Dance, GOP Monkey, Dance!

This whole Trent Lott thing is cracking me up. Now his own party is undermining him. The funniest part is how Lott was only seven years old when Thurmond ran for president, making the offending comments even more obviously grandiose and hyperbolic. I personally believe it was just a poorly thought out statement, but, since I already disliked Lott, I find the whole thing very amusing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Oh, and here's another speech impaired Republican: "I have a lot of confidence in [Lott] as the leader and as a senator. And I think we should not lynch him, we should give him an opportunity,” Sen. Richard Shelby, R-Ala., said on CNN's “Late Edition.” Oh my. I'm sure the use of the word "lynch" in that comment won't come back to bite him in the ass. Stop, guys, you're killing me!


Non Sequitur

While walking in Times Square last night I got to see the headline in ten foot lighted letters: Al Gore isn't running in 2004. Hey, that's ok. I'm an Al fan from way back in his Tennessee senator, environmental book-writing, ignoring Tipper days, but he's really too smart to be the President. I'd like to see him do something more important. And possibly more comedy. He was pretty funny on SNL with Stuart Smalley.

Heard through the grapevine that a certain Latina pop diva from the Bronx who is engaged to a white-bread Boston boy of ambiguous sexuality (guessed who I'm talking about yet?) is actually a lesbian. More than idle rumour, two separate sources, one a gossip columnist and one a drag queen hairdresser, are cited in the story, which was passed to me by two separate people in a bar. I ask you, can it get any more concrete than that? Personally, I'm withholding judgement until I find out if she's received any mysterious toasters.

I have no idea what the original story for Flower Drum Song was like, but the new libretto doesn't seemed forced in the Broadway revival, starring a transcendent Lea Salonga. Playbill used the term "shoehorned," but to the inexperienced viewer, the story and music fit together snugly. The dance numbers were to die for, and the simple solos on the spartan stage were inspiring. Great seats at The Virginia Theater didn't hurt, either. The costume designer should be in line for a Tony. What with the traditional Chinese opera robes, 1950s dresses and handbags, and showstopping showgirl costumes, I felt like I do when I see a wall full of Barbies: "I want those clothes!" One leaves the show humming "One Hundred Million Miracles" and "I Enjoy Being a Girl," two of the shows most well-known and catchy numbers. I think Mssrs. R & H would have approved of this production. I sure did.

I Will Survive

I just don't understand why Jan and Helen didn't join forces with Ted to get rid of Clay. I hate that guy. Of course, that's also good strategy, keep the least likable person around the longest so the jury is forced to vote for you. I would be so bad on Survivor. I'd mess up all the challenges and get voted off before you could say "Barramundi."

I do get really sucked into that show, though. By the end of the program, I have a clear favorite and I'm always disappointed to see them voted off. I shout at the TV, "Don't let Brian win immunity!" during challenges. It's sad.

The nice part is, when I'm watching Survivor, I'm not thinking about how miserable I am. So, thank you, Jeff Probst, for delaying the deep sighing and wallowing.

Also, CSI makes me happy. The guts aren't as gross on a black and white TV, either. It continues to be a really impressive show, with clever mysteries and enjoyable character interaction. Plus, The Who.

I really need a sunlamp so I don't have to rely on TV to combat depression! Darn winter.

Bad Modifiers

I found this story on a random blog, and of course, one thing struck me immediately. Why did they have to describe a murderer and his victims as homosexual? I never see "A Brooklyn man has confessed to killing and eating a fellow heterosexual," or "An Ohio man has confessed to killing and eating a fellow redhead." In this case, perhaps a more accurate sentence would have read, "A man has confessed to murdering and eating a fellow insane person who volunteered to be killed." I can't see why it's relevant that both men were gay. I hate the press.

Welcome to New York Francisco

Well, Bloomberg is getting his wish. Even though the City Council is having a hearing on the mayor's proposed smoking ban next week, it looks like a done deal, with the mayor agreeing to certain changes. Who is exempt? Owner-operated bars with no employees (yeah, I can think of, let's see, NONE of those); seven existing cigar bars (why? hmm, could it be that the clientele is filthy rich?); fraternal organizations, like the American Legion (because they complained loudly and have influence); a small percentage of the space of outdoor cafes (because you can really set up non-smoking areas outside, right?); and bars that set up super-ventilated smoking rooms that employees don't enter. Bloomberg says we can smoke in the privacy of our own homes, and outside. But hey, not all outdoor areas allow smoking either, like ballparks and, now, 75% of outdoor cafe space. This takes effect in late March or April. There's no way I'm going to sit in a bar and not smoke. What's the point? All or nothing, I say.

I'm hoping that out of this comes some interesting parties, actually. "Smoke-easys," maybe. Flagrant violation of the law by large groups of puffers. Halloween parade marchers dressed like Adolph Bloomberg. Coalitions to buy cigarettes out of state and make lists of the all smoke-friendly establishments in the city. One rule I learned as a teenager that I will never forget: That which is forbidden is most desirable. To quote Catherine Martell in Basic Instinct, "What are you going to do, arrest me for smoking?" No, they'll just fine me $200. How ridiculous is that?

I'm going to open myself a little nightclub with no cabaret license where people can drink and dance and smoke all they want. Too bad it won't be in New York. Maybe France.


Fear of a Black Box

In other anti-government New York news, an "incident" at the Union Square subway station (14th Street, 4th Avenue) shut down the station for a few hours yesterday. It seems some clever-trousers found a way to leave 37 black boxes with the word "FEAR" printed on them (in white) throughout the station. The Post is for some reason trying to tie the "hoax" to the upcoming transit strike, but I don't think so. So-called suspicious packages -- which are actually just the baggage of absent minded people -- have been the cause of many recent shut-downs at transportation centers all over the country. I figure, considering the way the boxes looked (I saw a picture of one on the news last night), that this was actually a guerilla art project. A ballsy move, but so far, there aren't any suspects named.

I don't know what to think about it. On the one hand, it's pretty stupid to mess with the cops this way, considering the stiff penalties for faking terrorism threats, and it's not very nice to shut down a train station, you know, to your fellow New Yorkers with the big giant asses. On the other hand, if they aren't caught, it's a pretty brilliant execution of guerilla art. Considering that the first box reported was actually opened by a civilian, it begs the question of where our fear of terrorism really lies, and how great it is.


I Dream of Alexia With Long Brown Hair

This morning I dreamed I had long hair, past my shoulders, and I was brushing it. I couldn't decide whether to put it up or leave it down. It was very pretty. I also dreamed that I was in a beauty contest and made it to the semi-finals, and that I was swimming with dolphins but it made my lips curl back violently. I carried one of the dolphins on shore and it turned into a husk and some guy broke it. There was also something about towels and stairs and doors.

