So I'm minding my own business at the Whitney on Sunday, looking at arts, buying a pewter pretzel from the Art-O-Mat, basking in the soft, unsettling glow of Jenny Holzer's LEDs, doing other important things, when I had to pee. Maybe 4 years of going to a school that's attached to some of the least offensive museum bathrooms ever warped me, or softened me, or something, but WOW was I unprepared for the dystopian wasteland that is the Whitney Museum of American Art's ladies' room. It's like, one minute I'm staring at a stack of vacuums that Jeff Koons transformed into over 11 million dollars, the next minute I'm standing in a centimeter of toilet water in a decrepit highway rest stop. It's like some kind of really messed up portal that transports you from highbrow to sewer rat in under a second. Poof! Restroom of the post-apocalypse! But the shock of entering this damp hell isn't the important part of my rambling story. You see, I'm not one of those people who starts at the first stall right by the door. I like to pee in seclusion. So I was in the stall NEXT to the first stall, and I heard a steady-ish stream of ladies (I assume they were ladies) enter the first stall, make some sort of declaration or sound indicating disgust/repulsion, and then quickly find another stall. I was washing my hands (this brings me to the question as to why some women feel totally justified in spraying their urine all over a toilet seat and then have the balls to not even pretend to wash their hands, but that's another story for another day) when I saw an older woman open the stall and literally jump back. At this point, the restroom attendant, who had previously been chattering away on a headset while wiping up the sink area, entered the stall and stopped cold. "Hold on," she said, presumably to whomever was on the other end of her headset, "Oh, hell no. OH, HEEEEELLLLL NO." Then she burst into laughter, and exited the restroom. I had to look! I had to. This restroom was a wet, urine-soaked nightmare, what could possibly shock a woman who casually hangs out in a centimeter of piss-water all day? Let me tell you, friends, and I am not exaggerating: that log was the size of my forearm. It floated blissfully at the top of the bowl, the water just at that "oh no, please don't overflow, please please surface tension" level. The weirdest part? The water was clear. Like, no pee, no toilet paper. How did I have time to soak in all this detail, you ask? This image is seared into my brain. I could probably start a support group for the other ladies who walked in on Terror Log that day, I'm sure some of them are experiencing flashbacks, too. But I digress. So... it was just this single, gigantor-log, floating in a pristine, full to capacity bowl of toilet water. So here's my question: was this some weird neo-Dada thing? Some kind of weird reference to Chris Ofili's work - because that thing could have DEFINITELY come out of an elephant... All I know is this: ladies' rooms are nasty enough without people leaving gigantic mystery logs on display for all to witness (I'm talking to you, non-hand-washing seat-pissers). The Whitney bathrooms do NOT need help in the nastification department. They were doing quite well without your help, log lady (no no no, not that log lady). The best part of the story, in my opinion, is the follow up: my sister-in-law went to the restroom of horror a while later, not knowing my harrowing tale of repulsion and arm-sized excrement, and reported that "the first stall had caution tape across the door in an X." That's right, the log won. It claimed the stall for the country of crap. Poop FTW.
This week we're celebrating THANKS, NORSE GODS! "the hoveround is the official mobility choice of the norse gods! check out tyr, god of war, visiting epcot center!" Ok, look at Tyr. If he can rock Epcot so triumphantly in his Hoveround, so can you. Norse Gods for the win.
As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.
This week, we're celebrating THANKS, CLIVE OWEN! "your hoveround will take you and your dog to a cheesy, mid-90s alternate universe, where you will be given an exciting and informative tour by the floating head of clive owen!" The best part about this picture? IT'S ABSOLUTELY TRUE. If you have a Hoveround, and the Clive Owen dimension hasn't appeared before you and your dog in all its Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper glory, you need to contact customer service immediately. Screw the Grand Canyon, Grandma, it's CLIVE OWEN.
Takin' it back to 2005, y'all: It's the return of celebrity math. I've always felt like there was something familiar about Pete "Unfortunate Baby Names" Wentz, and I know now that this is because he is "Facts of Life"-era Nancy "Jo" McKeon, plus angst to the power of eyeliner. DUH. The funny thing is, angst to the power of eyeliner is actually the equation for emo itself. So basically, Pete "Girl pants" Wentz is actually just a whiny Jo Polniaczek in more carefully-applied makeup and more feminine pants. Who knew?
Easily the most popular part of this blog, for whatever reason, is the "Thanks, Hoveround!" photo album. Why? Um... because it's great. How about that? So, in celebration of Knifefight in Brooklyn turning 4 this year, I'll be revisiting one of my magical collages every week. Until I run out. Which will be pretty soon. So enjoy it while it lasts, champs.
Nothing says "My day job usually involves a g-string and a pole," better than this pose here. I like to imagine the ad execs for "cheapo scrubs R us" at this shoot, crowded around the photographer, giving "notes," like: "Can you have Janet here assume a more pin-up type pose? Our scrubs and the free scrunchies w/ purchase program is really sexy," and "This position is useful to women in the medical profession and not completely ridiculous at all." I hope Janet (whose name I've completely made up) set their free scrunchies on fire after the shoot. But back to the rest of the things I've become obsessed with while casually browsing medical apparel websites...
***Yes, my conspiracy theory involves this hooker working for Billy Mays. Like the Highlander, there can be only ONE (obnoxious, omnipresent infomercial pitchman). I was pulling for you, Vince, you crazy bastard. Billy Mays and his Dyed Beard of Fury/Team of Rabid Prostitutes were just too strong...
If you're a fan of food/this documentary/bizarro NYC restaurants then you will/should know about Shopsin's. This restaurant is magic. In all caps. MAGIC. Magic with weird hours, limited seating, rules, and the most loveably surly staff ever. So, Tuesday, my ex-coworker pals met me at Shopsin's for general gluttony, and the following remarkable things happened: I managed to scour the like 300-item-plus menu and look beyond my beloved mac and cheese pancakes, and some escalator inside the adjacent Delancey St. F stop caught fire and filled our happy chunk of the indoor market with acrid black smoke. Wooo.. hoo? Look, I'm no foodie (in fact, I was just drinking pickle juice right out of the jar a moment before I sat down to write this), but I think it MEANS something when a cloud of electrical fire-smoke doesn't make your food taste bad. Ok? I'm not saying Kenny Shopsin is some kind of magical wizard of... magic... and wonder, but I'm not saying he's NOT some kind of magical magic wizard of magic and wonder and... magic. Let's also talk about the fact that it doesn't make sense that everything on that menu is ridiculously awesome. How do you do that? I've been places that couldn't get a pancake (one pancake) right, how do you make 300 things right? I would drink their hot sauce. I would literally rub it into my eyes, just to have it near me. Do you understand? Do you? I would eat the napkins there. And it's not just that Senior Shopsin is the Lord of The Spatula, ALL OF HIS KIDS CAN DO IT, TOO. They have, like, butter and magic in their genes. HOW DO YOU MAKE CHOCOLATE COCONUT PANCAKES SO GOOD THAT THICK BLACK SMOKE AND A BLARING FIRE ALARM DOESN'T DIMINISH THEIR AWESOMENESS?! How often do you go to a restaurant and say, "I bet this would taste just as good in a cloud of toxic smoke," or, "Wow, I hope the proprietor of this business starts a cult, because, man, I am ready to sacrifice myself to whatever Norse god he's into if it'll get me closer to these pancakes." Kenny Shopsin, for the win.
