably not the time she caught me searching for OC spoilers during computer training.
– Civil Disobedience. Does it count as a protest rally if it’s just five guys with posterboard and a megaphone? Because that’s what I had outside my window this week. Maybe they’re just bringing back an amped-up new edition of Win, Lose, or Draw.
– The Academy Awards. At this point, I think Chris Rock pretty much has to say something controversial enough to not only shut down ABC and the entire film industry, but cause the FCC to spontaneously combust. I’m guessing J. Lo’s booty will somehow be involved.
– Paris Hilton’s Sidekick. It’s so unfair! I left my phone in a cab like a year ago and no one reported on that. Of course, I didn’t have footage of Fred Durst’s genitals in there. Now Urkel’s genitals, maybe.
– Jeff Gannon. A gay hooker with a heart of gold makes good in the White House Press Room? They should totally turn this one into a Disney animated feature, with Rob Schneider as the voice of Ari Fleischer.
– Performance Evaluations. My boss told me I’m a "delight" to work with. Maybe she’s referring to the time I hugged her at the office Christmas party? It’s probably not the time she caught me searching for OC spoilers during computer training.
– Civil Disobedience. Does it count as a protest rally if it’s just five guys with posterboard and a megaphone? Because that’s what I had outside my window this week. Maybe they’re just bringing back an amped-up new edition of Win, Lose, or Draw.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Loose Ends
It’s amazing how much things can fall apart when you leave town for even a few days. When I got back to Chicago on Monday, I found my mailbox stuffed so full of highly personal letters addressed to my neighbors and ads for male enhancement products that it was held shut with a rubber band (apparently my mail carrier is MacGyver), my one and only plant lying on the verge of death in the living room, and the machine full of messages from people who knew I was going out of town but for whom alcohol made it appropriate to call six or seven times to invite me to come to their cousin’s keg party. The sad part being that I totally would have been there.
But now I’m basically as caught up as I ever get in life (emotionally I remain on a fourth grade level, caring mainly for Jolt Cola and Nintendo Power Magazine), and I’m seized by a sudden urge to flee all over again. I don’t want to sit at a desk and read about other people’s problems all day long! Especially if those people are in prison or have unpleasant-sounding disabilities! I don’t want to spend half an hour on the train each day among people who read Jackie Collins books and think tight-rolled jeans are coming back! And I don’t want it to snow any more, ever again! People who say snow is pretty are fucking communists and should be forcibly deported to Siberia. Lots of snow there, jerks!
All right, I think I need to dial the crazy down a notch. I’ll put on some soothing Yanni or something. Oh wait, that would make me kill.
It’s amazing how much things can fall apart when you leave town for even a few days. When I got back to Chicago on Monday, I found my mailbox stuffed so full of highly personal letters addressed to my neighbors and ads for male enhancement products that it was held shut with a rubber band (apparently my mail carrier is MacGyver), my one and only plant lying on the verge of death in the living room, and the machine full of messages from people who knew I was going out of town but for whom alcohol made it appropriate to call six or seven times to invite me to come to their cousin’s keg party. The sad part being that I totally would have been there.
But now I’m basically as caught up as I ever get in life (emotionally I remain on a fourth grade level, caring mainly for Jolt Cola and Nintendo Power Magazine), and I’m seized by a sudden urge to flee all over again. I don’t want to sit at a desk and read about other people’s problems all day long! Especially if those people are in prison or have unpleasant-sounding disabilities! I don’t want to spend half an hour on the train each day among people who read Jackie Collins books and think tight-rolled jeans are coming back! And I don’t want it to snow any more, ever again! People who say snow is pretty are fucking communists and should be forcibly deported to Siberia. Lots of snow there, jerks!
All right, I think I need to dial the crazy down a notch. I’ll put on some soothing Yanni or something. Oh wait, that would make me kill.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
The South Shall Rise Again
I am a Northerner. I think grits taste like Delta Burke’s vomit, NASCAR is more boring to me than that public access channel where dermatologically-challenged teenagers dress up as medieval knights, and I’m not even remotely attracted to my sister. But this weekend I was blessed with an introduction into Southern high society, and I accepted it the only way I knew how: in a $10 suit.
You see, my friend Jodi neglected to mention that we would be attending Jacksonville’s premiere social event (okay, except for Maya Angelou’s annual pie eating contest, but come on!) before I actually arrived in that great City of People Who Shouldn’t Be Going Shirtless (I’m trying out new nicknames here), so I didn’t exactly throw my tuxedo into my carry on bag (although I did bring three belts and a prize from a box of Fruity Pebbles). Instead, we picked up a nifty little number from the local Goodwill store, complete with designer no one had ever heard of – English Manor, anyone? – and left pant leg a good half inch shorter than the right.
It was an evening to remember.
Or not, depending on who you were. Because dear Jodi, bless her heart, became so intoxicated after consuming a liter or two of basically straight vodka from the "drinks" she "mixed" in the bathroom using a "water bottle" and some Diet Sprite, that she spent most of the evening passed out in the backseat of her friend’s car. In other words, she was suffering from "exhaustion" Lindsay Lohan style. Poor thing.
At least she was around long enough to hail the Confederate flag and sing "Dixie" with the rest of us. I thought I gave a very feeling rendition despite not knowing the words or harboring any secret ill will towards minorities. But it turned out they really don’t like it when you point out that the South did, in fact, LOSE the Civil War, and that their ancestors were deeply misguided bigots who would have shot Will Smith and Usher on sight. Which, sure, we should do just for Wild Wild West and well, everything, respectively, but not because of our historical overreliance on inexpensive labor. I mean, look what it did to Kathie Lee Gifford.
There was lots of dancing. Apparently, my dancing somehow came to involve a cartwheel and the applause of others out on the floor. Not bad for a guy in a $10 suit. Oh, and $5 shoes. Yes, now for the rest of my life I’m a person who wore Goodwill shoes.
So that was my debut into high society. Hopefully it will help me to marry well. If not, I’ve always got the Daughters of the American Revolution Donkey Basketball Game to look forward to. I’ve got a dynamite burlap bag/old newspapers ensemble planned.
I am a Northerner. I think grits taste like Delta Burke’s vomit, NASCAR is more boring to me than that public access channel where dermatologically-challenged teenagers dress up as medieval knights, and I’m not even remotely attracted to my sister. But this weekend I was blessed with an introduction into Southern high society, and I accepted it the only way I knew how: in a $10 suit.
You see, my friend Jodi neglected to mention that we would be attending Jacksonville’s premiere social event (okay, except for Maya Angelou’s annual pie eating contest, but come on!) before I actually arrived in that great City of People Who Shouldn’t Be Going Shirtless (I’m trying out new nicknames here), so I didn’t exactly throw my tuxedo into my carry on bag (although I did bring three belts and a prize from a box of Fruity Pebbles). Instead, we picked up a nifty little number from the local Goodwill store, complete with designer no one had ever heard of – English Manor, anyone? – and left pant leg a good half inch shorter than the right.