Yesterday I dreamed that I was watching the end of Stonewall and it became a documentary about parks where bad things happened. Then I was in it, and I was walking through a park in Detroit (where I've never been) and all around me were these big, different colored plastic bags, and I knew that this was a park where people dumped bodies. I started freaking out, because they were everywhere. I tried to find my way out of the park and I spied a little bridge with a small tunnel. A guy who was pushing a kind of sled (like a football sled) with a body bag on it told me I could go that way. For some reason I took his sled and went down the slope to the tunnel, but it tipped over and I had a dead person in a bag on top of me. I pushed it off, and looked through the tunnel. There was a slope down, covered with small, dusty gravel, and a kind of granola-y guy looking at me suspiciously. He and I walked away from the tunnel and we were in a big dormitory-like building, and it seems that we were behind all the guys clearing out the bodies, because it was safe. Then his girlfriend walked up to us and I left the building. That was a weird dream.

Whole Lott o' Love

Last night, after I returned home from the theater, I watched Introducing Dorothy Dandridge (Thank you, New York Oublic Library, for all the free movies!). In one scene, Dorothy dips her toes into the pool at a resort in Las Vegas, and the management has the pool drained and cleaned for "health reasons." Disgusting and ignorant, no? Well, not if you ask our new Senate majority leader, Trent Lott, who, at our good buddy Strom Thurmond's 100th birthday party, proclaimed that had Thurmond won the presidential election in 1948, we wouldn't have "all these problems" we have now. What a moron. Doesn't he know that any time he speaks, even if it's just to the paperboy, it will be in the news and people will be deconstructing it? True, at this point, only Al Gore and black leaders seem to care that Trent Lott fucked up and openly (perhaps accidentally) praised segregationist ideals, but that's something.

What I love is that people are still saying, "oh, that's how Strom used to be! He's changed!" Bullshit. Seriously. A man who will run for president at age 46 on a segregation platform does not change. He may not speak the same way, because it's unpopular and could get him bounced out of office, but this isn't some sappy after-school special where the racist realizes through some life-affirming event that blacks are people, too. Supporting Jim Crow on a national level isn't like your old grandaddy using the word "nigger" or not approving of your interracial marriage. Strom Thurmond is a relic, and never should have been in office this long. Yes, his ideas are those of the past, and they have no place in today's government. It's just too bad the American people had to wait until poor health forced him out of it. And I am through.

There's Always Room for Infanticide!

Last night I was lucky enough to attend the opening night of Medea on Broadway. It was riveting. Fiona Shaw was incredible as Medea, the betrayed and scorned wife of Jason (of the Argonauts fame). I don't have my Playbill in front of me, so I'll just use character names for everyone else. Jason was passable, very passionate and visually stimulating, but few of the other actors looked like much next to Shaw. Aegeus came close, offering a brief appearance as a foreign ruler who would shelter her from the wrath of Corinth. The Greek Chorus was somewhat weakly played by four overzealous young ladies, although I was impressed by the girl who vomited on stage. Stunning set design, great blood work, and two lovely moppets who played dead and bloody remarkably well also added to the overall excellence of the production. If you're afraid of Greek tragedy or don't think you'll be able to understand Euripides, don't worry. Shaw's delivery of a dense text smoothly translates the story for modern ears while revealing Medea's wretched pain, cleverness and, ultimately, her madness. The show is only here for a 12-week run, so I recommend getting tickets now before they sell out.

Past Perfect

I watched two period pieces last night, but they sure weren't of the Merchant-Ivory variety. Dick, set from 1972-1974 and offering a fantasy story about Watergate and "Deep Throat," and Stonewall, set in the late sixties and giving us a story that might have happened in New York leading up to the Stonewall riot of 1969. I've seen Dick before, and I think it's super cute. Kirsten Dunst and Michelle Williams do amazing jobs as complete airheads. I felt like I could see the little wheels turning in their tiny minds. Plus, the costumes are great, and the White House cast is perfect.

Stonewall was just fantastic. I recommend this film to anyone who doesn't understand what the gay civil rights movement is about or to anyone who just wants to learn more about it or the scene in New York in 1969. Yes, I know, I have a thing about drag queens, but this flick is no Priscilla. It's real. It's heartbreaking, and it also gives you hope. Why is it that only independent films that don't get seen by the people who need to see them offer this kind of look at the subject matter? Well, I'm not into the politics of film, so whatever. I saw it and I give it ten thumbs up.

Now, I Hate New York

What the hell is going on with this transit strike? A few points, if you'll bear with me.

Mayor Bloomberg says he will jump on his bike and ride to work in the morning. Plus, he said his old bike was in poor shape, so he was going to go out and buy another one. OK, even if I weren't deathly afraid to ride a bicycle in New York, and even if I could afford to buy one, I live in Bensonhurst, which would get me into work sometime around lunch, and dead. So glad that our Mayor can afford to live in Manhattan and bike to work, but some of us aren't so stinking ri-- I mean, lucky.

I simply have no way to get to any express buses or ferries or trains. The walk would be so far, I'd have to get up at 4 am. Park and ride facilities are great... IF YOU HAVE A CAR. What, am I supposed to ask my friend in Bay Ridge to come east to pick me up then drive west back to the city? Where's he supposed to park when he gets there, anyway? There's no parking in this city on a regular basis, much less when everyone is driving in, 4 people per car or not.

And speaking of that, Mayor Mike thinks it would be a good idea for you to pick up strangers on the street who may need a ride. He assures you that since traffic will be moving slowly, it won't be dangerous. I -- Whu -- The hell?

This is just insanity. I know the city needs to act like it can live without the transit workers so it doesn't have to cave to their demands, but it can't! We need the public transportation system! I can't work from home, and I can't get into the city in a halfway timely manner. Let's all cross our fingers that they settle this thing by Sunday!

By the way, I'm so sick and tired of all the crap going on in this city (largely because Rudy screwed up and left Mike holding the bag), that I'm looking into getting a job on a cruise ship. Something, anything, I can't stand it anymore!

I Hate Christmas

Well, I like the music. I found a place to go caroling this Friday, which is nice.

My office is too hot, and I can't stand it. Last Monday it was a bloody icebox. Oh right, I have a desk fan. That's better.

Why, oh, why are the Holiday Barbies so pretty? So enticing, velvety and glittering? Year after year I gaze through toy store windows, longing for the days when I could always look forward to a Barbie or two under the Christmas tree. Now I'm reduced to buying them for myself, and I just can't justify the expense. Even the $12 ones at CVS; it just seems wrong for me to buy toys for myself, especially since I don't play with them nearly as much as I should.

Can I fast-forward to the less confusing and irrational part of my life, please? I'm bored with this part.

