The End of the Line

Wow! Am I in a good mood or what? After two weeks of waiting and stressing, it's finally over. I feel relaxed and calm, especially because I got my severance in one lump sum. You know what that means! Unemployment, bay-bee! Plus, no freaking about having the money to put down a deposit on a share.

So, I'm feeling fabulous. My skin is better than it's been in nearly a year, I'm all a-shimmer with Nivea reflecting skin cream, my hair is down, my cleavage is showing, and I'm wearing sandals and a skirt. It's going to be 80 degrees today. I even tied a tiger print scarf to my purse. It's an Elle Woods-thing. I have these fantastic sunglasses that are big and black and have sparkly rhinestones in the frames. Funny how a little personal grooming can make you forget your troubles.

But it's over. No more stuffy old people and their family trees. No more cheap board of trustees who don't think it's important to clean your drapes more than once every twelve years. No more brick walls. No more daily commute from hell. At least not this one. I'm so ready to go, right now.

But I'll stick around. They want to have a little get together to show me how much they'll miss me. There better be food or cash, that's all I'm saying.

Today's a day for deleting personal files, filling up floppy disks, trashing old magazines, changing passwords, deleting cookies, changing voice mail, scamming office supplies. Today's a day for tying up loose ends and taking twelve cigarette breaks. Today's a day for early happy hour and much rejoicing. (yay!)

Today rocks!

Close, But No Cigar

I was down with the idea of the all-boy version of The Bachelor, but then I read that some of the potentials will be straight! What the fuck? You can't have a "straightforward" gay dating show, there has to be some opportunity for humiliation? Because what else is it when you set a guy up, tell him all the guys he's choosing from are looking for the same thing he is, then flip the script and give a cash prize to the guy who can fool him? It's bogus, and I find it very self-hating on the part of the gay producer. But what do I know? I'm just a chick living the straight life. According to the creatprs, I should be eating this shit up with a spoon.

From Vegas Wedding to Online Divorce

If marriage was taken a little more seriously, I might not be so opposed to it.

You know You're In Trouble...

When rich people think your tax cut stinks. The other night I saw Warren Buffet, looking like any old retired guy in a cardigan and polo shirt, talking to Ted Koppel about Bush's tax cut. He mentioned that he could get back $3 million on his stock dividends with this cut, but what would that do for the economy? He said that he would just invest it, while you could give $1000 to 30,000 American families who would actually spend it, which is what helps the economy. He was all talkin' in the lay terms and being Joe Regular guy. He stressed that a true tax cut comes with a cut in spending, but laughed at the idea (not because it's impossible, but because no one would ever let it happen). I think I love him. Yes, ours is forbidden love, but he made me understand something about taxes and the economy and for that he will always be in my heart. Alexia + Warren 4 Eva!

I'll Have What He's Having!

Because it sounds like it's something really good...

Home of the Blue Jays and Deadly Viruses

Sure, 1,700 students have been quarantined, but Toronto is still a very safe place to visit. Come one, come all to Outbreak, Canada.

Look, I like Toronto. I know many people from Toronto. But I still wouldn't go there now if you paid me. That SARS is some resilient stuff. I don't want to get anywhere near it, nor any surfaces or people that have been near it. So, let me know if you've been to Toronto lately; we'll have a nice chat over e-mail.

Hello, You Have Reached the Offices of God...

So, the producers of Bruce Almighty are feigning innocence over using a real telephone number in their film. I'm sure they never gave a single thought to all the free publicity they would get by not using the standard 555 exchange. Universal Pictures would never do such a thing! It was an honest mistake. They had no idea people would call the number, making prank calls or true confessions to God. It was purely a coincidence that the number reached a radio network that is creating a contest around the whole debacle. Big, big coincidence! Silly movie studio! Next time, they promise to think ahead. They're new at this whole thing. Oops! Sorry!

Spooky!

Super 70s was about to play "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" by Vicki Lawrence, and choosing not to make myself sick, I switched to Classic Rock, which is playing "The Devil Went Down To Georgia" by the Charlie Daniels Band. Weird!

