Hiatus
I can't think about blogging right now. Something extraordinary has happened to me and I need to process it. Since I don't like the idea of discussing my personal life on the web, I won't be writing about it (karaoke contests and minor medical conditions are not "personal life"!). I want to, maybe it would help me sort it out, but hey, I have this thing about keeping some parts of my life private. So, I'll be back when I am a little less distracted.
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
'N Skunk?
There should be a clause in every new pop star's contract that says he may not speak to the press unless he consults with his agent before each answer. That moron Justin Timberlake isn't happy just offending our fashion sensibilities, now he's narcing on his famous friends. He told FHM magazine that Nelly smokes pot. Now, I could give a rat's ass if some working-the-hetero-to-hard rapper is smoking weed, but come on, you just don't talk about that kind of thing in a country where it's against the law. Also, the whole thing -- "Nelly loves cigars, but he don't smoke cigars, he smokes blunts. You know what I mean? He smokes blunts." -- sounds like Timberlake is just trying to build some kind of ghetto reputation. Hello? You are a marginally talented white boy who dances like a cheerleader/Chippendale's dancer. No street cred for you!
There should be a clause in every new pop star's contract that says he may not speak to the press unless he consults with his agent before each answer. That moron Justin Timberlake isn't happy just offending our fashion sensibilities, now he's narcing on his famous friends. He told FHM magazine that Nelly smokes pot. Now, I could give a rat's ass if some working-the-hetero-to-hard rapper is smoking weed, but come on, you just don't talk about that kind of thing in a country where it's against the law. Also, the whole thing -- "Nelly loves cigars, but he don't smoke cigars, he smokes blunts. You know what I mean? He smokes blunts." -- sounds like Timberlake is just trying to build some kind of ghetto reputation. Hello? You are a marginally talented white boy who dances like a cheerleader/Chippendale's dancer. No street cred for you!
Thursday, October 24, 2002
Who??
Okay, so let's gloss over the fact that I'm reading a recap of The Real World: Las Vegas, a show I've never seen (not even in previous seasons), that seems just horrible, to get to the point of how out of the MTV generation loop I am.
"Trashelle, meanwhile, throws her split ends all a-flutter as she wails to Drakkar Noir, 'Oh, I love Jack Johnson!' And who doesn't, really? Certainly not someone who needs to get laid to feel her inner worth who has just been asked the question, 'Can I validate your damaged self-esteem by letting you tell me you love Jack Johnson?' Drakkar Noir asks Trashelle, 'You wanna go with us?' The booze adds an extra four syllables to Trashelle's emphatic, 'Yes!' Oh, my God. Jack Johnson doesn't get that excited about seeing Jack Johnson."
Who the hell is Jack Johnson?
"Irulissa nod sympathetically as Brynn moans on about Trashelle getting all up on the guys within ten minutes of walking in, while Brynn plays the wallflower (a band in many ways the antecedent to the work of Jack Johnson, I might stop and add here) for 'three hours.'"
Okay, I have heard of the Wallfowers, mostly because it's Bob Dylan's son's band, but have they really been around long enough to be seen as the antecedant to anyone? Is there some whole new world of music evolving while I sit here listening to Queen and John Lennon? Well, yes, I know there is, but is it any good? I worry that I'll waste my time and money trying to find out and just be disappointed. Keeping up with the pop culture times is too hard to do. Turn up the Freedom Rock, man.
Okay, so let's gloss over the fact that I'm reading a recap of The Real World: Las Vegas, a show I've never seen (not even in previous seasons), that seems just horrible, to get to the point of how out of the MTV generation loop I am.
"Trashelle, meanwhile, throws her split ends all a-flutter as she wails to Drakkar Noir, 'Oh, I love Jack Johnson!' And who doesn't, really? Certainly not someone who needs to get laid to feel her inner worth who has just been asked the question, 'Can I validate your damaged self-esteem by letting you tell me you love Jack Johnson?' Drakkar Noir asks Trashelle, 'You wanna go with us?' The booze adds an extra four syllables to Trashelle's emphatic, 'Yes!' Oh, my God. Jack Johnson doesn't get that excited about seeing Jack Johnson."
Who the hell is Jack Johnson?
"Irulissa nod sympathetically as Brynn moans on about Trashelle getting all up on the guys within ten minutes of walking in, while Brynn plays the wallflower (a band in many ways the antecedent to the work of Jack Johnson, I might stop and add here) for 'three hours.'"
Okay, I have heard of the Wallfowers, mostly because it's Bob Dylan's son's band, but have they really been around long enough to be seen as the antecedant to anyone? Is there some whole new world of music evolving while I sit here listening to Queen and John Lennon? Well, yes, I know there is, but is it any good? I worry that I'll waste my time and money trying to find out and just be disappointed. Keeping up with the pop culture times is too hard to do. Turn up the Freedom Rock, man.
Take This Job and Shove It, Er...
