The Highlights

The Cast of 'Saturday Night Grains'

2011-10-29T09:29:00.000-07:00

Chris Barley
Kristen Wheat
Quinoa-n Thompson
Fred Amaranth
Rice-el Dratch
Rye-a Rudolph
Amy Bulgher
Cheri Oat-eri
Will Farro
Spelt Meyers
Semolina Garofalo
Millet Shannon
Dana Corny

Some Things Are Private

2011-10-20T06:41:00.000-07:00

If you’re asking me, have I ever hooked up with a girl, the answer is yes. If you’re asking, have I ever hooked up with a ghost, the answer is none of your damn business.

PREVIOUSLY ON... JERSEY SHORE (A Transcript)

2011-10-20T06:35:00.000-07:00

SITUATION
She was feelin’ me the whole time.

SAMMI
Really.

SITUATION
Yeah -

SAMMI
Cause I was fuckin’ feelin’ Ronnie too.

RONNIE laughs.

SITUATION
Yeah, you was feelin’ me, you was holdin’ my hand the whole time at the boardwalk, what was that?

SAMMI flips off THE SITUATION with both middle fingers.

SITUATION
You’re fuckin’ me half the night and you’re fuckin’ my boy the other half the night?

RONNIE
Me and Sammi are pretty much together at this point. It just feels right, it just like it clicks.

SAMMI
Yes, I have sex, like, hello. You’re gonna have sex if you’re into somebody.

RONNIE
We smushed.

PAULY D
(referring to J-Woww)
She won’t even remember her boyfriend’s name when she gets done with me.

J-WOWW
(on the phone with her boyfriend)
I’m, like, sucking up my pride right now and apologizing - (To us.) At the end of the day I just realized, like, how much Tom means to me. I honestly would like, give up anything to have Tom in my life.

USURPED

2011-10-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

My place on the family fridge had been usurped by my little brother which is fine, I mean, not that I care that mom and dad think his picture of a medieval guy riding up to a castle rendered in watercolor and totally out of proportion is better than my giraffe laughing in the sun rendered in crayon, because I don’t. I know that my giraffe laughing in the sun is really good and that mom and dad probably just didn’t see the subtleties, such as how laid back he is, and isn’t life just one lazy steel pan drum beat, and hey look there’s a giraffe on the fridge, laughing in the sun, and duh, giraffes aren’t supposed to laugh so therein lies the humor, and why can’t they absorb enough of that to reduce some of their adult grade silence at dinner?
But I’m always getting usurped by something. Like my brother’s medieval guy riding up to the castle, again, totally out of proportion, and also kind of dark and ominous and probably portending his future as a high school shooter. But if it’s not that then it’s that my sister finally got contacts. And everyone’s like, oh, Amy, you look like such a beautiful young woman. And I’m like, really? Cause to me she looks like that same bathroom hogging, tangle-haired banshee who throws all of those shrieky sleepovers which, mind you, I have never been invited to. And woe becomes the man who tries to sneak into one to take a gander at Mia Gusterson’s inner knee, because should he be found out, trying to pose as a perfectly reasonable lump under a blanket, no amount of nonchalant walking away will stem the blood curdling cries that will issue after him, or the reign of tired disapproval from mom.
But everyone is all like, Amy, you’re really growing up, and I’m still like, really? Because I don’t think that growing up is distinctive to the female of the species, other reluctant attendants of this household are growing up, as is evidenced by the obvious cultural acumen needed to render a vaguely Caribbean, definitely really wise, very cool giraffe laughing in the sun, with nods towards childhood whimsy, which is why I chose to use my adorably off-kilter kid hand when drawing said picture, instead of my precise drawing hand, currently being diverted and mostly employed in the learning of cursive.
Because I know just how efficiently an off-kilter kid drawing can warm the cockles of a tax doing, over extended married couple, and curry a relieved and life appreciating glint in their eye. I’ve been doing it my whole life! Every little long day for eight endless years. I’ve been cranking them out and serving them up. A dog chasing a cat. And palm tree lifting weights. A stick figure family in a canoe. An ant looking at an ant under a magnifying glass, only to see that that ant is also looking at an ant under a magnifying glass, ad infinitum. And then the penultimate—a giraffe laughing in the sun with a generally kind of gritty warmth and ripening joy, only to be usurped by my brother and his medieval guy walking up to a castle, at which point my drawing was demoted to the badlands of the lower half of the fridge, where nothing dwells except for a coffee stain and a smudgy veterinarian’s appointment magnet.
And there my drawing will stay, until I finally figure out a way to usurp the usurper with the ultimate drawing. One with the most mom and dad placating, wonky kid wizardry as to have ever descended upon this weary household, and which is already taking shape in my mind as this: a cat tailor, tailoring a dress for a mouse, with Thomas Jefferson in the background. Goodnight.