Losing It

I'm depressed and scared and confused. I'm worried that I'm doing the wrong thing and that I should be more responsible and just get a regular job so I can be safe. I'm scared to death. I'm more scared than excited. That makes me depressed. I wish I could talk to my mom about this. That also makes me depressed. I come to work and "So. Central Rain" by R.E.M. is on the radio, and I almost burst into tears. What saved me? Switching to Super 70s and hearing "Makin' It," sung by the erstwhile Dr. Pepper spokesman (spokeswhistler?) and American werewolf in London, David Naughton. Alert readers will recall my fondness for a certain little film called Midnight Madness (the mother of all scavenger hunt movies), which was Naughton's film debut. How could I not love this guy? So, thanks, David Naughton, for the brief reprieve.

New York Observations

Dr. Zizmor has a new subway ad. I had just been thinking about how I hadn't seen a "Dr. Z" ad lately, and there he is, Jonathan Zizmor, MD, "Board Certified Dermatologist" with his lovely, hatted wife, praising New Yorkers for their courage and offering new blemish treatments. You go, Dr. Z!

Park Avenue could really use some crosswalk lights. It's nerve-wracking!

There are a lot of blind people walking around midtown. I'm thinking that it's because the area is strictly on the grid and easy to get around. Whatever the reason, I've seen more blind people in the last 9 months I've worked in east midtown than I have in all my previous years combined.

Blah blah blah. Soon I'll be blogging a lot less.

I'll Be Your Golden Calf

So, American Idol is getting its own spin-off, American Juniors. OK, precocious kids singing their hearts out to age-inappropriate songs is cute for a couple of minutes on Showtime at the Apollo, but a whole show? Most kids, even very talented ones, have a hard time staying on pitch. They belt. They belt a lot. It could be painful. But I want equal time. How about American Fogeys, for those of us over the 25 year limit set by AI? It could be for singers 26-36, you know, really crusty old folk. Simon could say things like, "Two words: Poli-Grip." Or, "Call your visiting nurse service and ask for a refund." I just wonder if the American public could stand to see such horribly ancient contestants, or if they would just switch back to the WB for that sweet, sweet youth they crave.

Breakin' Up Is Hard To Do

Who would have thought that conjoined twins, separated by surgeons in an unnatural procedure that demonstrates man's hubris, would have suffered setbacks in their recoveries? I'm shocked, I really am. I figured that if Western medicine thought it was a good idea to deliver these freaks and then do risky, expensive surgery to give them "normal" lives, then it couldn't fail!

Oh, I know. You hate me. I'm evil and unfeeling. All I know is that when a cat delivers a kitten who isn't quite right, she smothers it with her body. But why not subvert nature? I know it's what all the cool kids are doing!

(I am aware of the irony that choosing to remain child-free is also a subversion of nature. But this is my blog, ya know.)

Please, Internet, Help me DO IT ALL NIGHT!

It's not that I don't appreciate the efforts of internet spammers to inform me about low-cost Viagra and help me increase the size of my penis, but enough is enough! That's all the spam is these days. Viagra and penis enlargement! Penis enlargement and Viagra! I. Don't. Care. Leave me alone, spammers! I have no penis! I don't need your Viagra! I am a healthy, 29 year old WOMAN. Go away! Aaaaaargh!

Free at Last!

Mercury is finally out of retrograde and it's time to get back to business.

Whoever wrote the copy for IBM's new ThinkPad subway ads needs to relearn grammar. "None of these posters have been stolen," is just wrong. Think of "none" as a contraction of "not one." You'll find that the correct form for this sentence is "None of these posters has been stolen." I know, I know, grammar isn't important in the digital age.

I've been so busy lately that my wall of calendars is still on March.

If anyone can shed some light on the deeper meaning of Freda Payne's "Band of Gold," I'm all ears.

I was actually impressed by the Buffy the Vampire Slayer series finale. It was almost as if whoever wrote, directed, and acted in the show had actually seen it before. I'll list my grievances, then praise. First, the Slayerettes don't get to make a choice, as Buffy says in the big speech. How could they? If one of them chose not to have the Slayer power, would they not do the spell? Then anyone who chose to have the power wouldn't get their choice. I think that wording was a way of throwing the viewer off the scent, to the conclusion I came to, that they were going to activate Slayers by killing and raising them. More complicated, but at least rooted in the show's mythology, unlike the vague spell to activate all potential Slayers that they just pulled out of their asses. (Reminds me of the troll hammer Buffy used to defeat Glory. Not originally the hammer of a Troll God, but just of a troll. When did Olaf become a God?) The spell thing is my second grievance. Third, why does Xander have to give the dead Anya such a backhanded compliment? "That's my girl, always doing the stupid thing." Sure, it's supposed to convey that Andrew's life was worthless and she shouldn't have protected him, but since when did Anya always do "the stupid thing?" Xander was never nice enough to her. Bad Xander. And the big one: There was no reason to wait until the very last moment to do the Slayer activation spell. If Willow could do it, why couldn't she just do it at the house, get them all used to their new powers, and give the scythe to Buffy before she goes into the Hellmouth? It makes absolutely no sense. There was no pressing time constraint. Saving it for the last minute was such an obvious contrivance to make the viewer anxious. It just annoyed me.

