Men, what's the matter with men today? Let me opine on a "relevant" subject.
I don't now how or when, but it seems overnight, normal guys adopted the stance they were becoming suburban housewives. Fancy frosted hair do's manicured nails, waxed eyebrows and chests and the spray-on tan that gives you the orange glow of an Oompa-Loompa. It's all so sad; what happened? Why would any hetero guy want to look like this? More importantly,what woman finds this attractive?
Really- tan, wax, powder and pomade yourself into oblivion; you do your thing. I want you to be as happy and perfect as you can be. But you must understand, I just feel that a man should never smell better than his girlfriend. Grooming should be shower, get the crud from under your nails, pluck the stray hairs and use deodorant; there you go, you look like a million bucks!
Let me give you an example of all this foolishness:
I went to get my eyebrows waxed; sitting next to me, a man instructing the woman how to perfectly arch his brows. His girlfriend was standing right next to him, watching this whole scene transpire. I just couldn't watch; actually, it had more to do with the woman working on my brows--when someone has a large sharp pair of scissors. you turn your head in any direction they want.
I guess sometimes, I would like things to go back to the way they were. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to sitting on my porch, drinking lemonade and back to my fine whittling.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
This public service announcement was brought to you by LeFig
Girls, what's the matter with girls today (here I go getting all uppity)?
Women used to care about themselves, used to have goals; get an education and try to go
someplace in life. Now it seems as if every time I turn around, it's another story about some dumb broad who sent a naked picture of themselves through the Internet, and now shocked! that it got in the hands of the wrong person.
Maybe we used to have a sense of shame; now it's become "I did a stupid thing, but now I'll become an Internet sensation." Or "I'm free; I just want to express my sexuality". Please stop--you're making me nauseous. Express yourself, okay; how about doing a little interpretive dance, write a little poetry--why does it always end up becoming just another cog in the wheels of the machine of stupid?
Sorry; maybe I'm just old school, but all this nudity, all this in your face behavior, it seems as if it's the work of somebody not getting enough love, or somebody has a boyfriend (always a real piece of work) that can just talk them into anything: "baby, you're beautiful, come on, let me show the world how beautiful you are"--girls still fall for that drivel, I guess.
And we know what happens next. Once a normal gal turns into a freak job with bleached blond hair, duck bill lips and clown boobs (sort of a cross between Victoria Beckham and Pam Anderson, very creepy), she's a star. I would think If I was an actual porn star, I would be pissed that these gals would jump on my turf. But then again, all of you are spreading your legs and/or having sex on camera, so what's the difference?
Women used to have a sense of self; its hard to imagine a time when we couldn't work where we wanted, lead the lives of our own choosing. It's no wonder so many women from the 70's were so damn angry; trying to get a job and some fat bastard with a cigar wants you to be his secretary. That meant sitting on his lap while he called you honey and smacked you on the ass.
When did it go from "ladies we can do it to 10am stripper pole classes"? Really, you would never see a guy putting up with this crap. Maybe when a rash of men are coming out of cars going commando I might change my tune.
And please, If you do not understand what "going commando" means, just ask a 12 year old,
I'm sure they can explain it along with "Rainbow parties", sipping syrup and pulling a train. I must go now; I feel ill.
Women used to care about themselves, used to have goals; get an education and try to go
someplace in life. Now it seems as if every time I turn around, it's another story about some dumb broad who sent a naked picture of themselves through the Internet, and now shocked! that it got in the hands of the wrong person.
Maybe we used to have a sense of shame; now it's become "I did a stupid thing, but now I'll become an Internet sensation." Or "I'm free; I just want to express my sexuality". Please stop--you're making me nauseous. Express yourself, okay; how about doing a little interpretive dance, write a little poetry--why does it always end up becoming just another cog in the wheels of the machine of stupid?
Sorry; maybe I'm just old school, but all this nudity, all this in your face behavior, it seems as if it's the work of somebody not getting enough love, or somebody has a boyfriend (always a real piece of work) that can just talk them into anything: "baby, you're beautiful, come on, let me show the world how beautiful you are"--girls still fall for that drivel, I guess.
And we know what happens next. Once a normal gal turns into a freak job with bleached blond hair, duck bill lips and clown boobs (sort of a cross between Victoria Beckham and Pam Anderson, very creepy), she's a star. I would think If I was an actual porn star, I would be pissed that these gals would jump on my turf. But then again, all of you are spreading your legs and/or having sex on camera, so what's the difference?
Women used to have a sense of self; its hard to imagine a time when we couldn't work where we wanted, lead the lives of our own choosing. It's no wonder so many women from the 70's were so damn angry; trying to get a job and some fat bastard with a cigar wants you to be his secretary. That meant sitting on his lap while he called you honey and smacked you on the ass.
When did it go from "ladies we can do it to 10am stripper pole classes"? Really, you would never see a guy putting up with this crap. Maybe when a rash of men are coming out of cars going commando I might change my tune.
And please, If you do not understand what "going commando" means, just ask a 12 year old,
I'm sure they can explain it along with "Rainbow parties", sipping syrup and pulling a train. I must go now; I feel ill.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Hello, my little bluebird
So my little breaded veal, how's life treating you? Happy and full of good cheer? Ready to greet the day like a ray of sunshine? Probably not; more or less, it's the feeling of being a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated and the person closest to you just gave you a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops--and they smiled giving you your gift. Always remember this my minions: a good attitude will get you everywhere and a lousy attitude will get you to read my blog.
Even though there are times I go through crippling self doubt (enough to put Brian Wilson back in his sandbox), I somehow manage to go through the routine. Listen, I know I'm an odd gal and strange things set me off. At the supermarket, I have to fight an odd urge to squeeze the cheese balls (big yellow or wine colored, covered in nuts; tell me they don't just scream "smash me please!"). When I was a kid, I used to mush the Wonder bread. It drove my mother crazy to the point where she stopped taking me to the market altogether. All around N.Y. are loaves of mutilated bread with my finger prints all over them.
So let me tell you about a dream I had: I'm a bluebird flying along. A hunter catches me in his sights, shoots me--I fall, a dog picks me up and drags me to the hunter. He takes one look at me, throws me into the bushes, and I die alone, only to be picked apart by a family of squirrels.
What does it all mean? Now, I seek a metaphor that could closely resemble who I am.
The graceful bird, the mythical unicorn, cheeky monkey or just a clever horse. I would probably be the pig. Born under the sign of the pig (or boar--whatever you prefer). I don't know what my sign signifies, just that I was told quite a bit in my younger days that I had ham hands. Apparently, I had a propensity for dropping and breaking things (ham hands seemed silly; shouldn't it have been hoof hands? Furthermore, I've never actually seen a pig pick up anything but who knows?
While I still have you here let me share this story with you.
When I was a teenager, at 2 in the morning, I found myself being followed by a group of youths for about four long blocks. They walked behind me, making oink noises and throwing beer cans at me. The beer cans were empty of course; why would you waste good beer on a sow? So did I have a girly meltdown? Fly into a rage? No, I finally got home and suppressed my feelings with carbs. The great thing is I get to write about it and tell you the boys who did this all wound up dying in a fiery car crash, hit by a drunk driver. I don't know this for sure, but this is my story and I end it as I see fit.
