The backlash is coming! The backlash is coming!

Oh how I do enjoy watching the Antic Muse rip those wankers at Vice a (long overdue) second bung-hole (along with Gawker, and too many others to mention).

However I am afraid the shit that will undoubtedly spew out of McInnes' (and crew) new orafice will be particularly foul-smelling. In any event, the backlash that will follow is so worth whatever they get up to in the short run. The sooner they spread their brand of racist, misogynist veiled-as-irony hipster manifesto out into middle America (via CD's, cable tv shows and feature films according to the NYT article) the sooner we will be done with them (and their Svengali-ites) for good. Like my friend Maud's comment over the weekend about the tell-tale sign of the end of a trend, "Once you can buy the same shoes [that one is wearing] in a strip mall in Tallahassee, you can be damn sure no one's wearing them in New York".

I am quite delighted to witness this particular snake devour his own tail, one strip mall Wallgreens and AMC theater at a time; watch the counter culture become the culture that needs to be countered and finally disappear from my neighborhood for good. But I have to warn you; outside of New York City, in those far away lands where people wear bowling league t-shirts because they are in a bowling league, who wear trucker hats because they drive the trucks that deliver your Pabst Blue Ribbon to Williamsburg's see-and-be-seens, tend NOT to be the kind of folks who give a shit about whether or not something is meant to be 'ironic' . They do, however, have an abundance of NRA cards and a distaste for being made fun of.

Good luck with your endeavors Vice!

As threatened; singular.

The punning will stop now. Next? Adorable pictures of kitties and puppies.

From the mailbag:

"How to Plan a Successful Raffle", by Selma Tickets
"Last Man at the Party", by Willy Evergogh
"Prophesy of Doom", by Eva D. Struction
"The Culture of Thin", by Lester Love
"My Plan To Climb Mt Everest", by Betty Kant-Dewitt
"Live Longer Eating Insects!", by Naughton Addaire
"John Ashcroft, A Life", by Evelyn Carnate
"12 Steps To Freedom", by Ima Lush
"In Defense of Corporate America", by Phil T. Ratt
"Aryan Might, Aryan Right", by Stu Pidonkie & Shirley Eugest

"The Key to Immortality", by Al Wyss-Jung

Lately I've begun to wonder if the spam mongers have had to resort to hiring middle schoolers to write their emails. Today I was sent an ad for penis enlarging cream from a mister "Lucein Hand" with the subject line "I'm not anymore!". I have to admit it made me giggle; more out of nostalgia than anything else. The pun (in the popular book title form) was a powerful thing in the 6th grade, it separated the babies who still laughed anytime someone said "poopy" or "booger" from those who had developed a more refined, *adult* sense of humor. You had to think about "The Trials of a Bedwetter", by I.P. Nightly. Booger, indeed. Well at least that's how Scotty and I saw it. When we weren't getting kicked out of History for having heated debates over the upcoming Carter/Reagan election --all true, on our way to the principal's office the teacher said, and I quote, "I will never understand why you two insist on wasting your time with such foolishness." You and 60% of America lady-- we were making up puns. During lunch we would entertain a whole crowd at our table with the names we had created and memorized the night before, shoot them off rapid fire, pausing only as long as it took for those glue-eating philistines to 'get it' and reward us with peals of laughter. Scotty always got the bigger laughs though, but he had an unfair advantage. Scotty is a dwarf, and everything is just plain funnier when a dwarf says it.

Anyway, the email inspired me to dust off my mad punning skills and try to give it a go. I discovered I am woefully out of practice. The best one I could come up with was the title of this post. Maybe you can shoot some back at me to kick the cobwebs off. And no cheating.

[Oh, and if anyone knows a dwarf named Scotty from upstate New York, tell him that I would have never survived five years in that shithole town without him and his wicked smarts, and thanks, and I hope he got over that whole Republican phase (not to say I told you so... but Reagan? Were you high? Do you remember me warning you about what would happen in the Middle East if Reagan were elected?...I'm just sayin') and that I love him and I hope he's happy. And I mean it.]