Now praise. Buffy was actually tolerable. I even liked her again. I was almost sad when I thought she was going to die. The scenes with Angel brought back her humanity, ironically. And those scenes also showed how much the character of Angel has changed since the spinoff. He has a sense of humour and he's less mopey. I like that they kept an opening for the "someday" of them both becoming who they need to become before they can see a future with each other. The demise of Spike was brilliant. He was never meant to be a vampire with a soul. Angel was right to be annoyed. Spike was able to do one truly good thing before he paid for all his misdeeds. The interaction between Willow, Xander, Giles and Buffy before the big fight was awesome, even if the sound was screwy. Willow and Xander were like Willow and Xander again. Andrew was really funny, giving a shout-out to Tucker... And the reference to homestarrunner.com (Trogdor the Burninator!) was inspired. The idea of Giles playing D&D with the dorks cracked me up. But a hoodie on Giles? A bit much. The conversation between Wood and Faith seemed natural and cool. Leaving Sunnydale as just a big crater was a great idea. Very reminiscent of blowing up the school at the end of Season Three (otherwise known as The Best Season Ever). The First Evil as Buffy talking to Buffy was very awesome.

Wait, how do they know they are free of the First? I mean, it's incorporeal and really evil. Like, the evillest. I guess that will just have to be filed with the question of why all the citizens of Sunnydale fled for apparently no reason.

Where was I? Oh, right, liking the finale. So, I was impressed. I would have liked a funny line at the end, but I guess we can't have everything. I am sad that Anya died and Dawn lived, because Anya was a lot better than Dawn. I am glad Spike died so we don't have to get him on Angel. All in all, much better than I thought it would be, and much better after the second commercial break. I forgive, you Joss, but you still have to stay in the cellar for a while before I can trust you again. I heard what happened on the season finale of Angel and I am not amused.

We Interrupt This Blog...

Sorry I haven't posted since Wednesday, but things have been kind of strange. I was let go by my job on Thursday, even though I am still working through the end of the month. I had to give up on the apartment. I can't stay in my current apartment. I need to get with a temp agency so I can get find someone to take me on as a roommate. It's all so very strange. I feel a little paralyzed, probably because I am still here in the office. But I don't want to give up that extra pay! So, if I'm not blogging much, it's because I just don't feel inspired to write about anything at all.

Oh, HELL No

The Maternal Girl must have paid Netscape a few bucks to create an all-Madonna channel in Radio@Netscape to promote her new album, American Life. Being an erstwhile Madonna fan, I decided to check it out. For every "Burning Up" or "Cherish," there are thre or four tracks from the new one. And boy, does it stink. I'd heard about "American Life," and was able to do some second-hand mocking, but having actually heard the song, it's almost too much. I just can't find the words to express how bad the song is. And the rapping! Madonna! Stop! You want Lourdes and Rocco to respect your work? Stop making records. At least stop writing the lyrics and letting third-rate djs mix them.

The rapping: "I've got a manager, three nannies and a private jet..." What the hell? Is it all about the Benjamins all of the sudden? The whole song is about where she is in "this American Life." I've got news for you Madonna, I don't care how hard you worked to get where you are and how much bling bling you've got on the baby's stroller. Anyone who has owned a TV in the last fifteen years already knows. You've told us over and over about your freaking hard knock life. Breaking News! Did you hear that Madonna's mother, who was also named Madonna, died when Madonna was just a child? Did you know that Madonna sucked off djs to have her records played at Danceteria? Yes? Of course you did, because everyone knows.