It was an evening to remember.
Or not, depending on who you were. Because dear Jodi, bless her heart, became so intoxicated after consuming a liter or two of basically straight vodka from the "drinks" she "mixed" in the bathroom using a "water bottle" and some Diet Sprite, that she spent most of the evening passed out in the backseat of her friend’s car. In other words, she was suffering from "exhaustion" Lindsay Lohan style. Poor thing.
At least she was around long enough to hail the Confederate flag and sing "Dixie" with the rest of us. I thought I gave a very feeling rendition despite not knowing the words or harboring any secret ill will towards minorities. But it turned out they really don’t like it when you point out that the South did, in fact, LOSE the Civil War, and that their ancestors were deeply misguided bigots who would have shot Will Smith and Usher on sight. Which, sure, we should do just for Wild Wild West and well, everything, respectively, but not because of our historical overreliance on inexpensive labor. I mean, look what it did to Kathie Lee Gifford.
There was lots of dancing. Apparently, my dancing somehow came to involve a cartwheel and the applause of others out on the floor. Not bad for a guy in a $10 suit. Oh, and $5 shoes. Yes, now for the rest of my life I’m a person who wore Goodwill shoes.
So that was my debut into high society. Hopefully it will help me to marry well. If not, I’ve always got the Daughters of the American Revolution Donkey Basketball Game to look forward to. I’ve got a dynamite burlap bag/old newspapers ensemble planned.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Travel Beat
Okay, for starters, does it somehow improve our safety for airport security to be insanely rude to me? I mean, do you think terrorist cells within our nation scrap their plans of attack when they hear Gus the Paunchy X-Ray Operator make snide comments about my belt setting off the metal detector? Does Carol the Baggage Inspector’s insistence on rifling through my boxers (not the ones I’m wearing, but still) get us any closer to catching Osama bin Laden? Because I feel like if he were hiding in there, I’d probably know.
And for the record, if I’m hunched up against the window of the plane, reading a book with headphones on, it’s probably a pretty good sign that I don’t want to become your new best friend between Chicago and Atlanta. It’s a seat assignment, not a dating service. So maybe keep your brilliant plan for restructuring the airlines to yourself.
Now that that’s out of my system...
The trip to Jacksonville was divine. Temperatures in the 60s or 70s each day, lots of sun, an abundance of Waffle Houses and Snake Handling Baptist churches. I stayed with my friend Jodi, who lives in a huge four-bedroom house with a nice older lady who, I found, approves of drinking but not of swearing. It turns out I’ve forgotten which ones are the swear words. I mean, I knew "fuck" was out, but "ass?" I thought it was a clinical term.
Did you know that Jacksonville is the largest city in the United States in terms of square footage? (That’s probably the wrong term – it sounds like I’m a realtor trying to get you to make an offer on Jacksonville by pointing out the hardwood floors.) It’s also called "the city of bridges," most likely because they have a lot of bridges, two of which we ran across on an insane seven-mile trek that nearly led me to spend my last day of vacation in the intensive care unit sucking down jello. And I can now locate it on a map, I think. See, this vacation was a journey into knowledge!
We did a lot of fun stuff. Beach time, boating, Mexican food, drinks, the occasional burst of outlet mall shopping. But I’m saving the best part for last. For tomorrow, actually. Think of it as a February sweeps cliffhanger:
I went to a confederate ball.
Oh, you’re so checking back tomorrow. Probably with six of your friends. This is bigger than "Who shot J.R.?" Which, by the way, was also me.
Okay, for starters, does it somehow improve our safety for airport security to be insanely rude to me? I mean, do you think terrorist cells within our nation scrap their plans of attack when they hear Gus the Paunchy X-Ray Operator make snide comments about my belt setting off the metal detector? Does Carol the Baggage Inspector’s insistence on rifling through my boxers (not the ones I’m wearing, but still) get us any closer to catching Osama bin Laden? Because I feel like if he were hiding in there, I’d probably know.
And for the record, if I’m hunched up against the window of the plane, reading a book with headphones on, it’s probably a pretty good sign that I don’t want to become your new best friend between Chicago and Atlanta. It’s a seat assignment, not a dating service. So maybe keep your brilliant plan for restructuring the airlines to yourself.
Now that that’s out of my system...
The trip to Jacksonville was divine. Temperatures in the 60s or 70s each day, lots of sun, an abundance of Waffle Houses and Snake Handling Baptist churches. I stayed with my friend Jodi, who lives in a huge four-bedroom house with a nice older lady who, I found, approves of drinking but not of swearing. It turns out I’ve forgotten which ones are the swear words. I mean, I knew "fuck" was out, but "ass?" I thought it was a clinical term.
Did you know that Jacksonville is the largest city in the United States in terms of square footage? (That’s probably the wrong term – it sounds like I’m a realtor trying to get you to make an offer on Jacksonville by pointing out the hardwood floors.) It’s also called "the city of bridges," most likely because they have a lot of bridges, two of which we ran across on an insane seven-mile trek that nearly led me to spend my last day of vacation in the intensive care unit sucking down jello. And I can now locate it on a map, I think. See, this vacation was a journey into knowledge!
We did a lot of fun stuff. Beach time, boating, Mexican food, drinks, the occasional burst of outlet mall shopping. But I’m saving the best part for last. For tomorrow, actually. Think of it as a February sweeps cliffhanger:
I went to a confederate ball.
Oh, you’re so checking back tomorrow. Probably with six of your friends. This is bigger than "Who shot J.R.?" Which, by the way, was also me.
Monday, February 21, 2005
The Picture of the Week
This one should be worth at least a thousand words. It depends on what language you're using and how many words they have for "stunning."
It's a little number from my recent stint as a model. That's right, don't let my natural elegance and grace fool you; this picture was posed. I'm demonstrating the "Kiss Me, I'm Punjabi" t-shirt offered by my friend's apparel company at www.muckittees.com. I guess the idea we're trying to get across is that people who wear these t-shirts tend to drink alone.
No word yet on my idea for a line of Janet-Reno-related cosmetics.
This isn't the first time I've modeled, of course. I am also featured prominently in the marketing materials for my undergraduate institution, in photos where I interact meaningfully with women and minorities I had only just met at the photo shoot. For that one they made me wear makeup. Okay, so the body glitter was my idea.
Anyway, I'm back from the wilds of Florida. More details from the trip as soon as I sleep it off.
This one should be worth at least a thousand words. It depends on what language you're using and how many words they have for "stunning."
It's a little number from my recent stint as a model. That's right, don't let my natural elegance and grace fool you; this picture was posed. I'm demonstrating the "Kiss Me, I'm Punjabi" t-shirt offered by my friend's apparel company at www.muckittees.com. I guess the idea we're trying to get across is that people who wear these t-shirts tend to drink alone.
No word yet on my idea for a line of Janet-Reno-related cosmetics.