The "doctors" at Salon.com made a somewhat dubious claim in today's column:
"As an interesting side note, the term 'blow job' does not refer to the action (despite generations of teenage girls confused about whether to suck or blow). Strangely enough, the term probably comes to us from the poet Walt Whitman, who penned it in his poem 'I Sing the Body Electric,' in which 'white-blow' is a reference to male ejaculation."
While it's terribly romantic to think that prostitutes in the 1940s sat around reading Whitman (specifically, a poem written in 1900) between customers, I put a little more stock into Random House. (I have to say, after doing a search for the etymology of the term "blow job," I felt it would be a good idea to clear my History file.)
Sexual slang is perplexing, though. I mean, why "felching"? Dan Savage readers have given us "pegging" (a woman performing anal sex on a man with a strap on) through a simple vote, and I have to admit a bit of puzzlement whenever I read a gay porn review in H/X. As long as you know what it means when you agree to do it, I guess it doesn't matter where we get it from.
As an aside, I recently learned why the word "faggot" was originally applied to homosexual men, and I was totally apalled. I can't even use the word "flaming" without wincing now. Ah, but just some brief research reminds me not to believe everything I hear on a LGBT-educational program on PBS. The idea that homosexuals were burned among the "faggots" (bundles of sticks) when heretics were burned at the stake isn't documented across the board, but is only occasionally found. It makes so much sense, but others posit that the phrase started to mean burden, and old woman, so maybe that's where it came from for gays. One site suggested the possibility that it comes from the Yiddish "fagele" (little bird), but I'd think it was the opposite. Anyhoo, I usually say "gay" anyway, as it implies something very pleasant: happiness!
The "doctors" at Salon.com made a somewhat dubious claim in today's column:
"As an interesting side note, the term 'blow job' does not refer to the action (despite generations of teenage girls confused about whether to suck or blow). Strangely enough, the term probably comes to us from the poet Walt Whitman, who penned it in his poem 'I Sing the Body Electric,' in which 'white-blow' is a reference to male ejaculation."
While it's terribly romantic to think that prostitutes in the 1940s sat around reading Whitman (specifically, a poem written in 1900) between customers, I put a little more stock into Random House. (I have to say, after doing a search for the etymology of the term "blow job," I felt it would be a good idea to clear my History file.)
Sexual slang is perplexing, though. I mean, why "felching"? Dan Savage readers have given us "pegging" (a woman performing anal sex on a man with a strap on) through a simple vote, and I have to admit a bit of puzzlement whenever I read a gay porn review in H/X. As long as you know what it means when you agree to do it, I guess it doesn't matter where we get it from.
As an aside, I recently learned why the word "faggot" was originally applied to homosexual men, and I was totally apalled. I can't even use the word "flaming" without wincing now. Ah, but just some brief research reminds me not to believe everything I hear on a LGBT-educational program on PBS. The idea that homosexuals were burned among the "faggots" (bundles of sticks) when heretics were burned at the stake isn't documented across the board, but is only occasionally found. It makes so much sense, but others posit that the phrase started to mean burden, and old woman, so maybe that's where it came from for gays. One site suggested the possibility that it comes from the Yiddish "fagele" (little bird), but I'd think it was the opposite. Anyhoo, I usually say "gay" anyway, as it implies something very pleasant: happiness!
It's Uncanny, I Tell You
Just like the episode of Buffy that dealt with school shootings and was conceived of before Columbine but postponed because of it, CSI: Miami has an episode in production about a sniper that was written in August and may be delayed because of the Beltway Sniper.
That's all well and good, but if you read the last sentence, a movie called Phone Booth has also been indefinitely delayed because it deals with a sniper. The thing is, this is the movie that an acquaintance of mine, Seth Meier (kind of a low-rent Ben Affleck; nothing personal, Seth) has beeen working on for years. Finally it's ready for release, then this happens. Knowing Seth, though, I doubt he's letting it get to him.
Another acquaintance of mine, and Mr. Meier's former classmate, Ben Wilson, is appearing in a commercial for Bass Ale. He describes a story about how a shirt convinced him to leave Nebraska. I don't doubt at all that it's a true story, and it's just Ben being himself. I'd like to see him doing something else, though, as I was always impressed with his acting. OK, kids, keep your eyes peeled for those two names in the future.
Just like the episode of Buffy that dealt with school shootings and was conceived of before Columbine but postponed because of it, CSI: Miami has an episode in production about a sniper that was written in August and may be delayed because of the Beltway Sniper.
That's all well and good, but if you read the last sentence, a movie called Phone Booth has also been indefinitely delayed because it deals with a sniper. The thing is, this is the movie that an acquaintance of mine, Seth Meier (kind of a low-rent Ben Affleck; nothing personal, Seth) has beeen working on for years. Finally it's ready for release, then this happens. Knowing Seth, though, I doubt he's letting it get to him.