Have a sunshine day my little sparrows; remember to avoid the hunters.
Even though there are times I go through crippling self doubt (enough to put Brian Wilson back in his sandbox), I somehow manage to go through the routine. Listen, I know I'm an odd gal and strange things set me off. At the supermarket, I have to fight an odd urge to squeeze the cheese balls (big yellow or wine colored, covered in nuts; tell me they don't just scream "smash me please!"). When I was a kid, I used to mush the Wonder bread. It drove my mother crazy to the point where she stopped taking me to the market altogether. All around N.Y. are loaves of mutilated bread with my finger prints all over them.
So let me tell you about a dream I had: I'm a bluebird flying along. A hunter catches me in his sights, shoots me--I fall, a dog picks me up and drags me to the hunter. He takes one look at me, throws me into the bushes, and I die alone, only to be picked apart by a family of squirrels.
What does it all mean? Now, I seek a metaphor that could closely resemble who I am.
The graceful bird, the mythical unicorn, cheeky monkey or just a clever horse. I would probably be the pig. Born under the sign of the pig (or boar--whatever you prefer). I don't know what my sign signifies, just that I was told quite a bit in my younger days that I had ham hands. Apparently, I had a propensity for dropping and breaking things (ham hands seemed silly; shouldn't it have been hoof hands? Furthermore, I've never actually seen a pig pick up anything but who knows?
While I still have you here let me share this story with you.
When I was a teenager, at 2 in the morning, I found myself being followed by a group of youths for about four long blocks. They walked behind me, making oink noises and throwing beer cans at me. The beer cans were empty of course; why would you waste good beer on a sow? So did I have a girly meltdown? Fly into a rage? No, I finally got home and suppressed my feelings with carbs. The great thing is I get to write about it and tell you the boys who did this all wound up dying in a fiery car crash, hit by a drunk driver. I don't know this for sure, but this is my story and I end it as I see fit.
Have a sunshine day my little sparrows; remember to avoid the hunters.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Can't be happy all the time, can we?
I feel a bit of the old January sadness. Everyone seems so cheery; people still say
"happy new year" to me but I just don't feel it. I guess I have other things on my mind.
(and no, it's not just that Starbucks stopped using the Christmas cups this week).
Let me pose this question to you: do you ever feel that you're a bit behind the times? At my ripe old age, I do feel as if I've been phased out of the workforce. Well, everyone uses a computer, knows everything there is about computers and I don't. Well, I'm kinda behind the times, and trying to catch up. Maybe if I can get my typing skills up to 40WPM instead of 19 WPM, maybe there's hope (I know; its sad).
So what can a gal do to kill the time--read a good book? Nah, let's see what's on TV.
So what's on in Jan.--NOTHING! It's all show cast-offs; thank you, writers strike. Actually,
thank you, greedy companies for not paying writers pennies on the dollar, you bastards. Really need the money, don't you. Let's see... shitty bosses being cheap; I may know a thing or two about that subject. Keep your chins up, writers; I would doff my cap to you, if I had one.
Unfortunately, now what we are stuck with are the usual suspects: reality show crap.
Drug addicts, sluts, sad fat people, Orange County whores, matchmakers, bickering couples in faraway lands, bitchy designer wannabes, crappy dancers, song contests and desperate former stars with some "day in the life reality show"; great, thank you VH1, NBC, ABC, CBS and Bravo for adding so much to the TV screen.
In my little mind, Jan sucks. But I will say one good thing--it's 60 degrees for the last two days, so if this is global warming I say bring it on.
And one last thing: just so you know, I do enjoy the misery of others. I kinda hope Britney Spears kicks the bucket and I still hold out hope that guy from the Subway sandwich commercials gets fat again. Screw him and those awful bready sandwiches.
"happy new year" to me but I just don't feel it. I guess I have other things on my mind.
(and no, it's not just that Starbucks stopped using the Christmas cups this week).
Let me pose this question to you: do you ever feel that you're a bit behind the times? At my ripe old age, I do feel as if I've been phased out of the workforce. Well, everyone uses a computer, knows everything there is about computers and I don't. Well, I'm kinda behind the times, and trying to catch up. Maybe if I can get my typing skills up to 40WPM instead of 19 WPM, maybe there's hope (I know; its sad).
So what can a gal do to kill the time--read a good book? Nah, let's see what's on TV.
So what's on in Jan.--NOTHING! It's all show cast-offs; thank you, writers strike. Actually,
thank you, greedy companies for not paying writers pennies on the dollar, you bastards. Really need the money, don't you. Let's see... shitty bosses being cheap; I may know a thing or two about that subject. Keep your chins up, writers; I would doff my cap to you, if I had one.
Unfortunately, now what we are stuck with are the usual suspects: reality show crap.
Drug addicts, sluts, sad fat people, Orange County whores, matchmakers, bickering couples in faraway lands, bitchy designer wannabes, crappy dancers, song contests and desperate former stars with some "day in the life reality show"; great, thank you VH1, NBC, ABC, CBS and Bravo for adding so much to the TV screen.
In my little mind, Jan sucks. But I will say one good thing--it's 60 degrees for the last two days, so if this is global warming I say bring it on.
And one last thing: just so you know, I do enjoy the misery of others. I kinda hope Britney Spears kicks the bucket and I still hold out hope that guy from the Subway sandwich commercials gets fat again. Screw him and those awful bready sandwiches.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Some climb mountains, others just use a tredmill
You have to admit, the language can be salty, but I sure do know how to spin a good yarn.
So I joined a gym. Nothing funny about it, 15 minutes from my apt.; 50 bucks a year.
There I am on the elliptical trainer,
as I sweat away last night's steak dinner, I notice all
the gym rats dribbling in.
I'm sure you may have seen these types: the woman who uses the treadmill for 10 minutes, gets off comes back another 10 minutes back and forth; are you on or off ? Make up your mind, lady. The senior citizen on the bike with her hat, leg warmers, wristbands and yellow water bottle (all she needed was a leotard and the song "Maniac" playing in the background). The gentleman sitting next to her on the bike, wearing a ski cap, jeans and work boots: "pardon me sir, have you ever been to a gym?" Okay, I thought it; I didn't ask the man. Would you? He looked like a mental patient.
The last, always my personal favorite... Muscle guy lifts some weights, preens in the mirror,
more weights--grunting, groaning slamming the weights down; ecch, get a room you steroid- filled freak. And for the love of Pete, stop slamming the weights down; I can feel it from across
the room.
One last thing--to use the equipment you must put your name on the list. People circulating
around the machines; some one gets on, you hear "are you on the list? " The list, the list; OK, we get it--the list. You would think it was to get into some exclusive club. Silly people; after a month, they probably won't come back.
So I joined a gym. Nothing funny about it, 15 minutes from my apt.; 50 bucks a year.
There I am on the elliptical trainer,
as I sweat away last night's steak dinner, I notice all
the gym rats dribbling in.
I'm sure you may have seen these types: the woman who uses the treadmill for 10 minutes, gets off comes back another 10 minutes back and forth; are you on or off ? Make up your mind, lady. The senior citizen on the bike with her hat, leg warmers, wristbands and yellow water bottle (all she needed was a leotard and the song "Maniac" playing in the background). The gentleman sitting next to her on the bike, wearing a ski cap, jeans and work boots: "pardon me sir, have you ever been to a gym?" Okay, I thought it; I didn't ask the man. Would you? He looked like a mental patient.