This isn't the first time I've modeled, of course. I am also featured prominently in the marketing materials for my undergraduate institution, in photos where I interact meaningfully with women and minorities I had only just met at the photo shoot. For that one they made me wear makeup. Okay, so the body glitter was my idea.
Anyway, I'm back from the wilds of Florida. More details from the trip as soon as I sleep it off.
Friday, February 18, 2005
The Sunshine State
Oh, Jay. As if I could ever go Hollywood. In fact, yours truly has been swamped with work due to a recent earth-shattering but utterly useless decision of the Supreme Court of the United States. But I suppose I could scarf down my hummus-and-sprouts sandwich with one hand while I type with other.
Jay, as you know, has ventured southward to Jacksonville, FL, a newly-chic hotspot in light of its recent hosting of the Commercial Bowl. While you may know that this fair city is the home of the Jaguars, the Gateway to Florida, and the site of the first Protestant colony in America (which, by the way, I dispute on behalf of all of New England), you probably don’t know that it’s also where my parents live (separately). Yes, this Northern Elitist Snob has ties to...the SOUTH. The Deep South, no less. You might have the impression that Florida is all sun, sand, and FBI- kidnapping of adorable Cuban refugees, but North Florida is pretty much South Georgia. Meaning one is more likely to spot a confederate flag displayed in someone’s yard than one of those plastic pink flamingos.
I love visiting my parents down there, especially at Christmas. Christmas decorations are one of my few joys in life, so I like to drive around and check them out. It’s hard enough to get in the Christmas spirit when there’s no snow, and on top of that they don’t get the Christmas lights quite right. Most Jacksonvillians forego the icicle lights or the fake candles in favor of giant illuminated signs that say "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS!!!" These signs are often in the shape of a giant cake. I know, I realize that CHRIST-mas is in fact a religious holiday, but would it kill these people to just hang a wreath?
[Censored.]
Of course, the best part of any trip to Jacksonville is spending time with my family. My newly-blended family, no less. Last summer, in a surprise, private ceremony to which I was not invited, I acquired a stepmother, otherwise known as my father’s hairdresser. My stepmother is the most well-intentioned woman you could ever meet, and if you stop staring at her giant breast implants long enough to listen to her, she’ll undoubtedly win you over. So what if she drinks Mudslides with dinner (they really bring out the flavor in a good filet, you know) or that she refers to beauty school as "college" (as in this statement, while I was studying for the bar exam: "I know how you feel, I hated taking tests when I was in college")? Incidentally, I also now have a stepbrother, a middle-aged gentleman whom I’ve met once and whose name I do not recall. Hmm, maybe those Republicans have a point about family values...
Hope you’re enjoying your hush puppies, Jay! Try them with mayonnaise.
Oh, Jay. As if I could ever go Hollywood. In fact, yours truly has been swamped with work due to a recent earth-shattering but utterly useless decision of the Supreme Court of the United States. But I suppose I could scarf down my hummus-and-sprouts sandwich with one hand while I type with other.
Jay, as you know, has ventured southward to Jacksonville, FL, a newly-chic hotspot in light of its recent hosting of the Commercial Bowl. While you may know that this fair city is the home of the Jaguars, the Gateway to Florida, and the site of the first Protestant colony in America (which, by the way, I dispute on behalf of all of New England), you probably don’t know that it’s also where my parents live (separately). Yes, this Northern Elitist Snob has ties to...the SOUTH. The Deep South, no less. You might have the impression that Florida is all sun, sand, and FBI- kidnapping of adorable Cuban refugees, but North Florida is pretty much South Georgia. Meaning one is more likely to spot a confederate flag displayed in someone’s yard than one of those plastic pink flamingos.
I love visiting my parents down there, especially at Christmas. Christmas decorations are one of my few joys in life, so I like to drive around and check them out. It’s hard enough to get in the Christmas spirit when there’s no snow, and on top of that they don’t get the Christmas lights quite right. Most Jacksonvillians forego the icicle lights or the fake candles in favor of giant illuminated signs that say "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS!!!" These signs are often in the shape of a giant cake. I know, I realize that CHRIST-mas is in fact a religious holiday, but would it kill these people to just hang a wreath?
[Censored.]
Of course, the best part of any trip to Jacksonville is spending time with my family. My newly-blended family, no less. Last summer, in a surprise, private ceremony to which I was not invited, I acquired a stepmother, otherwise known as my father’s hairdresser. My stepmother is the most well-intentioned woman you could ever meet, and if you stop staring at her giant breast implants long enough to listen to her, she’ll undoubtedly win you over. So what if she drinks Mudslides with dinner (they really bring out the flavor in a good filet, you know) or that she refers to beauty school as "college" (as in this statement, while I was studying for the bar exam: "I know how you feel, I hated taking tests when I was in college")? Incidentally, I also now have a stepbrother, a middle-aged gentleman whom I’ve met once and whose name I do not recall. Hmm, maybe those Republicans have a point about family values...
Hope you’re enjoying your hush puppies, Jay! Try them with mayonnaise.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Good News/Bad News
Unlike most days, on which my many humiliations become the source of your few cheap laughs, today the good news is for me and the bad news for you. I'm heading to Florida today for a long weekend, and will probably be so busy lounging on the beach with a Harlequin romance and tanning past my usual eggshell color that I won't be able to post. Or maybe it will be forty degrees and rainy and I'll be busy devolving into Ike-Turner-like paroxisms of rage at the world, who knows? But the point is that I'm abandoning you, so you'd better dig up your old collection of Family Circus comics if you hope to enjoy stale wit over the next few days. The one where Jeffy murders Dolly is my favorite.
I've checked with once-and-future Guest Blogger Kathy, whose critical raves last time around caused me serious feelings of self-doubt, and there's a possibility that she'll check in with all y'all "if she has time." See, one successful post and she's already gone Hollywood on us. Remember who your real daddy is, kids. And the next weekend you spend with me we'll go to the McDonald's Playland.
So I'm off. The part I'm most excited about is airport security. See you on Tuesday!
Unlike most days, on which my many humiliations become the source of your few cheap laughs, today the good news is for me and the bad news for you. I'm heading to Florida today for a long weekend, and will probably be so busy lounging on the beach with a Harlequin romance and tanning past my usual eggshell color that I won't be able to post. Or maybe it will be forty degrees and rainy and I'll be busy devolving into Ike-Turner-like paroxisms of rage at the world, who knows? But the point is that I'm abandoning you, so you'd better dig up your old collection of Family Circus comics if you hope to enjoy stale wit over the next few days. The one where Jeffy murders Dolly is my favorite.
I've checked with once-and-future Guest Blogger Kathy, whose critical raves last time around caused me serious feelings of self-doubt, and there's a possibility that she'll check in with all y'all "if she has time." See, one successful post and she's already gone Hollywood on us. Remember who your real daddy is, kids. And the next weekend you spend with me we'll go to the McDonald's Playland.