Bulb [not the brightest]

Before I divulge a little embarrassing tidbit about myself, I want to state for the record that I am horrible with names. I usually have to describe a person or their work to someone else "...you know, the woman who wrote that thing about the railroad and the utopian society, stopping the motor of the world and whatnot, you know, whazzername..." and have them tell me who it is. And I don't only forget the names of my favorite authors and directors and musicians and politicians, at one point or another I've had to resort to assigning pet names to family and friends because of a mental blackout, "Hey there!...(?)...Spunkypuss! How'd your interview go?" Trust me, I'm not that touchy-feely; all those "sweeties" and "honeys" and "darlin's" that drip out of my mouth are not terms of endearment, I simply can't remember who the fuck you are.

I've often wondered if my name block thing has anything to do with a childhood rife with abandonment. That remembering someone's name is one step closer to knowing them, and possibly loving them, and therefore hurting all the more when they eventually, enevidably, disappear. I've also wondered if it's the booze. Either way, I just suck at it and it's not getting any better with age.

That said.

Imagine my embarrassment today when I finally discovered that it was not, in fact, the Prime Minister of England Tony Blair who had caged himself over the Thames for 44 days without food; but controversial magician David Blane.

You have to give me a few points here people, it's not THAT big of a faux pas. I just figured Blair was doing it to atone, to make nice-nice for getting his country mixed up in the Iraq war. I thought all the egg throwing and laser pointing, the cutting off of his water supply and drum beating at dawn was part of the catharsis. And I only skimmed! I was skimming the damn stories. Jeeze.

no translation required

So THAT'S how they made Crouching Tiger.

(link via Mr. Xavier)

What if they threw a party and nobody came?

Sometimes you find yourself linking to another site so often you might as well just publish a permanent redirect, but monk has been making a few suggestions about the upcoming RNC convention I believe fall into the "so crazy, it just might work" category.

In fact, the last 'stay home' I participated in was inspiring. The year, 1998, the target, the KKK (and no, I will not stoop to parallels with the RNC, but do feel free to insert your own). See the Klan had been denied parade/assemblage permits for years in cities like Washington DC, Baltimore MD, Philly PA, and Wilmington DE (where I spent my formative years and was living at the time) on the grounds of threat to public safety --due to the violence and mayhem Klan rallies inevitably produced. Of course after lengthy legal battles the First Amendment prevailed, as it should, (I have, and will continue to fight for each person's right to speak); and shortly thereafter I found myself holding a flyer that announced the first KKK rally in my town in nearly eighty years. The freaking KU KLUX KLAN for christsakes, the cross burning, evil spewing, gap-toothed, in-bred, sheet-covered mullet heads. In my town! Legally! With police protection no less. I was, and my predominately African-American neighbors were, mind-blown.

Several of us found the Klan's choice of parade route particularly interesting. Downtown Wilmington, like most cities of its size and age, is inhabited by all those left behind during the great white flight of the 50's and 60's. Translation: African-American people. The Klan plotted a route that began in front of one of the downtown municipal buildings, through Market Street (a closed-to-traffic shopping avenue much like Fulton Street Mall here in Brooklyn), ending with a rally at the old city hall, widely known for it's hopping slave trade in the 17 and 1800's. The site is now home to several museums dedicated to educating the public about the horrors of slavery, and all are clearly visible from the vantage point of the solely African-American inhabited housing projects located directly across the street.

Point being, the Klan was going to march their proud-to-be-lily-white asses through a mostly minority-owned business district en route to a former slave trade post adjacent to a totally African-American apartment complex --a move clearly designed to be nothing more than incendiary, a blatant unveiled fuck you. (Certainly when you consider such a route would have done little to 'educate their brothers' or broaden their membership base.) Several meetings with the more politically active organizations and church groups in town (Baptists and Quakers mostly, both of whom have a long history of civil rights involvement) were held to plan what our counter-protest would be. After hours and hours of discussion about the Klan's tried and true methods of using verbal assaults, intimidation, and harassment to incite riot, and how we might avoid and/or counter those measures, one (insightful) man in the group suggested following the advice of Jessie Jackson: Stay home. It was like a huge light went off. Or on.

It took a lot of work, a wink-nod campaign bolstered by vast flyer distribution, neighborhood gossip, and the impassioned pleas of local church officials, but we did it. Nobody showed up. Okay, there were a few souls who were drawn out of curiosity more than anything else, but the nightly news broadcast a scene of a downtown so overwhelmingly abandoned, the only thing missing were the tumbleweeds blowing by. I have experienced few greater joys than watching those bloated idiots shout bull-horn amplified epithets to NO ONE; to closed shops, to drawn curtains, to empty side-streets, to themselves, alone. I couldn't find the exact data, but as far as I know they did not return to Wilmington until 1996, almost ten years.