Obviously a fitting memorial for your used blow-up doll would be "by the sidewalk next to a supermarket." Duh. No brainer. Let's pretend for a second that I understand the logic there, and move on to other things. Other things like, for example, what in the crap you'd be doing at the supermarket with your blow-up doll. I will accept the following answers: 1. You keep your shopping list in her big old mouth, 2. You were using your blow-up doll as a cape of some sort, 3. You wanted to take the carpool lane on your way to buy some eggs, but no one alive or un-inflatable was available, and/or 4. You get lonely at the supermarket, like REALLY lonely. Let me describe for you the sequence of events that occurred on the lovely Sunday afternoon when I found our friend here: 1. We leave the supermarket with our supermarketly purchases. 2. We exit the parking lot. 3. While turning out of the lot, I remark to Justin, "Is that a blow-up doll?" 4. Silence. 5. Justin pulls over and I jog 50 yards back to verify that it IS, in fact, a blow-up doll. 6. I take pictures, because this is the kind of thing you must document, because it is ridiculous. 7. I jog 50 yards back to the car, faster this time because EWWW THAT WAS A BLOW-UP DOLL. And here we are now, discussing said blow-up doll. People, I don't judge. Maybe there's a really good reason to take your blow-up doll to the market! Maybe you felt like she deserved a greater role in your domestic life. That's nice. I'm not even going to ask. But... What is it that made you leave your... good friend... on your way out of the parking lot? Did you get into a fight? Did you feel like that was a fun place for her to hang out? Were you just getting her some... air... or something? Or, maybe you thought she was right back there in your backseat, chillin' with the lettuce you'd just bought, when she flapped secretly out the window. Well, I hope you didn't get home and freak out, like, "So, Gladys, should we make ziti tonight- NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Either way, if you... need... your friend back, she's still at the supermarket. Better hurry before some kids start poking her with sticks. Perv.
I'm not a cat, or a cat psychiatrist, but I'm not sure if placing an angry plastic mouse that a.) smells "great," and b.) wields a sign saying "HEY CAT! ARE YA STUCK IN THERE" in your cat's litter box is a great idea. First of all, how did the good people at "HEY CAT! Litter Box Freshener Manufacturing Concern" establish WHAT fragrance YOUR cat will love in his or her toilet? How do they know that? I'm going to assume that people who make vaguely threatening litter box inserts that sell at 99 cent stores are pretty much guessing what fragrance your cat will like. I'm also assuming they're pretty much guessing as to whether or not their surly plastic mouse is toxic/radioactive/made completely out of actual pressed mice. But let's ignore that, and move on to the thought behind this product. First of all, is an angry mouse with a protest sign the right choice? What if your cat can read, and feels like you're mocking him? Then he's going to poop in your bed. And you know what? YOU DESERVE IT because you're the asshole who plunked some stinky heckler into his toilet. Can you imagine if people bathroom air fresheners were like this? Anthropomorphic and kind of insulting? Maybe, say, shaped like a policeman, waving a sign that says "HEY JERK! OVERACTIVE BLADDER?" or "HEY LADY! YOUR HEMORRHOIDS ACTING UP AGAIN?" or "HEY DOUCHEBAG! YOU'RE A COMPLETE BASTARD!" You know what? That would be sort of dumb. The instructions on HEY CAT! clearly state you're supposed to dangle this 2-D tormentor over the lip of the cat box, so it's pretty much at cat-face level (so your cat can read the angry mouse's sign, and then probably try to poop on it), and let it fragrance up the room. Because nothing smells nicer than ammonia and poop PLUS "soon-to-be-feces-caked floral mouse" or whatever. I'm going to guess that my theories make up only a small part of why this product is gathering dust in a 99 cent store. Just sayin', insult air freshener, probably not a rational product to market to cats.
I don't know about you, but nothing makes me hungrier for baguettes than shopping for a deceased loved one's headstone. It's like, one minute you're thinking, "Would Grandma want the 'Angel in Repose' motif, or the 'Jesus with Lambs' relief," the next minute you're wondering if there's a bakery nearby, because, man, some baguettes would be really great right now. Fortunately for you and other weird people like you, the headstone shop by my house has all your bereavement AND baked goods needs covered in one place. Don't get me wrong, I know the economy's in the toilet right now, I'm not hating on the concept of expanding the scope of your retail possibilities, but BREAD in a BURIAL MONUMENT store is weird in any context. I mean, there have been plenty of times when I've walked past and thought, "Huh, I like bread," but the thought stops when I consider that I'd have to go into a headstone shop to retrieve said bread. That is weird. Ok, less weird than an actual mortuary selling baked goods, because then you'd be like, "Where are they baking this?" And the thought that your piping hot, fresh baguettes might've been chilling with dear departed Great Uncle Hank in the crematorium is frankly both a hilarious NY Post headline in the making, and kind of unsettling (unless dear old Great Uncle Hank's final wish was to be "one" with dinner rolls)(and really, that wouldn't be the weirdest thing people have done to the deceased). So anyway, if you're in the market for some rolls and a headstone, come to my 'hood for some one-stop shopping. All your bakery/burial monument needs in one place! I hope they start making commercials...
This is my favorite thing... within a one block radius of my boxing gym. Since a hearty chunk of real estate between the Flatiron and Macy's is occupied by an ever-changing cast of massively sketchy wholesale shops, it's not unusual to see depressing window displays full of crappy clothing soon to be seen on the runways of, um, a street vendor's table. Since about, oh, let's say 5 seconds after it became clear that the presidential race was going to be Obama v. McCain, a healthy chunk of these store windows have been packed with odd, cut-rate Obamamania in every form imaginable. The following shirt popped up a while back on 26th Street and I've been actively laughing about it ever since. BARACK OBAMA, Happy dream family, Barack, Michelle, Malia, and Sasha. That's right, it says happy dream family. There's a part of me that's looking into buying a crate of these, and another part that says this is probably only the tip of the iceberg in terms of bizarro Engrish tributes to our President and his happy dream family, so I should probably wait for the "Obama Future Joy World Times of Change President Man" coin purse series or maybe the "Let's so Obama! It up!" dog sweaters...
Obviously, this is such a well done, clear picture that I don't have to explain it to you, but that's clearly Flight of the Conchord's Jemaine "the Hiphopopotamus" Clement walking down the street in my neighborhood with his lovely (as the picture clearly shows) lady and their baby. As you can see by my respectful "totally just playing with my phone/not a stalker" distance, I'm the kind of paparazzi with ethics. And a crap cameraphone... But mostly ethics. I've seen Mr. Clement in my eastern chunk of glorious Williamsburg several times, which proves both my theory that our side of the BQE is better/more awesome, and also my theory that we totally have better celebrity sightings because celebrities probably like to be near grumpy, elderly Italian people. That's right, friends (I'm talking to you, my one reader), the party side of the BQE is star studded, and we also have a healthy assortment of creepy "massage" parlors. Don't be jealous.