Another acquaintance of mine, and Mr. Meier's former classmate, Ben Wilson, is appearing in a commercial for Bass Ale. He describes a story about how a shirt convinced him to leave Nebraska. I don't doubt at all that it's a true story, and it's just Ben being himself. I'd like to see him doing something else, though, as I was always impressed with his acting. OK, kids, keep your eyes peeled for those two names in the future.
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Karaoke Update
I am a bitter, begrudging woman.
Therefore, I'm not re-entering the karaoke contest at Pieces or singing there period. Laugh if you will, but I have actually avoided Pieces for up to six months in the past. It's even easier to go and simply avoid singing. Why should I waste my time and voice performing for those ungrateful children? And since I can't really punish my friends who didn't show (you only had to be there from midnight to 1 am, kids!), I have to be able to do something. I know it sounds silly and sulky, but Jesus Christ! All the best singers were Tamyra-ed. The three winners didn't even fall into the top five of best performers, in my oh-so humble opinion. So, forget the popularity contest. I can't win. Times have changed; my friends at Pieces don't show on Saturday and usually leave by 10 anyway. Frees up my Tuesdays for Buffy anyway, not that I'm super excited about that. The premiere was great, but subsequent episodes have been disappointing.
Also, and this is somewhat important, I refuse to compete against my Prozac-taking, formerly-psychotic, ex-roommate. At the very least, being there means I have to listen to her overly-enthusiastic reports of her "life," repeated self-referencing to her greatly increased weight, rambling about her Native American heritage and her general lunacy. At the most, I have to suffer the humiliation of having lost to her drunken rendition of "Me and Bobby McGee." Why should I? Hey, I think Psychic Cafe has Tuesday karaoke...
I am a bitter, begrudging woman.
Therefore, I'm not re-entering the karaoke contest at Pieces or singing there period. Laugh if you will, but I have actually avoided Pieces for up to six months in the past. It's even easier to go and simply avoid singing. Why should I waste my time and voice performing for those ungrateful children? And since I can't really punish my friends who didn't show (you only had to be there from midnight to 1 am, kids!), I have to be able to do something. I know it sounds silly and sulky, but Jesus Christ! All the best singers were Tamyra-ed. The three winners didn't even fall into the top five of best performers, in my oh-so humble opinion. So, forget the popularity contest. I can't win. Times have changed; my friends at Pieces don't show on Saturday and usually leave by 10 anyway. Frees up my Tuesdays for Buffy anyway, not that I'm super excited about that. The premiere was great, but subsequent episodes have been disappointing.
Also, and this is somewhat important, I refuse to compete against my Prozac-taking, formerly-psychotic, ex-roommate. At the very least, being there means I have to listen to her overly-enthusiastic reports of her "life," repeated self-referencing to her greatly increased weight, rambling about her Native American heritage and her general lunacy. At the most, I have to suffer the humiliation of having lost to her drunken rendition of "Me and Bobby McGee." Why should I? Hey, I think Psychic Cafe has Tuesday karaoke...
Independence Days
Along with being a total babe, Arianna Huffington is brilliant. This isn't a shocking opinion or revelation, it's been a known fact for years. But the fact that an article she wrote for Salon would encourage everyday folks to cough up dough to fight our dependence on oil and shame SUV drivers puts her over the top in my book. As a rider of public transportation, I am disgusted by those freakish gas-guzzlers, especially when I see vehicle after vehicle with only the driver on board, zooming down the highway. The worst part is talking to an SUV owner about it. "Oh, I know they're terrible, but I just love mine. It's so big!" Aw, that's sweet. It's like being in love with a bazooka. "I know that I'm killing people with it, but did you see how big it is?" What I can't understand, is that anyone would drive a car that gets poor mileage in bad economic times. Dependence on oil (foreign or otherwise) and air pollution concerns aside, hey, isn't it expensive to fill 'er up? Ah well, in the American way of putting one's own desires above the welfare of the whole, behemoth truck-like vehicles with negligible actual storage space continue to roll down the city streets, never to touch the soft dirt off-road or even a gravel driveway. Bah.
Along with being a total babe, Arianna Huffington is brilliant. This isn't a shocking opinion or revelation, it's been a known fact for years. But the fact that an article she wrote for Salon would encourage everyday folks to cough up dough to fight our dependence on oil and shame SUV drivers puts her over the top in my book. As a rider of public transportation, I am disgusted by those freakish gas-guzzlers, especially when I see vehicle after vehicle with only the driver on board, zooming down the highway. The worst part is talking to an SUV owner about it. "Oh, I know they're terrible, but I just love mine. It's so big!" Aw, that's sweet. It's like being in love with a bazooka. "I know that I'm killing people with it, but did you see how big it is?" What I can't understand, is that anyone would drive a car that gets poor mileage in bad economic times. Dependence on oil (foreign or otherwise) and air pollution concerns aside, hey, isn't it expensive to fill 'er up? Ah well, in the American way of putting one's own desires above the welfare of the whole, behemoth truck-like vehicles with negligible actual storage space continue to roll down the city streets, never to touch the soft dirt off-road or even a gravel driveway. Bah.