Reasons Why I Love My Cat, No. 429

2011-04-25T09:11:00.000-07:00

His scratchy li'l tongue.

Things You Needn't Update Us About On Facebook, No. 3,419

2011-04-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

Your sesame allergy.

Thank You For Having Me At Your Mysterious Site-Specific Theater Orgy

2011-04-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

Hey, I just wanted to write and say thanks so much for inviting me to your awesome Eyes Wide Shut-style murder mystery performance! From the moment you handed me my mandatory mask and told me to turn my cell phone off, I had what I can honestly say was a totally okay time. It must have been exhausting for you to transform that warehouse space into something resembling an incoherent mashup of a haunted house, a Shakespearean theater, a sexy train station, and a Prohibition-era mansion - I especially loved all the little touches like the box full of the ashes of burnt rose petals, the candles with little black ribbons tied around them, and the discarded cloaks half-concealing antique metronomes! These details didn't exactly add up to a stable context, let alone a fleshed-out story, but they were fucking atmospheric as hell! And I can tell you spent a lot of time and energy rehearsing the dialogue-free but very evocative "scenes" I encountered as I moved from room to dimly lit, fog-machine-filled room. The lady washing blood off the bathtub, the cradle surrounded by a mobile of headless babies, the naked man with a Minotaur's head raving in a strobe light as a bald woman poured chocolate sauce on his cock! Again, it wasn't that I could follow any of this exactly, or that it amounted to anything like a meaningful narrative, but it definitely provided a variety of sensations that more or less filled the time while I was there! So THANKS for that! (Also please apologize to the bald lady - I didn't mean to step on her toe as I was leaving the dusty library with all the taxidermied quails - it was just super dark in there, plus the mask was making my face sweat so I couldn't really see where I was going! And I was distracted by the black ink she was spilling down her boobs!)

Anyway, it's obvious you went to a hell of a lot of trouble setting this whole thing up, like I can't imagine where you got all those crucifixes, or those old-fashioned baby carriages - or how you convinced so many people to take their clothes off in front of a creepily masked crowd. It certainly wasn't the kind of thing I experience every day, that's for sure. It was a lot more suggestive and at the same time made a lot less sense. Regular life with its "actions" and "consequences", its banal, mundane "arguments", "events", and "relationships", just doesn't compare to a place where around every corner you just might find, for no comprehensible reason, a silent, slow-moving, wondrously sort of ghostly naked feast! Thanks so much for including me in this sexy mood type thing - it will definitely be a few days before I forget all about it!

What Not To Comment On Someone's Facebook Wedding Photos

2011-04-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

"OMG - so cute! I wonder which one of you will end up dying first?"

"You guys look nervous! Are you questioning your decision?"

"Good luck with your sex life!"

"Informal FB poll: who got the shorter end of this stick, him or her?"

"Congratulations on taking full advantage of your heteronormative social privileges!"

"About time! You guys look OLD!"

"I'm still not sure about this match, but best wishes!"

"Hope she's not barren!"

"Why wasn't I invited?"

"LOL. I give it five years."

Ruminations of a Governess

2011-03-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

These children are terribly ill-behaved... Now let's see, where did I stick that hat-pin?... Oh heavens, my lumbago... This weather is so dreary, but we must take our walk... Yes, Clarissa, you must eat your prunes... Because I said so, that's why... Dear me, but the kitchen maids must learn to speak to me with a bit more respect for my position... Oh, my ankles, I barely recognized them... tra-la... Could do with a spot of fennel for my indigestion, must ask Cook... time for lessons... No, Jonathan, mustn't scratch yourself in public... Ah, me... Today is Wednesday... I have no identity... I came from nowhere... I exist for other people, not for myself... I have no children of my own... And when I die, nothing will be left of me... except for this hat... now where is that blasted hat-pin?