The last, always my personal favorite... Muscle guy lifts some weights, preens in the mirror,
more weights--grunting, groaning slamming the weights down; ecch, get a room you steroid- filled freak. And for the love of Pete, stop slamming the weights down; I can feel it from across
the room.
One last thing--to use the equipment you must put your name on the list. People circulating
around the machines; some one gets on, you hear "are you on the list? " The list, the list; OK, we get it--the list. You would think it was to get into some exclusive club. Silly people; after a month, they probably won't come back.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
When you care enough to send the very best; when you don't send the cheap card
Once a week you run errands, pick up your prescriptions, tampons, Rolaids, candy, maybe the ''Road Songs" CD, (always loved "East Bound and Down" by Jerry Reed; I say buy it--make the bandit proud). But no matter what, I'm always drawn to the card aisle. For the love of God, how many cards are out there; how many occasions in one's life really needs a card? Does the amount of love you feel for someone really mean buying some $5.00 card with fancy script, hand cut silhouette, glitter or dried flowers ?
What happens when it's a friend, one of those "okay I need to buy this person a card, but emotionally I'm just not there". You probably check the price: let's see this is $3.99, but this card is $1.75 and it says enough. Maybe it's the friend who you never see anymore; the card you pick has some little squiggle drawing of a forlorn "Kathy"-type, (horrible cartoon strip, never funny). On the inside, "Happy Birthday--thinking of you", which really means, hey we don't see each other much, but see--I made an effort; I did my job. In those situations you never want to say too much; don't pick a blank card--you could run the risk of somehow offending. You never want to be mean when sending a card, or so I've been told. My idea of sensitivity is sending a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops.
The most fun are the relatives: the drunk uncle, the knocked up cousin, the distant mother or father, the stepbrother that inappropriately touched you when you were 12. My fave would be the niece that just got out of rehab. Little Miss Methmouth is now clean and sober and you want to show you care. Maybe a card with a watercolor painting of a bunch of boats (looks like a reproduction of one of those "starving artist" sale paintings). If someone really did paint this, they deserve to starve to death. The card itself would say "I know you feel adrift, but soon it will be smooth sailing". Translation: "stay off the ice, dimwit and maybe we might think Promises rehab and a good set of dentures was worth the money".
If you still feel unsure about buying a card, always remember: there's always the 99 Cent store.
Get a card with a kitten on it. Who doesn't love a good kitty?
What happens when it's a friend, one of those "okay I need to buy this person a card, but emotionally I'm just not there". You probably check the price: let's see this is $3.99, but this card is $1.75 and it says enough. Maybe it's the friend who you never see anymore; the card you pick has some little squiggle drawing of a forlorn "Kathy"-type, (horrible cartoon strip, never funny). On the inside, "Happy Birthday--thinking of you", which really means, hey we don't see each other much, but see--I made an effort; I did my job. In those situations you never want to say too much; don't pick a blank card--you could run the risk of somehow offending. You never want to be mean when sending a card, or so I've been told. My idea of sensitivity is sending a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops.
The most fun are the relatives: the drunk uncle, the knocked up cousin, the distant mother or father, the stepbrother that inappropriately touched you when you were 12. My fave would be the niece that just got out of rehab. Little Miss Methmouth is now clean and sober and you want to show you care. Maybe a card with a watercolor painting of a bunch of boats (looks like a reproduction of one of those "starving artist" sale paintings). If someone really did paint this, they deserve to starve to death. The card itself would say "I know you feel adrift, but soon it will be smooth sailing". Translation: "stay off the ice, dimwit and maybe we might think Promises rehab and a good set of dentures was worth the money".
If you still feel unsure about buying a card, always remember: there's always the 99 Cent store.
Get a card with a kitten on it. Who doesn't love a good kitty?
Call me Elizabeth, Liz, Lizzy & Liza with a Z if you're into the whole brevity thing...
I'm in a movie quoting mood, so get your video store knowledge flowing.
Video stores -- a relic of the past. What are they now? Places to buy video games. You and your silly World of Warcraft; I have no patience. Grown men playing games all day.
For God's sake, man, get off your couch and do something. Please let me opine obsessives.
I'm sure Halo seems like pure heaven, but you smell--your couch has the imprint of your ass on it, your friends--friend, ok; your Mom's worried about you. Even the girl you have tied up in your basement since last year misses you (actually she has Stockholm syndrome, but I say
hey, use it to your advantage).
There's a world out there to be discovered, my massive ponytailed, mustard stained T-shirt wearing pal. Think of all the crappy jobs you could do, people to humiliate you, and the general sense of anger and rage you can feel towards others. Remember what a famous go- getting New Yorker once said--"someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets". Ah, words to live by.
Does anyone remember the story about the couple who let their kids starve because they were so wrapped in their video games? No, this isn't a joke--they literally forgot to feed them. What am I missing? God, people are obsessed, aren't they--the Gamers, the Trekkies, Star Wars--yes, I know the Sandpeople go from side to side; its just not that all encompassing . Besides, Anakin Skywalker wound up being a whiny twat; such a let down.
Let me leave with this thought--has anyone out there noticed that The Dude from the "The
Big Lebowski" and Lance from ''Pulp Fiction'' look eerily similar? I'll just put it out there;
discuss, debate.
Video stores -- a relic of the past. What are they now? Places to buy video games. You and your silly World of Warcraft; I have no patience. Grown men playing games all day.
For God's sake, man, get off your couch and do something. Please let me opine obsessives.
I'm sure Halo seems like pure heaven, but you smell--your couch has the imprint of your ass on it, your friends--friend, ok; your Mom's worried about you. Even the girl you have tied up in your basement since last year misses you (actually she has Stockholm syndrome, but I say
hey, use it to your advantage).
There's a world out there to be discovered, my massive ponytailed, mustard stained T-shirt wearing pal. Think of all the crappy jobs you could do, people to humiliate you, and the general sense of anger and rage you can feel towards others. Remember what a famous go- getting New Yorker once said--"someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets". Ah, words to live by.
Does anyone remember the story about the couple who let their kids starve because they were so wrapped in their video games? No, this isn't a joke--they literally forgot to feed them. What am I missing? God, people are obsessed, aren't they--the Gamers, the Trekkies, Star Wars--yes, I know the Sandpeople go from side to side; its just not that all encompassing . Besides, Anakin Skywalker wound up being a whiny twat; such a let down.
Let me leave with this thought--has anyone out there noticed that The Dude from the "The
Big Lebowski" and Lance from ''Pulp Fiction'' look eerily similar? I'll just put it out there;
discuss, debate.
Friday, January 04, 2008
The ol' whippersnappers need to get the what for from me
There are many things I regret: from the minor--using a sun lamp three inches from my face, without sun block (my face looked like pink puffer fish) to the time I bought a pair of shoes
1 size too small (it was the only size they had; hey they were adorable). Unfortunately, I then
walked around N.Y., turning my feet into a bloody mess. Maybe sometimes I drank too much. Maybe I didn't take school seriously enough. Then there's the monumental; things you said that you wish you could take back--you feel as if they've changed the course of your existence. I bet right now you might be wincing at the thought of your grand faux pas.