So I'm off. The part I'm most excited about is airport security. See you on Tuesday!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Many are Called, Few are Chosen
Last night I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a telephone survey! It’s a lucky thing I was home when they called; that’s probably why those savvy marketers chose dinnertime to call. But I had a lovely conversation with someone named Tiffani (okay, so I’m guessing on the whole "with an ‘I’" thing), who despite all appearances to the contrary, was not a recent convert to the English language.
Tiffani: Good evening, this is Tiffani with [marketing firm name utterly indistinguishable from every other marketing firm name], may I speak to Mr. [unintelligible rambling constituting an attempt to pronounce my last name in contravention of all principles of phonics and good sense]
Jay: Yeah, uh, he’s not here right now.
Tiffani: Are you the head of this household?
Jay: (laughing) What is this, the fifties?
Tiffani: (confused silence)
Jay: Um, no.
Tiffani: Well, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your use of household cleaning supplies?
Jay: What about our history together would ever make you think I would do this?
Tiffani: (long pause) Um, I have a boyfriend.
Jay: (matching pause) Good for you?
Tiffani: Okay, so when was the last time you purchased a glass and surface cleaner?
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: Within the last week, within the last month, within the last six months...
Jay: We’re not actually going to do this, okay?
Tiffani: ...or more than six months ago?
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: (confused silence)
Jay: I downed a bottle of the lemon fresh on my way to work this morning.
Tiffani: So within the last week?
Jay: I don’t know, I’m not much of a math person.
Tiffani: I’ll just put "not applicable."
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: How would you describe your level of satisfaction with your current glass and surface cleaner?
Jay: I’m not going to...
Tiffani: Very satisfied, satisfied...
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: ... somewhat satisfied...
Jay: I think I love you.
And that was the end of that. She’s definitely going to call back, though, right? I feel like we really connected.
Last night I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a telephone survey! It’s a lucky thing I was home when they called; that’s probably why those savvy marketers chose dinnertime to call. But I had a lovely conversation with someone named Tiffani (okay, so I’m guessing on the whole "with an ‘I’" thing), who despite all appearances to the contrary, was not a recent convert to the English language.
Tiffani: Good evening, this is Tiffani with [marketing firm name utterly indistinguishable from every other marketing firm name], may I speak to Mr. [unintelligible rambling constituting an attempt to pronounce my last name in contravention of all principles of phonics and good sense]
Jay: Yeah, uh, he’s not here right now.
Tiffani: Are you the head of this household?
Jay: (laughing) What is this, the fifties?
Tiffani: (confused silence)
Jay: Um, no.
Tiffani: Well, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your use of household cleaning supplies?
Jay: What about our history together would ever make you think I would do this?
Tiffani: (long pause) Um, I have a boyfriend.
Jay: (matching pause) Good for you?
Tiffani: Okay, so when was the last time you purchased a glass and surface cleaner?
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: Within the last week, within the last month, within the last six months...
Jay: We’re not actually going to do this, okay?
Tiffani: ...or more than six months ago?
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: (confused silence)
Jay: I downed a bottle of the lemon fresh on my way to work this morning.
Tiffani: So within the last week?
Jay: I don’t know, I’m not much of a math person.
Tiffani: I’ll just put "not applicable."
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: How would you describe your level of satisfaction with your current glass and surface cleaner?
Jay: I’m not going to...
Tiffani: Very satisfied, satisfied...
Jay: Tiffani?
Tiffani: ... somewhat satisfied...
Jay: I think I love you.
And that was the end of that. She’s definitely going to call back, though, right? I feel like we really connected.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Love is in the Air
I swear to God the WB Easyview is going to be the end of me. I had had this whole productive weekend planned, complete with throwing out the moldy Thanksgiving mashed potatoes in our fridge and removing the dead squirrel from our back porch, but instead I somehow ended up entranced by the pomp and pageantry of What I Like About You and Jack & Bobby. Now, to be fair, Christine Lahti’s severe case of bitchface induced me to turn off the latter halfway through, but still, I am thoroughly (and appropriately) ashamed. I gave Jennie Garth more attention than she has deserved since roughly 1994. What’s next? Ian Ziering?
I have suffered for my indiscretions, however, since the stack of highly hott employment discrimination cases I intended to read over the weekend was still waiting for me when I got back to the office yesterday. So I spent my Valentine’s Day working late. Oh, and eating a sandwich. I ate a sandwich when I got home.
My grandma didn’t send me a card this year. She usually remembers, to the tune of $20 or so. Maybe she’s upset that I unintentionally bought her a card celebrating African-American heritage. Those Jell-O commercials with Bill Cosby always did make her sort of jumpy. Do you think it would be wrong to invoice her for the $20? I mean, that would buy a lot of Boone’s Farm Wine Product.
I need to do some serious thinking about my life. Thinking in the tub with the toaster.
I swear to God the WB Easyview is going to be the end of me. I had had this whole productive weekend planned, complete with throwing out the moldy Thanksgiving mashed potatoes in our fridge and removing the dead squirrel from our back porch, but instead I somehow ended up entranced by the pomp and pageantry of What I Like About You and Jack & Bobby. Now, to be fair, Christine Lahti’s severe case of bitchface induced me to turn off the latter halfway through, but still, I am thoroughly (and appropriately) ashamed. I gave Jennie Garth more attention than she has deserved since roughly 1994. What’s next? Ian Ziering?
I have suffered for my indiscretions, however, since the stack of highly hott employment discrimination cases I intended to read over the weekend was still waiting for me when I got back to the office yesterday. So I spent my Valentine’s Day working late. Oh, and eating a sandwich. I ate a sandwich when I got home.
My grandma didn’t send me a card this year. She usually remembers, to the tune of $20 or so. Maybe she’s upset that I unintentionally bought her a card celebrating African-American heritage. Those Jell-O commercials with Bill Cosby always did make her sort of jumpy. Do you think it would be wrong to invoice her for the $20? I mean, that would buy a lot of Boone’s Farm Wine Product.
I need to do some serious thinking about my life. Thinking in the tub with the toaster.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Unpopular Valentine's Day Gifts
-- The Collected Love Poems of Sylvia Plath
-- Free sterilization at area former Nazi physician of choice
-- Chocolate-covered puppies
-- Lingerie worn by grandparents on their first Valentine's Day
-- Herpes
-- Girls Gone Wild, The Director's Cut
-- Secondhand champagne
-- Own ear, severed
-- Eat Me Elmo doll
-- Coupon for one free kiss from Courtney Love
-- Romantic getaway weekend in Utah
-- The sweet release of death
-- The Collected Love Poems of Sylvia Plath
-- Free sterilization at area former Nazi physician of choice
-- Chocolate-covered puppies
-- Lingerie worn by grandparents on their first Valentine's Day
-- Herpes
-- Girls Gone Wild, The Director's Cut
-- Secondhand champagne
-- Own ear, severed
-- Eat Me Elmo doll
-- Coupon for one free kiss from Courtney Love
-- Romantic getaway weekend in Utah
-- The sweet release of death
Sunday, February 13, 2005
The Big Picture
So I now have photo capability for the blog. Clearly, this is a power that must always be used for good and never for evil. I should do something socially relevant and historically groundbreaking. Really, it is a moral imperative.