Now I know that the RNC will have a much larger choir to preach to, and bully for them. Let them have at it. And I agree with the statement that "their choice of location (NYC) and timing (the 3rd anniversary of the 911 attacks) [is] offensive and a crude attempt to capitalize on them." But I can't help but wonder if giving them a crowd to bounce their bullshit off of will only change the trajectory of the ball, not decrease it's momentum.

"cut the kid in half..."

The most in-depth critical analysis of Radiohead thus far. In pictures!

(link via fractional)

Metaphors for the old and Jung.

An allegory (as I see it), via monk. Let's see...American soldier sticks his hand where it shouldn't be, and gets it bitten off, so he shoots the (attacker!) for daring to protect himself and home. Yeah, that pretty much sums up our whole foreign policy right there.

Listen up G.I Joe: This is a nice example of why world hates us. No really, ask anybody. We are viewed as nothing more than a colony of snot-nosed bombastic teenagers; which is startlingly accurate. If you assigned a human age to cultures around the globe relative to their years on earth, America's three hundred years would put us somewhere around the time a person begins to sprout pubic hair. Now think about the most obnoxious teenager you have ever met; a loud, rude, selfish, mean-spirited, moody, bulling know-it-all with the attention span of a gnat, whose obsession with clothes, cars and chicks is rivaled only by their need for immediate gratification; then make that teenager an orphan whose parents died in a plane crash leaving behind 400 trillion dollars, enough weapons to blow up the world ten times, and the deed to the universe. Got the image? Thats what the rest of the world sees when they think "America".

Historically the elder cultures, well into their 'statesman' years, have been able to sit back and giggle at our 'athlete' behavior. Sort of like my mom rolling her eyes when I dyed my hair black, stuck it straight out, and wore powder make up and red lipstick to look like Robert Smith. The Revolutionary War era games, "So you want to be independent now, huh?" kind of behavior that's adorable with perspective. But now that the teen cry of "You can't tell me what to do!" has become our warrior mantra, many will agree it's time we're taken down a notch, need to have the car keys confiscated and be sent to our room. Listen to your elders. If you don't they will not be able to guide and/or protect you and you will be left to do battle with other splinter factions of culturally relative teenagers who are just as clueless and childish and fucked up as you are.

You know those two big holes in lower Manhattan Joe? The fault of adolescent bravado, the stuff that makes you think you can stick your hand in a tiger's cage without any consequences. We don't know it all, and the world is not our possession. A few thousand people downtown would be getting back from lunch right now had we been able to absorb that concept. I know, I know, it's kinda hard to listen with the MTV up so loud and all that shopping to do.

Well we're moving on ah-UP!

Looks like our favorite cowboy (of the _sally variety) has moved on to greyer pastures. I'd be thrilled right out of my boxer-briefs if there wasn't so much goddamned work involved changing a bookmark in MT (soon you will understand sweet Dana, keep dong on speed dial for now).

Congrats on the new digs, chickita. I'm I correct in assuming the site-warming party will be...bar?

speaking of Friends

Have you seen the cover of The Post today? A half-page picture of Debra Messing holding her Emmy beside the headline "PLOT FROM HELL!" Now really, that's not fair, she's a fine comedienne. If anyone I'd be eyeballing fellow nominee Anniston for the Satan ties. C'mon, you expect me to believe things like million-dollar-per-episode sit-com contracts and undying love from Brad Pitt just happen? Please.

...and if I'm chosen...

Did anyone watch the Miss America Pageant this past weekend? G and I caught the ending accidently en route to our nightly 11 o'clock ritual, The BBC News (read as "Friends"), G paused on the channel and said, "Oh my God... it's the Miss America Pageant." We sat there dumbfounded for a second, "They still do this?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question obviously, I mean, a part of us had to know the pageant went on out there somewhere, we had to have registered the "So-and-so is crowned Miss America" by-line once a year, and yet we stared at the screen in total disbelief. No disgust, no joy, no kitschy fun goodness or tired feminist diatribes, nothing that complex, just a complete and total indifference that made the mere existence of the pageant a floorer.

Until I looked back at the screen just as they were announcing the first runner up, and therefore the winner, and was greeted with this image:

I'm still giggling from our riffs about what the runner up was doing to Ms. America to cause her to make that face (the bulk of which involved the exact whereabouts of the crown), so I'll let you make up your own. Funny how things can go from a blip on your radar...