Maybe it's me. I've had a strong sense of shame all my life; the old right vs. wrong. You do something bad; hence, you feel bad right? Why does it seem as if no one has a sense of shame at all anymore: I do what I want, when I want--screw you. And why does it seem the ones doing it are all younger than me and couldn't give a flying rat's ass?
The one thing I find interesting about getting older is how much disdain I have for the youth.
Age gives you that great force field of indignation; no, not the old "in my day" speech, just the way things are going the youth today do seem like a cavalcade of schmucks.
They were mollycoddled as kids, can do no wrong as teens and now in their early twenties are covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting in Starbucks with laptop all day long. Why don't you
have a job? What do you do all day? I would love to have the life of leisure; why, in fact I've written about it, but I can't--I have that pesky thing called rent. Whatever happened to having tattoos that you could hide; you know, if you had a job. I love when women have tattoos on their necks; nothing says classy like having "Tony's Girl" blazoned across one's throat. I want that woman handling my cash at the bank.
It's just my opinion--I can just imagine the parents of some of these winners. Probably out there, a couple worked their fingers to the bone to send Fred to college, only to find he's in debt
from his second life habit. His avatar name is Thor--he's quite the lady killer for a cartoon; his
girlfriend's avatar name is Luxana, a raven haired goddess (!)--actually, she's a Midwest lump with two kids and probably has a bunch of dumb tattoos--a bunch of cherubs and fairies.
Me, I don't have kids--don't want them and I can't imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of some of these wretches. Parents, I would say I feel for you , but I would make me a liar and that would make me feel shame.
1 size too small (it was the only size they had; hey they were adorable). Unfortunately, I then
walked around N.Y., turning my feet into a bloody mess. Maybe sometimes I drank too much. Maybe I didn't take school seriously enough. Then there's the monumental; things you said that you wish you could take back--you feel as if they've changed the course of your existence. I bet right now you might be wincing at the thought of your grand faux pas.
Maybe it's me. I've had a strong sense of shame all my life; the old right vs. wrong. You do something bad; hence, you feel bad right? Why does it seem as if no one has a sense of shame at all anymore: I do what I want, when I want--screw you. And why does it seem the ones doing it are all younger than me and couldn't give a flying rat's ass?
The one thing I find interesting about getting older is how much disdain I have for the youth.
Age gives you that great force field of indignation; no, not the old "in my day" speech, just the way things are going the youth today do seem like a cavalcade of schmucks.
They were mollycoddled as kids, can do no wrong as teens and now in their early twenties are covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting in Starbucks with laptop all day long. Why don't you
have a job? What do you do all day? I would love to have the life of leisure; why, in fact I've written about it, but I can't--I have that pesky thing called rent. Whatever happened to having tattoos that you could hide; you know, if you had a job. I love when women have tattoos on their necks; nothing says classy like having "Tony's Girl" blazoned across one's throat. I want that woman handling my cash at the bank.
It's just my opinion--I can just imagine the parents of some of these winners. Probably out there, a couple worked their fingers to the bone to send Fred to college, only to find he's in debt
from his second life habit. His avatar name is Thor--he's quite the lady killer for a cartoon; his
girlfriend's avatar name is Luxana, a raven haired goddess (!)--actually, she's a Midwest lump with two kids and probably has a bunch of dumb tattoos--a bunch of cherubs and fairies.
Me, I don't have kids--don't want them and I can't imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of some of these wretches. Parents, I would say I feel for you , but I would make me a liar and that would make me feel shame.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Desperately seeking superficiality
You and I may have similar traits. Maybe a love of films, music, good bottle of white wine or
mixed drink ("Love potion" -- banana liqueur & gin; very tasty). Maybe you and I love tasteless jokes: "what do you say to the woman who has two black eyes"? Answer--"nothing she hasn't been told twice already". Okay; if you're laughing, you know this is a joke; if your mouth is agape in horror, remember somewhere in the recesses of my brain the synapses aren't firing at 100%. Either that or I can just blame it all on my parents.
Even with all my personal flaws people still seem to like me, especially men. Well, the types
that either troll Facebook at 2 in the morning and have a duffle bag filled with torture porn, a rope, shovel and bad intentions. Or maybe the guy whose My Space profile has a
picture of someone who looks like Clive Owen, but in reality seems to to be a 300 lb. gentleman with a mullet and possessing the social graces of Ted Bundy.
Maybe it's my way of looking at the world that stops me from enjoying some things in life. For some reason, everyone I know loved the show "My So-Called Life"; me, I would have rather drank bleach then have to sit through that self-important hour long "teen drama" of the horrible '90's. Did the people who made the show ever go to high school? Sorry; really pretty girls with the porcelain skin, perfect hair and slim bodies didn't have the problems--try being 50 pounds overweight, have acne, pissed-off & warring parents, dyslexia and no privacy--that's high school, boyo. Of course it probably says something about me that I'm writing about
a show that's probably been off the air for 14 years. Yes, just call me relevant; next, I'll discuss
whether "Red Dawn" was a piece of cold war propaganda or could Quincy really do his job as ME and solve crimes at the same time (please bring that show back; just to hear ol' half a larynx speak would be worth it).
For all my bravado I really am a sensitive gal. I have a keen idea of the inner thoughts and personality traits of others. I'll tell you who you really are and just what you're thinking. In the end, dispensing thoughtful, sage advice. Now if I could follow my own advice, then I would have it made; instead, I wisely chose not to. One can't spend too much time thinking of one's self can we and let's face it; without something to have neurosis about, how would I exist?
mixed drink ("Love potion" -- banana liqueur & gin; very tasty). Maybe you and I love tasteless jokes: "what do you say to the woman who has two black eyes"? Answer--"nothing she hasn't been told twice already". Okay; if you're laughing, you know this is a joke; if your mouth is agape in horror, remember somewhere in the recesses of my brain the synapses aren't firing at 100%. Either that or I can just blame it all on my parents.
Even with all my personal flaws people still seem to like me, especially men. Well, the types
that either troll Facebook at 2 in the morning and have a duffle bag filled with torture porn, a rope, shovel and bad intentions. Or maybe the guy whose My Space profile has a
picture of someone who looks like Clive Owen, but in reality seems to to be a 300 lb. gentleman with a mullet and possessing the social graces of Ted Bundy.
Maybe it's my way of looking at the world that stops me from enjoying some things in life. For some reason, everyone I know loved the show "My So-Called Life"; me, I would have rather drank bleach then have to sit through that self-important hour long "teen drama" of the horrible '90's. Did the people who made the show ever go to high school? Sorry; really pretty girls with the porcelain skin, perfect hair and slim bodies didn't have the problems--try being 50 pounds overweight, have acne, pissed-off & warring parents, dyslexia and no privacy--that's high school, boyo. Of course it probably says something about me that I'm writing about
a show that's probably been off the air for 14 years. Yes, just call me relevant; next, I'll discuss
whether "Red Dawn" was a piece of cold war propaganda or could Quincy really do his job as ME and solve crimes at the same time (please bring that show back; just to hear ol' half a larynx speak would be worth it).