...And it didn't involve rushing off to glamorous Staten Island to meet Steve "Bobby Bacala" Schirripa at the star-studded grand opening of THE CABINET FACTORY. How the mighty have fallen. Part of me thinks I'd have been into making that trip, had I not gotten my exclusive invitation to this gala affair about 4 days too late, stuck to the mirror in the locker room at my gym (not stuck to Mog, as pictur - that happened later). Let's just talk about this for a minute: what? The Cabinet Factory? REALLY? There's nothing less depressing for you to be appearing at, sir? Maybe a Jamba Juice, or a Model Trains 'R' Us, or a Sbarro (because Italian people AND fat people like pizza)? Can't you ask my old boss for a couple bucks? Regardless, I wish Mr. Schirripa the best in his new... ventures. And I can't wait to see him the next time they open a nail salon or re-open an Ace Hardware or something. Jesus... Come on, HBO, spin-off? Prequel? Six Million Dollar Man type-thing? Bobby's not really dead, he... faked it... to go into witness protection... and open a cabinet store in Staten Island! Practically writes itself, people! Get on it!
I'm sorry, but this is terrifying. "Now your child can experience the joys of plaque removal by practicing on a totally faded plush animal, complete with his own disturbing set of eerily human TEETH!" As if the idea of intentionally putting a foaming, pasty brush inside your mouth wasn't weird enough for small children, now you can add the horror of Jan Svankmajer-esque bizarro animals (and "wacky" spelling, holla) to the equation! Here come the Plak Posse Palz, stuffing surrealism right into your child's mouth! Never mind the fact that a vacant and stoned-looking wall-eyed plush is kind of creepy enough on its own, let's toss some dentures in there and pretend that small children will jump at the chance to play with/provide dental care for these weird bastards! "Mommy, can I scrub my wasted dragon's dentures, PLEEEEEEEEEEASE?" "Only if you do all of your chores first, Spray!" Right. Totally. Product: FAIL.
My favorite part of the Inauguration coverage (aside from when a sleep-deprived Diane Sawyer completely went off her nut on live TV) was CNN's urgent posting of crucial facts every 30 seconds. Like my favorite, pictured at left: "FACT The Obamas and Bidens are having coffee with the Bushes at the White House." ZOMG NO WAI. Don't believe the nasty rumors that they're having tea or playing Scrabble, America. The facts are in, and the facts are COFFEE WITH BUSHES IN WHITE HOUSE. Don't believe for a minute that the Bidens are secretly having scones with the Cheneys (haha Cheney in a wheelchair)! Don't believe that the Bushes are hosting the Obamas at Applebee's! FACT: CNN is ridiculous and I only watch it because Fox News is openly retarded. FACT: Wolf Blitzer delivers every line like it's AN URGENT FACT THAT'S SO URGENT AND FACT-LY THAT HE CAN'T STOP TALKING IN A LOUD MONOTONE. FACT: George Bush's retirement will be indistinguishable from his presidency, save for the "permission to create widespread malevolence and destruction" part. FACT: Wolf Blitzer is a cyborg. FACT: President Obama will be riding a unicorn to and from the White House every day. FACT: Beets taste bad. FACT: I have to go now because my stories are on. FACT: Have a lovely weekend, all 3 of you who read this.
Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. This is a fact. This is like saying, "poop smells bad and I don't want to rub it on my face," in that if you don't think poop smells bad and DO want to rub it on your face, you are insane. Just like you're insane if you don't think Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. Here is some intel I gathered today:
-All of the scented candles at Burlington Coat Factory smell like the inside of a hot taxi, rat poison, or a hot, rat-poison-filled taxi. You will definitely die if you smell them.
-99% of the shoes at Burlington Coat Factory are only practical if you are a very tiny stripper, or a giant, really frumpy transvestite.
-Same with the underwear.
-Sad people will randomly start conversations with you. Sad, sad people.
-The Christmas music they're presently blasting is of the late 90s variety. Thanks for the slow, whispery, tinkling ladyvoices imploring Santa to "huuurrrraaaaayyyy down the chihihimnaaaaay," but I think this is a time in music I'd generally like to move past.
-It is not actually a factory.
-Old ladies talking to themselves in aisles 1-800.
I could go on, but then The Factory would win (in that the store's unstated goal is to devour your soul). Instead, let me share the following interactions I was a part of/witnessed in the Burlington Existential Angst Factory in the forgotten wing of lovely Atlantic Center Mall (aka the part with the DMV in it/the part that isn't Target). First: I'm standing in the housewares section, dying of scented candle-smell poisoning. I pull out a pack of gum (like it would magically suck the "allegedly mulberry" candle-death smell out of my sinuses - HA! No dice) and a woman appears next to me. "Can I bum one?" she asks. I'm confused because appearing out of nowhere and asking random strangers for gum in the middle of a store is weird, so I just kind of thrust the gum pack at her. "Oh no, " she says, "I thought that was a smoke." In her world, smokes look like gum, and you smoke them in a store. Lady, I don't want to live there. Exchange number 2: I'm looking at gloves. A little girl skips past me. She is singing "I hate my sister, I hate my sister, I hate my sister." Presumably this is why she is shopping for her at Burlington Depression Factory. My favorite exchange occurred while I was waiting to retrieve my bag from a normal store from the bag-check guy, and some large woman hoisted herself up onto the counter. Cashier: "Um, no. You better get down from the counter." Large woman: "Do you want me to pay? I've been waiting on a price check forever." Cashier: "You're going to need a price check for a counter repair if you don't get down, you are not a small woman." Actually, that last one might be a vote in favor of Burlington Emo Kid Factory. Don't try to convince me it's just the specific store I went to. All the Burlington Frown Factories are depressing. Does anyone else remember that jingle that went "Burlington Coat Factory, we're more than great coats (and what we are "more" of is sadness manifested in retail form, and don't tell anyone but the coats are mediocre at best and pretending these coats are "great" is proof of our vast intangible and tangible-in-coat-shapes sorrow)!" Me too. That's a lot of subtext for a jingle. But, all true. I hope your holiday shopping is less dramatic than mine, but if you live in New York, it's totally not, is it? You know what I'm talking about. You'd go into the Sad Factory, too, just because it's empty and "OMG if another Hasidic woman runs over my foot with her fucking stroller and then glares at me I'm going to rip her wig off and eat it, wait is that store completely empty, I'm going THERE, oh crap it's Burlington Coat Factory, whatever I'm just going to stand in the scented candle aisle and stare until the urge to scream passes." Happy Holidays.