Because I Have Nothing Better To Do, I'm Gonna Go Ahead And Look Back at 9/11

2011-03-10T18:51:00.000-08:00

September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday. I remember this because I was supposed to go to my first appointment ever with a therapist that day, and I was really looking forward to it. The appointment, understandably, ended up getting canceled, along with everything else that was supposed to have transpired on what was probably only like the third or fourth day of actual classes that semester. I woke up to my phone (a landline) ringing. It was my mom. She said, Wake up, they just flew a plane into the World Trade Center. Wait a second – she called to my dad, What? Another one? – they might have just flown another one. I don’t know what’s happening. Turn on the TV. And she hung up.

In my groggy state (come on, it was only like nine a.m.), I was like, Mom, who cares, ugh! I mean after all there had been bombs set off in the World Trade Center before, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. I told Alison and Maisie to turn on the TV, which came on all staticky because we didn’t have cable. So there’s this static split-screen of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and both of them are on fire. But we don’t have any sound. And we’re like, umm... what? And I remember this guy was outside to pick up Maisie to go to a class at Bryn Mawr and Maisie was in her bathrobe and she shouted down to him, Um, don’t you think class might be canceled given that it’s the first day of World War Three? And we were really kind of manic and giddy, and I remember feeling like everything, the whole day, was wrapped in Saran Wrap. Nothing felt like it was really happening.

There was a praying mantis perched on the banister right outside our apartment and I took a picture of it (with a camera, on film). In 2009, in October, on the day when the stock market crashed, I saw another praying mantis. They must just be out at that time of year. But I remembered the one I saw on 9/11 and it was eerie.

So Haverford called a Quaker meeting and the whole school assembled in the gym, I guess to just kind of be together and talk this thing over. Or at least that’s what I thought was going to happen, i.e. I thought the events of the day would be approached with some kind of critical distance that would behoove a student body where 35% of the people were philosophy majors and where the philosphical basis of the entire instution was rooted in pacificism. But boy was I wrong. That student body was just as jingoistic and ready to go to war as everybody else in America, apparently. The first thing that happened, right after the token moment of silence, was this girl jumps up and goes, “My dad’s in the military, and I want to say the Pledge of Allegiance to that flag over there!” She pointed up to behind the basketball net where the American flag hung, along with a number of flags representing Haverford’s primary athletic opponents. I was like, What flag? The Swarthmore flag? But everyone jumped up and started pledging allegiance like some parliament of robots from the future. The only people who didn’t stand up were me and my friend Kevin. Kevin and I went to high school together at a weird hippie progressive private school where we called the teachers by their first names and didn’t get grades and definitely did not say the pledge of allegiance. So we were not into that. Anyway, the hysteria only built from there – some girl grabbed the mike and started crying about how her mom worked by the World Trade Center and she didn’t know where she was (turned out she was fine) and many others cried and I basically was like, um, can we pause for a second and talk about how America is pretty much an evil empire and anyone who pays half a dime’s worth of attention to the geopolitical landscape probably could have seen this one coming? But maybe that was just disgustingly cynical of me. I don’t know. My favorite reaction to 9/11 that happened at Haverford was when I went to the office hours of my African philosophy professor, a little Congolese man named Mutumbo who was visiting from Temple that year, and often wore double denim with white hi-top sneakers, and was generally the coolest dude of all time, and he told me about some German composer who said that the planes crashing into the towers were the greatest aesthetic statement of human history, and then he just started laughing, like really sadly, but also like Jesus Christ, this Western World. Cause meanwhile his country is getting raped for the mineral you need to make cell phones and we’re acting like we’ve never seen a worse tragedy than these two giant office buildings burning down. I mean no offense of course. But – yeah.

I smoked a ton of weed in college and I am also just naturally kind of indignant and reactionary so I have no idea if any of my half-baked ideas about any of this actually are thought through or make any sense. But I guess what I was reacting to was this psycho herd mentality that emerged instantaneously in our country after 9/11, where everybody suddenly felt the need to put flags everywhere and go to war with countries that didn’t have anything to do with it. And in the ten years since we’ve seen what’s come out of that. And we’re still at war. Ten years later. So – I’m not actually going to apologize for anything.

So Bush went on TV and made a speech in front of Congress that said, “You’re either with us, or you’re against us.” Another statement that seemed appropriate for a parliament of militaristic robots from the future. Everything, in short, got very apocalyptic all of a sudden.

I remember one friend of mine was all wound up about Israel. It turns out he was a complete and total Zionist, and I had no idea. I thought it was very, very weird.