For all my bravado I really am a sensitive gal. I have a keen idea of the inner thoughts and personality traits of others. I'll tell you who you really are and just what you're thinking. In the end, dispensing thoughtful, sage advice. Now if I could follow my own advice, then I would have it made; instead, I wisely chose not to. One can't spend too much time thinking of one's self can we and let's face it; without something to have neurosis about, how would I exist?
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Don't bogart that cigarette my friend
I have never been one to get on a soapbox about anything. I have my opinions and such. If you want serious commentary or political dissertation this isn't the blog. I just feel that the cigarette hysteria is a bit much for me. No, my dad isn't Fred Marlboro and I don't think smoking is ''cool''. Well, I used to; it had that whole chic Euro thing and gave all the shy girls something to do with their hands; oh yeah and it tasted good. I'm not saying for or against cigarettes, I'll say instead the pungent aroma never bothered me much.
Remember the good old days? You would see smokers everywhere, restaurants, movie theaters and airplanes. Remember bars? You can still go to a bar, pickle your liver till it looks like an olive, but you can't smoke. And as far as I can see in films nowadays, they have "special" ratings for smoking, and it's always after "mild scenes of violence". What a bunch of pandering sissies. The only time you see a smoker nowadays, there usually a Terrorists, and European. Yes, people the threat to this great nation is... a bunch of French guys filled with ennui. Stop, please stop.
Yes, I know the old amputeed foot guy and hole-in-the-throat-where-the-voice-box-used-to-be are very effective commercials, but don't you think somebody warned those guys? And they would probably still be smoking if not for the fact one guy can't walk to the store to get the cigs and the other one has no throat? Just a sick observation; sorry, no really, sorry.
In conclusion, I am a big proponent of free will. You want to smoke, go ahead, if twenty years from now you get sick and they remove your larynx and you sound like Neil Young circa Trans-- hey, if you're happy, what do I care? So ol' Lucille Ball voice--smoke up and have fun until those crazed Frenchmen destroy our American way of life.
Remember the good old days? You would see smokers everywhere, restaurants, movie theaters and airplanes. Remember bars? You can still go to a bar, pickle your liver till it looks like an olive, but you can't smoke. And as far as I can see in films nowadays, they have "special" ratings for smoking, and it's always after "mild scenes of violence". What a bunch of pandering sissies. The only time you see a smoker nowadays, there usually a Terrorists, and European. Yes, people the threat to this great nation is... a bunch of French guys filled with ennui. Stop, please stop.
Yes, I know the old amputeed foot guy and hole-in-the-throat-where-the-voice-box-used-to-be are very effective commercials, but don't you think somebody warned those guys? And they would probably still be smoking if not for the fact one guy can't walk to the store to get the cigs and the other one has no throat? Just a sick observation; sorry, no really, sorry.
In conclusion, I am a big proponent of free will. You want to smoke, go ahead, if twenty years from now you get sick and they remove your larynx and you sound like Neil Young circa Trans-- hey, if you're happy, what do I care? So ol' Lucille Ball voice--smoke up and have fun until those crazed Frenchmen destroy our American way of life.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Couldn't change if you tried, my little Bavarian cream pie
New Year's Day--anything different yet?
So how's the resolutions coming along? Did you get up this morning have a bowl of bran flakes and decaf tea with a wedge of lemon (no milk, no sugar) and go out for a hour run, then some weight training? Nice to the kids, the spouse? Bills in order? Have you finally balanced the checkbook? Let me guess: last nights' festivities consisted of probably a bit too much wine, champagne and many, many mixed drinks. Was it the old "pass me another Long Island iced tea, it's so sweet, how could I get drunk on that?" scenario?
This morning you woke up green and pasty. Your tongue is the color of vanilla yogurt. You drag yourself out of bed and go to the first Dunkin' Donuts you can find (like that's hard; that orange and purple house of caffeine, lard and sugar are everywhere): remember--Starbucks, one block ,the next block Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and so on and so on. So at the pleasure palace of carbs, you get a Great One sized coffee, a glazed, strawberry frosted and a Boston cream donut(wait, get a whole wheat donut for later). Crawl back to your apt, unfurl your goodies and watch TV.
Now you can feel bad seeing all the commercials for Bally's and Jenny Craig (Valerie Bertinelli I can take, but that freak Kirstie Alley made me want to rip my ears off and I have cute ears, mind you). "Have you called Jenny yet? No I haven't and I won't, thank you, now kindly let me wallow in my burger of shame and milkshake of regret.
On a personal note, I had a quiet night; some bread, shrimp and cheese, watched a doc on the Sundance Channel. Ecch, how delightful. I'm such a little fruit, after the movie, I talked about Latin American cinema with my husband and we took our Puggle, Miso, out for a walk.
My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty one years ago. Just a bunch of silly teenage geese going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor. How many? All. So after many hours of drinking "Blue Whales" I found myself at a friends house, with an urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and put a bucket next to my bed. How cute; like a little Bukowski in training. Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me. All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation: "I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.
Enjoy the hours you have before you have to put on your happy work face.
So how's the resolutions coming along? Did you get up this morning have a bowl of bran flakes and decaf tea with a wedge of lemon (no milk, no sugar) and go out for a hour run, then some weight training? Nice to the kids, the spouse? Bills in order? Have you finally balanced the checkbook? Let me guess: last nights' festivities consisted of probably a bit too much wine, champagne and many, many mixed drinks. Was it the old "pass me another Long Island iced tea, it's so sweet, how could I get drunk on that?" scenario?
This morning you woke up green and pasty. Your tongue is the color of vanilla yogurt. You drag yourself out of bed and go to the first Dunkin' Donuts you can find (like that's hard; that orange and purple house of caffeine, lard and sugar are everywhere): remember--Starbucks, one block ,the next block Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and so on and so on. So at the pleasure palace of carbs, you get a Great One sized coffee, a glazed, strawberry frosted and a Boston cream donut(wait, get a whole wheat donut for later). Crawl back to your apt, unfurl your goodies and watch TV.
Now you can feel bad seeing all the commercials for Bally's and Jenny Craig (Valerie Bertinelli I can take, but that freak Kirstie Alley made me want to rip my ears off and I have cute ears, mind you). "Have you called Jenny yet? No I haven't and I won't, thank you, now kindly let me wallow in my burger of shame and milkshake of regret.
On a personal note, I had a quiet night; some bread, shrimp and cheese, watched a doc on the Sundance Channel. Ecch, how delightful. I'm such a little fruit, after the movie, I talked about Latin American cinema with my husband and we took our Puggle, Miso, out for a walk.
My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty one years ago. Just a bunch of silly teenage geese going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor. How many? All. So after many hours of drinking "Blue Whales" I found myself at a friends house, with an urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and put a bucket next to my bed. How cute; like a little Bukowski in training. Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me. All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation: "I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.
Enjoy the hours you have before you have to put on your happy work face.
Monday, December 31, 2007
If you read only one blog this year let this be the one.
Sipping on a shandy, thinking about the year that's past--the last blog of 2007.
I really need to live the life of leisure. No, not eating bonbons on the couch, watching the daytime soaps. The life of someone who maybe was the winner of the thousand-a-week-for-life scratch-off game. Not fancy; just enough to say pay my bills and support my writing career.