Get Over Yourself
"For baby boomers, the digital sound files called MP3s are merely the trend's newest incarnation. 'We're a generation that has lived through so many modes of experiencing music - from vinyl to 8-track to CD to cassette and reel-to-reel,' said Melissa Easton, 38, an industrial designer who lives in Manhattan's Chinatown. 'We're sick of changing our modes of listening.'" -- AP story about MP3s and Boomers.
Okay, I'm sorry, but you want to quote a Boomer? Don't quote a 38-year old, at the debatable end of the generational spectrum. If this chica was listening to reel-to-reel, it definitely wasn't as a normal function of daily life. And, give me a break, already. Boomers are the only group that was sold vinyl and CDs? Not quite. Hey, my dad's 64 and he's been sold everything from acetate 78 records to CDs... does that make him even more burdened by MP3 technology? Oh, I'm sorry, being over 55 makes him invisible to the record industry's marketing machine. I forgot. But what about me? At 29, I've bought vinyl, casette tapes, CDs, downloaded MP3s and recently bought an 8-track player (hey, it's GenX irony, ya know). The whole story is a ridiculous marketing anecdote that doesn't mean anything to anyone who isn't trying to figure out how to market music to Boomers. Who cares? Why is it an AP story? Why am I ranting about it?
"For baby boomers, the digital sound files called MP3s are merely the trend's newest incarnation. 'We're a generation that has lived through so many modes of experiencing music - from vinyl to 8-track to CD to cassette and reel-to-reel,' said Melissa Easton, 38, an industrial designer who lives in Manhattan's Chinatown. 'We're sick of changing our modes of listening.'" -- AP story about MP3s and Boomers.
Okay, I'm sorry, but you want to quote a Boomer? Don't quote a 38-year old, at the debatable end of the generational spectrum. If this chica was listening to reel-to-reel, it definitely wasn't as a normal function of daily life. And, give me a break, already. Boomers are the only group that was sold vinyl and CDs? Not quite. Hey, my dad's 64 and he's been sold everything from acetate 78 records to CDs... does that make him even more burdened by MP3 technology? Oh, I'm sorry, being over 55 makes him invisible to the record industry's marketing machine. I forgot. But what about me? At 29, I've bought vinyl, casette tapes, CDs, downloaded MP3s and recently bought an 8-track player (hey, it's GenX irony, ya know). The whole story is a ridiculous marketing anecdote that doesn't mean anything to anyone who isn't trying to figure out how to market music to Boomers. Who cares? Why is it an AP story? Why am I ranting about it?
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
Fluffer Nutter
"According to London's Sunday People, during a recent video shoot for "Jenny From the Block," [Jennifer] Lopez required not one, but two fast-fingered fellas to tease her nipples so they would protrude through her string vest in just the right way. What's more, the tabloid claims, when a few flicks of a digit failed to do the trick, a couple of ice cubes were employed to do the requisite fluffing." -- Salon.com, Nothing Personal gossip column
So, what's the scandal here? That she uses fluffers or that she used two?
"According to London's Sunday People, during a recent video shoot for "Jenny From the Block," [Jennifer] Lopez required not one, but two fast-fingered fellas to tease her nipples so they would protrude through her string vest in just the right way. What's more, the tabloid claims, when a few flicks of a digit failed to do the trick, a couple of ice cubes were employed to do the requisite fluffing." -- Salon.com, Nothing Personal gossip column
So, what's the scandal here? That she uses fluffers or that she used two?
Friday, October 18, 2002
A New Purpose
Well, that may be a little dramatic, but I started a new blog that's the story of my everyday life. It's called "Bensonhurst Blues." If you want to find it, drop me a line. It's more for me than anyone else, but I can always use a little critique. It's all first draft stuff, due to the blogging format. I kind of like that as it's less daunting than doing it like a real writer.
I'm getting by with shading in the eyebrows with pencil. It still looks weird, though.
I got my first stripe on my white belt in karate. I'm finally starting to get the hang of the snap round kicks and the power round kicks. Jabbing still hurts my hands though. I have little bruises on my knuckles.
I never used to taste a difference in coffees, until I tried Dunkin' Donuts' hazelnut coffee. Wow. I'm back on the caffeine with this stuff. A nice pour of milk, no sugar... man that's smooth coffee. I don't think I can ever drink coffee from the cart again! Never fear, cart-man, I'll still come to you for tea and cake donuts.
Well, that may be a little dramatic, but I started a new blog that's the story of my everyday life. It's called "Bensonhurst Blues." If you want to find it, drop me a line. It's more for me than anyone else, but I can always use a little critique. It's all first draft stuff, due to the blogging format. I kind of like that as it's less daunting than doing it like a real writer.
I'm getting by with shading in the eyebrows with pencil. It still looks weird, though.
I got my first stripe on my white belt in karate. I'm finally starting to get the hang of the snap round kicks and the power round kicks. Jabbing still hurts my hands though. I have little bruises on my knuckles.