Make Love, Not War

I wish I knew someone like Phillip Berrigan. A person with a true conviction that war is unnatural and should be anathema to humans. Someone who wouldn't derisively call me a peacenik, someone who could teach me how to be an activist for peace and inspire me to take that action. People like Berrigan devote their lives to causes, at the expense of leading a "normal" life, but these people are true heroes to humanity. It's a shame, that in a time when worldwide bloodshed is the norm and the US is on the verge of creating more, anti-nuclear and peace movements are weak, characterized as "liberal nuttiness," and sparsely attended. Recently, I read that the new version of the draft ("Conscription 5.0"), if the Selective Service Act is reinstated, may include women. I'm probably too old, but hell, I wouldn't be any good in a war! I'd probably accidentally shoot myself in basic training. There are times when I am honestly bewildered that people don't see war as so much madness, especially in this global era of advanced technology, widespread education, and immigration. Personally, I don't trust anyone who can't (or won't) see that war and murder are the same things. Here's to you, Phillip Berrigan, for not giving up on humanity.

The Internerd

Sometimes I can't stand the fact that other people with whom I seemingly have nothing in common with read the same things that I do, specifically rabbit blog and The Onion. I mean, how can a guy who enjoys writing a blog about appellate legislation enjoy this stuff? I need more obscure interests. Actually, I need to stop reading other people's blogs ('cept rabbit's), because it makes me crazy. I'm not ready for the world to be this small/big yet. This is why I don't belong to fan clubs or message boards for Buffy or Prince; I get creeped out by lots of other people being really into the same things I'm really into. Especially when they're superfans, because that's just scary. I could never collect anything because that's just a decent into madness waiting to happen. I have some stuff that's the same as other stuff I have, but I'm not nearly a completionist on anything. I haven't even read Stephen King's latest book yet, and that's my big one, though I'm sure there are people out there who have eight copies of each book, signed, and weird eBay stuff like Stevie's used Kleenex. Yikes. Still, at least those people are passionate about something.

Friday Ruminations

Hey, it's Friday, what do you want from my life?

Is the personal really political? Should it be? Is there a way to separate the two? What's more important, sexual freedom or democracy? I think Western women constantly want to impose "our" ideals of freedom on women of the East, and that's pretty screwy. What have we got anyway? (What the hell you got, 1968, that makes you so damn superior... uh, sorry.) No Equal Rights Amendment. Women still earn less on the dollar than men do, and no one opens the door for us anymore. Forget a man offering a woman (even a pregnant one) his seat on the subway. If we don't work, we're told by "feminists" that there's something wrong with us. Running a household and raising children while the man brings home the paycheck is considered undesirable. So, what's more desirable? Going to college, learning to distrust and disrespect men, going to work to be underpaid and underappreciated, always having to work harder, then returning to a single woman's apartment, putting career first, maintaining independence, until when? Until you're too old to meet anyone to have a passionate relationship with, until the most important thing is how well your furniture works together and that he's not allergic to your five cats? What's the point of all this "feminism," all this independence, if the equality we receive is the superficial kind? "Thank goodness the women want to be equal, now I don't have to pull out her chair at the restaurant or pay for dinner." Also, you know what? Men and women aren't equal. We aren't the same. The Equal Rights Amendment shouldn't be about androgyny, but about, you guessed it equal rights.

OK, I know I'm rambling, but I'm working through a lot of thoughts here. These aren't carefully crafted arguments.

I started thinking about this stuff when I read a letter online reacting to an article about women in Islam. The writer says, "I will respect Islam when I look around and see women able to wear what they want, shake hands with and touch men in public, date and marry whom they want, and yes, sleep with whom they want. It would also be nice to see women and men worshipping side by side. I don't see these things in the U.S., much less in places like Saudi Arabia."

Why do Western "feminists" insist on imposing their values on people from other cultures? In a lot of these seemingly mysogynistic cultures (Hasidism, Islam, et al), the root of the way women are treated is a respect for women. Even if that sounds fishy to you or me, who are we to tell other people how to behave? Besides, shouldn't we be more focused on the rights of these women to vote and to drive? If the women are truly oppressed, that's the freedom they want. Real freedom, not just (or even) sexual freedom. Is dating the most important thing to a woman who feels unable to leave her house or family, if she wants to? What did the sexual revolution ever get American women anyway, besides STDs, emotional baggage and the loss of general respect from men? And speaking of "worshipping side by side," if it's part of your religion that you don't worship beside men, why would you want to? If you want to change basic aspects of your religion, you're in the wrong religion.

[For real. If you insist on being part of a religion or religious movement, unless you're the founder, how can you want to change parts of it? If you don't like all the parts of your religion, why do you need it? Isn't it possible to worship the god or entity you believe in without going into a church or labeling yourself as part of a group? I guess I've just never seen the point of church without the unquestioning acceptance of the dogma. Otherwise you're a free thinker, and you don't need the denominational aspects of your religion. Eh, I guess I really just don't understand it, never having been involved in one, so I probably don't know what I'm talking about. Actually, just ignore the whole religious aspect of this post.]

Maybe what really gets my goat is that it seems like the feminism and civil rights movements both petered out before they got anywhere. They started strong, but without strong follow-through, that is, with the younger generation being complacent about their situation, more and different problems have been created. It reminds me of something I recently read that Bill Moyers said about Bill O'Reilly. He said that O'Reilly's passion was equal only to his "stubborn, ignorant denial of complexity." I think a lot of people deny complexity in political issues. Hell, I certainly use the black/white approach overmuch. I guess no one wants to appear wishy-washy on an issue, so admitting that it isn't necessarily easy to figure out or resolve is undesirable. Maybe we're happier when we can believe that everything is either right or wrong, for everyone. God, is this where that whole Liberal/Conservative nonsense comes from? I never could figure out how a person could seriously label themselves that way, then propose to hold a rational political discussion. Are all our conversations about politics just about trying to convince the other side of or validate our opinions? Is it possible to have a discussion where both sides are willing to admit that they have learned something?

Where the hell is this going? Just thank your lucky stars you're not sitting next to me in a bar listening to me yell this stuff at the top of my lungs.

Busy Day

Sorry for the incessant posting, but I had to note that Strom "The Devil" Thurmond has turned 100 years old. I'd also like to say that for years I thought Strom Thurmond was in Cool Hand Luke and delivered the famous line, "What we've got here is failure to communicate. Some men you just can't reach." Of course, that was actually Strother Martin, but you can see my confusion, can't you? Regardless of his lack of movie credits, for some reason people like this racist, and actually believe he's changed his ways. Oh, sure, I believe that he, because he saw the light, allowed his daughter to go to an integrated school, not because he saw the way the wind was blowing and wanted to stay in office. Hmph. Well, happy birthday, Strom. Way to keep South Carolina in the Dark Ages.