I basically just loathed George W. Bush from the hot molten core of my being. He reminded me of any father, teacher, or other authority figure who is rude and condescending because he’s actually threatened by you, and he’s a little nasty bully, and he also would definitely molest you and then deny it and try to make you out to be the crazy one.

I also loathed Hillary Clinton who I listened to one dark night on NPR while sitting in the parking lot of the Acropolis diner in Poughkeepsie alone in my teal-green Ford Tempo (which I later crashed in a head-on collision on Bulls Head Road in Rhinebeck on some black ice, no one was hurt but the car was totaled, another incident from my twenties) making her speech to Congress where she agreed to give Bush war powers “because she hoped that he wouldn’t use them.” Um, Hillary? How about you don’t give him war powers in that case? Barrrffff. Everybody in America was going nuts. Colin Powell gets on TV and shows people a diagram of tubes and that’s literally enough to get people totally psyched to rain down hell on a country we know nothing about. Shock and awe. Barrrffff.

THOUGHTS I HAD WHILE REREADING WATCHERS BY DEAN KOONTZ WHICH I FIRST READ WHEN I WAS TWELVE

2011-03-08T15:15:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe I read this when I was twelve.

This book is lurid, misogynistic, violent, and I can’t put it down.

Everything is so nineties—they’re feeding coins into pay phones, freaking out about genetic engineering, hiking.

I wish I had a genius golden retriever.

I really, really wish I had a genius golden retriever, because just think of how great it would be to look into those intelligent doggy eyes.

Except, if your really did engineer a dog to be as smart as a human, and that dog started having smart puppies, would we have to give them rights? What if you wanted to marry your dog? What if a dog wanted to be president? Koontz, there’s a whole can of worms here you didn’t account for, bud.

Is it weird that I want to be a pre-internet pregnant lady wearing floppy sweaters and living in seclusion in the woods like the character Nora? It just seems really peaceful. (Except for the fact that she is being stalked by both a hit man and a genetically engineered monster, who can communicate telepathically with the aforementioned dog).

Reading this book is very much like watching a movie on the USA network in the middle of the day, or looking at the internet for too long, in that you feel kind of damp and disoriented afterwards.

I wish someone would make a movie of this book.

GRAPH PAPER

2011-02-21T06:10:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I thought graph paper was pretty cool. I was like, whoa, dad, what are you going to do with that graph paper? And that calculator? I was like, it’s about to get heavy in here, you guys, because dad’s got some graph paper! Then sometimes I would just look at the graph paper, it was usually yellow or off white. It was clean and pristine, filled with little squares, like the very beginning of something. Sometimes I would create graphs of my own, like a real professional lady. Like a brassy Gina Davis looking female scientist who was undervalued by all her colleagues but who was the chosen one to lead the alien resistance and at some point wrestle with blue lightening. I would make little graphs like mountain peaks, or little bars, or just a straight line. Sometimes, there isn’t much of a change in anything, and that would be illustrated by a horizontal line across a piece of graph paper. Sometimes I would draw a little fish on the graph paper and it was like that fish was straight up swimming through math. Once I drew a court jester on a piece of graph paper and then felt strangely embarrassed. I still like graph paper, but as an adult, I don’t have a lot of time to sit there and get psyched about it. Because I’ve got all kinds of adult stuff to do. Like figure out if I’ve got to pay this out of state parking ticket or not. And that kind of thing can’t be graphed.

SOME INITIAL THOUGHTS ON PLANNING A WEDDING

2011-01-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

There is a ton of stuff to do. More than you could have possibly expected. And it’s all up to you--even if you are not a person that has organized anything apart from a DVD marathon of “The Commish” accompanied by some pizza bagels.

Your vision of a laid back thing where everybody is chill and barefoot and there are tons of fireflies and wildflowers and maybe some animated fireworks a la that one scene from Lord of the Rings and just a tad bit of ecstasy is maybe not what other people were picturing and also probably impossible.

Unfortunately, you are not an anime character that can get married under a dewy fern.

Newsflash: the movie Father of the Bride does not stand up to the test of time.

Newsflash: GET ORGANIZED!

Calling a Save the Date card an STD and saying “I’m going to send you an STD,” might be funny to you, but it’s not really considered cutting edge humor in wedding planning circles anymore.

I still haven’t decided between Pachelbel’s Canon, or Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On” for walking down the isle. (But we do know that when my maid of honor appears the music is immediately going to shift to the Seinfeld theme song).