If I wanted to be fabulously wealthy and eat chocolate cherry cupcakes, I would have been born
Nigella Lawson. Oh, why can't I be English and love custard? Instead I'm American and lactose-intolerant (Lactaid milk, anyone?).
Actually I've been a big fan of hers for years.Now I could never actually eat the food from the cookbooks or the show . For one thing too damn rich (remember the whole lactose-intolerant thing?).And I have a feeling it looks better than it tastes.
So, what is it exactly that I like about Nigella? Some of you like that whole Martha Stewart thing; for me, it's all too WASP-y perfect; besides, Martha strikes me as the type who would beat you with a rolling pin if you spilled a drink on her carpet.
Nigella, on the other hand, is a little bit of a sloppy drunk. Yes, perfect hair and nails; effortlessly chic with the denim jacket and black skirt, but something tells me after a couple of shots of bourbon, she's downing the fried squid and nursing the hangover the next morning with chocolate pudding. Check it out on The Food Network; tell me if you think I'm right.
Tonight, toast your friends and make the silly resolutions that you never keep. May the evening be merry; say farewell to the old nothing, and I hope the night's party is the icing on the urinal cake of ecch--2007: a not so great year.
Love ya!
I really need to live the life of leisure. No, not eating bonbons on the couch, watching the daytime soaps. The life of someone who maybe was the winner of the thousand-a-week-for-life scratch-off game. Not fancy; just enough to say pay my bills and support my writing career.
If I wanted to be fabulously wealthy and eat chocolate cherry cupcakes, I would have been born
Nigella Lawson. Oh, why can't I be English and love custard? Instead I'm American and lactose-intolerant (Lactaid milk, anyone?).
Actually I've been a big fan of hers for years.Now I could never actually eat the food from the cookbooks or the show . For one thing too damn rich (remember the whole lactose-intolerant thing?).And I have a feeling it looks better than it tastes.
So, what is it exactly that I like about Nigella? Some of you like that whole Martha Stewart thing; for me, it's all too WASP-y perfect; besides, Martha strikes me as the type who would beat you with a rolling pin if you spilled a drink on her carpet.
Nigella, on the other hand, is a little bit of a sloppy drunk. Yes, perfect hair and nails; effortlessly chic with the denim jacket and black skirt, but something tells me after a couple of shots of bourbon, she's downing the fried squid and nursing the hangover the next morning with chocolate pudding. Check it out on The Food Network; tell me if you think I'm right.
Tonight, toast your friends and make the silly resolutions that you never keep. May the evening be merry; say farewell to the old nothing, and I hope the night's party is the icing on the urinal cake of ecch--2007: a not so great year.
Love ya!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
If I can inflict a little pain during the day, I sleep better at night
If I knew you were going to torture me, you could have bought me a drink first.
The party's over; put down the drink, wrap up the tinsel, take down the lights and get back to reality. You hate the holidays, friends and family--you are miserable. Don't get defensive; I know who you are. You come in many different versions; you were my roommate in college, maybe my friend in some dead end job; hell, you might have been an old boyfriend. You can talk a good game, but you feel everyone owes you something.
Let me give you some examples: Mom & Dad, they never got you; they might have paid for your college and Master's degree but guess what? They did it so they could hold it over your head. How can you ever say no to family when they've sacrificed so much. Now you work in a job you hate to pay off your debt.
No relationship ever works: if your Mom didn't love you, all women are castrating bitches. Female: Dad didn't love you; that makes you bitter, so you sleep with every loser that says you're hot. How many times have you seen this woman: 8 in the morning; you're going to work, she's going in the other direction. Little black dress; reeks of cigarettes and gin--covered in regret.
This, my friends, is called the "walk of shame". Like clockwork, she will call her best friend and cry "why, I am so lonely?" On the other side of the line, the best friend. The two have been friends since college, always dependable and glad you're so miserable, because you deserve it.
She would love to have her friend's life but she's the overweight homely chick, and that's her lot in life.
In summation, too many people think that they are better than there circumstances. Every person is at fault except yourself. How about for the New Year, try a little perspective. But you're right about one thing- -your friends and family really does suck.
The party's over; put down the drink, wrap up the tinsel, take down the lights and get back to reality. You hate the holidays, friends and family--you are miserable. Don't get defensive; I know who you are. You come in many different versions; you were my roommate in college, maybe my friend in some dead end job; hell, you might have been an old boyfriend. You can talk a good game, but you feel everyone owes you something.
Let me give you some examples: Mom & Dad, they never got you; they might have paid for your college and Master's degree but guess what? They did it so they could hold it over your head. How can you ever say no to family when they've sacrificed so much. Now you work in a job you hate to pay off your debt.
No relationship ever works: if your Mom didn't love you, all women are castrating bitches. Female: Dad didn't love you; that makes you bitter, so you sleep with every loser that says you're hot. How many times have you seen this woman: 8 in the morning; you're going to work, she's going in the other direction. Little black dress; reeks of cigarettes and gin--covered in regret.
This, my friends, is called the "walk of shame". Like clockwork, she will call her best friend and cry "why, I am so lonely?" On the other side of the line, the best friend. The two have been friends since college, always dependable and glad you're so miserable, because you deserve it.
She would love to have her friend's life but she's the overweight homely chick, and that's her lot in life.
In summation, too many people think that they are better than there circumstances. Every person is at fault except yourself. How about for the New Year, try a little perspective. But you're right about one thing- -your friends and family really does suck.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Welcome to the monkey house
Here I sit, sipping on a glass of sake, pondering my life. Unemployment will do that to you. It's a joy to feel like a reject this late in my life.
I've also come to the conclusion there are things in life I still need to do.
Climb a mountain, visit Romania, help starving children in a third world nation? No: I have far less lofty goals.
Go to a Renaissance Fair--yes I said it: any situation where you can use "lusty wench" or "huzzah!" in a sentence already has my approval. It's a situation where men can freely wear tights, a robe and a magician's hat. In this Middle Earth spectacular, really fat chicks in long velvet robes become the belle of the ball. It's the Middle Ages and every one's a winner, or a wizard, however you want to look at it.
Go to England-- oh, hell why not bad food, crappy weather, a rising anti-American sentiment; sounds like fun to me!
Go to a rifle range--I am gun nut--hear me fire. Never fired a gun; always wanted to. I bet once I start, I won't want to stop. I'll get a job at the NRA, start designing comic books for the l'il Smith and Wesson's in training, create characters like Firearms Fred and Second Amendment Suzy. It will be delightful, people!
You may wonder where the title of this blog comes from: yes, a book if you don't know the author; I suggest you put down the comic book (oh sorry, graphic novel), leave Jim Handley's universe for a minute and look it up.
Totally off the subject, I do feel at times life is a lot like the monkey house at the zoo. Someone's always throwing shit at you or turning their back and showing you their ass.
Really off the subject, if you're up at two in the morning, watch this gem on cable, "Vice Squad". The seedy Hollywood of 1982; oh, what a glorious piece of Velveeta. With a stellar cast of Wings Hauser, Season Hubley, Nina Blackwood and a cameo by Rerun as a pimp! Trust me, this does not disappoint. Plus, a very quotable film: "$500.00 don't buy you an Eldorado." See the film; you'll get it.
I've also come to the conclusion there are things in life I still need to do.