This is me (on the right) as Burt Reynolds during his 1980s heyday. Typically, I am not this gorgeous.
Photos are Phun.
So I now have photo capability for the blog. Clearly, this is a power that must always be used for good and never for evil. I should do something socially relevant and historically groundbreaking. Really, it is a moral imperative.
This is me (on the right) as Burt Reynolds during his 1980s heyday. Typically, I am not this gorgeous.
Photos are Phun.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Legends of the Call
This morning I spent five minutes of my phone conversation with my mother discussing whether Marg Helgenberger, of CSI fame, was "buxom." It was my fault, really -- I had brought her up when jokingly suggesting that CBS news should only be allowed to interrupt episodes of CSI if their breaking news was that one of the cast members had died. This was right after my suggestion that Dan Rather be replaced with Sway from MTV News. I was really on a roll. But somehow, perhaps because God is vengeful, this led to a discourse on Ms. Helgenberger's proportions. Repeatedly insisting that I did not watch the show, did not know who she was, and in fact just liked to say her funny name did nothing to stem the tide. Truth be told, I'm not even really sure that I know precisely what "buxom" means.
Mom also told me that one of her communications students gave a speech on "his legendary boner." She labeled this a bad moment for the First Amendment. Certainly it was a bad moment for the parent/child relationship.
Other topics of interest? (And bear in mind that I am not making these up.) The niceness of the weather, the fact that I accidentally sent my grandmother a Valentine's Day card from the "Mahogony" collection, how Deep Throat ought to just hurry up and die, whether my parents get the Hallmark channel, what and how I ought to pack for my upcoming trip to Florida, the time my cousin killed his cat in the washing machine, and the failings of English-language drama.
Now do you see where I get it?
Maybe I should just go back to bed.
This morning I spent five minutes of my phone conversation with my mother discussing whether Marg Helgenberger, of CSI fame, was "buxom." It was my fault, really -- I had brought her up when jokingly suggesting that CBS news should only be allowed to interrupt episodes of CSI if their breaking news was that one of the cast members had died. This was right after my suggestion that Dan Rather be replaced with Sway from MTV News. I was really on a roll. But somehow, perhaps because God is vengeful, this led to a discourse on Ms. Helgenberger's proportions. Repeatedly insisting that I did not watch the show, did not know who she was, and in fact just liked to say her funny name did nothing to stem the tide. Truth be told, I'm not even really sure that I know precisely what "buxom" means.
Mom also told me that one of her communications students gave a speech on "his legendary boner." She labeled this a bad moment for the First Amendment. Certainly it was a bad moment for the parent/child relationship.
Other topics of interest? (And bear in mind that I am not making these up.) The niceness of the weather, the fact that I accidentally sent my grandmother a Valentine's Day card from the "Mahogony" collection, how Deep Throat ought to just hurry up and die, whether my parents get the Hallmark channel, what and how I ought to pack for my upcoming trip to Florida, the time my cousin killed his cat in the washing machine, and the failings of English-language drama.
Now do you see where I get it?
Maybe I should just go back to bed.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Minutiae
A man at my gym this morning whistled all the way through his run on the treadmill, lifting regimen, and subsequent shower and change. I hate him, to be sure, but I have to admire his lung capacity. There’s also a man at my gym who compulsively washes and dries his hands each morning for a good ten minutes. Maybe it’s time for me to change gyms.
I tried the new "cheesy potatoes" at Taco Bell today, and I am pretty sure they are neither "potatoes" nor particularly "cheesy." If they want to name the product truthfully, perhaps "plasticine preservatives" would do. Which is not to say that they were not delicious. I’m pretty sure they were in fact saturated with a powerful narcotic.
Ash Wednesday was yesterday. I didn’t have a chance to get all ashed up, but I did try to feel extra guilty about things all day long. After ignoring a guy selling Streetwise, I rent my garments and gave myself thirty lashes with a stiff reed. Of course, that’s a pretty typical day for me, but it’s the thought that counts.
And speaking of Catholic absurdity, apparently the Pope has been miraculously cured. I bet they just injected him with a big ole dose of stem cells. Actually, my pet theory is that the Pope has been secretly replaced with an actor. My guess is Kirk Cameron.
A man at my gym this morning whistled all the way through his run on the treadmill, lifting regimen, and subsequent shower and change. I hate him, to be sure, but I have to admire his lung capacity. There’s also a man at my gym who compulsively washes and dries his hands each morning for a good ten minutes. Maybe it’s time for me to change gyms.
I tried the new "cheesy potatoes" at Taco Bell today, and I am pretty sure they are neither "potatoes" nor particularly "cheesy." If they want to name the product truthfully, perhaps "plasticine preservatives" would do. Which is not to say that they were not delicious. I’m pretty sure they were in fact saturated with a powerful narcotic.
Ash Wednesday was yesterday. I didn’t have a chance to get all ashed up, but I did try to feel extra guilty about things all day long. After ignoring a guy selling Streetwise, I rent my garments and gave myself thirty lashes with a stiff reed. Of course, that’s a pretty typical day for me, but it’s the thought that counts.
And speaking of Catholic absurdity, apparently the Pope has been miraculously cured. I bet they just injected him with a big ole dose of stem cells. Actually, my pet theory is that the Pope has been secretly replaced with an actor. My guess is Kirk Cameron.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Diagnosis: Irritation
Let’s talk for a minute about my doctor. First of all, I think it would be nice if he could remember who I am from visit to visit, or at least some of my more spectacular maladies. I went for a checkup today and he expressed surprise, once again, when my records reminded him that I had obtained a parasite in a non-third-world country some five months ago. Come on buddy, I’m your ticket to the New England Journal of Medicine, come up with a mnemonic or something. Secondly, although I’m certainly no expert in medical etiquette, I believe it is probably rarely appropriate for a physician to respond to his patient’s symptoms with shocked disbelief, as in "Joint pain? Good God, what will become of you?" or "A headache and congestion? Now I’ve seen everything!" It doesn’t exactly instill confidence. Finally, I think perhaps he should learn to type with more than just one finger at a time. I mean, I think about smacking him just waiting for him to hunt and peck that I have a "cold;" I can’t imagine what patients with long-worded conditions like "hypoglycemia" or "fibromyalgia" must do.
And thus continues my lifelong mission to improve everyone around me, one person at a time. No, it isn’t easy to be this perfect, thank you for asking.