Know any TV execs?

While waiting on hold for customer service at Time Warner (after it took a half hour of menu-tree navigating to find the cleverly buried option to speak to a person), I had a fantasy about hosting a reality show called "Make Me Lose My Shit". The concept is simple, it would be like Make Me Laugh except to win the money you would have to not lose your shit while being forced to endure situations diabolically designed to make you do so; like spending half the day trying to get a human being on the phone at the cable company, for example. I was on hold long enough to work the concept through pretty thoroughly; my wardrobe, the rules, potential liability issues, and a few no-fail, guaranteed-to-lose-your-shit scenarios for the crafty, unflappable contestants --like Buddhist monks and Buckingham Palace guards and whatnot. So when a voice finally came on the line saying "Time Warner Cable, can I help you?" I had MMLMS all sewn up. I decided it was as good a time as any to put the concept to the test, see if it was in fact possible to get through what had already proven to be an exercise in futility without, you know, losing my shit. I put the prize winnings at a million dollars.

"Yes, Hi. I just came home and..."
"Your phone number?"
"Excuse me?"
"What is your phone number?"
"718-***-****"
"Your problem?"
"When I came home earlier one of your employees was trying to disconnect cable to an apartment upstairs, 3R, but I think he..."
[clicking sounds] "Our records don't show any appointments in your building today."
"He was here a half hour ago. For 3R?"
"No. [more clicking] There were no calls to [my address] today."
"Okay...well a man who stepped out of a Time Warner van in a Time Warner uniform was on a ladder outside of my window..." I was screwing up already. I had decided around minute five on hold that one of the rules of MMLMS would make sarcasm and passive-aggression punishable point detractors, and if used to excess, cause to eject you from the game. I had to reign in that bitchy tone in if I was going to get the Big Money. "...my problem is that my cable was cut by...my cable has been disconnected."
"Have you tried resetting your modem?"
"No..."
"Well there's your problem, why don't you unplug your modem and..."
"Excuse me, I don't think that's the problem."
"Ma'am, 90% of connection failures are solved by resetting the modem."
"I understand that Sir, what I'm trying to tell you is that the cable line, the actual line outside of the house, has been cut."
"Cut? You think someone cut your line..." he emphasized 'cut your line' the same way you'd emphasize the words 'fix his zipper' in the sentence 'He had the balls to tell me she was only trying to fix his zipper'. "...how do you even know which line is yours?" he said, snot dripping from every pore. This guy was good. A half minute into the conversation and I was ready to kill his mother for the mistake of his birth. I knew coming up with polite, non-passive aggressive terms to use on a combative person who clearly thinks I'm a moron, or lying, or both, was nearly impossible.
"As I've been trying to...as I started to say before," Christ, it was difficult. I decided to go the route of simple, step-by-step explanation, knowing full well that being overly precise is merely the quiet man's version of losing your shit, but there was no other way. I made a mental note to put something about 'necessary meticulous speech' in the rules. "Why don't I start from the beginning, tell you everything I know."
"Yeah, THAT would be helpful." said The Fucker.
"I came home, passed one of your...a man (who could not possibly be an actual Time Warner employee because they have no record of any appointments in our building) working on the lines out front. He said he was disconnecting cable service for [neighbor's name] in 3R. I went inside, turned on my computer, and couldn't get online. I assumed, um, thought it might be possible that he had disconnected our line, by mistake of course, so I went back outside to tell him we'd lost service, but he had already pulled down the block for another call. It was at that point I looked over to our line and noticed it had been cut."
"Disconnected?"
"Cut, cut, as in severed, what part of....(dammit!)....the line had been cut in two, with a knife."
"So you think he disconnected your line."
(gritting my teeth) "Yes."
"Even though you never tried resetting your modem."
"I'm sorry, I really can't see the logic in resetting a modem that (ISN'T FUCKING CONNECTED TO ANYTHING YOU ASSHOLE!)... okay, all right, why don't we try, um, resetting the modem then."
"Hold on. What was your neighbor's name again?" There was another flurry of keyboard clicking followed by my being returned to the same hold message I'd been listening to all morning, a pleasant woman reminding me that 'all the answers' to 'any cable connection questions' can be found on their website. I won't even address the futility of that message for people with no access to the internet, but will say it was dammed effective at making me want to strangle myself with the phone cord.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"I think I've figured out your problem. Our records show a technician was at your building earlier this morning with a disconnect order for unit 3R, he probably disconnected your line instead." His. Exact. Words.