Eighteen Reasons Why Mothers Hate Their Babies

2011-01-24T15:55:00.000-08:00

1. Babies stink.
2. Babies are crybabies.
3. Babies are cliquish and mothers feel excluded.
4. Mothers have 99 problems and babies are all of them.
5. Babies never compliment their mothers when they get new haircuts.
6. Babies are so insecure about how their mothers feel about THEM that they never step up and express their own feelings to their mothers.
7. Babies always want ponies and mothers can't keep buying ponies all the time.
8. Babies have little mustaches that freak their mothers out.
9. Babies remind mothers of when they were babies, and that makes them miss THEIR mothers.
10. Babies are disgusting little snotfaces.
11. Babies are so little that mothers sometimes eat them by accident.
12. Whenever mothers put babies in a cardboard box, they always misplace the box and then everybody gets angry at them, and they get angry at themselves.
13. Babies create all kinds of uncomfortable feelings and mothers wonder why they thought that having a baby was the answer to how to get rid of other uncomfortable feelings that they had before they had the baby, which are gone now, but are replaced by all these new shitty uncomfortable feelings.
14. Babies don't really totally appreciate the whole milk thing.
15. Babies are always suing their mothers in court and it gets embarrassing.
16. Babies wear little trenchcoats all the time.
17. Mothers want to teach babies how to do sit-ups and babies are like, later - but they never get around to it.
18. Babies get up in the middle of the night and help themselves to whatevers in the fridge.

People and Things I Should Thank in the Acknowledgments of my Dissertation

2011-01-22T17:14:00.000-08:00

Snarf from Thundercats

Every member of Wu-Tang; Raekwon and Ghostface get their own paragraphs

Every member of the Rolling Stones except Mick, hey Mick, fuck you if you’re reading this

Several of my married friends’ ex-girlfriends

Four very special golden retrievers (y’all know who you are)

Earl “The Pearl” Monroe

Doris “Kearns” Goodwin

Scarface (the movie and the rapper, separately)

Nicole Brown Simpson

O.J. Simpson

White drugs

Donkey Kong (the ape, NOT the game)

William Faulkner and Eazy-E, together forever

Various superheroes (TBD)

Future wife (Rashida Jones? TBD)

Whoever assassinates will.i.am

Malcolm Gladwell

Whoever assassinates Malcolm Gladwell

Pinchy the lobster

Bitey the possum

Brother Mouzone

The dude who invented books (Shakespeare? Double-check this)

All dinosaurs (individually or as a group?)

My parents

Purple drank

Overheard In The Conference Room At Lunch

2011-01-21T08:16:00.000-08:00

Hey, Lisa.

Hey, Kathleen.

Mind if I sit down?

No, please, go right ahead.

That looks good. Is that a salad?

Yeah, it’s a salad. I’m in a salad phase.

That’s great. That’s healthy.

Did you eat lunch?

No, I’m in like a starving myself phase.

Ha! Good for you.

I’m not even trying to lose weight, I’m just like crazily stressed. And drinking too much coffee.

Why are you so stressed?

Same old shit. Too many projects. Too many deadlines.

Yeah, I hear that.

Pause.

At the same time: So what are you working on? // I was just listening to NPR –

Sorry. Go ahead.

No – you go.

No – I was just gonna talk about boring work stuff. You go. NPR?

Yeah, All Things Considered. And there was this piece about the Chicago airport.

O’Hare?

Yeah. O’Hare.

Okay.

And I don’t even know why it caught my attention, because I’ve never been to Chicago, and I don’t care about it at all, but for some reason it was interesting to me.

Okay.

It was about the O’Hare Modernization Program. Have you heard about this?

Shrugs.

Okay, well it’s like this multi-phase, multi-billion dollar expansion plan for the airport that was started in like 2004 or something, before the economy tanked, and it had the full support of the airlines or whatever, but now the two biggest airlines, United and American, are suing the city of Chicago to stop them from going forward into the completion phase of the project. Because the airlines say that now that the economy is shitty, they can’t afford to put up the money for the project. But the city is like, no, this is the time when we should go ahead with the project, because we need jobs, and construction costs are low, and anyway this was the plan and we should go ahead with the plan. But the airlines are suing them. So now it’s gonna get all tied up in court.

Pause.

Huh.

Like I said, I don’t know why this was interesting to me. But it was. For some reason.

