Check out the pic to your left...now tell me you don't see a resemblance.

You're Brian Eno.
You're a little reclusive maybe, a little quieter
than most people...
But man, who needs outside entertainment when your
brain is like KABOOM all the time? You are
innovative, creative, and intelligent. You
dress flamboyantly, gravitating towards large
feathers and tinsel. Everyone respects you, and
looks up to you. We are not worthy, we are not
worthy...


Which rad old school 70's glam icon are you? (with pics)
brought to you by Quizilla

(via Monk)

How did we get Hawaii, anyway?

G and I are getting sick. Went to bed just plain old us, woke up Mr. and Miss Snotsalot, (aka the sniffle twins). Thus far our efforts to try and clear our nasal passages has been futile, either by tissue or snorking it back up into our heads; loudly. I have a feeling we will be a mess by days end. And very, very moist of face. But oh how we will miss the runny nose when it turns into stuffy sinus headache head, as these types of colds inevitably do.

But I'll go to work. Breathe dangerous fumes that are a part of this particular gig. I will convince myself they are killing the bacteria in my head instead of aggravating my respiratory problems. And pray I don't have a repeat of yesterday's commute. Maybe it was the onset of the cold that skewed my perspective, I don't know, but I had the strangest commute, ever. One of those experiences that reminds you, Oh, that's right. I live in New York.

It started with the train not coming. Forever. And when it did it inched into the station, taking a full two or three minutes to come to rest at the end of the platform andits doors. Excruciating. I boarded. Took a seat. And stared out the window opposite me at the nothing on the other side. The conductor --who had apparently channeled the ghost of Rod Roddy-- came over the speaker, "GooooooOOOOOOD Morning, and thank you for using the New! York! City! Transit! System! This is a Man Hat Tan bound Llllllllll train with service to 8th AV-A-NEW. Next stop? Lorimer street! Stand clear of the closing doors, and thank you for using the M. T. A.!" I looked around to see if anyone else thought it odd that our announcements were so...perky. Not a soul looked up from their shoes. I figured I was imagining things and went back to my study of the nothing behind the glass. Except there was. As we entered the tunnel faces appeared. And upheld hands with lanterns in them. They all looked horrified, or bored, which can look the same. Now in full Jacob's Ladder mode, Id my mouth to scream oh god people are trapped in the tun... but then caught a glimpse of an MTA logo on one of the disembodied heads. My horror switched to feeling a bit silly (a trend, as you'll see). And wonderment of how a person could sandwich themselves between a crumbling wall and a moving train for minimum wage and shitty health benefits, and look (what I decided was) bored doing it.

I exited at my stop to make my transfer. A short man with a wild, gravity defying afro appeared from behind a pillar. He stumbled forward like he was drunk, which was exposed as a ruse because he quite deftly pounced in front of an oncoming traveler. The person jumped, then stared at the man, then walked around him. The man meandered off, resuming the drunk guy stagger, only to pounce again, this time in front of me. Since I'd seen the trick a second ago I didn't jump exactly, just stood still, ready to kick or punch or do whatever I needed to do when this guy did whatever he was going to do. He did nothing. Smiled. Walked around me, pitched and faltered, until he found another face to appear in front of. And then another. Our morning commute real live jack-in-the-box. Harmless.

My transfer arrived, and although I only had two stops to go, I took a seat; having become exhausted before my day had even begun. I looked around, and was confident this train was going to be different. It was a new train, shiny. It smelled freshly mopped. Nice, clean people read books. Moms and kids talked about homework. Even the after shave of the man strap-hanging beside me was particularly pleasant. As was he. Mid-50's, handsome jawline, camel hair coat and matching light brown attache. Italian shoes. English professor, I thought. Lawyer. Architect. Whatever. But most importantly NOT a snarky, overly insincere conductor, disembodied tunnel head, or jack-in-the-box type. The doors closed and I exhaled.

The train pulled away, silence overtook the car. My nice-smelling English Professor positioned himself at the center pole, directly in front of me. He cleared his throat.

"Anyone know how we got Hawaii? Anyone? Anyone?" His voice filled the car, amply. "How about the American Virgin Islands? Anyone? Hello? How about how we obtained America in the first place? Anyone know? Have any of you even read a History book? Show of hands?

I kept my face pointed toward my shoes, afraid I'd make the cardinal mistake of eye contact. I continued to listen.