Walking in a Nuclear Winterland: Part Deux

I wish it were still snowing. For some reason, I don't mind the cold if it's actually snowing. Snow makes me happy, even when it's forcing its sleety way into my soft little eyeballs. So, it's not snowing, but there is snow, getting slushy and dirty and yellow and generally yucky. Trudging around in the muck is no fun, but it's nothing compared with the return home. You're outside, wind whipping around your bundled up body, and as soon as you enter your cozy little house, the warm air hits your bladder and guess what? You fumble off your wet snow boots as your glasses fog up. Struggling to remain upright and dry, you hurriedly remove your glasses, gloves, hat, scarf, coat, and if you're me, your blazer and dress, just to get to the zipper on the turtleneck unitard you foolishly chose to wear on a day in which you would ever have the need to urinate. You're lucky if you can fight your way through the gauntlet of beaded curtains and various floor clutter (shoes, Barbies, television sets) before you have an accident. Thankfully, your Kegel practice saves the day. And that's the worst part of cold weather. Except hypothermia.

Headline O' The Day

"Vatican says gay priests unsuitable"

Other surprising headlines:

"Fish say fishing is environmentally unsound"

"President claims to be pro-Republican"

"Beauty contestant on diet"

"Rich, white people happy"

"Religious Right says no on gays, abortion"

"Lesbian group supports local women's center"

"Environmentalists say recycling is 'ok'"

"Ann Coulter recommends torture and death for known liberals"

"Paleontologists believe in evolution"

"Amish not major consumers of low-rise jeans"

"Experts: Bloggers self-involved, embittered hermits"

The Soylent Green Solution

Maybe it's PMS, but people are really annoying me lately. It's as if half of the population are simply wandering around, clueless, bumbling through life like big, drooly, wiggly dogs.

Take the guy at Taco Bell last night. He's pointing at a large picture of a Gordita (with the word "Gordita") printed on it, and he can't figure out a) how it's pronounced (I swear he called it a Gorrito and a Gorrata) or b) what kind of food it is ("Is that like a taco, what is it?"). THERE'S A LARGE COLOR PICTURE OF THE FOOD AND YOU'RE POINTING AT IT. How can you not tell what it is? None of the ingredients are hidden. Besides, this is Taco Bell, not brain surgery. Jeez.

Then, there are the big giant fat ass people. Don't get me wrong, I don't care how big a person's ass is, in general. I may boggle at the fact that there are people who are literally twice as wide as I am, but hey, that's not my problem. Until I get on the subway. There I am, on the train, la la la, enjoying my ride home, when I see this enormous ass decending towards me, aiming at a target space on the seat that's approximately half the size of the ass. I cringe and press my body into the metal bars to my right, to no avail. I have been wedged into a space half the size that I was sitting in before, and I'm not supposed to look at big giant fat ass person and say, "My God, don't you know how giant your ass is?" I'm supposed to sit in half a seat while big giant fat ass takes up half of my seat and half of the one next to her. Is this fair? I commute 75 minutes each way, and I'm obliged to have big giant ass's wallet digging into my thigh, then say "It's okay," when she snorts out a half-hearted "Sorry." Seriously, it's only glandular for so many people. I think some people like having big giant asses, because it makes them feel more powerful. They're bigger, they can squash me like a grape if I grouse. Yes, I am afraid of the big giant ass people, just as I am afraid of so many people in this city who just might shoot me if I say what I really think. Wow, how much does that suck? I wish I could find an island of reasonable, intelligent people. And when I say intelligent, I mean not breathing through their mouths while wearing a crappy sweatshirt with a designer's name silk-screened on, ignoring their screaming devil spawn and taking up two seats on the subway with THEIR BIG GIANT FAT ASSES.

Earlier versions of the above rant included much more profanity, so consider yourself lucky.

Rubble, Rubble

Another reason McDonald's fries are the best: They use this super fine salt that sticks to the fries like glitter on spray glue. Hmm, not the most appetizing comparison, but you know what I mean. I've taken to scamming extra packets of the salt for my non-McDonald's fry encounters. You should, too. I guarantee it will improve your quality of life. Unless you have high blood pressure.

I Guess She'll Die

The AP gives us a story on all the items confiscated at airports over the Thanksgiving holiday. My favorite part is where a man at Ronald Reagan Airport in DC tried to carry a brick onto the plane. Said the spokesman for the Transportation Security Administration (is this a new thing?), "I don't know why he would carry a brick." I sure don't either. Why would 20,581 people not realize that sharp objects, like ice picks and meat cleavers and cuticle scissors, are not allowed on airplanes? You've only had 14 months to learn this stuff, people! Put all the sharp stuff in your checked baggage. I mean, who's going to need a meat cleaver mid-flight? Airplane food is bad, but come on. I can only suspect that all of these people are terrorists. If I choose to accept that so many people are really such dumbasses, I may go bonkers. Another pearl of wisdom for all you travelers, in case you didn't know: ‘‘You're not allowed to have a gun at the airport without a permit." For real! Did you know that? That kind of uncommon knowledge is up there with the fact that Madonna's mother died when she was a child and that the sky is sometimes blue. How are we supposed to know these things? I sure am glad the Feds are there to search my bag for me, because what if I went on a plane and some terrorist pickpocketed my handy icepick? Or my welding gun? Not to mention my bat or club. Thank you, federal government!

Walking in a Nuclear Winterland

It's 19 degrees Fahrenheit in New York City this morning. They said that with the wind it should feel like zero. ZERO. What's wrong with this picture? I can barely tolerate it. Maybe it's because it's the first time it's gotten this cold since spring, and I'm not used to it, but I really can't function in this kind of weather. In the morning, the prospect of leaving my down-filled burrito is daunting. Taking a shower requires filling the bathroom with steam before I can even get out of my warm jammies. Hats limit hair options. Turtlenecks, sweaters and pants make me look dumpy and boring. I always lose all the little extras, like scarves and gloves. Trying to retrieve my Metrocard with gloves on is hopeless. Big coats mean more contact with my fellow public transportation passengers, ew. My nose gets cold! Really, really cold! But if I put my scarf over it, the hot air from my mouth causes it to run. Exposing the nose back to the cold creates snotcicles. This is just a no-win situation.

Let's check Monster.com for openings in Honolulu...

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fungus

I'm back! Let's see...

Friday's party at Purple Door was as grimy and debauched as it gets, although I felt like I was the only one dancing! Saturday night I stayed in, visiting friends in Bay Ridge and watching clips of the South Park movie and Moulin Rouge. Sunday was laundry and Wizard of Oz day.

Monday, Larue and I drove to Pittsburgh and narrowly avoided going to a strip club. We did find ourselves at a charming little (gay) bar/restaurant called New York, New York (oh, the irony) in Oakland. The Wyndham Hotel was lovely, and the shuttle driver was a godsend. Tuesday we drove to Cincinnati (Larue went on to Indianapolis), and stopped to eat at the Cracker Barrel in Zanesville. It snowed! I met my pretty niece Josie (or "Baba," as her mother calls her) and helped give her a bath. I didn't get hives! No, really, she's a cutie. Wednesday my father drove in to Cincy from Dayton and took my brother and I to a lovely dinner at Jeff Ruby's after a short stop at the new Blue Whisp jazz club.