Long pause.

Are you gonna eat that beet?

What?

That beet.

Oh – no. I hate beets.

Can I have it?

Sure. But – I’m sick.

You’re sick?

I have a cold. I’m getting over it but I still have it.

Do you think I’ll get sick if I eat your beet?

Probably, if you use my fork.

Okay, I won’t use your fork.

Okay then – help yourself.

Thanks.

Chewing.

Well, I gotta get back to my desk.

Me too – ugh.

Nice chatting with you, Kathleen.

You too, Lisa.

At the door.

Are you coming?

Uh – yeah – I think I’m just gonna space out here for a minute.

Okay.

Gotta take a break. Clear my head a little.

Sure.

Think about airports.

Ha. Okay – see ya.

Later.

Most Surreal Aspects of the Body Smack That Takes Place Between Sandra Bullock And Ryan Reynolds In THE PROPOSAL

2011-01-04T08:36:00.000-08:00

The fact that they are both completely naked. The fact that she is so much older than him. The fact that it is supposed to be funny, but feels like a serious moment in an avant-garde performance piece. The fact that their bodies hit each other so hard. The fact that it makes a sound. The fact that the choreography has to be twisted in order to prevent us seeing any of their genitals. The fact that we see their asses. The fact that Bullock has so much junk in the trunk. The fact that the dog's name is "Kevin". The fact that her face squishes up like she's tasting mortality as she skids down his bare, sweaty chest. The fact that she's just gotten out of the shower, and he's just about to take a shower, so he is dirty, and she is clean. The fact that after his workout he took his boxers off on the balcony while listening to his iPod, even though he was well aware that they were sharing a room. The fact that they are lying to his family. The fact that Betty White plays his Native American grandmother. The fact that Sandra Bullock's face is so busted. The fact that Ryan Reynolds's face is so random. The fact that these two people, formerly boss and assistant, now presenting a sham marriage in order to avoid her deportation to Canada, are, against all odds, and triggered to some degree by this body smack, definitely going to fall in love.

Signs That Another Woman Is Jealous Of You And/Or Is Not Really A "Girl's Girl"

2010-12-19T09:40:00.001-08:00

You have started to secretly worry that she might be prettier than you.

You have started to secretly lust after her husband.

You notice that all the girls seem to like her more than you.

You notice that all the boys seem to like her more than you.

Your "best friend" slash employee tells you that she is definitely jealous of you.

Your "second best friend" slash hired psychic tells you that she gets a strong reading that this chick is not really a "girl's girl".

You throw a dinner party to ambush her with these attacks on her character and she storms out, thus totally proving that you were right.

You feel cold inside when you picture the bridge of her very pert nose.

You can just tell.

Legitimate Excuses for Having a Dreamcatcher

2010-12-13T15:46:00.001-08:00

Your dead best friend from summer camp made it for you.

You thought it was a huge earring.

Someone gave it to you when they thought you were homeless.

David Lynch slipped it to you through the third doorway of a velvet room.

It was part of a limited series of dreamcatchers commissioned by actress Heather Graham.

It was a present; and let's just say your Native American name is "Always Regifts".

For the past couple years, your dreams have only been set in either Payless Shoe Stores or DSW (Discount Shoe Warehouse).

You are someone's weird aunt.

It's actually a passive-aggressive gambit designed to make your boyfriend break up with you.

It was purchased during a five minute period where you envisioned yourself as an unlicensed therapist practicing out of your home.

It was purchased during a five minute period where you were trying to be super casual about the fact that Sheryl Crow was actually coming to your house.

Someone told you it could lessen the symptoms of PTSD.

Two words: street cred.

SPEED DATING

2010-11-01T15:26:00.000-07:00

Gerald Ingersoll

Seems like a nice guy. Has a friendly, open face. Kind of husky, and keeps crossing and re-crossing his hands. Things are going fine until he veers the conversation to his ex-wife and their custody battles. His half smile dims when I pull out my neon blue hockey puck and slam it front and center on the table.

James Kellogg

Ferociously red hair, like a tawny tsunami on his head. Kind of unnerving. Also, his name makes him sound like a president, but he’s not. He’s a watercolor painter, which, okay, does sound awesome. I ask him some shit about watercolor painting and he goes all bland. Time for the hockey puck? Yes. I slam it down.