Climb a mountain, visit Romania, help starving children in a third world nation? No: I have far less lofty goals.
Go to a Renaissance Fair--yes I said it: any situation where you can use "lusty wench" or "huzzah!" in a sentence already has my approval. It's a situation where men can freely wear tights, a robe and a magician's hat. In this Middle Earth spectacular, really fat chicks in long velvet robes become the belle of the ball. It's the Middle Ages and every one's a winner, or a wizard, however you want to look at it.
Go to England-- oh, hell why not bad food, crappy weather, a rising anti-American sentiment; sounds like fun to me!
Go to a rifle range--I am gun nut--hear me fire. Never fired a gun; always wanted to. I bet once I start, I won't want to stop. I'll get a job at the NRA, start designing comic books for the l'il Smith and Wesson's in training, create characters like Firearms Fred and Second Amendment Suzy. It will be delightful, people!
You may wonder where the title of this blog comes from: yes, a book if you don't know the author; I suggest you put down the comic book (oh sorry, graphic novel), leave Jim Handley's universe for a minute and look it up.
Totally off the subject, I do feel at times life is a lot like the monkey house at the zoo. Someone's always throwing shit at you or turning their back and showing you their ass.
Really off the subject, if you're up at two in the morning, watch this gem on cable, "Vice Squad". The seedy Hollywood of 1982; oh, what a glorious piece of Velveeta. With a stellar cast of Wings Hauser, Season Hubley, Nina Blackwood and a cameo by Rerun as a pimp! Trust me, this does not disappoint. Plus, a very quotable film: "$500.00 don't buy you an Eldorado." See the film; you'll get it.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Clementine's nonsequitur
By some unwritten law, you never use your name in the title of your blog. Kinda like being in a band and wearing your own group's shirt; call me a renegade.
So now what, my little lark's tongue in aspic?
If I were to describe my feelings at this moment: the full combo platter of shame; with a side order of freeze-dried regret.
So in passing; Le Fig says the camera's getting smaller... and smaller... and smaller.
Hence, an observation; take that King Crimson.
This was today's fortune cookie-- " your life will be happy and peaceful"
Thank you so much, O stale Asian delicacy that probably has the fingernails of children and rat feces in it because it was made in a sweat shop. Thank you for granting me good fortune. I feelevery day will be one big smiley face. Hey, can you smell that? The pungent odor of sarcasm.
Minions, heed my call: smart-asses of the world unite and take over.
So now what, my little lark's tongue in aspic?
If I were to describe my feelings at this moment: the full combo platter of shame; with a side order of freeze-dried regret.
So in passing; Le Fig says the camera's getting smaller... and smaller... and smaller.
Hence, an observation; take that King Crimson.
This was today's fortune cookie-- " your life will be happy and peaceful"
Thank you so much, O stale Asian delicacy that probably has the fingernails of children and rat feces in it because it was made in a sweat shop. Thank you for granting me good fortune. I feelevery day will be one big smiley face. Hey, can you smell that? The pungent odor of sarcasm.
Minions, heed my call: smart-asses of the world unite and take over.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The surf & turf of life, hold the onion rings if you please
Oh, the year 2007--almost done.
Sad? No. I have always had a dislike for odd numbered years. 2008; what will it hold for me? I fall short of having psychic ability, so your guess is as good as mine.
Best top ten ever!
No, not really; I hate lists--all pointless drivel. The critic: "this is what I like, I know everything." Thanks, taste maker; I can make up my own mind. What did I see at the movies?
The Simpsons, Grindhouse, Superbad, This Is England and the Harry Potter movie.
That, my friends are the only movies I would sit in a theater for; trust me, it takes a lot. 11 bucks for a movie, screaming kids, sticky floors, the fatamarand that just has to sit next to you; oh, dear Lord. I say, in general, wait for pay-per-view or just wait for the DVD. Trust me, it's still the same movie, plus extras. Wait, who am I kidding? Now everbody just bootlegs the film or has illegal cable. If you watch bootlegs, I hope it's a DVD from China covered in lead. Or, if you have an illegal cable system, I hope that's enveloped in plutonium, with a chewy lead center. Just pay for the service like the rest of us, ya cheap bastard.
So what's on TV?
All I will say is Mad Men--if you've seen it, you get it; if you haven't, please do. It makes smoking, drinking and light sexual harassment very desirable.
What do I enjoy?
In a word or two:
You Tube, the only place where you can see great short films like The Death & Life of Ice Cream, 50 badly edited versions of the Sopranos finale, Family Guy/South Park mash ups
and some kid in his basement massacring Black Sabbath on guitar. Ah, democracy.
In the end, think what you will. Just a word of advice, if you're gonna go out on New Year's Eve, don't drink and drive. And if you're going to a bar, I'm not saying you have to leave, but you can't stay here.
Don't stop believing and stay gold, Ponyboy.
Sad? No. I have always had a dislike for odd numbered years. 2008; what will it hold for me? I fall short of having psychic ability, so your guess is as good as mine.
Best top ten ever!
No, not really; I hate lists--all pointless drivel. The critic: "this is what I like, I know everything." Thanks, taste maker; I can make up my own mind. What did I see at the movies?
The Simpsons, Grindhouse, Superbad, This Is England and the Harry Potter movie.
That, my friends are the only movies I would sit in a theater for; trust me, it takes a lot. 11 bucks for a movie, screaming kids, sticky floors, the fatamarand that just has to sit next to you; oh, dear Lord. I say, in general, wait for pay-per-view or just wait for the DVD. Trust me, it's still the same movie, plus extras. Wait, who am I kidding? Now everbody just bootlegs the film or has illegal cable. If you watch bootlegs, I hope it's a DVD from China covered in lead. Or, if you have an illegal cable system, I hope that's enveloped in plutonium, with a chewy lead center. Just pay for the service like the rest of us, ya cheap bastard.
So what's on TV?
All I will say is Mad Men--if you've seen it, you get it; if you haven't, please do. It makes smoking, drinking and light sexual harassment very desirable.
What do I enjoy?
In a word or two:
You Tube, the only place where you can see great short films like The Death & Life of Ice Cream, 50 badly edited versions of the Sopranos finale, Family Guy/South Park mash ups
and some kid in his basement massacring Black Sabbath on guitar. Ah, democracy.
In the end, think what you will. Just a word of advice, if you're gonna go out on New Year's Eve, don't drink and drive. And if you're going to a bar, I'm not saying you have to leave, but you can't stay here.
Don't stop believing and stay gold, Ponyboy.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear
I really have nothing to write about, but here I go.
I was just watching the Travel Channel. They did a story on a place called Ted's. They make steamed burgers; it looked good to me, but then again my pallet isnt that discriminating and I hide my true self and write under the name Le Fig.
What's in my head right now? Glad you asked.
Oh, I need to go on a road trip--and I need a car, and I need to learn how to drive.
Le Fig also needs proper sentence structure. Ol' Miss Run-On Sentence herself, I tend to
write like the way a tweaked coke bunny talks--fast, occasionally funny and I do go on, way past my usefulness.