"I'd like to express my extreme point of view, I'm not a Christian, I'm not a Jew..." That's extreme, Madonna. Extremely STUPID. And what's with the repetition of "Unh... Fuck it!" Yes, very scholarly. Quite the commentary on American life. Bravo, Mrs. Ritchie.

>urp<

Sorry, I had to throw up a little bit. In conclusion, all post-Bedtime Stories Madonna might as well be trash bin material. That's my extreme point of view.

I'm Over It

Ever wonder why I don't criticize other people's writing (not counting TV writers) or have a comments option on this blog? Because I hate how interactivity on the Internet makes people rude and surly, and above all, filled with self-righteous indignation. See, I have plenty of my own self-righteous indignation to spread around this here blog. That's why the blog exists. It's a fabulous little exercise in onanism, where I scribble scrabble dabble about what I want to, without the fear of someone blasting me for it. I'm not getting paid. I only have a handful of readers, most of whom are my friends. I most definitely would not want to get into a pissing match with another blogger, not only because I don't have that much confidence in my writing skills, but the concept of flaming became passe for me around 1995. And let's face it, all this nastiness is just flaming in plastic nose and moustache.

What am I talking about? OK, here's a scenario. Blogger A is a fairly well-known web personality who lost her fame-making gig a few years ago. She noodles around on her blog, to kill time between real writing gigs, and ostensibly to hone her skillz. She starts writing for a well-known website and links to her blog at the end of her pieces. Blogger B takes some issue with an article A writes. He may or may not have read her work from her old job or in the blog. He writes an ill-informed post, harshly criticizing and unfairly labeling her. He has "comments." Blogger A links to this post in her blog. A's fanatical readership (mostly folks who have been reading her stuff since time immemorial) flames B on his own blog. Many of those don't seem to have checked out his archives, which is what they accuse B of doing to A. B snarks back a few times, arrogant and wrapped in Internet Asbestos. I was unimpressed by all of it.

Blogger B certainly has a right to criticize something he reads in a widely published forum. Usually, people write a letter to the editor for this purpose, but a blogger knows he will always be published. His criticism was pretty silly, and less about Blogger A's writing than about her personal life, about which he seems to know very little. Blogger A posting the critique was a bit over the top: she must have known what her minions would do. Finally, the scrummy little defenders of Blogger A just need to get a collective grip. If blog commenting is just flaming in a cheap disguise, flaming is just schoolyard taunting from a distance. Can we all please grow up a little? I'm not asking for much, just common courtesy. If you want to criticize, take issue with or attempt to humiliate an online writer, I strongly suggest writing well -- very well --, disabling "comments," and taking a deep breath before you type letter one. See, I'm not hurting Dubya's feeling when I criticize him here. He's not reading my blog, and even if he is, I doubt he cares what I think. I'm not registered with a party. But if I were to tear apart a fellow blogger's work and imply that he was a Communist or not very bright or that he wears bad clothes, it might get back to him, and regardless of the thick skin and snarky attitude he might show, it could hurt his feelings. And why? What would be the purpose served. To make myself look oh-so-clever? Bump that, I say.

There's too much nastiness going around. At least we can be nice to each other. Get over the flaming, already.

Great

This always happens. Whenever I'm broke, I feel like I have to eat and eat and eat. I don't physically feel hungry, but right now, I sure could eat another hamburger. Oy. Where are you, money tree?

Sometimes I Just Want to Cry

So there I am, fretting over my budget and all the upcoming expenses of moving, and I think, "Well, at least there are some box lunches left from yesterday's meeting." Looking forward to a free lunch followed by a free dinner at GMHC, I skip downstairs to the refrigerator, where I find, to my dismay, no lunches. I mean, there were twenty of them in there last night. They weren't thrown out. Someone scammed all but three of them, and the last were taken buy the folks to whom I so generously offered them this morning (when I still thought there were plenty). To say I lose my temper would be an understatement. Still, I get myself under control, grudgingly go to the bank to withdraw some cash from my overdraft account, and scoot on down to Wendy's to take advantage of their cheap fries. I order a single and medium fries. Placated by the $3.88 total but still slightly despondent, I trudge back to the office, smoking my second cigarette in fifteen minutes. Everything seems to be going okay until I take a bite out of my sandwich. The damn thing is just a burger on a bun. No mayonnaise. No lettuce. No tomato. Sure, I said "no cheese," but this is ridiculous. Did I do something to deserve this?