I took my ladies to the vet yesterday, because airlines have some crazy restrictions about NOT bringing rabid, crazed animals on board their planes. Who knew? Traveling anywhere with my cats, like, say from one room to another, always carries the potential for hilarious mishaps, so I'm generally pretty braced for the worst/most hilarious when we have to go anywhere outside the apartment. Once I frantically shoved them into their bags and made my way out of the apartment, I spent a good 5 minutes reflecting on the fact that there are few things funnier than walking around with 2 yowling, thrashing duffel bags strapped to my body. I imagine this sight would freak the crap out of, say, intelligent alien life. Or people who don't own cats. We got to the Humane Society pretty uneventfully, and the ladies were pretty chill in spite of the fact that we were sitting in a complete freakshow of a waiting room for about 45 minutes past way too long. My favorite thing about my fellow pet owners is that a solid 75% of them are seemingly completely insane. I was sitting across from a woman who held a rambling 15 minute conversation with her daschunds. I know, I know. I talk to my cats. I'm not saying I don't talk to my cats. I don't, however, talk to them for 15 straight minutes about our plans for the day, what they think about me, or how I think they're enjoying their time in the waiting room. I just talk to my cats about important stuff, like, "Do you guys see that crazy woman over there, talking to her dogs? Seriously." The best part about this is that I don't think anyone really noticed, because they were all too busy being completely bonkers themselves. One woman was talking to her cocker spaniel about how he looked silly when he acted all tough, and if he kept growling at everyone who walked in, they might have to talk about that whole "getting fixed" thing seriously. The man next to me had a giant, filthy dog that was totally farting it up. That's the bonus to this place, it smelled like donuts and dog farts. Why? The dog farts I can explain, but who could eat donuts in a cloud of dog farts? The man with the farting dog, that's who. So we sat there for just long enough for me to wonder if he could even TASTE the donuts through the dog farts, when they called me into the back, and we had the usual exchange where the vet tries to convince me that my cats probably have terrible, life-threatening conditions, and I am a horrible person, and I should probably sell one or both kidneys to be able to afford a bunch of tests to TRULY understand why Mog likes to poop on the couch because there's no way it's a simple, free explanation like, "She gets pissed when you guys leave the house for longer than an hour, so she's like, F@#K YO' COUCH!" But the moral of the story is that the Humane Society is only a humane place for people who like sitting in a cold room full of dog flatulence and crazy people. The cherry in top is that when I finally left, I had to hail a cab, and since it was about negative 50 degrees out and the vet is located in the heart of rich old lady (hence, cab-stealing) land, I stood on a freezing streetcorner with 2 shivering, angry bags of cat for a good 10 minutes before any unoccupied cabs even appeared. And some lady tried to cockblock my cab-hailing by standing a foot in front of me and pretending that was an ok thing to do, to test a freezing, determined woman with 2 unhappy cats strapped to her shoulders. Try me, lady. I will spay you. I made sure to give her a thumbs up when I ran across the street and grabbed the first taxi that appeared. I think the cats are still pissed at me, and I'm not sure if it's because I let some strange people probe and poke them, or if I brought them to crazy dogfart town. I don't blame them either way.
Hi, I spent most of my election day in Philadelphia with a busload of Brooklyn Obama people, and my brain is kind of fried, so excuse me if this makes less sense than it should - uh, not that I really ever make sense. Let's go in chronological order because that's fun: Justin and I got up at like 7 something and voted at 8 (see Justin with his post-voting face in picture #1). We were lucky and we only waited for like 15 minutes, because those old skool Italian ladies mean BUSINESS. He went to work and I went to Fort Greene to catch a bus that a bunch of BK Obama people had chartered to hit the crucial Philadelphia area. My bus ride largely involved unwittingly listening (guess my ipod isn't loud enough) to the people behind me loudly discuss which bike shops they thought were "snobby," so basically I wanted to kill myself for 2 hours, and then we drove into Philly and I saw like a bajillion McCain signs and thought the killing myself idea was maybe not so crazy. The campaign center we went to was at the Women's Medical College of PA, and for the first few hours my awesome new pal Barbara (check out the back of her head in picture #2, not pictured: her sweet Obama overalls, part of an abandoned "Joe the Plumber" Halloween costume concept) canvassed the area around there... Which was largely empty because it was the middle of the afternoon. But big ups to the like 3 people we saw who told us they had voted or were about to - except for the lady who was totally surly, I think she was a McCain person, which is like, "then get your damn name off our list of supporters, crankytown!" Some grade school kids asked us for campaign materials for whatever reason, and then told us they'd be moving to Iceland if McCain won. I asked the kid who said that why Iceland, and he said "Because McCain isn't there." Kids today! Adorable. Then we came back, ate some stale-ish soft pretzels, and sat there for a minute before round 2 began. Barbara had to cut out so I found a new pal, Betsy (check her out in picture #3), and we were promptly dispatched to this area of North Philly. A very nice woman named Berdine gave us a ride and we started canvassing on 20th and Cambria. I have literally never met nicer people in my life than the people in this neighborhood. People were inviting us into their houses, people hugged us, people convinced their housemates to stop by the polls when we stopped by (and, um, brought the guilt), and there were cats! Cats! And I saw 2 cool looking slugs, but that made Betsy unhappy. And there was a roving flock of like 3-7 young kids who followed us around and kept asking us for pins and stickers and they told us about the mock elections at their school and how Obama won like 351 to 16 or something - AND THEY WERE RIGHT. Everyone was so excited and so happy! And not SINGLE person in North Philly expressed a moment of doubt that Obama was going to win. And they were right. But I didn't know that when my pal Betsy took that picture of me, all I knew was that I wanted to hug some random strangers in North Philly for being so nice to a couple of weird, exhausted white women who were banging on their doors at dinner time. So we left about 10 minutes before the polls closed, and got back to the headquarters to choke down some food, tally our canvassing results, and generally freak out. And then we got on our bus back to Brooklyn, during which every periodic update by phone and internet was met with clapping and the like, but it never occurred to me that it was really, really happening. And I got off the bus and headed to the G, which turned out to be a really obscenely long journey since the G was like, "no, I don't care about taking you places, I'm the G," but I STILL didn't know, even with the screams of OBAMA I could hear from under the street - that should've been the tip off, if people are screaming anything loud enough on the street that you can hear it inside the subway, it's probably something important. Or dangerous, like "MOTHRA!!!" But in this context, important. So I got off the G a thousand hours and a weird marriage proposal (that's another story entirely) later and still didn't know anything, I figured we still had counts and shenanigans to go for hours. And then I got to the top of the subway stairs in my 'hood and some cop totally high-fived me out of nowhere, so I called my mom (who had been my CNN when I was out in Philly without interwebz with my new pals) and... I still can't believe it! The good guy actually wins. Trucks were honking and people were screaming at each other my whole walk home. My neighbors are jumping up and down and pounding the floor and shrieking like crazed drunks (oh wait, they ARE), long after the speech ended, someone out on my street is setting off fireworks, and I still kind of can't stop crying and smiling like I won a pageant. So it turns out that we can, and we did. Now my boxing trainer and I won't have to riot tomorrow! Yay! I was totally worried that I wouldn't know how to use a crowbar. And now I won't have to. I'm so exhausted and exhilarated, I wish I could see the voters I met in North Philly right now, and I have to hug my cats. Good night! For real.
The phenomenon of incredibly smelly, batshit crazy, or otherwise disturbed people being inexplicably drawn to stand by me, talk to me, or follow me around the gym is well documented at this point. So I wish I could be more incredulous about the following assault on my olfactory rights, but it's just kind of like, "Oh, wow, another person who smells like they died at least 2 weeks ago, and look, they're headed right toward ME again." But this is worth mentioning because stinking up a macho dude-filled boxing gym is kind of like being the hunk of maggot filled-cheese that makes the OTHER hunks of maggot-filled cheese gag and dry heave. So I'm at the gym, having a lovely time with my trainer, doing some pushups next to the ring, when a stench wafts by and slaps me in the face so hard I almost fell down. There are smells in this world so specific in their fetidness that they become burned permanently into some lost corner of your brain, and the very nanosecond you smell them again, you know EXACTLY what they are, even before you turn to run or vomit or whatever. DIRTY BOXING HANDWRAPS AND GLOVES ARE ONE OF THOSE SMELLS. I'm sure I've discussed this before (and I'm just too lazy to look through my posts and find out when), because you know what?