"Anyone know why we became involved in WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam?" I let my eyes travel up far enough to see he was wearing a button that read 'War IS Terrorism' then quickly darted them away, chose instead to focus on the young woman to my right who was attempting to disappear into her scarf, quite successfully.

"All I'm trying to say people is if you paid any attention to our country's methods of land and resource acquisition, you would not think this was a justified war. This war is wrong, and anyone who supports it is supporting terror."

The train stopped. He walked toward the door, placed a hand on my left shoulder and said, "I hope you sleep well tonight." Assuming, I guess, I was just another of the ill-informed blind war mongers, which blew the support of his message I had up to then. Asshole.

I got above ground and made a b-line for a little coffee stand I like to visit on the way to work. I hoped a hot tea would erase the bads. All the bads. In line I noticed that the woman ahead of me was the same disappearing in scarf woman I had just sat next to on the train. A kindred spirit, I thought. Probably needed a hot drink just as much, and for the same reason, as I did. Her presence provided me with a perfect opportunity to connect with someone who had witnessed a portion of my bizarro morning, and possibly help put it behind me so I could move ahead into (what I still believed could be) a pleasant day. I caught her eye as she payed up for her coffee. "So," I said, smiling, pausing for comedic effect, "...do you know how we got Hawaii?" Fully expecting that at any moment she was going to answer, "Oh my God, did you believe that guy?" or "Wasn't that weird?" or even a simple, "Right?" We'd have a moment. A little 'ahhhh, life' second between sane strangers never to meet again. But no. She didn't even look at me. Walked right past, through the crosswalk and down the street, sweet as you please. Left me standing there with my stupid joke hanging in the air like a beer fart. Left me with nothing but the wrinkled up nose on the coffee cart guy and others in line who, of course, were now afraid of the crazy bitch who demands historical tidbits from passersby. I considered running. But I really, really wanted that tea. For Christsakes, my day hadn't even started yet.

Linky goodness: a Thursday kind of mood.

My super-famous, mega talented, politically right-on rockstar friend Max Klaxon (I like you to hear a 'thud' when I drop a name) tipped me off to an important poll via email. He explains:

The Working Families Party is a small political party in NY that is doing some good things (see www.workingfamiliesparty.org for more background). If you've voted in NYC lately, you may have seen their name on the ballot (often the Democratic candidate and the WFP candidate are the same person).

They are currently trying to decide who to endorse for the Democratic
primary. The poll below seeks input from the public on this decision:

http://www.workingfamiliesparty.org/poll/

The Passion made a killing onng day:

"A woman in Wichita, Kan., collapsed during the film's final, bloody crucifixion scene. While people were helping the woman, identified as 57-year-old Peggy Law Scott, the lights were turned on and moviegoers were ushered out. She later died at a hospital. No cause of death was immediately given."

And just because I like to share the stupid things that stick in my head all day, go here and listen to animal sounds in Japanese. Cock-te-cock-te-ca!

Because President Bush is alllll about "the children".

I'm sure it's just a coincidence. I bet the reduction in funding for neighborhood family planning organizations like Planned Parenthood, the replacement of health and sex education in our schools with abstinence programs (like this pro-life model from Texas Bush is so fond of), the legislative changes to woman's right to terminate a pregnancy, the fact that millions of us are without health care or a job that pays enough to purchase it outright, and that each state is in a horrific fiscal crisis has NOTHING to do with, proves NO tie whatsoever between the fucking Bush administration and the recent trend of people leaving their babies in a bag to die. There's no cause and effect here, right people?

Fish don't fry in the kitchen, beans don't burn on the grill.

In one of his concert movies (Delirious or Raw, I don't remember) Eddie Murphy did a bit about why sex is so good at the beginning of a relationship. He said, actually? it's not. It's a lie, a mind trick, and not to be fooled. He says any sex is going to feel great at the start of a new romance for no other reason than you haven't gotten laid in awhile. And that it gets worse with time. If you've been alone for like six months, a couple of sloppy kisses and two minutes of missionary would seem like the best sex you've ever had. He compared it to handing a starving man a single, stale cracker, how he'd nibble it down and exclaim "That's one Goddamn delicious cracker! Is that a Ritz cracker? Goddamn best cracker I ever had. Can I get another one of those?"