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

Salon has wooed me into the "Day Pass" with the title: "Why Spike Ruined 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer.'" Brief and to the point, this essay pinpoints the biggest problem with Season Seven, the thing I just couldn't quite put my finger on. Totally worth the 15-second commercial for "Mr. Personality."

Count Your Blessings

I am not obese, deformed or physically disabled. I don't have any life-threatening illnesses. I'm not psychotic and I don't need to take drugs to keep my brain balanced. I'm not indigent, homeless, or even unemployed. I'm not an orphan. I have all my limbs. I don't have asthma, diabetes or high blood pressure. None of my relatives are in jail or are insane. I'm not in jail, nor do I have a criminal record. I don't have a moustache or a port-wine birthmark or a cleft palate. I don't have psoriasis or super-acne. I'm not starving or thirsty or in need of basic shelter. I don't live in an area that is frequently hit by bombs or gunfire. (I said frequently.) I don't have children I can't support. I'm not addicted to drugs. I am not a street prostitute. I am not beaten. I have never been threatened with a weapon. I have never been raped or mugged or kidnapped. I'm not blind or deaf. I've got it pretty good.

I have an apartment, a job, a boyfriend, and friends and family who love me. I can sing, and I'm funny. I'm also smart and good-looking. Hell, I'm foxy. I can put together an outfit and make a great pot roast. I'm a great kisser, among other things. I can yo-yo and hula hoop. That's good stuff.

Who cares if my skin isn't perfect, if I have big thighs and a belly, if I walk with my toes pointed out, if I get cold sores, if my hands are sweaty, if I have one little STD... I mean, who cares, really? This is life. Life isn't perfect. I am so thankful that I'm not afflicted with anything from the first paragraph, that getting upset over a pimple would be stupid. This is life. This is the only one we get. Any time spent worrying over what we weren't born like or what could have been is a waste. My body is the way it is because of genetics and the life I've led. It's not so bad. Overall, it's pretty great. Plus, my body isn't all I've got. I'd be pretty unhappy in, say, Christopher Reeve's place, but if I could talk, and read, and listen to music, and watch films and plays, it certainly wouldn't be the end.

I think sometimes you just have to stop and think, hey, this is my life. Check it out. It's a weird sensation, when you stop thinking all that other stuff: What am I going to wear tomorrow? How can I get a raise at work? Should I buy new curtains? Where is my relationship going? How could they vote Christy off Survivor? You know, that stuff you think, constantly. Just stop and check it out. This is your life.

You Say Po-tay-to, I Say Po-tah-to

Is "state's propaganda machine" the correct term for China's media or national spokesmen? It sounds a little judgemental to me. Why don't we ever call the New York Post or FOX News or Ari Fleischer the US propaganda machine? Oh wait, I already do...

Something To Think About

Hooters is celebrating its 20th anniversary, which means it opened in 1983. (Thank you. No, I was not a math major.)

The deadline for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment was in 1982.

An Open Letter

Dear Manufacturers and Marketers of Greeting Cards, Flowers, Jewelry, Candy and Those Goddamned Vermont Teddy Bears,

Thank you for bombarding me with advertising images, messages, and spam reminding me that I have no reason to celebrate Mother's Day. Not only did you torment me on Valentine's Day, reminding me of my pathetic loneliness, but now you have to rub it in my face that I don't have a Mommy anymore. Actually, I really appreciate your tough love therapy techniques. How else could I suck it up and get over it, if I weren't being constantly reminded of the joy of a mother's love and how she's always there for you, unconditionally, so buy her a fancy necklace and some Jean Nate'. One thing I would recommend, though: Make sure you print a disclaimer on the order form that states that the purchase of an expensive and thoughtful piece of Lenox jewelry will not have the power to prevent death, because that's where I got confused last time.

Again, thank you for your help in salting my psychic wounds. I couldn't do it without you!

Love,

Alexia

Bruised, But Not Broken

Kids, if you're like me, then you know how much fun it is to get really drunk and trade punches with your friends. I can only hope you're nothing like me. Anyway, I offered to take a punch from a guy on Saturday night and (even though I fooled him and deflected most of it) it left one doozy of a bruise on my upper arm. Let me preface this by saying that I bruise very easily. Often, I find little mystery bruises on my legs and arms that come from brushing against furniture or someone touching me. I even bruised the heel of my hand turning off my kitchen faucet the other day. This is why I keep a supply of arnica gel (homeopathic bruise remedy that totally works) on hand at all times. My bruises are legendary and my capacity for bruising well-known among my closest friends.