(In 1982, for my ninth birthday, my father took me to the original Blue Whisp to hear Bob Dorough play. Bob Dorough was very popular in the Garanimals set at the time for "Multiplication Rock," the arithmetic arm of ABC's "Schoolhouse Rock." I'm convinced that my early visits to the Blue Whisp and Dockside VI contributed to my comfort level in bars today.)

Thursday was Thanksgiving, and I helped my sister make combination napkin rings/place cards out of manilla package tags. I was crafty, but not in the Beastie Boys sense. I stamped, I embossed, I pigmented... As my sister said, I was a crafting fool, or just a fool. It was fun! I let my niece Nina help, which seemed to make her feel useful. My stepfather and brother-in-law tempted the wrath of the cooking brother-in-law by showing up late for dinner. Later, we played Scattergories, which I won. Ha! Friday, I rose early to color Nina's hair for her. I was scared that her medium brown, but fine, hair wouldn't lighten up enough to match the highlights she already had. In the end, I would have liked to do another box on Sunday, but it turned out a nice honey blonde. I gave her the benefit of my home hair coloring wisdom, so hopefully she'll be more inclined to tend to her roots now that she knows how easy it really is.

Larue picked me up at my sister's that afternoon and we loaded a box full of Barbies, a sewing machine, and a cappuccino machine into the trunk. That evening we arrived in Pittsburgh at the Omni William Penn. What a fancy hotel! It was covered with chandeliers and bellmen in woolen coats. Our room had lately been occupied by Danny Glover, according to the engineer who came up to turn on our heat (it was cold!). We were in one side of the Governor's Suite, la dee da. Larue did some hunting, and we found a half-used bottle of Johnson's Baby Oil under the sink. It was Danny Glover's baby oil! After we warmed up a little, we stopped by the Liberty Bar, which was fun and divey. The bartender called herself Sprout and I met a guy named Tutu. I think they like nicknames in Pittsburgh. Later we hit the dance club Pegasus, where they played disco and Madonna (yay!). The next day, Larue started to not feel well and asked me if I would drive. I steeled up my nerves and did it. You know what? I didn't do too badly! The last time I drove was in 1998, and that was just from Queens to Brooklyn. I drove for two hours, without incident. This is encouraging me to renew my driver's license. Or get a new copy or something. It was stolen last year and I don't know if it's expired yet (hence the limited driving Saturday). Traffic was great until we hit the New Jersey Turnpike, then what would have been a 20 minute trip turned into and hour and a half. However, we finally made it back to Brooklyn where we dropped off our stuff and jumped in a car service to meet friends at Pieces. Not surprisingly, Sunday was a day of rest, with brief visits from Scott and Larue and the Domino's delivery man.

And here I am! Back at work, done reading e-mail and just about to go to lunch. I love the holiday season! Tonight I have karate, Tuesday is dinner with my visiting cousin and her gaggle of country nurses followed by a re-entry into the Pieces Karaoke Kontest [sic], Wednesday is set aside for buying a new tree stand and setting up the holiday decorations, Thursday is more karate and Friday is Jingle Hell III, which I just found out about, but have to attend. Saturday is my friend Blair's birthday party (as well as Homocorps and Larue's slumber party, but it's first invitation first, you know). I think Sunday will be spent reading my book on sewing essentials and a lot of couch-sitting.

The MTA is Crazy

There's not much more you can say about that. In 1997, there was such a budget surplus at the MTA that they instituted free transfers and discount on fares with MetroCard. Now in 2002, there's a $1 billion deficit? How the hell does that happen? Didn't anyone at the MTA do the math before giving the surplus (and then some) away? Now they want to raise fare to $2. That's just madness. Most people can barely afford to take the train as it is. I use public transportation anywhere from 2 to 8 times a day. If I didn't have the unlimited MetroCard, I'd never take the bus. Right now I pay $63 a month, which saves me up to $150 a month. If they raise the fare to $2, I'd be paying $112 a month just to go to work and karate. I just can't afford that. They mentioned a plan that includes discounted fares for regular commuters, which I pray they use. If the state would just give us our fare share of transportation dollars, we wouldn't have such a problem. Every day, leaving New York looks more and more attractive. Then I think about what I could do here if I just put my mind to it, and I get confused about what I want from this life!

Mrs. Mohammed?

Religion. It brings out the best in people.

Random Notes

Thank heavens for Michael Jackson. Every day he makes Prince seem less strange.

People who capitalize the word "atheist" should come to grips with the fact that they belong to a religion.

I was walking to the subway yesterday as they lit Bloomingdale's and unveiled the windows. There were Rockettes in attendance. Finally, a bonus to working in midtown.

Sounds

The human body is amazing. I'm thinking of voices right now. It's just wild that voices can be so different as to be immediately recognizable. I was listening to Lauren Bacall singing "Welcome to the Theatre," (and aside from the inevitable feeling of loss I get whenever I hear songs about the theatre -- you should see me listen to A Chorus Line, it's depressing), I was struck by the fact that even thought I never knew she had done that song, I could recognize her voice right away. How do we do that?

I Like It

I know, anyone can criticize the government these days and come off amusing, but I really like Mark Fiore's cartoons. The animation and voices give it that extra something other editorial cartoons lack. He must be a very cynical man, though. It seems nothing escapes his wicked treatment.

Hey, that headline makes me think of the song "Two Ladies" from Cabaret. I've noticed the trend of high schools doing this show, and I have to wonder at what point toddlers start wearing belly shirts and making "booty play date calls." I'm all for sex and sexuality, but if nothing is taboo, is anything interesting? They're selling thongs and leather pants to twelve-year olds, Crustina Aguilera is naked on MTV and on magazine covers, and oral sex is more popular than marijuana at middle schools. You know what happens after a period of freedom and hedonism, don't you? Well, let's take a look at the federal government today. Hmm, Republicans. Conservative folk. And it's about that time, about time for argyle sweater sets and high buttoned collars to make the scene again. I can only pray that this actually happens. I'd rather see a rash of new Young Republicans roaming the streets than more pre-teen hoochie mamas. I can't stand it. I waited until I was halfway through college before I got trashy, and that was only after dark. I guess I just don't understand because I'm old. That's pretty sad, you know? Oh well, I've been crotchety for years already, a little more will only enhance my character.

What A Girl Wants

Huh, I thought today was the 21st.

Anyway, I'm making a list of things I want to buy.

A SunRise Clock
Portable record player from Red Envelope
Pants and a skirt that I can wear to work
A pair of black jeans
A pair of blue jeans
Four or five turtlenecks
Nice socks
Wolford tights
A file cabinet, small
Next year's vacation in Hawaii
The Floor Mate - ugh, $250

I'd also like to be able to get a haircut, see the dentist, the girlie doctor, and a dermatologist.