I've been thinking about Eddie's lesson in relativity during our recent apartment hunt, and the move that followed (there's a connecting thread there somewhere, in my mind). We have no way of knowing if our new place is objectively good. We're still reeling from the PTSD brought on by the years at our previous shit hole. I walk around here like Darryl Hannah in Splash, marveling at the all the shiny accouterments in the human world. Working locks and buzzers! A building entryway that doesn't have piss and garbage and broken appliances and lurking criminals! When you turn the knobs in the shower...warm-water-comes-out. No shit. Ditto for the sinks. And when the water goes down the drain it just disappears into a magical other dimension, instead of accumulating in a bucket kept under the trap. Each room has a door (we did not have to provide), and the kitchen has cabinets and appliances in it (we did not have to build or fix). There is not a single gaping hole leading to the apartment upstairs or downstairs. And the only time we've heard peep one from our neighbors was when they stopped by during the move to introduce themselves and welcome us to the building, if you can stand it.

We're having a hard time adjusting to this level of luxury. Everything around here is so damn... functional. We lay awake at night waiting for the shoe to drop --what'll it be? roaches? mice? what, is it haunted? Anyway, if our new place is actually a stale hunk of Matzah and I've simply been starving too long to tell, I don't care. Tastes like chateaubriant to me.

AM Doggie Walk, or, Making Friends in the New Neighborhood, or, Why I Was Very Late Getting To Work.

(Dog stops, takes a pee on a patch of snow/ice on the curb. We start to walk away.)

Man on stoop across the street: Hey! You better pick that up!
Me: What?
Man: You can't just leave that there!
Me: Leave wha... oh. (calling out, friendly) There's nothing to pick up, she just had a pee. (continuing on)
Man: Don't walk away, pick that up.
Me: (stopping) Um, I don't think you can see from across the street, there is nothing to pick up.
Man: Don't tell me there's nothing there, I saw the whole thing!
Me: (raising plastic bags in my hand) Sir, if there were something to pick up I would. I'm trying to tell you she only had a pee.
Man: Well, you better pick it up.
Me: (now fully angry) Pick up pee? How does one pick up urine?
Man: (flicks cigarette, stands) What did you say?
Me: I said, how -exactly- do I get pee out of a patch of ice in the road?
Man: I don't care what you do, but I'm sick of people letting their dogs do their business wherever they please and leave it there.
Me: Me too. Which is why I carry bags to pick up after my dog.
Man: Then why don't you pick that shit up off the sidewalk?
Me: Because she didn't HAVE a SHIT on the SIDEWALK, she had a PEE IN THE STREET!
Man: Do you see that sign? (points to a "Curb Your Dog" sign on a post). I can call the police you know.
Me: Go ahead.
Man: I'll do it!
Me: (walking away) Have at it.
Man: It's a THREE HUNDRED DOLLAR FINE!
Me: I'll go get my checkbook.

I promise: nothing but talk of tits and ass and my period.

I'm so freaking overworked and brain dead these days I suggest you just skip this and head straight to Dana's (semi-anonymous?) website cuz girlfriend is on Fye-Ya. And although this might not help her stalker quotient...believe the hype. I'm straight and I think about her perfect ass at least twice a day.

So we're moving. Put the down payment on the new place and ya-de-la-de-ho. And as proof that we are, in fact, the worlds most perfect tenants, our landlord has called three times offering to reduce our rent if we would agree to stay. He's bereft of heart, I tell you. I heard a tiny tear run from his eye. I imagine the path to his chin thawed a bit from contact with something above freezing.

Anyone looking for a place BTW? No, really, it's fucking great here. If you like hell.

In other news: My friend monk likes to talk about how people are talking too much about nipples. I suggest you go to his site anyway. If for no other reason than to see "Nipplegate" and "Boobapalooza" in print." Because its funny to talk about boobies. Boobies, boobies, boobies. See? Boobies. Damn. Can't stop. Boobies.

Preview for tomorrow: During a conference call, I will try to convince a certain German automobile manufacturer to NOT use the over-played Outkast Hey-Ya tune in an upcoming promotional event. I will fail. I will also fail at convincing them I need a demo roadster for 'artistic inspiration'.

And then the full moon, when the tides and the Alpha-Womb (ask her for the story) demand I should menstruate. I don't ask questions of the universe, the whys and wherefores. Just get the fuck out of my way on the train tomorrow. No, really.