Let’s talk for a minute about my doctor. First of all, I think it would be nice if he could remember who I am from visit to visit, or at least some of my more spectacular maladies. I went for a checkup today and he expressed surprise, once again, when my records reminded him that I had obtained a parasite in a non-third-world country some five months ago. Come on buddy, I’m your ticket to the New England Journal of Medicine, come up with a mnemonic or something. Secondly, although I’m certainly no expert in medical etiquette, I believe it is probably rarely appropriate for a physician to respond to his patient’s symptoms with shocked disbelief, as in "Joint pain? Good God, what will become of you?" or "A headache and congestion? Now I’ve seen everything!" It doesn’t exactly instill confidence. Finally, I think perhaps he should learn to type with more than just one finger at a time. I mean, I think about smacking him just waiting for him to hunt and peck that I have a "cold;" I can’t imagine what patients with long-worded conditions like "hypoglycemia" or "fibromyalgia" must do.
And thus continues my lifelong mission to improve everyone around me, one person at a time. No, it isn’t easy to be this perfect, thank you for asking.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Out and About
– The State of the Union. Honestly, can you believe this show is still on the air? Okay, we get it, you hate old people and gays, great. And the casting is downright horrible – that robot is so not believable as Laura Bush.
– Gravity’s Rainbow. I’m only a hundred pages in and I’ve already been treated to a journey through the inner workings of a toilet and a sadomasochistic threesome modeled on the Hansel & Gretel story. No wonder the cover calls it one of the great works of the 20th century.
– The Super Bowl. The day when America salutes the highest in athletic achievement by sitting on its collective ass and eating hot wings by the bucket. Too bad I had money on it – I had Hilary Swank to win the whole thing.
– Duty Calling. Over my strong protests, I have been elected a fire warden for my office. Given the fact that I have been at lunch or on a coffee break for the last three or four drills, it seems pretty certain that we’re all going to die.
– Saturday Night Live. Now that Paris Hilton has hosted, I think we can be pretty sure this show has not only jumped the shark but full-on humped it.
– The State of the Union. Honestly, can you believe this show is still on the air? Okay, we get it, you hate old people and gays, great. And the casting is downright horrible – that robot is so not believable as Laura Bush.
– Gravity’s Rainbow. I’m only a hundred pages in and I’ve already been treated to a journey through the inner workings of a toilet and a sadomasochistic threesome modeled on the Hansel & Gretel story. No wonder the cover calls it one of the great works of the 20th century.
– The Super Bowl. The day when America salutes the highest in athletic achievement by sitting on its collective ass and eating hot wings by the bucket. Too bad I had money on it – I had Hilary Swank to win the whole thing.
– Duty Calling. Over my strong protests, I have been elected a fire warden for my office. Given the fact that I have been at lunch or on a coffee break for the last three or four drills, it seems pretty certain that we’re all going to die.
– Saturday Night Live. Now that Paris Hilton has hosted, I think we can be pretty sure this show has not only jumped the shark but full-on humped it.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Spring is (Not) Here
This weekend we were graced with some truly beautiful (for February) weather in Chicago, and as tends to happen in these circumstances, everyone went totally batshit insane. Saturday I awoke to the sound of children screaming in glee as they vandalized my neighbor’s admittedly excessive lawn statuary (the lawn being perhaps five feet by five feet), and I was nearly mauled by a pack of rabid runners in the park. Later, I spotted a girl wearing honest-to-God Daisy Dukes (along with her Uggs) for her fifty-degree trip down Michigan Avenue. This would have been less of a problem had she been more of the proportions of Daisy Duke and less of, say, Marmaduke, but I’m not one to judge. Oh wait, no, I completely am.
As could perhaps be expected, the weather-induced insanity did not bypass my doorstep. After spending several hours staring at random television with my roommate, I finally realized that Mickey Blue Eyes was never going to be a good movie no matter how many times TBS put it on, and I decided, for reasons unknown and perhaps ultimately unknowable, to go to the zoo. This led to several important realizations:
– unlike humans, most animals are bright enough not to stand around outside in the winter
– most parents sort of hate their children, if children’s fashion is to be any indication
– when snow melts it turns into water, which, when ankle deep across a sidewalk or lawn, is in and of itself sort of unappealing
– going to the zoo alone makes me feel like everyone’s going to think I’m a child molester
At which point I headed home. Who knew that a botched attempt at viewing giraffes could lead to such a high degree of self-awareness?
This weekend we were graced with some truly beautiful (for February) weather in Chicago, and as tends to happen in these circumstances, everyone went totally batshit insane. Saturday I awoke to the sound of children screaming in glee as they vandalized my neighbor’s admittedly excessive lawn statuary (the lawn being perhaps five feet by five feet), and I was nearly mauled by a pack of rabid runners in the park. Later, I spotted a girl wearing honest-to-God Daisy Dukes (along with her Uggs) for her fifty-degree trip down Michigan Avenue. This would have been less of a problem had she been more of the proportions of Daisy Duke and less of, say, Marmaduke, but I’m not one to judge. Oh wait, no, I completely am.
As could perhaps be expected, the weather-induced insanity did not bypass my doorstep. After spending several hours staring at random television with my roommate, I finally realized that Mickey Blue Eyes was never going to be a good movie no matter how many times TBS put it on, and I decided, for reasons unknown and perhaps ultimately unknowable, to go to the zoo. This led to several important realizations:
– unlike humans, most animals are bright enough not to stand around outside in the winter
– most parents sort of hate their children, if children’s fashion is to be any indication
– when snow melts it turns into water, which, when ankle deep across a sidewalk or lawn, is in and of itself sort of unappealing
– going to the zoo alone makes me feel like everyone’s going to think I’m a child molester
At which point I headed home. Who knew that a botched attempt at viewing giraffes could lead to such a high degree of self-awareness?
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Milestones
I am definitely 27 now. It probably won't keep me from continuing to get carded for R-rated movies, but it's a fact of life. Now I have to enter 27 instead of 26 when the treadmill at my gym asks me how old I am. I'm not really sure why it needs to know, but it keeps on asking. Maybe it's hitting on me. I could do a lot worse.
The birthday weekend has been a good one. About your standard amount of debaucherous and regrettable behavior, but this weekend my friends subsidized it. Since those bastards at the National Endowment for the Arts refuse to. My friend Liz made a delicious cake, and improved on last year's frosted greeting of "Happy Jay" with a more on-message "Happy birthday, Jay." My friend Meghan gave me a card with a picture of a kitty so hypnotically adorable I fear it must be subliminally training me to kill. And my friend Wade bought me the Tequila shots that nearly pushed me into Exorcist-style bouts of projectile vomiting. For my part, I made my justly famous chili-cheese dip and have been eating the leftovers all weekend, since I have no shame. You just haven't lived until you've had nacho cheese doritos dipped into two-day-old queso. You may tell yourself that you have, but you are in deep and profound denial.
Well, I've got to get going to a Super Bowl party. Because anyone who knows anything about me at all knows that I'm the world's biggest football fan. I'm just hoping Paul McCartney doesn't ruin it all by trying to take his top off. Think of the children.
I am definitely 27 now. It probably won't keep me from continuing to get carded for R-rated movies, but it's a fact of life. Now I have to enter 27 instead of 26 when the treadmill at my gym asks me how old I am. I'm not really sure why it needs to know, but it keeps on asking. Maybe it's hitting on me. I could do a lot worse.