Patrick Roy

Two first names. He’s a banker. A banker? I say. No, he says, a baker. Ah, this keeps the hockey puck at bay for a moment. Tell me, I say, do you come home with all sorts of delicious, slightly malformed pastries? Like this apple crumble has too much of the crumble part? No, he says, we don’t usually do that. Some kind of health code violation. The hockey puck descends like all hell on the table. He gets the idea.

Andrew Sanders

His lips are a bit too fleshy. I hook shot the hockey puck from the side almost like an afterthought.

Bill Tedstrong

Is that a name? Apparently. Fine. Let’s get on with it. The hockey puck is burning in my hand until he tells me his best friend is his grandmother. He loves all her stories about pinching pennies during the war, New York in the fifties, and the true meaning of grit. I almost put the puck away, but then he orders a diet coke and vodka. The puck makes an arresting cameo.

Sam Richardson

Ex-professor who quit academia to pursue his dream of making boats. I get the feeling he’s trying to seem all sandy and carefree. The puck quivers in my hand. What else do you like to do? I ask. Well, he says, I like to walk the boardwalk in Cape Cod in the crisp early morning while sipping a nutmeg latte. This sounds a little rehearsed to me. I do two fake outs before serving him the puck and also giving him the finger.

Andy Glade

A private investigator. Really? I say. Do you have any neat stories? Every spy on anyone famous? No, mostly it’s just looking through corporate records. Well, that solves the mystery of the missing puck, I say, as it appears on the table.

Perhaps

2010-09-28T05:35:00.001-07:00

From Eagles Who Just Want to Get Married and Settle Down Dot Com

2010-09-27T11:20:00.000-07:00

What's Wrong With Ronnie and Sammi's Relationship?

2010-08-20T19:33:00.001-07:00

Everyone in the Jersey Shore house is acting like there is a serious problem going on between Ron and Sam. As an experienced lover myself, this baffles me. All I see going on between these two is a deep, unending, ceaselessly uprising spring of love. It's just that Ronnie and Sammi's love, like all loves, is unique. Here are some of the characteristics of their very special kind of love:

- It is often found wearing the disguise of drunken bickering, bordering on verbal and at times even physical abuse.

- Ronnie expresses his love for Sammi in three major ways: by calling her a fucking bitch on national television; by driving away in a cab and giving her the finger; and then by vomiting and passing out in her bed.

- Sammi and Ronnie need each other. Sammi needs Ronnie because she is an extremely boring and narcissistic piece of female trash. Ronnie needs Sammi because he is a mildly retarded juicehead goon with the emotional maturity of a toddler. Like Romeo and Juliet, together they are two broken pieces that add up to one whole ... something.

- This isn't about Sammi and Ron, but I just want to say that Snooki and JWoww are really amazing friends.

Mysterious Star

2010-08-20T13:51:00.001-07:00

Celebrities are captivating people.

For me, there is one star that shines brighter than all the rest. One star that shines so bright, it sometimes feels like it’s the only point of light in the otherwise unending darkness of my life.

I have never met this shining star, but I feel like I’m closer to him than to anybody else.

How did this happen to me?

How did I, a 41-year-old woman, recently divorced, with a mid-level administrative position and a son with special needs, become a CRAIG T. NELSON GROUPIE??

SIGNS THAT YOUR YOGA TEACHER IS NOT REALLY “PRESENT”

2010-08-20T08:49:00.001-07:00

• She’s late to class, and she keeps glancing at the clock.
• While giving you an adjustment in downward-facing dog, you realize that she is making a to-do list on your sacrum.
• Halfway through the class, she says it’s time to go to the wall; when you get to the wall, she says she has to pee and rushes out.
• While you’re in the classroom waiting for her to come back, you hear her yelling at the girl who works the front desk: “Where the fuck is my Lake Placid mug? That Lake Placid mug is not public property. It is for my use only.” Then, you hear the sound of a number of mugs breaking.
• She returns to the classroom muttering to herself, and wrapping gauze around one hand which is now bleeding. She throws a couple fake punches, which seem to be aimed directly at the Buddha on the altar at the front of the room.
• She says, “Let’s put some music on,” and the next thing you know the room is shaking with the tremendous sound of an oddly familiar female voice shrieking Cat Stevens covers. You realize that it is your teacher’s voice. She mutters something about how it says in the Tao Te Ching that you have to grab opportunities for exposure whenever they come.
• She gathers the class in tadasana, mountain pose, at the front of the mat. She asks everyone to be quiet for a moment. Then, dramatically, she goes to the windows of the studio and throws back the curtains. She gestures to the city outside. “You remember what happened here?” she demands. “You remember what happened here on September 11, 2001?” Everyone is silent. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s fucking karma, bitches.”