Now I'm well aware my game was a dry run for a million dollars that did not exist, but had a real million been on the line I would have willingly, cheerfully, with great joy and no reservation whatsoever, given it all in exchange for the opportunity to scream "Really you stupid fucking hockey puck? Do you think that's what happened? Because I'm not sure! Never mind the frayed piece of coaxial hanging from my window you genius fuck-wad, we never did try that modem thing! Don't be so quick to abandon your brilliant modem theory!" in his face. But as appealing as the idea was, and as much as I'll never understand patterning your customer service approach after a military tribunal or freaking cointelpro investigation, I wasn't going to flip out just because it's their policy to ignore a customers clear understanding of the problem and then take credit for discovering it themselves after basic, yet insanely time consuming examination. At that point I just wanted my cable on.

"Okay, how long will it take him to come back and re-connect it? His van is only a few blocks down the street..."
[more clicking] "We can have a technician there...[clicking]...on the 29th."
"Are you kidding? That's two weeks away."
"Yes ma'am...our earliest appointment for a service call. Are you available between eight and noon?" It was here --a stroke of brilliance unparalleled in its ability to make one lose one's shit-- his tone changed. He became the most polite, friendly, yet totally unaccommodating human to have ever walked God's green earth; nothing, and I mean nothing is more infuriating.
"But it's not a service call, there was nothing wrong with our service until a half hour ago when one of your technicians cut our line."
"I understand that ma'am."
"But you expect us to wait two weeks when the guy who did it is still on my block?"
"I apologize for the mistake Ma'am, should I put you down for the eight to noon slot on the 29th?"
"May I speak to a manager?"
"I am the manager."
"This is insane."
"I understand your frustration." I began to see little imaginary twenties and fifties and hundreds float away in front of my eyes. I was, as my grandma would say, being killed with kindness. I swallowed hard and gave it one last, gasping attempt at a save, after that I knew all bets would be off.
"Look, I would understand if there had been a power outage or some other unforeseen natural disaster, or we hadn't paid our bill or something, and believe me I'm fully aware it's not your fault personally --you've been very helpful, a fact I would be glad to pass along to your supervisor (Hey Rocky, watch me pull a compliment out of my ass)-- but you must agree there should be some kind of priority for instances where an outage is the fault of the company.
"It would seem so Ma'am. However, it is our policy to take appointments on a first come, first serve basis."
"Is there any way to contact the technician who was just here? Any way to get him to stop by some time today and reconnect the cable he cut by accident? It's not even noon yet, and as I mentioned he is still on my street."
[more clicking] "I can have a technician there between eight and noon on the 29th."
"That's the best you can do?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Two weeks, when there's a guy so close I could hit him with a rock."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"What if I wanted new cable service, we don't have cable TV, how long would it take a technician to get here to install cable TV?"
"New cable service? [clicking] I'm sure we have a technician in your area..."

Yeah, you're goddamn right all bets were off. But in the rage that followed (a rage that, of course, got our cable fixed post haste and our bill adjusted for each second we were without service) the sheer genius of Make Me Lose My Shit became impeccably clear...I could make the prize three million, hell, seventy million dollars because I'd never have to pay out. Never. No one would ever win. It's impossible.

It might be easier if we just met for coffee.

A few months ago, during a previous extended visit, my mom joined G and I at a birthday party. At one point in the evening I looked over and saw my mother had been (judging the wild gesticulations and loud outbursts) regaling a girlfriend of mine with her entertainment industry war stories. Although my friend was cornered, she appeared contented, so I left them at it. However after another half-hour passed (friend still cornered), I leapt in for the save; certain that she could only be enduring such torture to be polite. As we were saying our goodbyes I leaned over to my friend and said, "Sorry about that, I hope my mom wasn't driving you crazy." She just smiled and answered, "Of course she wasn't. She's not my mom."

And I guess that's it isn't it? I could tell you stories about the past ten days, but it wouldn't matter unless it was your mom, now would it?

So what else have I missed since I've been gone...?

I see that Mr. Nine Years has posted for the first time since April. Dude, even those stuffy bastards at Yale publish quarterly. Bring on the goods. Must you make us beg? And before you start spouting crap about not having any time, I have two words for you: Trash Cubis.