I never used to taste a difference in coffees, until I tried Dunkin' Donuts' hazelnut coffee. Wow. I'm back on the caffeine with this stuff. A nice pour of milk, no sugar... man that's smooth coffee. I don't think I can ever drink coffee from the cart again! Never fear, cart-man, I'll still come to you for tea and cake donuts.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
The Hell?
"Presidents and royalty gathered Wednesday to help Egypt inaugurate the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, a modern version of the famous ancient library known for a freedom of thought and expression lacking in today's Middle East." That's from an AP story. Glad to see they're sticking with facts over editorializing.
In other news, I'm terribly, terribly depressed and I have no eyebrows.
"Presidents and royalty gathered Wednesday to help Egypt inaugurate the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, a modern version of the famous ancient library known for a freedom of thought and expression lacking in today's Middle East." That's from an AP story. Glad to see they're sticking with facts over editorializing.
In other news, I'm terribly, terribly depressed and I have no eyebrows.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
The Heartbreak of Remoras
Kids, don't be like me. Eat dinner before going to karaoke. Don't find closure with your ex-best friend in the middle of a crowded room. For goodness' sake, don't cry in public and then try to sing "Makin' Whoopee" by Dr. John. Actually, don't ever try to sing that song. Kids, be responsible, even if it's raining and you're mightily hungover and the previous night's episode of Buffy depressed you with it's not-so-goodness. I can't promise you'll be happy if you follow my advice, but you'll probably have a lot less to regret.
Kids, don't be like me. Eat dinner before going to karaoke. Don't find closure with your ex-best friend in the middle of a crowded room. For goodness' sake, don't cry in public and then try to sing "Makin' Whoopee" by Dr. John. Actually, don't ever try to sing that song. Kids, be responsible, even if it's raining and you're mightily hungover and the previous night's episode of Buffy depressed you with it's not-so-goodness. I can't promise you'll be happy if you follow my advice, but you'll probably have a lot less to regret.
Friday, October 11, 2002
Love in the Time of Pneumonia
That's how I feel, anyway. There's little more distressing than curling up in bed and spending two hours straight just coughing. Think you might fall asleep? That tickle hits and you're leaning over the side of the bed, grabbing the floor, expecting to see your right lung at any minute. Hi, right lung! For some reason, the cough suppressant isn't working, no matter how much you swig straight from the bottle. You begin to ponder the merits of taking large quantities of the anti-anxiety pills you have in the back of the medicine cabinet. You start to berate yourself for never having enough coma-inducing medicine in the house, but in the middle of your self-directed rant, here comes the cough. Make sure you don't start crying, though, that'll only make it worse. Sucking in great whooping breaths between each hack, you wonder if you're keeping the upstairs neighbors awake. It gets so bad you start to regret not getting married to that doofus from Tennessee eight years ago, because at least then you'd have someone to run out and buy some NyQuil. After a fantastic four hours of sleep, you wake up an hour before the alarm goes off, and seeing the futility of trying to get back to sleep once your diaphragm starts waking up, you get up and go to work in the pouring rain. Yeeaaaugh. Try to tell me that doesn't suck.
Guess I won't be making it to the Kitsch Inn Reunion. I could always buy massive amounts of non-drowsy cold medicine and vow not to drink or smoke. Hahahahahahaha. Whew. I needed that. Oh no, laughing makes me cough.
Cereal Killers
I've never seen a real serial killer at large before, that I remember. I was too young for Son of Sam or the Zodiac killer. This sniper in the DC area, the one they're calling The Tarot Card Killer, is the first for me. It's upsetting. I'm very glad I don't live in that area, but you know, who's to say it won't invite a host of copycats or a new flood of serial killers. The most disturbing part about this guy's MO is that the victims are of both genders, all ages, and different races. Compare the threat of this sniper to the vague threat of terrorist attacks. At least the folks in the DC area have an idea of how to protect themselves. Dang terrorists. Why can't they be more specific?
Peanuts for Peace
Good for Jimmy Carter. He was the first President I could remember, and regardless of the gas crisis and all that jazz, I always liked him as a person. His work with Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace is inspiring. I think it's ridiculous though, that George W. Bush, Tony Blair, and Rudy Giuliani were nominated, especially when you compare their past works for peace and human rights to Carter's. That's about all I have to say on that.
Speaking of Peace...
Thank goodness someone in Congress has moral fiber. Too bad his colleagues are more interested in getting re-elected than in saving the lives of American soldiers.