When I think of 36 year old libras named "Cleatus" (info courtesy of the tardbot's myspace profile, naturally) who are on my personal shit list, one specific obnoxious robot leaps immediately to the top of the page: that goddamn Fox football robot (P.S. "Cleatus?" Really?). If he's not wearing a "hilarious" seasonally appropriate costume ("it's Thanksgiving and Cleatus is a Pilgrim! And he's throwing a turkey instead of a football! What a magical age we live in!"), he's doing some kind of embarrassing touchdown dance, or just hopping around for no obvious reason, his firm robot quads quivering ever so slightly. THIS, FRIENDS, IS THE JARJAR BINKS OF FOOTBALL. Some people think John Madden (with his rambling non sequiturs) is the JarJar Binks of football, but they are wrong, because John Madden used to have a purpose, I assume, at some point in history. Dead wrong. Did I mention that the robot runs in place? Like he's warming up? For annoying sports viewers across the country? Why is it there? It's not doing anything of value, unless being an unfunny annoyance and an eyesore is valuable, in which case the Republicans should've really backed Carrot Top/Palin '08 after all. I hope that dancing WB frog comes back from the grave as some kind of super-zombie and eats this robot's face and entrails. No, but he wouldn't, because at least THAT anthropomorphic network mascot was the mascot of a WHOLE network, not just one specific seasonal sports event. I don't think that frog would bother resurrecting itself as some kind of super-zombie for something as lame as an anthropomorphic SHOW mascot. And you know what? Fox sports is wasting this technology on making some retarded dancin' robot, when they could be investing in something awesome like making their sideline reporter a giant CG hamster named "Dilly." What would be more precious than Peyton Manning looking skyward to the serene face of a giant CG hamster, gazing deeply into his deep rodent eyeballs and saying something pointless about how he "got the ball, and gave the ball to people, and they ran the ball, and they did a good job." WHAT IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN THAT? Other options include "Foxy, the Foxin' Fox Fox." Or whatever Clinton Portis feels like doing, because that guy is a goddamn genius.
So you're working at some ridiculous foofy bridal dress conglomerate, and you're thinking to yourself, "How can we best showcase our fine, overpriced, amorphous gowns? What makes OUR foofy bridal dress conglomerate DIFFERENT from all the others hawking giant wads of overpriced white taffeta?" And the answer comes to you as if Thor himself whispered it into your ear: AN OLDE-TIMEY BICYCLE. THE ANSWER IS CLEARLY AN OLDE-TIMEY BICYCLE. And not just ANY old-timey bicycle, a comically oversized one. And not just ANY model, a sour-faced one who looks like she doesn't know HOW she got on the aforementioned old-timey bicycle, but she's pretty sure she can't get down, and screw you for laughing about it.
You know what's awesome about Canada? Queues de Castor. You know what else is awesome about Canada? Everything that isn't Celine Dion/Cirque du Soleil. I would move to Canada if they would let me... and possibly if they developed some kind of tropical peninsula because I'm really starting not to believe in cold weather. Anyway, proof of their national majesty? Even Canadian Diet Pepsi tastes better than ours. I'm serious. If you don't believe me, stop by my house, or Canada, and have a Pepsi Diete. It's like the first time you go to Mexico and have a Pepsi Light and you realize that lead really DOES make everything taste so much better, except... without the lead thing... and in Canada. The point is, Canadian Diet Pepsi tastes like what OUR Diet Pepsi used to taste like, but then the changed the flavor or something, because now it tastes all... wrong. In my day, the Diet Pepsi was delicious and it didn't taste kind of expired and like the aspartame was morphing into cancer in your mouth. Just sayin'. Pepsi Diete: c'est le meilleur! Go acesulfame potassium!
So I'm at the gym, minding my own business, reading a Star magazine, when some hulking mass of meat stomps onto the treadmill next to me. Which is lame. Because literally EVERY SINGLE TREADMILL IS OPEN, except for the one I'm on, so WHY? But maybe Captain Beef wanted to feel less alone in the world/gym, and who am I to judge? So about 3 minutes go by before the bizarre, feral, rhythmic grunting starts to really just get to me. What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Do you need to use my inhaler? And then the stench hit me. This man/apeman smelled like a garbage bag full of sweat, balls, and chicken soup - it was that top note that really just made me sort of gag a little. So I soldiered on for a good 4 more minutes before I just couldn't do it (running with your head completely turned sideways and trying not to breathe in through your nose is HARD). But I'm not heartless and for some reason I didn't want the missing link to NOTICE I was bailing on him and his carnival of aromas and song, so I went and did some situps for a minute, and then went to a different treadmill. Very, very far away from Mr. Fetid Sweatspray. And huzzah, friends! Not 30 seconds elapsed before my meaty companion had rejoined me, hopping onto the treadmill right next to me, grunting and stomping away as though he hadn't just had to stop his flailing and walk 50 feet to start all over again. So I left. Defeated. And kind of nauseated. Chicken soup and balls, everybody. Drink it in.
You're looking at a picture I found of Generation Kill's obscenely attractive/inexplicably Swedish Alexander Skarsgard, and the man he so expertly portrayed, real live Sgt. Brad "Iceman" Colbert. I think the "Iceman" here is a perfectly handsome gentleman, right? He looks like he'd welcome you from the cover of a bank brochure about home loans or something. And Mr. Skarsgard... is literally Adonis. Yes, he kind of looks like a confused toddler. But also Adonis. I would offer this man one of my kidneys for some reason, and you know what? I don't even look at blonde men (hi honey!). I thought they all went extinct in the early 80's from sun damage and hairspray toxicity or something. And yet Mr. Skarsgard here makes me feel giddy about shopping at Ikea and Volvo ownership. What was my point? I don't have one. I never have one. Have a nice day.
As you probably know, August 29th is International Optimus Prime Appreciation Day (as established by the 2008 Stuff on My Cat calendar).
Optimus has chosen to celebrate by lying on the floor. I hope your day is as enriching as hers.
Does anyone else feel like Vince here is talking to you like you ASKED him about the Shamwow? Like they cut out the part where you're like, "Hey Vince, my best pal ever, where can I use this product you are aggressively pushing?" and he's all, "This is for the car. This is for the boat. This is for the elderly." And you're like, "Hey Vince, my friend and confidante, what happens to the mystery liquid so frequently trapped under my carpet in the days before mine eyes were opened to the glory of Shamwow?" and he's all, "That's your mildew right there - that is gonna SMELL." What's my point? That I want to see Vince-from-Shamwow and HI-I'M-BILLY-MAYS-AND-I-CAN'T-CONTROL-MY-SPEAKING-VOLUME in a cage match on Pay-Per-View? Yes. And no. My point is also that this commercial looks like it was made as a joke in someone's basement, and also that Vince may or may not be the devil. Because look at his face. It's evil. Also, I don't like his attitude with "camera guy." Camera guy has feelings too, Vince, and tears your glorified sponge-towel can't absorb without probably giving camera guy some kind of face-cancer. Also, I suspect that I would not, in fact, be saying "WOW" every time I used this product, but that might be because I don't actually "spend $20 a month on paper towels" or "blindly buy German products hawked tauntingly by palsy-faced demons." BUT THAT'S JUST MY THEORY. Discuss.