These are my luxury items, kids. If I could max out a credit card at any one store, it would probably be Wal-Mart. The really, really sad thing is that I have to decide what is most important. Do I give up going to Hawaii next year just so I can have work clothes? Would I rather finally be able to play my records, wake up without feeling like I've been ripped from the womb every morning, or dispense with the tedium of sweep/Swiffer/mop/hand-scrub/repeat on 500 square feet of linoleum? Can I let my old bills live forever unfiled in a box in the storage closet, or is it just getting ridiculous? How long can I put off going to the dentist before I get surprised with the need for a root canal?

When I first moved to New York, I made $8.50 an hour and worked 35 hours a week. My rent was $382.50. Even so, I make more now than the difference in my rent, so I should be able to cut back on the extras. I won't give up karate or my cell phone, but maybe I can give up my land line. I've already given up smoking and drinking during the week, as well as cabs and eating out. Granted, it hasn't been more than a week, but when I think of what I spent the week before last, I can see this helping me out in the long run. I just have to get ahead. I bought a pair of boots last month, but they were 25% off, and I wear them a lot. They're my new fall boots, to replace the ones I bought in 1995 that are just too uncomfortable anymore. The last time I bought clothes was in March, before my trip to Hawaii. Needless to say, those clothes aren't helping me much in this weather. I remember that I couldn't even afford them then.

When does all this end? I try very hard. It's not like I'm out shopping all the time. It seems like everyone has more disposable income than I do, even the guys buying lottery tickets at the candy store down the street. I don't want to utter the words, "I would, but I'm broke," when I'm in my thirties. So that gives me about 10 months to work this out. In nine months, I'll be debt free, so that should be a big help. In the meantime, I did really enjoy the leftover pot roast I brought to work for lunch today. I sure can cook a pot roast, you betcha. Silver lining and all that.

I'm also working out a self-reward system where if I leave the house on time, I get to buy a coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. If I'm late, I get to drink water from the cooler at the office. The coffee is expensive, but if it motivates me to get my butt out of bed, it's an acceptable loss. Gosh, I wonder if all these attempts at self-improvement are worth it, or if I have to remain what and how I am? Wouldn't that be terrible, to work so hard, only to find myself unable to stick to it? I have the worst sense of discipline in the world. If I hadn't already paid for my karate classes, I would skip it every time. I already missed 3 classes last week. Shiny things distract me. Sometimes I feel that I would be a much more productive person if I had no friends and lived with someone who made it unpleasant to be home. Oh wait, that's why I was such an overachiever in high school. Creepy.

Good grief. I just noticed that I put my shirt on backwards this morning. Somebody shoot me.

Yeah, I Rock

I just had a nice lunch with a woman who, as part of her job, rents out her company's space for events. Our jobs are a little different -- they use an exclusive caterer, and her company is internationally recognized -- but we discussed ways to market my space and realistic revenue goals. I knew a lot more than she expected me to, which made me feel all special. She validated for me my feelings about the market and the strength of my own plan. Plus, the food was yummy. I picked up a couple of pointers, but I think the experience was most helpful in showing me that I do, indeed, know what the hell I'm doing. It's always nice to be reminded.

Close Encounter

I almost forgot, I had a real New York moment Saturday night. As I was leaving Marie's Crisis around 4 am, a girl who was also leaving asked me if I wanted to see something funny. "Sure!" I said, opening my umbrella. The rain was driving and very cold. As I followed her around the corner she asked, "Are you hungry?" then whipped off her coat and pulled down her shirt at the neckline so her breasts were exposed. She stalked up to the service window at Karavas screaming, "Pizzzzzaaaaaaa! Piiiiiiiiizzzzaaaaaaaa! Piiizzzzaaaaaaa? PIIIIIIIZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAA!" The window was crowded with people who were in shock. The counter guys just laughed and went to get her a slice. "I do this every night," she said. "You know that show 'Real Sex' on HBO?" she asked, as she wrote something across her chest with pink lipstick. "I was on that." Then she smeared lipstick over her lips and kissed the window. I told the counter guys I would also like a slice, but I wouldn't be getting naked, so I was happy to pay. "No, you get a free one, too, you're with her." The Downtown 1/9 was closed at Christopher, so we walked to 14th Street and she told me about her checkered past at Marie's, the book she'd written, Heather Matarazzo stomping her feet and singing "The Man Who Got Away," and her aborted relationship with the guy who says "Stand clear of the closing doors," on the 2 train. I felt simultaneously boring as hell, and thankfully well adjusted. Thank you, New York, for coming through every once in a while.

This, That and The Other

James Coburn died. I really liked his acting. He deserved that Oscar for Affliction, but you should also catch him in The President's Analyst a completely nutso flick from the swingin' 60s. According to his filmography, 1987 and 1970 were the only years in which he didn't have a role in film or television. What a career! Coburn was 74.

Someone who was on the 18th Avenue platform of the N train wants us all to know that he or she is a "Super Spic." Now you know.

A California junior high school has apologized to parents for not giving them the details about all the speakers at their recent "Diversity Day." Along with a Holocaust survivor and a disabled person, they featured a woman who addressed anti-gay hate crimes. One parent said to the school board, "As Christians, we think it's very sad that this culture has come to a point where our dear little children have to think about these things." I think it's very sad too. I think it's terrible that people would beat a man to death for being gay. I hate that I have to think about it, but as a responsible member of society and oh, a human being, I have to. So maybe those "dear little children" (who are actually teenagers) should be taught a thing or two about human values like tolerance and love for one's neighbor before we set them loose on the world. I fear what would happen if they only had their parents' narrow views to draw from. *cough*Laramie*cough* No wonder Christians are always being stereotyped as ignorant, what with such clever spokespeople as these.

Next week is Thanksgiving, yay! I mean, I like turkey and all that jazz, but I also get a week off work, road tripping with my friend Larue to the great Midwest. I get to see my niece Josie for the first time (she's almost six months old!) and my dad for the first time in a couple of years. Also, turkey.

The Blah Apple

Does anyone remember when The Limelight was the epitome of cool, frequented by the best sort of degenerates and fashionistas? Back when my lily-livered college classmates wouldn't come with me on my one trip to New York while it was still open? If you do, please tell me all about it, because I only got to attend Peter Gatien's second and much more milquetoast incarnation, albeit for moderately interesting events (Interim, Zenwarp, Convergence). The pain of it was sharing the space with the khaki-clad bridge-and-tunnel masses, whirling their glow sticks and hurling their stomach contents to the thump-thump-thump of some bastardized form of music commonly known as "house" or "electronica." Yeeeagh.