That's how I feel, anyway. There's little more distressing than curling up in bed and spending two hours straight just coughing. Think you might fall asleep? That tickle hits and you're leaning over the side of the bed, grabbing the floor, expecting to see your right lung at any minute. Hi, right lung! For some reason, the cough suppressant isn't working, no matter how much you swig straight from the bottle. You begin to ponder the merits of taking large quantities of the anti-anxiety pills you have in the back of the medicine cabinet. You start to berate yourself for never having enough coma-inducing medicine in the house, but in the middle of your self-directed rant, here comes the cough. Make sure you don't start crying, though, that'll only make it worse. Sucking in great whooping breaths between each hack, you wonder if you're keeping the upstairs neighbors awake. It gets so bad you start to regret not getting married to that doofus from Tennessee eight years ago, because at least then you'd have someone to run out and buy some NyQuil. After a fantastic four hours of sleep, you wake up an hour before the alarm goes off, and seeing the futility of trying to get back to sleep once your diaphragm starts waking up, you get up and go to work in the pouring rain. Yeeaaaugh. Try to tell me that doesn't suck.
Guess I won't be making it to the Kitsch Inn Reunion. I could always buy massive amounts of non-drowsy cold medicine and vow not to drink or smoke. Hahahahahahaha. Whew. I needed that. Oh no, laughing makes me cough.
Cereal Killers
I've never seen a real serial killer at large before, that I remember. I was too young for Son of Sam or the Zodiac killer. This sniper in the DC area, the one they're calling The Tarot Card Killer, is the first for me. It's upsetting. I'm very glad I don't live in that area, but you know, who's to say it won't invite a host of copycats or a new flood of serial killers. The most disturbing part about this guy's MO is that the victims are of both genders, all ages, and different races. Compare the threat of this sniper to the vague threat of terrorist attacks. At least the folks in the DC area have an idea of how to protect themselves. Dang terrorists. Why can't they be more specific?
Peanuts for Peace
Good for Jimmy Carter. He was the first President I could remember, and regardless of the gas crisis and all that jazz, I always liked him as a person. His work with Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace is inspiring. I think it's ridiculous though, that George W. Bush, Tony Blair, and Rudy Giuliani were nominated, especially when you compare their past works for peace and human rights to Carter's. That's about all I have to say on that.
Speaking of Peace...
Thank goodness someone in Congress has moral fiber. Too bad his colleagues are more interested in getting re-elected than in saving the lives of American soldiers.
Monday, October 07, 2002
Post-Birthday Stress Syndrome
Sure, there's the expected let-down after an anticipated event is over, but then there's also the Holy-Moses-what-was-I-thinking? of the birthday party. Stop me if you've heard this before, but have you ever woken up on a Saturday morning with the song Big Shot by Billy Joel playing over and over in your head? Have you ever been riding in a subway train, in yesterday's clothes, with all the happy, shiny, virtuous people and been stricken with a particulary cringe-worthy memory of the last night's festivities? If you've never cursed yourself for not bringing sunglasses on your evening out, you may not be able to undertsand. All in all, it was a successful party and a heck of a lot of fun, and I actually didn't do anything too embarrassing, but I think I scared off a new young friend who must think I'm completely depraved. Now, I'm somewhat depraved, but my intentions are always good. Plus, I understand that my antics fall under the "entertaining, although I wouldn't do it," rather than the "someone should get her some help" category. In other words, more Osbournes than Anna Nicole Smith.
All I can say is, thank goodness swimsuit season is over.
Oh, and I got lovely presents. My friends rock. So many people that I hadn't seen out in a while and that haven't been able to make it to previous parties attended. I only have one blank spot from Friday night, and it's that I can't recall who gave me the dozen pink roses! Can you believe it? Maybe the trauma of being given a sunflower (I don't blame her, she didn't know about my phobia) blocked all other flower related memories from my mind. I don't even remember the reported sunflower-induced freak-out very well. I'm sure it was minor. But, the roses. They smell great, but they're already drooping. Flowers are so sad.
Next Friday is the Kitsch Inn reunion party at Don Hill's. There is no doubt that this party will rock. Let's cross our fingers that I don't break a bone or sprain a joint at this one, okay?
Sure, there's the expected let-down after an anticipated event is over, but then there's also the Holy-Moses-what-was-I-thinking? of the birthday party. Stop me if you've heard this before, but have you ever woken up on a Saturday morning with the song Big Shot by Billy Joel playing over and over in your head? Have you ever been riding in a subway train, in yesterday's clothes, with all the happy, shiny, virtuous people and been stricken with a particulary cringe-worthy memory of the last night's festivities? If you've never cursed yourself for not bringing sunglasses on your evening out, you may not be able to undertsand. All in all, it was a successful party and a heck of a lot of fun, and I actually didn't do anything too embarrassing, but I think I scared off a new young friend who must think I'm completely depraved. Now, I'm somewhat depraved, but my intentions are always good. Plus, I understand that my antics fall under the "entertaining, although I wouldn't do it," rather than the "someone should get her some help" category. In other words, more Osbournes than Anna Nicole Smith.
All I can say is, thank goodness swimsuit season is over.