You know what I was thinking about: wine coolers--remember those hideous
drinks? When you want to drink but can't fully commit, or you couldn't find a way to get your hands on the hard stuff and Bartles and James had to suffice. How many of us had fake
ID's? Does The College of Arts and Crafts ring a bell? God bless 1986-era 42nd Street; you could get drugs, a prostitute, a fake ID and see a kung fu movie--kinda like a one stop shop.
A Wal-Mart of scum, so to speak.
Let me tell you a deep dark secret--I used to be a fan of Miss Piggy. I had the doll/puppet; I could make her talk. "Miss Piggy, you're so cool; how do I get to be like you ?'' "Well, dip shit, first take your hand out of my ass; stop talking to an imaginary friend and take off those Miss Piggy sneakers--it's just plain weird."
How odd: a little Jewish kid worshiping a pig.
I was just watching the Travel Channel. They did a story on a place called Ted's. They make steamed burgers; it looked good to me, but then again my pallet isnt that discriminating and I hide my true self and write under the name Le Fig.
What's in my head right now? Glad you asked.
Oh, I need to go on a road trip--and I need a car, and I need to learn how to drive.
Le Fig also needs proper sentence structure. Ol' Miss Run-On Sentence herself, I tend to
write like the way a tweaked coke bunny talks--fast, occasionally funny and I do go on, way past my usefulness.
You know what I was thinking about: wine coolers--remember those hideous
drinks? When you want to drink but can't fully commit, or you couldn't find a way to get your hands on the hard stuff and Bartles and James had to suffice. How many of us had fake
ID's? Does The College of Arts and Crafts ring a bell? God bless 1986-era 42nd Street; you could get drugs, a prostitute, a fake ID and see a kung fu movie--kinda like a one stop shop.
A Wal-Mart of scum, so to speak.
Let me tell you a deep dark secret--I used to be a fan of Miss Piggy. I had the doll/puppet; I could make her talk. "Miss Piggy, you're so cool; how do I get to be like you ?'' "Well, dip shit, first take your hand out of my ass; stop talking to an imaginary friend and take off those Miss Piggy sneakers--it's just plain weird."
How odd: a little Jewish kid worshiping a pig.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Season's greetings, motherfucker
Season's greetings; I'm on the dole.
Let me give you my Holiday wishes...
I wish to have a Fan Club made in my honor.
I wish for my enemies to be trapped under a flaming Xmas tree rolling down a hill .
I hope I don't have to get any more joke gifts (my minons and midgets--take care of this).
I pray Starbuck's stops trying to spread the cheer: egg nog coffee does not make me happy.
Oh, so many things.
Let me leave you with this thought--some people collect comic books; others collect bad thoughts and bitter feelings.
Who are you?
Send me your thoughts.
Mistletoe and love--
the peppermint Le Fig
Let me give you my Holiday wishes...
I wish to have a Fan Club made in my honor.
I wish for my enemies to be trapped under a flaming Xmas tree rolling down a hill .
I hope I don't have to get any more joke gifts (my minons and midgets--take care of this).
I pray Starbuck's stops trying to spread the cheer: egg nog coffee does not make me happy.
Oh, so many things.
Let me leave you with this thought--some people collect comic books; others collect bad thoughts and bitter feelings.
Who are you?
Send me your thoughts.
Mistletoe and love--
the peppermint Le Fig
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Let's do the the time warp
So here I am, sitting in the car waiting for the light to turn--what breaks my concentration?
The guy in the next car over.
He's playing Pearl Jam. Now I know you people out there think, ''but they were one of the greatest band of the 90's.''
And yes I had a copy of Ten (red cover, their arms outstretched: ''reach the sky, man'').
Maybe that's my point, I had a copy.
Sorry--back to the guy and the car. He was driving a Jeep and had on a on a sweater, a beanie cap, long hair and yes--a soul patch. All that was missing was a girlfriend named Asia
(though completely Caucasian), her green hair and a nose ring, Doc Martens and a
''Take Back The Night'' t-shirt. The song that was playing? "Jeremy", from Ten.
I had a suspicion Ole Grunge Boy got caught in a worm hole 14 years ago and just got
spit back out. Sadly, he broke my illusion by whipping out his cell phone. Bye-bye
Grunge Boy, wherever you may mope.
The guy in the next car over.
He's playing Pearl Jam. Now I know you people out there think, ''but they were one of the greatest band of the 90's.''
And yes I had a copy of Ten (red cover, their arms outstretched: ''reach the sky, man'').
Maybe that's my point, I had a copy.
Sorry--back to the guy and the car. He was driving a Jeep and had on a on a sweater, a beanie cap, long hair and yes--a soul patch. All that was missing was a girlfriend named Asia
(though completely Caucasian), her green hair and a nose ring, Doc Martens and a
''Take Back The Night'' t-shirt. The song that was playing? "Jeremy", from Ten.
I had a suspicion Ole Grunge Boy got caught in a worm hole 14 years ago and just got
spit back out. Sadly, he broke my illusion by whipping out his cell phone. Bye-bye
Grunge Boy, wherever you may mope.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Sick of the holidays yet?
Greetings...
So how was your Thanksgiving?
Lots of turkey, stuffing, yams, cranberry dressing.
You stuff yourself, feeling as if you will puke, then go in for seconds, thirds--hey, the food's here--why not?
What really happened was you dragged yourself to see family members you hate to eat the same dry bird that no amount of gravy will save. Your dad will tell the same story about the time you shaved the head of the "special needs" kid who lived down the block (it's not your fault if he belived you when you said the magic unicorn would appear if he did it).
...Still funny though.
Me, I've been sick; you're familiar with it--sore throat, yellow mucus, head feels like it's in a vice grip... FUN!
Went to Boston Market--my review: great, if you like a salt pile with little bits of turkey on it.
Let's just say never again.
Rob and I wanted a relaxing Saturday: "hey, let's go to the Village, get some Indian food"--sounds good right?
Well, things have changed. The lovely booth that we sat in reminded me of some kind of shop class project; the decor looked like some kind of a rest stop--don't ask, let your imagination flow. The food: not bad, but when there are roaches crawling on the booth walls, I tend to lose my will to eat. Let's just say if you happen upon 181 Bleecker street, do not go in.
Now you can never say that I haven't given you some useful info.
So how was your Thanksgiving?
Lots of turkey, stuffing, yams, cranberry dressing.
You stuff yourself, feeling as if you will puke, then go in for seconds, thirds--hey, the food's here--why not?
What really happened was you dragged yourself to see family members you hate to eat the same dry bird that no amount of gravy will save. Your dad will tell the same story about the time you shaved the head of the "special needs" kid who lived down the block (it's not your fault if he belived you when you said the magic unicorn would appear if he did it).
...Still funny though.
Me, I've been sick; you're familiar with it--sore throat, yellow mucus, head feels like it's in a vice grip... FUN!
Went to Boston Market--my review: great, if you like a salt pile with little bits of turkey on it.
Let's just say never again.
Rob and I wanted a relaxing Saturday: "hey, let's go to the Village, get some Indian food"--sounds good right?
Well, things have changed. The lovely booth that we sat in reminded me of some kind of shop class project; the decor looked like some kind of a rest stop--don't ask, let your imagination flow. The food: not bad, but when there are roaches crawling on the booth walls, I tend to lose my will to eat. Let's just say if you happen upon 181 Bleecker street, do not go in.
Now you can never say that I haven't given you some useful info.
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