But this one is above par. I knew it was going to be good immediately. It had that feverish pink color about it, and the muscle hurt just to touch. In two hours it was purpling up nicely. If you make a fist and look at the punching knuckles, it's about that size and vaguely heart-shaped. It's fading quickly because of the arnica, but now it's greenish-purple with yellow in the center. The coolest part is that it's freckled with little dark purple dots, like flat goosebumps. I'm really proud of it, but no one has mentioned it, even though I'm wearing a sleeveless dress today. I'm planning on using the "karate mishap" excuse, which is technically true. Maybe everyone is afraid to ask because they think I'm a victim if domestic abuse. If that's true, then screw them for not trying to get me to a shelter!

This bruise won't trump the 1999 "rip in the space-time continuum" on my left calf, or the 1997 bruise that left an actual dent in my ass, but it's up there with the super knee bruise from last month, which is still healing, and the monster bruise I got from my friend biting me pit-bull style on the arm at Ace bar. Seriously, I'm a nice girl. I just bruise easily, am clumsy, and occasionally like to participate in strength/pain trials with my friends. Is that so wrong?

Big Surprise

Once again, Israel proves that it doesn't really want peace. What it really wants is complete segregation. It's sickening. I still hold by my "let the whole Mideast blow the hell out of itself" foreign policy.* Unless they have something important to disagree on, not simply race and religion, I'll never respect either side of the conflict.

*This is called sarcasm, FYI.

Vindicated!

My man Pete Townsend has been cleared of those child pornography charges. Wouldn't it make sense for the internet providers to ban access to sites deemed illegal by their government of origin? Then violating the law out of ignornace wouldn't even be a possibility. I'm just sayin'.

Yay for Pete! I am appalled that they have registered him in the sex offenders register for five years, though. What a load of crap.

Who Needs A Degree In Broadcast Journalism?

These days, they'll let anyone be a sports reporter. Personally, I think the continued success of this wannbe-black pipsqueak is a sign of the End of Days.

Get Up-ah! Get On Up!

James Brown turned 70, and he's playing somewhere locally. If I could only figure out what that damn "Backwards Oldie" is, maybe I could win tickets. This morning it was a song I'd never even heard before, which is very rare. Last Friday it was "Feels So Nice" by Chuck Mangione, and I totally knew it, but I didn't know the phone number to call. Figures. What I really want tickets to is Boston, though. That would be awesome. It's amazing how many old rock 'n' roll acts are playing this summer. Iron Maiden, Motorhead, Dio, KISS, Aerosmith, Peter Gabriel, Poison, Skid Row, Skynyrd, The Allman Brothers...

Ooh, The Fab Faux are playing at Irving Plaza this month! Now, that would be neat. I hear they're a great Beatles tribute band.

I Lost It At Inspiration Point

I've run out of ideas. Anyone have suggestions? Topics?

All I have is this: I want to rent La Cage Aux Folles (the musical version), and own Midnight Madness.

That's Doggone Silly

When it comes to veterinary medicine, there comes a point where you just have the animal put down. And that point is when the vet hands you a $30,000 bill for your dog's heart surgery. Yeesh.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy No More

I read about this girl in the Sunday Times this week. When I was reading about her condition, I couldn't believe she was still alive, and wondered how she would ever live a normal life. She was on a ventilator, with her eyes sewn shut because her eyelids had been burned off. Her hands were so badly burned that, had she lived, she would have had to use prosthetics. Her hair would never grow back. I found it very sad, mostly because her father had quit his job and her mother had cut back on her hours so that they could be by her side every day. Her mother thought that God had spared her for some reason, because she not only survived the fire, but also a fungal infection that threatened her life last month. Now she's gone, and what does the mother think now?

It's Like a Freaking Clown Car

Oh yes, please, let's have one more Democrat in the 2004 presidential race to confuse and splinter the voters. Especially one in his late sixties. Hooray for the inability of the Democratic party to recognize the strongest asset of the GOP: blind devotion to the party line. I'm no fan of the two-party system (or the any-party system), but for it to remain strong, there need to actually be two parties, not one cohesive unit and a scattered mass of people who kind of agree with each other.