Oh, and I got lovely presents. My friends rock. So many people that I hadn't seen out in a while and that haven't been able to make it to previous parties attended. I only have one blank spot from Friday night, and it's that I can't recall who gave me the dozen pink roses! Can you believe it? Maybe the trauma of being given a sunflower (I don't blame her, she didn't know about my phobia) blocked all other flower related memories from my mind. I don't even remember the reported sunflower-induced freak-out very well. I'm sure it was minor. But, the roses. They smell great, but they're already drooping. Flowers are so sad.
Next Friday is the Kitsch Inn reunion party at Don Hill's. There is no doubt that this party will rock. Let's cross our fingers that I don't break a bone or sprain a joint at this one, okay?
Friday, October 04, 2002
My Girl Wants to Party All the Time
Tonight is my birthday party. I'm excited. I hope people show up. Yesterday was a pretty good day, birthday-wise. It started out very well, but printer trauma kind of made me grumpy. My family left messages on my machine for me. I did get to talk to my brother briefly, but I was leaving for karate class when he called. I'm impressed that everyone in my immediate family remembered me, though. I guess 29 Septembers of my pre-birthday chatter sunk in. Karate was a killer, but I was glad I went. I was a little depressed before I left, and I just wanted to watch TV and eat ice cream, but I knew that would only make me feel worse, while karate would make me feel better. And it did! I've been to eight classes now, and I'm really starting to get it. There isn't a lot of personal instruction, so I end up learning a lot from the people I partner with for targeted kicking and punching and the self-defense moves. I keep getting broken blood vessels between my ring and pinky fingers, so I have to watch my fist position on the punches. Hey, I may not make it to Jennifer Garner level, but I have a feeling I could get pretty good at this.
Legally Auburn
Wednesday night, I stopped by the drugstore on my way home for a couple of things and ended up buying hair dye and a VHS copy of Legally Blonde. I colored my hair, lightened my eyebrows to red (Jolene Creme Bleach is great for that) and painted my nails, all twenty of them. The hair is Intense Copper Red and the nails are this great electric blue shade called Orbit. Watching that movie always makes me feel so good, too. It motivates me to be pretty and perky, neither of which I am ashamed to want to be. The whole getting up at 6:30 am thing helps, too. You just can't get cute and together in thirty minutes. I need ninety. Today I'm feeling it, but the weather is conspiring against me. Dismal and spitting rain. I guess I won't be worried about that tonight, when I'm wearing my blue velvet-flocked, bias cut Chetta B evening gown and rhinestones. I know it's over the top, but at least I didn't bring the tiara. Hey, it's only Alexia's Birthday once a year! I'm still petitioning for national holiday status, but until then, I'll treat it like one!
Tonight is my birthday party. I'm excited. I hope people show up. Yesterday was a pretty good day, birthday-wise. It started out very well, but printer trauma kind of made me grumpy. My family left messages on my machine for me. I did get to talk to my brother briefly, but I was leaving for karate class when he called. I'm impressed that everyone in my immediate family remembered me, though. I guess 29 Septembers of my pre-birthday chatter sunk in. Karate was a killer, but I was glad I went. I was a little depressed before I left, and I just wanted to watch TV and eat ice cream, but I knew that would only make me feel worse, while karate would make me feel better. And it did! I've been to eight classes now, and I'm really starting to get it. There isn't a lot of personal instruction, so I end up learning a lot from the people I partner with for targeted kicking and punching and the self-defense moves. I keep getting broken blood vessels between my ring and pinky fingers, so I have to watch my fist position on the punches. Hey, I may not make it to Jennifer Garner level, but I have a feeling I could get pretty good at this.
Legally Auburn
Wednesday night, I stopped by the drugstore on my way home for a couple of things and ended up buying hair dye and a VHS copy of Legally Blonde. I colored my hair, lightened my eyebrows to red (Jolene Creme Bleach is great for that) and painted my nails, all twenty of them. The hair is Intense Copper Red and the nails are this great electric blue shade called Orbit. Watching that movie always makes me feel so good, too. It motivates me to be pretty and perky, neither of which I am ashamed to want to be. The whole getting up at 6:30 am thing helps, too. You just can't get cute and together in thirty minutes. I need ninety. Today I'm feeling it, but the weather is conspiring against me. Dismal and spitting rain. I guess I won't be worried about that tonight, when I'm wearing my blue velvet-flocked, bias cut Chetta B evening gown and rhinestones. I know it's over the top, but at least I didn't bring the tiara. Hey, it's only Alexia's Birthday once a year! I'm still petitioning for national holiday status, but until then, I'll treat it like one!
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
I Hope I Get It
Feel free to hum the opening to A Chorus Line and run through the combination. I was selected as one of the three winners in last night's karaoke auditions. That means I go on to the quarter-finals. I've never been very good at understanding tournaments, so I'll just go to whatever they tell me to go to and sing something. Last night I did "Boy From New York City," which is usually well-received (and was). I like to try to look at everybody in the audience individually. Very flirty. I think the original version is strangely paced, so I do it a la The Manhattan Transfer, without the high notes. I'm not sure what to do for the quarter-finals. I don't think it's the right time to pull out the big guns, just yet. But I still want to guarantee a spot in the semis. Looks like I'll be spending some quality time with the song book next Tuesday.