One of the best things about the crazy-person population of New York is the amazing variety of insanity you can experience on any given street corner. There's the guy who sometimes shows up outside Justin's office building in nothing but a very small towel sometimes! The guy screaming into an Onion newspaper box for some reason! The chain-smoking lady on the subway who keeps telling people and various empty seats to SHUT UP while she angrily slaps at them/nothing! It's a veritable panoply of psychiatric disorders on parade! While I know in my heart that no crazy person on the street will ever be able to shock and confuse me as much as the blood-splattered guy who came up to me at a bus stop in Chicago, waving a Snapple bottle with a pigeon's head in it (YES. I MEAN IT.) and excitedly telling me how he was going to kill Buddy Guy with his sword because Buddy Guy controlled the el trains, I saw something that certainly won a special place on my list of really creative insane people: THE RAVING SANDWICH. This gentleman was standing on 9th avenue one evening, wearing a sandwich costume, screaming unintelligibly and sort of flailing. You get used to a lot of weird crap on the street when you live in a city, but I have seen few things more unsettling and at the same time endearing than this clearly unhinged giant sandwich. Maybe it's that I generally assume that giant, anthropomorphic foods are gentle creatures... and not completely effing bonkers, maybe it's that the image of a stomping, yelling sandwich is just really, really funny, but there's something SPECIAL about the raving sandwich of 9th ave. For the record, it was clearly a Subway sandwich mascot, and he was definitely on the same block as a Subway sandwicherie, but unlike his mentally stable brother in Chicago, THIS guy's screaming had little to do with further the brand image in any immediately clear way. Unless their new slogan is "Subway! Because aliens are living in your toothpaste." Good times.
I think anyone who has an interest in both cats resembling people/things AND Wilford Brimley is probably well aware of the genius that is 5 Cats that Look Like Wilford Brimley. However, I've learned from my new husband of one month and 2 days, Justin, that Mr. James Earl Jones, for one, was actually NOT aware of the Wilford Brimley lookalike cats - until a fateful trip past the refrigerator at my husband's place of employment yesterday. That's right, not only was the man/myth/legend IN my husband's office, but he saw the picture of the Brimley-type cats Justin had lovingly taped to the fridge, and the voice of Darth Vader totally busted out laughing. Because of cats. Cats resembling Wilford Brimley. Justin informed me that Mr. Jones (who is apparently neither 8 to 9 feet tall OR constantly bathed in the golden glow of an unseen overhead spotlight, as I had assumed) passed by the refrigerator in his office, paused to inspect its single adornment of Brimley/Cat wonder, and then laughed somewhat heartily, in the general fashion one would expect from the person who authoritatively declares that this is, in fact, CNN. If this is not the greatest celebrity sighting ever in the history of celebrity sightings, then somebody had better stop the world, because I want to get off. Thank you and good day. THIS is Knifefight in Brooklyn.
BEHOLD TRUMP ICE.
NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH: Pepsi Ice Cucumber, Trump v. Rice, poor people water.
UNDERTONES: Dirty ashtray, sad cocktail waitress, wigs.
VALUE: Cheap as free* (*while gambling in one of Mr. Trump's stately, rundown casinos in scenic Atlantic City)
BEST PAIRED WITH: A dollar yo, a motorized scooter, an elaborate slot machine ritual.
PREFERRED BY: If you're in a casino long enough to "prefer" its bottled water... wow.
WHAT IT "SAYS": "I think that last complimentary vodka tonic was made with rubbing alcohol, yet I can't manage to tear myself away from Gamblor's neon claws to rinse out my mouth with some non-Trump water."
FINAL RATING: Um... you're... fired?
Hi! Sorry I disappeared, I was getting married. But enough about me, let's talk about the Brooklyn Social Security Office! You might know this place by its formal name, "The Land of Eternal Sadness and Agony and Lines." If you're keeping track of a complete stranger like a weirdo, you'll recall that I have been to this shrieking Hell before, and it was possibly the most harrowing adventure ever to be undertaken in the history of mankind, ever, ever, ever, EVER. There was aggressive rectal anarchy, there were pork rinds, that's more than any government office should ever force on you. If you're asking yourself right now WHY I'd decide to spend another glorious afternoon in a douchebag sandwich, let me tell you about
how both Jesus and the government are, like, SO against me: I can't just mail stuff in and have the Social Security Office acknowledge my legal name change, because I, total depraved bastard that I am, CHOSE TO LIVE IN BROOKLYN. Like a jerk! And what does the Social Security department think of my fellow Brooklynites, and our brethren in Queens, Orlando, Phoenix, or Las Vegas? They just don't like us. It's all "Hey guys! Getting a new/revised/pine-scented Social Security Card is easy! Just scrawl your X on this line, spend 42 cents, and WHEEEE! It's Christmas! Except for everyone in Brooklyn, Queens, Orlando, Las Vegas, or Phoenix, 'cause FUCK THOSE GUYS! You guys can go stand uncomfortably close to a gassy elderly woman for 3 hours, assholes! Ha!" That's... bastardly. I can't speak for Orlando, Las Vegas, or Phoenix, but... I will because I imagine their local Social Security office is just as hellishly ridiculous as mine: This is bullshit. It's really smart, though, to force people in really crowded areas to have to get their Social Securitizin' done in person in the world's least efficient office ever, because at least half the people who bother to take the time to show up will probably die of heatstroke, old age, or typhus while waiting to be served. It's super smart! Hey, let's kill off half our potential clients! Neat! My OWN personal joyous fun time mostly involved the woman behind me who was kind of half-leaning on my back while angrily (ANGRILY) discussing the flaws of this particular office with herself, and the small, entertaining child who appeared to be hell-bent on dismantling the waiting area piece by piece while his mother stood by, mouth wide open, possibly having been diagnosed brain dead like 20 years prior. I hope you enjoy the pictures I took to showcase this young man's awesome talents and psychotic flailing! If only I could've recorded his incessant shrieking, and the parts where he would run up to a random woman and start slapping her thigh and screaming MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA! while his mother essentially drooled into her purse. Oh, and I would've loved to have captured for posterity the moment where Deputy Douche (the security 'tard who made me throw away my water and then proceeded to awkwardly hit on me for a solid hour) asked if anyone wanted to claim their child before he got injured by the door he was attempting to scale. I believe this child is science's first successful human/hummingbird hybrid - his mother offered further proof by furnishing him with some kind of Tic Tacs, which I believe are the primary food source of the HumanBird (name pending review). The moral of this story: if you live in one of the Social Security Administration's Least Favorite Places (TM) like I do, be smart and don't change your name in any sort of legal way, or develop your own obnoxious personal habit/bring a crazed toddler/brain yourself with a chunk of cement a few times before you go. Or, hey! Just move to Canada. That's totally my Plan B.