The first time I went to The Limelight, I walked right up to the front of the line, confidently dragging along the current SO, determined to bypass the line or never go in at all. Normally, I don't mind a small line that's formed for the purpose of more efficient money-grabbing, but I don't do the stand-in-line-and-be-chosen routine. This line was made of of mousy looking people in earth tones and the occasional belly shirt. I wasn't having any of it. I was wearing a 10-inch long quilted black vinyl mini-skirt, black patent-leather open-toed five-inch stilletos with a 1-1/2 inch platform and ankle straps, a sheer silver tank top and four strategically placed strips of electrical tape. As I approached the velvet rope, they unhooked it and stepped aside. That was a moment I had to savor, and one of the best ones I have from Limelight. It's gone now. They gutted it and sold off all the interior design, returning to H.R. Giger what was H.R. Giger's. The new club is opening this week, and it's to be called Estate. Well, we'll see, I suppose, but considering the state of New York nightlife, and the state of popular music in general, I strongly doubt I'll be making many trips there. Clubplanet.com pointed me to this invitation which confirms my previous strong feeling. Yah, Danny Tenaglia, Cheetah and the ridiculous ticket price of $40 pretty much seal the deal on that one. Oh well, Everything's favorite hostess, Abby Ehmann, will be bringing us another sweaty rock party on Friday. Check out www.editrixabby.com for more info.

How About a Little Cheese With That Whine?

My friend Scott reminds me that this Thursday is the third Thursday of November, which is the annual release date for Beaujolais Nouveau, and a very special and exciting day for wine afficionados. I'm a fan of Beaujolais in general, so I'm looking forward to buying my first bottle of the Nouveau before they fly off the shelves. I have no capacity to describe how wine tastes other than, "red" and "good," so I'll leave that to the experts. Enjoy!

Turn Off

I've just had it. There's not a single news story I feel like reading. I have no interest in watching the news on television. The fact that I had to listen to Donald Rumsfeld lie on the radio this morning before I got to hear some Petula Clark was irritating to the extreme. I have a feeling that if I don't pay attention to the news for a few weeks, everything will go on as it would have otherwise, and I can catch up in time for the next election.

Instead of checking out Salon this morning, I went straight to The Onion. My favorite, laugh out loud moments of this week?

"In last Tuesday's midterm elections, Republicans retook the U.S. Senate, giving them control of both houses of Congress. What do you think?
'Gosh, that election really sucked. Well, at least it'll probably be the last one we ever have.' -- Raymond Thatcher, Architect"

"Jackie Robinson Lynched for Stealing Second" -- From The Onion in History (1948)

And, transcribed in full:

"Senator Mix-A-Lot Sponsors Titties-On-Glass Legislation
WASHINGTON, DC—Seeking to stem a four-year decline in freaky Yolandas throwing they titties on U.S. glass, U.S. Sen. Mix-A-Lot (B-WA) introduced sweeping new putting-'em-on-glass legislation Tuesday. "Now listen up, Uncle Sam / I wanna see soul sistas pressin' that ham / Make me say damn / I wanna rear-end 'em / So I'm callin' a Senate referendum / Bounce by the ounce don't make no fun / I'll take 'em by the ton, son," Mix-A-Lot said. "Don't hand this bill down to no committees / 'Cause Mix don't wait on monster titties / Note to my colleague Tom Daschle / That if the babies be gettin' bashful / No melons droppin' on my windshield / So get them nudie laws repealed." Mix-A-Lot then gave props to the authors of H.R. 1610, from which several key clauses were sampled."

Oh, Sir Mix-a-Lot, you scamp!

Suitable for Children and Fathers

Look kids, my dad, former squeezes and possible employers read my blog occasionally, so don't be expecting all the nasty little details of my personal life, m'kay? Sure, you heard rumours about Tuesday night, but you'll just have to find out all about it in the gutter, like any other self-respecting gossip hound.

That said, last night I performed at Gomorrah for the last installment of Fresh Meat, Ken Feet's party. Lord, that microphone is hot. My voice is loud enough as it is, but with that mic no one could have ignored my performance. Thus, I got to stare at the blank expressions of a bunch of latex-clad freaks and wannabes while trying to charm my way through "Otto Titsling" from Beaches. Let's not kid ourselves, I own that song. It's a hard one, and I turn that baby out. Heck, I even managed to whip my bra out from under my shirt with one hand at the last line of the song! Still, the vibe I got from the audience was "nonplussed." I did see a few folks who knew the number and seemed entertained, but I get much more of a response from a crowd that isn't grouchy from the five inch heels, corsets and facial piercings. As a friend of mine said afterward, "These people have no fucking sense of humour." Ah, well, I got to sing, had a free cocktail and made $10. Of course, I spent $24 on a cab and $32 on the CD, so I didn't exactly come out ahead. Another reason I do it is for exposure. I harbor the hope that someday I'll be singing in one of these freaky joints and someone with the actual ability to expoit my talent for money will see me. One can dream!

I, I, I, me, me, me. Sheesh, that's all I ever talk about. How are you? Did you have a nice dinner last night or was it another baby carrots and Hershey's kisses with a bottle of Coke night? Did you sleep well? How do you like your job? Uh huh. I see. That's fascinating. Anyway, enough about you, let's talk more about me.

I can't remember the last time I ate a vegetable. Oh yeah, it was the baby carrots night.

Better Quality Blogging on the Way

Okay, I see from my counter that people are actually reading what I write, so I'm determined to write even better rambling tirades, er, thought-provoking web log posts. Just let me think of something. In the meantime, here's something amusing to look at: "Black People Love Us."

Hey, No One Was Suggesting Method Acting...

Val Kilmer is such a dip sometimes.

"That doesn't interest me. I don't find it entertaining."

-- Val Kilmer on his refusal to watch any of the porn movies of the late John Holmes, whom he is playing in the porn star's biopic, "Wonderland," to "Entertainment Tonight." ("Nothing Personal," Amy Reiter)

Um, if you're playing the guy in the movie, don't you think it would help to see him on screen, practicing his profession? That would be like Jennifer Love-Hewitt refusing to watch any Audrey Hepburn movies because they didn't entertain her. (Hee.) And even Greg Kinnear watched some of the disturbing home sex-videos made by Bob Crane for his upcoming biopic. Oh, I get it! That's why The Doors sucked so badly. He refused to listen to any of Jim Morrison's music before playing the role!

Those Crazy Celebrities!

The gossip is pretty interesting today. First, I was almost certain that Pete Townshend proclaimed in the 90s that he was a woman trapped inside a man's body. Didn't you hear that? Now he says that was all misunderstood and he's totally straight. Gah, how disappointing. He inned himself.

Speaking of things that are big and queer, if Vin Diesel and Nicole Kidman do a new movie version of "Guys and Dolls," I'm going to shoot myself. Or Vin Diesel. One or the other. I think he wants to be Skye Masterson rather than Nathan Detroit, though. Didn't Brando do it? Oh wait, was that a joke on the part of the columnist? Ah, funny.

You Kids Get Outta My Yard!

I'm going to be a crusty old spinster living in an apartment with several cats. Actually, scratch the cats. Too much committment. Everyone says that when they can't seem to make their love lives work, but I'm pretty sure that's what life has in store for me. I found myself staring at the third rail this morning and wondering how much it would hurt. Nothing like a little suicidal ideation to start the day off right.