The birthday weekend has been a good one. About your standard amount of debaucherous and regrettable behavior, but this weekend my friends subsidized it. Since those bastards at the National Endowment for the Arts refuse to. My friend Liz made a delicious cake, and improved on last year's frosted greeting of "Happy Jay" with a more on-message "Happy birthday, Jay." My friend Meghan gave me a card with a picture of a kitty so hypnotically adorable I fear it must be subliminally training me to kill. And my friend Wade bought me the Tequila shots that nearly pushed me into Exorcist-style bouts of projectile vomiting. For my part, I made my justly famous chili-cheese dip and have been eating the leftovers all weekend, since I have no shame. You just haven't lived until you've had nacho cheese doritos dipped into two-day-old queso. You may tell yourself that you have, but you are in deep and profound denial.
Well, I've got to get going to a Super Bowl party. Because anyone who knows anything about me at all knows that I'm the world's biggest football fan. I'm just hoping Paul McCartney doesn't ruin it all by trying to take his top off. Think of the children.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Rebuttal
A big thanks to Kathy for her admirable tribute/roast yesterday. Just a few points of clarification, though:
-- The ziploc bags get changed at least once a month, depending on the results of my rigorous opacity screenings.
-- Little Debbie made the first move, although I do love her cowgirl hat.
-- Most of The OC is actually based on the works of Proust, minus the sucking.
Perhaps we'll have Kathy back to blog again some time. Don't get any ideas, though; you're pretty much stuck with me.
The birthday weekend continues. I'll share all the details that are fit to print tomorrow.
A big thanks to Kathy for her admirable tribute/roast yesterday. Just a few points of clarification, though:
-- The ziploc bags get changed at least once a month, depending on the results of my rigorous opacity screenings.
-- Little Debbie made the first move, although I do love her cowgirl hat.
-- Most of The OC is actually based on the works of Proust, minus the sucking.
Perhaps we'll have Kathy back to blog again some time. Don't get any ideas, though; you're pretty much stuck with me.
The birthday weekend continues. I'll share all the details that are fit to print tomorrow.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Happy Birthday, Jay!
As Jay mentioned yesterday, due to his birthday and his "doctor’s appointment" this afternoon, I’ll be guest blogging today. I know, I too fear change, but he will return tomorrow to provide the salacious details of his birthday fete, the likes of which I’m quite sure will not have been seen since ancient Rome. The only question is which room in his apartment will be designated as the vomitorium, or if you prefer, the cookie-cake repository. Hope your bedroom locks from the outside, darling. Anyway, in honor of our dear friend reaching the front end of middle age, here are the top five reasons why I love Jay:
5. The blog, of course. You’d think I could manage to stay entertained when my job entails evaluating a lawsuit brought by a guy who wasn’t hired by his chosen employer even though his cover letter clearly warned that he would have to seek legal recourse "in the unfortunate event" that he was passed over. In fact, my motivation to work is so lacking that by mid afternoon the Yahoo! login screen simply reads "You again?" The blog provides a much-needed dose of celebrity gossip and way-too-personal information during the unbearable stretch between lunch and coffee break, and as an added bonus it contains enough obscure references to summon my "I’m thinking really hard face," which is quite useful in the event that one of my supervisors passes by.
4. The green streak. Few people know just how environmentally conscious our beloved is, but this child has been reusing the same Zip-loc bag for his sandwich every day since the mid-80's. Why chain yourself to a redwood when all you really have to do is pack your lunch in a bag so old that the microbes have consumed half of your PBJ by the time noon rolls around? Clear, Jay. The bag is supposed to be clear.
3. Sweet tooth. Many know that the most dangerous place in our office is between Jay and the vending machine. In this age of low-carb diets and an (incomprehensible, really) aversion to trans fats, J is single-handedly keeping Little Debbie in business. Here’s a guy who cares about his health to the point where he’ll be at the gym at dawn even in the throes of a hangover so vicious that his skin is visibly green. But come near him with a piece of fruit and he’ll vanish faster than my ex when I said "I love you."
2. TV. As if his taste in snack cakes weren’t enough of an indication of his maturity, there’s a reason why Jay’s TiVo thinks he’s a 12-year old girl. Ever a contradiction, he divides his time fairly evenly between the works of Proust and Faulkner and the blossoming lesbianism of Marissa Cooper on the OC. For most of us, stumbling across an episode of "DeGrassi Junior High" would be little more than an occasion to mock to the accents of awkward Canadian pre-teens, but apparently Jay is actually compelled by the storylines. (Incidentally, why have the Canadians not figured out that teenagers should only be played by impossibly attractive 30 year olds?) Which is not to say that I’m a History Channel-only type of girl (Kara Saun is SO going win Project Runway) but I will revolt if Jay devotes any blog space to recapping the DJH episode about the humiliated motherless girl who had to be taken by her gruff steelworker father to purchase her first training bra. Oh wait, that was me. Sorry, daddy.
1. Frank, we hardly knew you. I had the pleasure of getting to know Jay just as he was discovering that the fire in his belly was not ambition but a tiny worm. I wonder how many other lifelong friendships have been founded on discussions of stool samples? I remember finding it strangely endearing that he had befriended the wee parasite. On the other hand, I too tend to make friends only to murder them later. There’s a lesson to be learned here, all ye friends of Jay: he’s being nice now, but any day now he’s going to vanquish you with toxic quantities of antibiotics.
Happy birthday, Jay!
As Jay mentioned yesterday, due to his birthday and his "doctor’s appointment" this afternoon, I’ll be guest blogging today. I know, I too fear change, but he will return tomorrow to provide the salacious details of his birthday fete, the likes of which I’m quite sure will not have been seen since ancient Rome. The only question is which room in his apartment will be designated as the vomitorium, or if you prefer, the cookie-cake repository. Hope your bedroom locks from the outside, darling. Anyway, in honor of our dear friend reaching the front end of middle age, here are the top five reasons why I love Jay:
5. The blog, of course. You’d think I could manage to stay entertained when my job entails evaluating a lawsuit brought by a guy who wasn’t hired by his chosen employer even though his cover letter clearly warned that he would have to seek legal recourse "in the unfortunate event" that he was passed over. In fact, my motivation to work is so lacking that by mid afternoon the Yahoo! login screen simply reads "You again?" The blog provides a much-needed dose of celebrity gossip and way-too-personal information during the unbearable stretch between lunch and coffee break, and as an added bonus it contains enough obscure references to summon my "I’m thinking really hard face," which is quite useful in the event that one of my supervisors passes by.
4. The green streak. Few people know just how environmentally conscious our beloved is, but this child has been reusing the same Zip-loc bag for his sandwich every day since the mid-80's. Why chain yourself to a redwood when all you really have to do is pack your lunch in a bag so old that the microbes have consumed half of your PBJ by the time noon rolls around? Clear, Jay. The bag is supposed to be clear.