Also Known As A Cliffhanger

In last year's Alias season finale, we though Vaughn had drowned after the destruction of the ginormous Rambaldi device and we found that "The Man" was none other than Sydney's presumed-dead KGB mama. That was intense, sure. But last night, Sydney wakes up in Hong Kong, with her last memory being shooting the Francie double after finding Will gutted in the bathtub. She's sent to the safe house, where Vaughn arrives to explain/find out what has happened. It seems that he no longer works for the CIA, is married, and thought Sydney was dead because she has been missing for two years. Two freaking years! What happened to "el dire"? What about Sloane and Derevko and Sark? Was Sydney drugged? Conditioned? What's that white scar on her belly? How come her hair is the same length as it was two years ago? Has she been a double agent, unknowingly? Did the prophecy come true? Now, that's a cliffhanger!

Speaking of things you watch, I saw Spellbound this weekend, which is a documentary about eight students preparing for and competing in the National Spelling Bee. It was awesome. The direction and editing really made for a suspenseful film. After the introductions of the students themselves, I had my favorites, and one I particularly did not want to win, because of my irrational class bias. I was surprised, however, that some people in the sold-out audience didn't seem to be there for the same reasons I was. It was almost as if they were treating it like a Christopher Guest mockumentary, laughing at the unfortunate speech impediment of one speller, and the obvious geekiness of others. What I related to, they found unusual and deridable. That was pretty weird, but in the end, I was able to spell the winning word, so I still felt superior, which is what really matters, right? Recommended, but don't be surprised if you find yourself spelling out loud along with the contestants.

Bite My Blog

OK, I'm not trying to bite the rabbit's style, but this one will start going around. If you have a blog or a website, you should try it. Some guy who wants to live in an open source universe has created a program that scans the content of a specified webpage and creates a "poem" from it. Sure, the poems lack meter and sense, and anything resembling poetry, but they offer a new and groovy perspective on your own writing.

This blog, dissected:

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It's like dada. It's like when the androids go berserk. It's like Mr. Softy with both rainbow and chocolate jimmies.

More Shocking Headlines

What a waste of a story.

"Dixie Chicks fans cheer at U.S. Concert"

The story goes on that people who actually spent money on tickets to a Dixie Chicks concert were not only fans of the band, but also enjoyed the music and cheered for them. I'm shocked. How often does that sort of thing happen? Really, did they expect that people who held rallies to smash their CDs would pay good money to boo at them? I'm still pro-Dixie Chick, though. I love that song "Sin Wagon." I probably won't buy any of their CDS, but to be fair, I haven't bought a CD since I bought A Charlie Brown Christmas two years ago.

The Opposite Of Us

Not only is it fall there now, but they've got a brothel on the stock market in Australia! What a great idea. How can you go wrong with that kind of stock? It's like having stock in a funeral home. There will never be a drop in business. And you can bet that The Daily Planet (the brothel) takes care of its employees and consequently protects its clients. Now, that's the way prostitution should be done!

I Take It Back

I take back every nice thing I ever said about the state of Georgia. Except for the parts about Backstreet. That's one great gay bar. But everything else, I renounce. Any state that will allow their schools to remain virtually segregated in the year 2003 needs to do a little house-cleaning. It's bad enough they wanted to incorporate the Stars and Bars into their new state flag (forget the race issue; it's a symbol of betrayal of the country), now white kids can have their own prom? The school has both a black and a white junior class president? What's up, Jim Crow? Separate but equal doesn't fly anymore. This grosses me out more than Orrin Hatch.

If This Is True, I Wanna Be a UN Delegate

At the end of an article on Greenpeace's clever "Most Wanted" deck of playing cards, this vision of Utopia revealed itself:

Greenpeace is also considering a nuclear-themed version of the party game Twister, Peden said. "It'll have 13 steps. We'd like to get all the delegates playing it."

Oh, if only.