Now, don't get all worried. Alexia is prone to the melodrama. I'm convinced I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. As soon as we move those clocks back, somebody better hide the steak knives. Makes for the most scintillating conversation, don't you know.

No time for chit-chat, there are paper tablecoths to be bought!

Sweet Dreams?

I dreamed last night that I was in Chelsea at 8th Avenue and 15th Street, near my old office, and my ex-fiance called out to me. He just happened to see me on the street. He still lived in Tennessee, of course. I dreamed we went to my parents' new (dream)house and it had also been built by my stepfather, but the deck had a lot of brush on it, so I got a sticker in my knee. I keep dreaming about my mom, recently. Maybe it's the upcoming holiday season.

In my dream, I was very popular with all the boys around me. My ex-fiance worked at a factory and had to be there at 4:30 am. My brain sure doesn't work right when I'm sleeping, because he told me himself that he works second shift now (when he called to give his condolences about my mother and thankfully did not leave his number or ask me to keep in touch). I guess the fact that I dream my mother is alive and that I have long, flowing hair is also a glitch.

No, That's Fine, I Understand, It's Not Me, It's You

See, I know that at least 10 people have read my blog since I posted my entreaty for information. Or one person read it 10 times. Regardless, not one person has 'fessed up to being a reader. I swear, people, I'll just stop writing. Then what will you do? How will you get through your miserable little existences without the bright rays of sunshine that are my finely crafted screeds and clever one-liners? Hmm? Hmmmmmmm?

Seriously, blogging is keeping me from deluging my friends with e-mails ranting about this or that, pointing to my new favorite article in The Onion, or bemoaning my latest hangover. This way, I get the writing itch scratched and my friends no longer have to wear themselves out deciding whether or not to just drop me as a friend all together. Now they just wonder where I am, what I'm doing. I'm much more desirable when I'm not around.

*sigh*

I'm singing on November 13 at Gomorrah. I need to get some music as I have misplaced my copy of my favorite karaoke CD, Fun Movie and Show Tunes. Dude, it has everything from "Dance Ten Looks Three" and "Gee, Officer Krupke" to "Sweet Transvestite" and "Dentist." That's good karaoke, right there. The versions are very faithful to the originals, so it doesn't sound cheesy when I use it as recorded music for a little performance here and there.

I'm not feeling karate tonight. Maybe I'll be bad and stay home and watch Survivor. I'm feeling the onset of my monthly case of ennui. A sure sign that I must go to karate and get those endorphins pumping. I've said it before and I'll say it again:

*sigh*

If You Didn't Vote, Don't Cry to Me Now

Man, the AP is calling some counties in Florida "election-challenged," like they're the municipal equivalent of Corky from "Life Goes On."

Hey, the Republicans are back in control in Congress. Woo-hoo. I really don't know what else to say. I did my part, I voted, now we just have to hope our elected officials care more about running our country well than about party politics and re-election.

Tom Golisano spent $54 million dollars running for Governor of New York when he could have given that money to charity and earned a little respect rather than a measly 16% of the vote. Or better still, he could have just given $4 to every New York resident. I could use $4.

Tennessee finally gets a lottery. It's about time. I guess one of the brighter yokels realized how much cash was traveling to Georgia, Kentucky and Mississippi. Did you know that Tennessee's sales tax is the same as New York City's and they even tax groceries? Plus, there's no state income tax. Fiscally, Tennessee is messed up, yo.

I find it interesting that Florida gets to vote on the public-smoking ban and Arizona gets to vote on cigarette tax hikes. All I got to vote on was the proposal to change the mayoral vacancy procedure. Boooring.

Nevada voted to keep gay marriage and pot illegal. Huh? Is that the same Nevada with all the whorehouses and casinos? Yeah? Oh-kay.

Republican Doug Forrester of New Jersey must be pretty depressed right now. His opponent is drowning in an ethics scandal, and then drops out. The state supreme court rules that it's okay for the Democrats to replace him past the deadline with a 78-year old retired senator. He still loses. He loses to a last minute replacement who is past life expectancy. That's gotta sting.

Isn't voting great?

More Water, Please

Seriously, people, why hasn't anyone physically restrained me from going out to karaoke on a Tuesday yet? Or better yet, let me go, but come drag me out before 11. This is just insane. I did get to sing the two opening room songs, though. And "Suddenly Seymour," which was a coup.

Hmm, I don't like the way that word looks. I know it has a "p," but it reads strangely.

Anyway, I was thinking I need to hire someone to gather me out of the bar at a decent hour, because, surprisingly enough, alcohol impairs my judgement, an impairment that lasts well into the next morning when I rationalize to myself my constant smacking of the snooze button. The funny (or tragic) part of that is that my alarm clock is two rooms away, in my bathroom, so I actually get up and walk to my alarm clock to hit the snooze button every seven minutes for two hours. People! This is madness! "I don't have any appointments until one and if they really cared they'd say something about my punctuality" is not a good reason to loll about in bed. My imaginary maid, Shannen Doherty, isn't much help, either.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Survey Says!

I know you're out there. My counter tells me someone is reading this blog. But who are you? Am I giving my audience what it wants? If you could take two seconds to tell me your first name, city, and how often you read this blog (other info is great, but not required), I'd really dig it. Thanks!

A Note on Profanity

I don't think I use terribly rough language in this blog (unless you count stilted and awkward as rough), but if I do, it's there for emphasis or to make a particular point. Really, if you found me at The Raven on a Saturday night, then you'd hear some rough language. I can't help it, 70s rock n roll turns me into a juvenile delinquent.

Interlude

For posterity, I have to record that as I was crossing Lexington Avenue at 58th Street today, I saw a discarded pair of leopard-print panties with red lace trim lying on the asphalt. How did they get there? Did they actually belong to someone or did they fall off a truck full of underwear? Does the owner miss them? Were they traveling panties, like Tom Robbins' traveling Can o' Beans? Did they have a mission? My instinctive reaction when I saw them was to say, "Woo!" As in, "Hey asphalt, them's some fancy panties you got there!"

You know, I feel like I live my life in snippets, all a few months or years long. One phase or another, one committment abandoned, a new one taken up, endlessly quitting smoking and drinking and karaoke and blogging, only to take them right back up again. (This has nothing to do with the panties, by the way.) Groups of friends picked up and discarded --- hey, maybe it does have to do with the panties, after all --- and boys, well, let's just say sometimes I wish I was 17 again so I could start all over.

[Jeff Healy's "Angel Eyes": one of the most heartbreakingly romantic songs I've ever heard. I love having streaming 80s music on my computer.]

Not to mention all the half-heartedly pursued dreams... I've probably expended more energy talking about the great things I want to do than actually trying to do them. Maybe all the mini-eras of my life come from the way I changed schools as a child. Three years at each school for four schools, then college, then seven different apartments and twelve different jobs in three cities in eight years. Permanence isn't really something I'm good at.

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.

'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!

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.

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!

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.

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...

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!

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.

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?