I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in a long time, this whole "wedding planning" thing gives me renewed respect for Jennifer Lopez. She sure is the hardest working woman in showbiz. No, for real, though, it's hard to do anything hilarious when you're having panic attacks over shoes. Justin and I handed off our most important wedding invitation last night, to these guys. I'd show you some shocking, life-altering pictures from the show at the Highline Ballroom (and God bless sausage fests because I didn't encounter a line for the lady-bathroom once)(not that you pee a lot when beers are $7), but I don't want DJ Dougg Pound to come to my house and beat me up, and also I really want Tim and Eric to get YOUR $15 because how else will they afford all that shrimp and white wine? Most importantly, it was a beautiful show, filled with friendship, emotions, wonder, and magic. And codpieces. And love. It's Tim and Eric, they're shining boys, it's for your health.
Having lived in major metropolitan areas, I feel like I've gotten past any discomfort about homeless people. They're there, you'll go broke if you give change to everyone who asks, and the ones who aren't crazy or running intricate scams are just normal people who don't have a house and might have several jackets on at once and probably aren't real thrilled to be sifting through that garbage can. I takes a lot to make me pull a "terrified small child gawk" (aka "the Midwestern staaaaaaare") at this point in my life. I can now say that standing right in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like David the Gnome in greyscale, fully exposing your penis falls into the category of "things I WILL gawk at." That's right! I saw homeless David the Gnome's genitals. Because they were on full, joyous display, in spite of Mr. the Gnome's shirt being fastened securely to his pants at the sides. The major design flaw in pinning your pants to your shirt JUST at the sides seems to be that your penis and testicles may or may not be exposed in the approximate 2 foot gap between articles of clothing at the front (the front being where the male reproductive organs generally can be found, and perhaps an area warranting a pinning more than, say, the sides). Naturally, I did enough of a rubberneck when I walked past to notice that his pants were securely attached in the back. I mean, naturally. It kind of reminded me of the time I was walking into my dentist's office in Chicago and this nice woman in a sweatsuit backed up against the corner of the building, yanked her pants down to her feet, leaned forward, and unleashed a torrential downpour of urine with unbelievably impressive aim - all while yelling at someone across the street. But I digress. David the Gnomeless, you definitely snapped me right out of my post-boxing stupor, and I really wish I didn't have to see your penis. I'm a little curious as to WHY your penis was flapping out in the breeze because it was pretty chilly and rainy today, but I didn't think it would be very cool to stop and point out that your genitals were making a grand appearance. Especially if that was the "look" you were going for. Sir. I mean, if Tara Reid can walk around with her entire breast flapping in the breeze, I suppose it could happen to anyone. Right?
Sometimes my pals forward me cute little things that daily candy talks about. This was not one of those things. So basically I'm gathering that it's a fancy looking, non-absorbent maxi pad that sticks to your skin so when you're getting out of your limo at 4 a.m. you don't accidentally show off your cervix to the paparazzi AND you need not suffer the shame of... a waistband? I don't know, the website keeps saying "no pantylines," but I thought pantylines were the lines on your butt that g-strings would theoretically eliminate, whereas waistband lines are something one remedies by, like, wearing the right size underpants. But you know what? I'm not a scientician. So I don't know. What I DO know is that the best part of the amazing strapless g-string's site is the part where they casually sneak "pole dancing" into the list of contexts tailor made for their product. You know, tight dresses, short dresses, EROTIC DANCING, going to the spa... Huh? Aside from the fact that having a li'l swatch of fabric, cute or otherwise, straight up TAPED to your pubis and coccyx is kind of, I don't know, whatever the opposite of attractive would be called, I like that they have a bridal version, and that if you go to the instructions page, they tell you how to go to the bathroom - "carefully pull the panties to the side and replace when finished." Thanks, strapless g-string!
Maybe I'm just completely out of the loop because I don't shop at Victoria's Secret or, you know, know who half of the people are when I read Star magazine at the gym, but... how is this poor, starving child a bra model? Does anyone else feel like this picture screams sad Russian child hooker? This is totally a Lifetime movie waiting to happen - "Yevgeniya was like any other starving street child in desolate post-Chernobyl Belarus, when one fateful meeting in 1986 opened her eyes to a glamorous, decadent world of bras, rhinestones, and clown makeup (but still no food)... 'I was an Emaciated Russian Child Hooker: Yevgeniya's Story,' tonight at 9." I mean, this woman could be happy, healthy, and 26 years old, but this picture openly says "emaciated pre-Yeltsin Russian sad child hooker in clown makeup." GIVE THIS WOMAN SOME BORSCHT. SHE'S HUNGRY AND HER SIZE 000 BRA IS TOO BIG. Perhaps their Bangladeshi sweatshop employees weren't sexy enough, so Victoria's Secret started scouting this place in Lipetsk for more gorgeous, malnourished workers? I don't know, but what I DO know is that this woman's ribcage makes me uncomfortable, AND her makeup confuses me, because she might be 11. That is all.
Hi, my name is Gail. You might remember me from the time I fractured my foot during boxing a few years back, because it seems that banged up Chucks from high school are not "appropriate footwear" for "boxing," and then I walked around on a fractured foot for 5 weeks before I saw a doctor because I figured that sometimes your foot just swells up, turns purple, and sends fiery, nauseating waves of agony up your leg every time you take a step? You know... how that happens sometimes... right. It was at this point in my life at which I was introduced to you, lectured repeatedly on your importance, and informed that you were going to become a part of my life unless I was into periodically grinding my foot's innerworkings into a pulpy mash of nastiness. Remember me? Hi! How are you? Anyway, I just wanted to mention that, unless you WANT me to start jogging in cheap heels and flip flops and knowingly pulverize my metatarsals into a fine dust, you need to stop making every piece of functional women's athletic footwear I come across look like a 5 year old girl picked out the color scheme. Why is every other pair of functional athletic shoes I see white? Does the word LADY combine with the word RUNNING to spell NURSE SHOES? For reals. Justin has the pick of every combination of silver and gunmetal, and I have effing white with periwinkle? I will say good day, sir. Is it really necessary to make the ONLY black shoes all black, because I don't really think I'm going to Jazzercise anytime soon. And yet THIS is how you treat me, women's athletic shoe consortium, like I'm definitely looking for something to match both my baby pink Tinkerbell backpack AND my late 1960s nursing career, or like I'm some kind of ephedra-addled aerobics relic from 1989? Reeeeally? I know I'm weird for caring, but if MEN'S functional athletic shoes can manage to look like they weren't hallucinated by a feverish preschool girl, why must women's? My options are white, white with dusty pink, white with cornflower, white white white, or black on black for chain-smoking aerobic instructors drinking Tab in 1987. Oh, good! Good. I can rarely be bothered to care about what I look like in a fitness environment, but I will not put my feet into the shoe manifestation of Princess Frostine and attempt any sort of activity. Don't even pretend like it's ok to make all the soles white, either - that's just a giant middle finger to people who live somewhere that necessitates walking and don't plan on devoting their lives to shoe care (like my former boxing coach, true story, half our session was spent with him lovingly, diligently wiping the street-filth from the sides and top of his hurt-your-retinas-white gym shoes). Don't make me buy men's shoes just because you're a jerk, women's shoe consortium. In conclusion, dusty pink can rot, and women like monochromatic greys just as much as our penised colleagues. Suck on that before you spit out a whole new line of "baby pink on cloud white" abominations.