And the death of the Johns Cash and Ritter. There was a bit of hubbub about which death deserved the most press/sadness/reverence. I admire Johnny Cash more than John Ritter, but because of my age and latch-key childhood I've probably logged more hours with Jack Tripper than the Man in Black, certainly too many to even joke about my cool cache (we are the ANTIgesit, after all). Honestly? I felt more sad about Ritter than Cash. Johnny Cash lived his life as he wanted to (much to our collective benefit), he stared the devil in the face, made great music, kicked ass while doing so, and died with dignity at a pretty advanced age for a man who lived so hard. I'm glad he'll never be trotted out at some bullshit lifetime achievement award ceremony on the arm of a dim-wit in a tube top like they did Orbison and do Ali. And his sweetie was gone. I hope they're joined by the God they loved to sing about. But Ritter? He was a young guy, had a family, children still at home. To be frank I never thought about the guy once, at all, in any capacity, until his performance in Sling Blade. I just remember looking up at the screen thinking "oh shit, you can act" and feeling really, really, really sorry about his career. But that's just me. The day I got the news about their death I remembered an interview with Ritter in which he talked about his childhood, how he used to sit around the living-room with his dad and Dale Evans and Johnny Cash and sing along while they played old Appalachian folk tunes. I jotted down a theory about it being some kind of plot, or pact, or weird kismit/synchronicity/yin/yang thing, but Choire Sicha beat me to (the gist of) it, much more eloquently.

September 11th passed again. Two years. I can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse -- our built-in prity to blot out pain. A girlfriend of mine (a midwife and mother of three) once joked if it were not for some heavy-duty memory suppression everyone in the world would be an only child; that no sane person would willingly sign up for the torture of childbirth a second time. "Of course when the baby arrives you forget everything, it is all worth it," she said, then added, "But if we could somehow get back there, in the pit of it, experience the pain of labor just by pressing a button or something, it'd be pretty effective birth control."
"Your belly button." I suggested.
"Yeah, your belly button." and she giggled. I told her I wished there had been a similar button at my disposal to stop me from dating one fucking narcissistic philandering musician after the other. Something I could activate when I felt myself swooning.
*Zzzzztt*
"What was that?"
"Nothing...you were saying?"
"I was saying, I wrote a song about you...wanna hear it?"
*Zzzzztt*
"What IS that?"
"Nothing, really. Listen, I have to go."

But we don't forget really. There are just some things you can't express without sounding insincere and hokey, so most of us just shut the hell up and sit with it, let it fester. This year the anniversary snuck up on me with the same stealth as last year. Last early September my friend Maud and I were having marathon conversations nearly every night trying to figure out why our lives had suddenly turned to shit. Both of us were experiencing similar problems: trouble at work, petty arguments with our partners, our friends, our family and neighbors, back pain, vivid dreams, sleeplessness, skin problems, migraines, she couldn't stop eating, I couldn't eat (or was it the other way around?), smoking too much, drinking too much, swearing at shadows, we hated that we felt so freaking edgy, like at any moment we were undoubtedly going to commit homicide; an unsuspecting (and undeserving) hipster who gave us "a look", perhaps. And then somewhere around September 9th we looked at the calendar and went "Oh". Not like it helped. Not like knowing why we were freaking out made anything any better.

This year wasn't much different. Except this year I tried to clean away the sickness in my stomach. Beginning at 8:46 I cleaned and scrubbed and polished so hard my fingers swelled to twice their size. (Just around that time a small child on television said "...and my father Robert..." as I walked by; even after I SWORE I would not turn on the fucking tv that day.) Oh, but that wasn't enough, when I was done scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom, including rushing out to do seven loads of laundry, run the dog, and pull the weeds, I starting painting. Yes, I decided that the apartment needed to be painted. A nice fresh coat of paint would (what?) fix it, fix it, fix it. (another child: "And my aunt, uncle, and father, ...") I painted the kitchen green, the bedroom a dark slate blue, touched up the ceilings and moldings. I might still be at it if I hadn't stepped out into the yard long enough to see a 747 on it's final descent into JFK and heard myself say "Gee...he's flying kinda low" out loud. That was this year's "Oh" moment. I swear I had no idea I was that shit-scared, two years later.