3. Sweet tooth. Many know that the most dangerous place in our office is between Jay and the vending machine. In this age of low-carb diets and an (incomprehensible, really) aversion to trans fats, J is single-handedly keeping Little Debbie in business. Here’s a guy who cares about his health to the point where he’ll be at the gym at dawn even in the throes of a hangover so vicious that his skin is visibly green. But come near him with a piece of fruit and he’ll vanish faster than my ex when I said "I love you."
2. TV. As if his taste in snack cakes weren’t enough of an indication of his maturity, there’s a reason why Jay’s TiVo thinks he’s a 12-year old girl. Ever a contradiction, he divides his time fairly evenly between the works of Proust and Faulkner and the blossoming lesbianism of Marissa Cooper on the OC. For most of us, stumbling across an episode of "DeGrassi Junior High" would be little more than an occasion to mock to the accents of awkward Canadian pre-teens, but apparently Jay is actually compelled by the storylines. (Incidentally, why have the Canadians not figured out that teenagers should only be played by impossibly attractive 30 year olds?) Which is not to say that I’m a History Channel-only type of girl (Kara Saun is SO going win Project Runway) but I will revolt if Jay devotes any blog space to recapping the DJH episode about the humiliated motherless girl who had to be taken by her gruff steelworker father to purchase her first training bra. Oh wait, that was me. Sorry, daddy.
1. Frank, we hardly knew you. I had the pleasure of getting to know Jay just as he was discovering that the fire in his belly was not ambition but a tiny worm. I wonder how many other lifelong friendships have been founded on discussions of stool samples? I remember finding it strangely endearing that he had befriended the wee parasite. On the other hand, I too tend to make friends only to murder them later. There’s a lesson to be learned here, all ye friends of Jay: he’s being nice now, but any day now he’s going to vanquish you with toxic quantities of antibiotics.
Happy birthday, Jay!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
In Which I Ramble (More that Usual, Even)
I am up to 85 friends on Friendster and I’m pretty jonesed about the whole thing. It’s like friendship with a competitive aspect, which I really appreciate. Plus, I like to send people messages with a little picture of myself at the top. Maybe I’ll have some stationery made up with that picture of me as Bill the Drug Dealer in the seventh grade play on it. It was a role I was born to play.
I had a dream the other night that I was good friends with Norah Jones and that she was going to come to a party with me. This is odd because, while I assume Ms. Jones to be a lovely person, this is not a relationship that I have ever particularly contemplated during my waking hours. Unlike a relationship with, say, Bjork. I’ve got to get my swan dresses from somewhere.
I’ve decided that I work too hard. This is a decision that lacks any basis in fact, but it is enjoyable nonetheless. I think I’ll take the day off and go to Chuck E Cheese.
Word on the street is that I’ll be having my first ever guest blogger tomorrow. My friend Kathy, who is funny, has volunteered to present what was first billed as a "roast of" but later termed a "tribute to" me, in honor of my birthday. I remain guardedly optimistic.
I am up to 85 friends on Friendster and I’m pretty jonesed about the whole thing. It’s like friendship with a competitive aspect, which I really appreciate. Plus, I like to send people messages with a little picture of myself at the top. Maybe I’ll have some stationery made up with that picture of me as Bill the Drug Dealer in the seventh grade play on it. It was a role I was born to play.
I had a dream the other night that I was good friends with Norah Jones and that she was going to come to a party with me. This is odd because, while I assume Ms. Jones to be a lovely person, this is not a relationship that I have ever particularly contemplated during my waking hours. Unlike a relationship with, say, Bjork. I’ve got to get my swan dresses from somewhere.
I’ve decided that I work too hard. This is a decision that lacks any basis in fact, but it is enjoyable nonetheless. I think I’ll take the day off and go to Chuck E Cheese.
Word on the street is that I’ll be having my first ever guest blogger tomorrow. My friend Kathy, who is funny, has volunteered to present what was first billed as a "roast of" but later termed a "tribute to" me, in honor of my birthday. I remain guardedly optimistic.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Modern Maturity
I turn 27 this Friday and I have decided that this is going to be my age of maturity. Time to reduce the intake of Tequila shots and up the daily allotment of oat bran. Time to switch off the Ashlee Simpson and get some serious NPR news going. Time to start a 401(k), get a mortgage, and adopt some Vietnamese babies. I’m going all adult, baby. And I don’t mean the fun kind of "adult" with naughty nurses and fourgies.
I mean, I’m going to be old. 27 is the very oldest I personally have ever been. When I was in high school, I don’t think I could even conceive of the concept of 27, although I’m pretty sure I thought I would have an awesome goatee and be a professional ghost hunter by now. And be friends with Pearl Jam, which may not actually be so far out of reach. Call me, Eddie.
I think 27 is maybe the age by which you’re supposed to have everything figured out in your life, big picture issues like love, career, and draft epitaph included. I mean, do you think Thomas Edison was still writing obsessive explications of public transportation etiquette and snarky commentary on children’s TV shows on the internet when he was 27? No, he was inventing the light bulb, or if not, at least he was lying about it when he ran into people from his high school.
"Oh yeah, everything’s going great," he’d say. "Living up in Menlo Park. Just invented a little thing called the light bulb; maybe you’ve heard of it. Bought myself a Ferrari, playing around a little while I’m still young, you know?"
That’s why people hated Thomas Edison.
But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m getting way too old for my many failings to be adorable. Already I feel a shocking urge to eat dinner at 4 PM and tell people to put on sweaters rather than turn up the thermostat.
I turn 27 this Friday and I have decided that this is going to be my age of maturity. Time to reduce the intake of Tequila shots and up the daily allotment of oat bran. Time to switch off the Ashlee Simpson and get some serious NPR news going. Time to start a 401(k), get a mortgage, and adopt some Vietnamese babies. I’m going all adult, baby. And I don’t mean the fun kind of "adult" with naughty nurses and fourgies.
I mean, I’m going to be old. 27 is the very oldest I personally have ever been. When I was in high school, I don’t think I could even conceive of the concept of 27, although I’m pretty sure I thought I would have an awesome goatee and be a professional ghost hunter by now. And be friends with Pearl Jam, which may not actually be so far out of reach. Call me, Eddie.
I think 27 is maybe the age by which you’re supposed to have everything figured out in your life, big picture issues like love, career, and draft epitaph included. I mean, do you think Thomas Edison was still writing obsessive explications of public transportation etiquette and snarky commentary on children’s TV shows on the internet when he was 27? No, he was inventing the light bulb, or if not, at least he was lying about it when he ran into people from his high school.
"Oh yeah, everything’s going great," he’d say. "Living up in Menlo Park. Just invented a little thing called the light bulb; maybe you’ve heard of it. Bought myself a Ferrari, playing around a little while I’m still young, you know?"
That’s why people hated Thomas Edison.
But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m getting way too old for my many failings to be adorable. Already I feel a shocking urge to eat dinner at 4 PM and tell people to put on sweaters rather than turn up the thermostat.