Your friend (?),
You've probably noticed by now that the Giants won their Fun Happy Bowl, much to the chagrin of Mr. Gisele and his pals. Justin was really excited about this event (notice his affection toward Eli Manning, and Eli's coyness) because he's been a Giants fan forever, and our pal Dave was excited because he has to love the Giants now that he lives here. I'd like to share why, as someone who only understands football in the sense that I pick my fantasy league based on player names and if they're smiling in their team photo, I'm pleased about the Giants being the 2008 Super Football Champion Wonder Stars of USA.
1. Michael Strahan is PRECIOUS. In CAPITAL LETTERS. I want to hug him.
2. Plaxico cried! Awwww.
3. Osi Umenyiora may or may not like to poop on a lady at times. I'd pause to find that fact offensive, but it's too busy being hilarious.
4. That one mid-tackle, back-bend-and-helmet-catch thing was pretty fun, and I actually paused while making cookies to watch the replay 82 times. Great job! Super bendy head catch! Number 1!
5. I will bet you $50 Canadian that Eli Manning says or has said "aww, shucks," in all seriousness. Also, his brother makes nice commercials about cheering for insurance adjusters, which is thoughtful. Thanks Team Manning (Teammmmmanning)!
6. I don't like The New England Mister Giseles.
Did anyone else notice that it's a sunny, pleasant 67 degrees out today? I'm not one to be unsettled by... unsettling... weather phenomena, but if Mayor McCheese rises over the city, weeping rivers of Shamrock Shake, or all the pigeons form like Voltron into a giant homeless guy, obliterating every bakery in sight (or whatever else is supposed to happen when it's summer in January in New York and our country is actually considering a politician who isn't a homey, Southern white dude), could someone let me know? I'll be busy crafting serious aluminum helmets for us and the cats, and, I don't know, maybe setting fire to the local American Apparel store. Thanks guys!
As we approach/exit/are nowhere near the holidays (depending on your religion)(and mine is nata de coco), I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who reads this crap. You're awesome! I'd make you a pie if we were physically and emotionally close enough for this action to be warranted! I mean, thanks. Pacman Jones and I will be looking for you under the mistletoe. (And if you steal the picture I've lovingly crafted for this occasion, I will be waiting with a baseball bat.)
Love and kisses,
BEHOLD L'EAU DU JOE'S KWIK MART.
NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH: Bill's Quick Mart-type water, Water Joe - ewwww. I'm not sure what exactly upsets me about caffeinated tap water, but ewwww.
UNDERTONES: Pennsylvania, gas, essence of surly cashier.
VALUE: Yes. And outdoor portable toilets.
BEST PAIRED WITH: Joe's Kwik Mart's fine range of outdoor portable toilets.
PREFERRED BY: People who like surly cashiers, discriminating rural Pennsylvanians.
WHAT IT "SAYS": Fiji water, my ass.
FINAL RATING: Why the outdoor portable toilets, Joe? Why?
I hope to one day be a banana ghost.
I totally wanted to post the video Justin and I took of the thrilling last 2 minutes of the Bronx/Queens Championship bout, but I don't understand the YouTube/why the YouYube hates my Mac, so... Here's a blurry picture. The Gotham Girls Roller Derby may well be the greatest sports league ever. It was an unbelievably exciting game (I'm not just saying that because we were in the posh VIP seats for Justin's birthday)(WOOOOOO VIP!) and the last 10 minutes were unreal because it could've gone either way. But the Bronx won, 95-90, and I was super excited because many of the ladies who've won my heart during Skills Night are on the Bronx Gridlock. YAY GRIDLOCK!
Ok, if you want to understand the majesty that is Melt-Banana live, you should read this guy's review. He saw them in Rochester and he says stuff about what it's like to see them if you're not familiar with why they're awesome. I can't be all... writing... fancy words... and stuff. I noticed a lot of things (that won't win me a job as any sort of music writer), though, such as: Europa is a weird place. I don't think I'm Polish enough to go there (in that I'm not at all Polish, in spite of what every elderly Polish-speaking woman in our neighborhood seems to think)(STOP COMING UP TO ME AND GIBBERING ON IN POLISH! I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU! NOT EVEN WHEN YOU SPEAK LOUDER!), but I think it's nice that there's a place where Melt-Banana's poster can co-exist with a non-ironic poster for Friday Night Bikini Contests! and noise bands can enhance their songs with a (also not ironic) disco ball and fog machine (not that I've ever seen a straight up hipster place use an ironic fog machine. Would it be called a "smug" machine? Ha ha! Get it? Because smug sounds like smog, and... get it? Ahhh, jokes). Also I noticed that the "18 and over" clause on my ticket was not necessary, in that I'm certain I was in the closest-to-18-in-attendance category, and... I'm 27. I'm pretty sure there isn't a word to describe the majesty of walking into a crazy noise show and noticing that half the rabid fans have probably been rabid fans since I was 12. I have several theories (based on the section of my post after the jump) about Europa occupying several dimensions at once, which would neatly explain why there were also drunk middle aged people passed out/"freak dancing" out of rhythm who seemed to appear from nowhere for no obvious reason, and... this whole post has been really distracted because I'm trying to figure something out before skills night tonight (um, like sustaining forward motion) so my brain's just not here (it's in a quivering puddle, next to my nerves, inside my stomach - YAY!). Sorry friends! More later...
Hockey is interesting. From what I understand, the men are trying to whack the disc into a net that another man is trying to cover up. This is what you should know about hockey: Rangers fans are extremely enthusiastic. And this enthusiasm extends to many things, like voicing their appreciation of various players, and audibly questioning the sexual orientation of members of the opposing team, and singing some of Neil Diamond's greatest hits. The gentleman next to me had a very interesting method of demonstrating his enthusiasm: he stood up about every 3 seconds, and had what appeared to be some kind of major gluteal seizure. Ok, and that sounds confusing, so let me first take a survey. Who's been to Madison Square Garden for a sporting event? Have you seen the seats? They were clearly made in an era in which most sports fans were not actually 70 pounds overweight. So basically, this gentleman's constant leaping up (should've used Preparation H?) resulted in his ass cheeks occupying about 40% of my visual field (28% of which was already occupied by the classy fauxhawk pictured - sweet! It's cool to pay $34.50 to watch a bulbous skull and a twitchy ass REACTING to an event you can't actually see for yourself. No wonder my ticket said "limited view."), and NOT noticing that his ass was spasming would've been possible only if I'd actually gouged my eyeballs out (YES! I did consider this after the first extended period of leaping-glutes-up-in-my-face). The best part was that, in between twitching his ass about 3 inches from my face, this guy was alternately having a peanut fight with his so-drunk-she-almost-got-into-a-brawl girlfriend (Thanks guys! I was so glad to find your gifts in my purse when I got home!) and having some self-important, loud conversation on his cell phone about how "no one takes (him) seriously as a writer." I know what you're thinking, and of COURSE I asked him to be my best friend! Pompous AND totally oblivious of your own obnoxiousness? SIGN ME UP, NEW FRIEND! Anyway, I tried to take a video of it, because I think the world needs to know, but the recording conditions up in the nosebleed section of MSG are atrocious even WITHOUT some moron's pulsing butt blocking out all light and sound...