Mom and G and I drove to Grand Ferry Park at sunset to see the tribute in light. The lights came on too early to make them out at first, but the sunset was astounding, and the sky and air were crystal clear. The east river was the most perfect temperature and color: all brackish seaweedy goodness, I wanted to eat it. The three of us sang Amazing Grace as the sun slid away and the lights came into full view. The other people in the park just sat and watched. Quiet.

So what's new with you?

Day 4

...of what was supposed to be six days, but I find out today is now nine days. Nine.

Three words:

Get.
Me.
Outtahere.

A Riddle

A girl and her boyfriend share a railroad apartment in Brooklyn. The girl's mother is coming to stay with them for six days. The girl's mother is awakened by the slightest noise, and loves to read over the girl's shoulder while she uses the computer.

What two activities will be excluded from the girl's life during the next six days?

I was born easily amused.

On the phone this morning my mother goes, "Did you know that if you put the word Google backwards in Google you get a backward Google search page? It's really cool."

I sat with that for a moment, daydreamed about the countless days someone put into a stupid, useless code joke, shuddered at the thought of being trapped next to that genius on an airplane or at a wedding or something ("Hi, I'm Kenny! I created the 'backward Google' search, have you seen it? It was easy really, all I had to do was convert the XHTML code to a running CGI script...") until my mother broke in with, "And whatever you put in the search has to be backward too, like if you put Sears it'll say 'Request for sreaS not found', and all the entries for each search are backward!"

"Neat Mom." I said without any attempt to appear sincere. "But don't you think you have a lit-tle too much time on your hands?"*
"Oh, you're no fun." she said before changing the subject back to the MAIN TOPIC (a.k.a her career); shortly afterward we hung up.

*Sure, I've spent every second since then putting backward searches into the backward Google, like I have a choice. The apple don't fall far from the tree, dude.

What's the statute on suing your Mohel?

Overheard at work today; two gaffers:

"...you think I should see a doctor? It only happens when I'm taking a piss."
"I dunno man, your shit ain't supposed to whistle."

And the rain will come and wash your sins away

I was reminded today, three times, that being a person who enjoys dark rainy days not only puts you in a club with fewer fans than Sonic Flood, but it actually pisses people off.

Like the delivery guy who approached me while I was having a smoke outside the studio. He said, "How 'bout this weather, huh?" to which I replied, "I know! Isn't it fantastic? So invigorating." He stared me down, furrowed his brow, shoved a clipboard in my face and barked, "There's no need to be sarcastic." I suppose I should have known better having received the exact same look twice this morning when I answered "I know, isn't it great?" to two separate remarks about how "It's so dark and wet and miserable outside."

All I'm saying is this: I was tolerant and understanding when you all were delighted at the 95 degree, panties all stuck up in your shit, sweat pouring out of your nail beds weather for the last four months; so get an umbrella, forget about your frizzies, and stop giving me the hairy eyeball when I ask for a seat on the patio. It's MY time.

Reason #37 why I should not bear children

Each of the other patrons where I ate lunch today shared the same look of relief and gratitude when my very pregnant (due tomorrow) girlfriend, her two year old daughter and I finally got up to leave. I could think of nothing that might explain their sour pusses. It never occured to me for a second our fellow luncheoners could find displeasure in an hour filled with top-of-one's voice odes to the french fry, squeals of horror when a crayon dropped to the floor, peals of laughter when it was retrieved after lengthy furniture moving maneuvers, utter rapture when a face would peek-a-boo behind a napkin, endless trips to the bathroom to play with the sink, kicking and rolling and jumping over unoccupied booths, a spirited game of 'catch me!' as the waiter was delivering trays of food...I mean really! This child is an angel! The most well-behaved, intelligent, easygoing company one could ask for. I was baffled by the gas-face. Had they no soul? What kind of freak doesn't want a two year old running around when they're trying to have a quiet lunch? Barren child haters?

And she's not even MY kid. I'd be the one sitting behind you at the midnight showing of some R rated slasher movie wondering what the hell all the dirty looks are about when my infant starts caterwauling. Because my kid would be exemplary.

yo shit be up in my face

Monk shares the soundtrack from his Labor Day weekend with us.

Get your geek on

You follow one little link, and before you know it it's like an hour later and you still haven't made coffee. Information junkies --get your coffee now, and then go check out this bitchin' online dictionary which provides a current and turn of the century definition, dream analysis and medical terms related to any damn word there is.

[link via The Morning News]