I ever had a son, I would name him Armistead.
Feel free to hum the opening to A Chorus Line and run through the combination. I was selected as one of the three winners in last night's karaoke auditions. That means I go on to the quarter-finals. I've never been very good at understanding tournaments, so I'll just go to whatever they tell me to go to and sing something. Last night I did "Boy From New York City," which is usually well-received (and was). I like to try to look at everybody in the audience individually. Very flirty. I think the original version is strangely paced, so I do it a la The Manhattan Transfer, without the high notes. I'm not sure what to do for the quarter-finals. I don't think it's the right time to pull out the big guns, just yet. But I still want to guarantee a spot in the semis. Looks like I'll be spending some quality time with the song book next Tuesday.
I ever had a son, I would name him Armistead.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Like, Gag Me With a Special Interest Group!
Hey, I understand that the Bill of Rights is a tough one for a lot of people, so let's try it one more time. The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America says: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances." Let's focus on the "abridging the freedom of speech" part. I know that calling for the resignation of a poet laureate and for censorship of a movie doesn't constitute Congress making a law, but free speech is an American ideal, one of our essential liberties. PC just doesn't work here, especially when it's not a case of calling handicapped people "differently abled" but a case of opening a dialogue on civil rights and foreign policy. In fact, this kind of political correctness is much more insidious than the Afro-American/African-American/Black/Negro debates or the never-ending argument over what to call the people whose land our "forefathers" swiped, because it has the intention of keeping Americans from openly disagreeing with our government and its special interests. As much as I can't stand Bill Maher, I think it's disgusting that his show was canceled because it lived up to its title. Personally, I don't give a flying rat's ass what a bunch of shiny celebrities think about politics or social issues, but a person has the right to say what they think without fearing anything but the ice cold reception they may receive from the people they offend. Hate mail? Death threats? A lack of social invitations? That's to be expected if you publicly declare an unpopular opinion. Censure from the government? Lawsuits? That's not cool.
It's a sad, sad day in America when a person, especially a black person, can't criticize Martin Luther King, Jr. in a movie. Does anybody get it? The character has very strong opinions that are largely unpopular with the rest of the people in the movie. Even if the movie did criticize Martin Luther King, from beginning to end, what is gained from censoring it? And did I miss something? Is MLK God? Or is he the "sacred cow," the main cog, in some grotesque propaganda machine? I've heard about Rosa Parks' affiliation with the NAACP before, and it was obvious to me that the whole thing was set up, not some accident of fate. Not that it's a bad thing (hey, it worked!), but I don't see any need to mythologize these people any more than they already are. Isn't it better to see the people who were instrumental in an amazing social movement in our country as real people, like you and me, to make our own dreams of social change seem closer to our grasp? Or is it better to just tell the public what to think, how to think about it, so we never try to do or be anything else?
Hey, I understand that the Bill of Rights is a tough one for a lot of people, so let's try it one more time. The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America says: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances." Let's focus on the "abridging the freedom of speech" part. I know that calling for the resignation of a poet laureate and for censorship of a movie doesn't constitute Congress making a law, but free speech is an American ideal, one of our essential liberties. PC just doesn't work here, especially when it's not a case of calling handicapped people "differently abled" but a case of opening a dialogue on civil rights and foreign policy. In fact, this kind of political correctness is much more insidious than the Afro-American/African-American/Black/Negro debates or the never-ending argument over what to call the people whose land our "forefathers" swiped, because it has the intention of keeping Americans from openly disagreeing with our government and its special interests. As much as I can't stand Bill Maher, I think it's disgusting that his show was canceled because it lived up to its title. Personally, I don't give a flying rat's ass what a bunch of shiny celebrities think about politics or social issues, but a person has the right to say what they think without fearing anything but the ice cold reception they may receive from the people they offend. Hate mail? Death threats? A lack of social invitations? That's to be expected if you publicly declare an unpopular opinion. Censure from the government? Lawsuits? That's not cool.
It's a sad, sad day in America when a person, especially a black person, can't criticize Martin Luther King, Jr. in a movie. Does anybody get it? The character has very strong opinions that are largely unpopular with the rest of the people in the movie. Even if the movie did criticize Martin Luther King, from beginning to end, what is gained from censoring it? And did I miss something? Is MLK God? Or is he the "sacred cow," the main cog, in some grotesque propaganda machine? I've heard about Rosa Parks' affiliation with the NAACP before, and it was obvious to me that the whole thing was set up, not some accident of fate. Not that it's a bad thing (hey, it worked!), but I don't see any need to mythologize these people any more than they already are. Isn't it better to see the people who were instrumental in an amazing social movement in our country as real people, like you and me, to make our own dreams of social change seem closer to our grasp? Or is it better to just tell the public what to think, how to think about it, so we never try to do or be anything else?
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