Bill Gates Would Be Proud

Conflict of interest? Monopoly? You be the judge:

"Clear Channel operates about 1,200 radio stations and 19 television stations in the United States, and has an ownership stake in 250 radio stations overseas. The company is also the world's largest producer of concerts and other live events, and has major interests in billboards." -- AP

Not Very Smart

Okay, this is just crap. Spending taxpayer money on matching grants for more useless efforts to fight kidnapping and child pornography? It's just not that big of a problem. And using Elizabeth Smart, the (most likely) willing runaway as a poster child is just stupid. Hey, let's bring that cute little Mormon girl (ahem, teenager) up to the White House and let Orrin Hatch fondle her. How disgusting. The sickness that makes people obssess over child pornography and molestation abductions has infected so much of our country. It's sad and perverse. Actually, I'm getting grossed out just having to read that sentence about Hatch hugging Little Miss Child Bride.

Can You Super-Size That, Please?

How small are the people in Thailand that a woman weighing 187 pounds enters the "Jumbo Queen" pageant? The other two women quoted in the article weigh 209 and 232 pounds. Still, I'm not thinking "jumbo." I'm thinking, "zaftig", "fat", or "Lane Bryant." You want jumbo? You want to talk about triple-chins? Then these ladies must either be 4 feet tall, or they've got some much bigger contestants they're not quoting. I would think 400 pounds connotes jumbo. But maybe it's an American thing. Maybe 400 pounds would be considered just too much in Thailand. Who knows? It's a country that has a "leading transvestite actress." RuPaul's not really a transvestite actress (doing most of his acting out of drag), and Divine is dead, so do we have anyone else? And don't you have to have at least three or four to have a "leading" one? This is all so very intriguing. I mean, I heard all about Bangkok in Chess, but I never knew about all this. Maybe I'll go on a tour. They don't have SARS, do they?

FYI

I love the song "Devil Woman" by Cliff Richard. In fact, I'm okay with Cliff Richard in general. It's so strange that I never knew who the hell he was until I watched The Young Ones in 1987, and then he became just a quotable, a la Monty Python lines, but I just realized this year that I even knew any of his songs. If that makes no sense, please forgive me. If, instead, you know exactly what I'm talking about, e-mail me, because I love you.

I Can't Stand It

It's too hard. How is anyone expected to live in this city? Transit fares go up, rents go up, my salary stays the same. I just don't think grown people should be forced to cohabit just to save money. I seriously feel like crying. Just to live happily, I have to...

You know what, fuck it. Of course we have to make sacrifices. No one is ever allowed to be happy with everything. You either hate your job or your house. If I wanted to do something that would make me less money, I guess I'd suck it up and get a roommate, now, wouldn't I? Ugh, I don't know, I'm just sick and tired of this constant push and pull. I'm tired of looking at my budget and feeling suicidal. Why does today have to suck so hard?

Just Say Moo

While I was sitting on the train today, I saw a man chewing his gum with a vigor that reminded me why I don't like to chew gum. I'll do it once in a while, but I hardly ever finish a pack of gum before it gets stale. My grandmother used to reprimand us for chewing gum with our mouths open, saying that we looked like cows chewing our cud. Not a pleasant image, if you've ever seen it. But chewing gum with your mouth closed is just weird. So, I just don't tend to chew gum. As I thought about this, I caught sight of the girl sitting across from me, also working her Juicy Fruit. I was mesmerized by the chomping action and the apparent lack of self-consciousness. I mean, this is gross stuff, watching people chew gum. Then, out of nowhere, the guy standing between the chewers grabbed his sack and adjusted himself, without the slightest tinge of self-awareness or shame. And this was quite grab. It was almost porn. The moral to this story, kids? Don't look at people on the subway. Ever.

Hypocrites "R" Us

Lookee what I found in today's BiZBash Event Style Alert:

"We also scuttled down to D.C. for Washington's biggest party night of the year, where we checked out the White House correspondents' dinner and Bloomberg L.P.'s big after-party, where the assembled politicos and celebs enjoyed fun touches. As New Yorkers prepare for full enforcement of Mayor Michael Bloomberg's smoking ban to go into effect tomorrow, they'll be interested to know that the company he founded provided tented smoking lounges—outlawed by his New York ban—at his party in Washington."

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I haven't had a spontaneous crying fit at work in a long time. But when my landlord told me that he needs two fucking months to find a new tenant for my apartment, I lost it. It's not like I have an option, because I am the one breaking the lease. But I just didn't think they would need that much time. It's not like they can't stay up here and show the apartment rather than go back down to retirement heaven in Florida tomorrow. But what can I say? I want the reference, I want the security deposit. I want to hit something very hard with my fist.