I FORGOT TO ADD ONE THING ABOUT THE GLASS BEAR

2010-08-17T14:33:00.000-07:00

Do you REALLY want to know why I stole it?

Here's why:

Because my nephew has LEUKEMIA.

And you're prettier than me.

I STOLE YOUR TINY GLASS BEAR

2010-08-17T14:19:00.001-07:00

Hey you, yeah, you with the "Rachel" haircut- I stole your tiny glass bear. And here's why:

Because, on a regular basis, you undermine me.
Because you ate the remaining half of my peach yogurt, even though you know my digestive system pretty much self-destructs if I don't get my daily dose of probiotics.
Because we all know you only got this job because the CEO went to Hotchkiss with your uncle. Know what I call Hotchkiss? Hotch-KISS MY PUBLIC SCHOOLED ASS.
Because you're a showoff during office yoga hour. Like shoulderstand is even that much of an advanced pose!
Because, why is it that every time there's a green binder clip or a purple felt-tip pen, they end up on your desk? WE ALL LIKE THE COLORED STUFF. YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL.
Because you mocked my personal wall collection of inspirational Maya Angelou quotes and old pages from dog calendars. Sorry if I need a little magic to get me through MY day!

WHO STOLE MY TINY GLASS BEAR?

2010-08-17T14:15:00.000-07:00

I saw Hillary from accounts payable eyeing it the other day. And Jenny from Human Resources walked by and asked me where I got it. When I said, “The airport in San Antonio,” I could tell she was jealous. Who wouldn’t be? It was wearing a turquoise handkerchief to signify its southwestern flair. I had considered putting it on a bean bag on the top of my computer, but I thought that might come off as a little too flashy. Instead, I gently placed it on the partition between me and Bryan’s desk. He could have knocked the partition and caused the bear to fall into this front pocket, and no one would have been the wiser. The fact remains, the bear is gone.

It could have been Faith, my boss. The other day she asked me to do something for her, and instead, I put the bear in her inbox. Apparently, not everyone thinks an adorable glass bear with some Texan ‘tude will pass for a CDC report. Anyway, it was a joke. Not something to flip out about. Not something to cause you to click your pen with concentrated violence.

I bet it was Jenny. She looks like the cat the ate the canary. She thinks she’s so special because she’s got one of those cactuses on her desk? The ones that have white hair coming out of them so that they look like total idiots? I bet she’s jealous because my little bear stole her fire. I might go and ask her about it. One of these days I’m going to find out who stole my tiny glass bear.

A Turn Towards Health

2010-07-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

On this, the twenty-third day of July in the year two thousand and ten, I declare to you, o internet, that I intend to take A TURN TOWARDS HEALTH!

Here are some of my exciting new health goals!

- No more chewing tobacco, a.k.a. "dip."
- When I want a midnight snack, I will run to the kitchen to get it, not just lie there staring at the ceiling for another 20 minutes even though I'm not only starving, I also have to pee!
- Every day I will say to myself - nay, SHOUT to myself, the following affirmation: A TURN TOWARDS HEALTH! A TURN TOWARDS HEALTH! LET THE RIGHT ONE IN! (The last sentence is also the name of a Swedish vampire movie!)
- Whenever I see a health- or exercise-related product for sale, I will BUY IT! Today I already bought: two kinds of water containers, a bag of dried kale, and an number of bouncy balls that range in size!
- I will create a wall-collage of models and actresses who can inspire and intimidate me through their good looks to revolve ever further into my SPIRAL OF HEALTH! People who are definitely going on the wall: what's her face from Gossip Girl; what's-her-butt (that British one?); and half of Angelina Jolie (I can only handle half, she's such a goddess! Did you know she sleeps in a huge bed with Brad and all her kids? Dear god, I want a baby... and a man!!!!)
- I will cut down the number of times I watch Nutty Professor to a reasonable amount per day.
- I will never eat another bag of Doritos (psych yeah right!)
- I will try to do a split.
- I will try to find out more about how to get an arranged marriage. (This is more of a side note.)
- I will change my AOL screen name to li'l_miss_health_nut_69 instead of what it is now (fatty3000_bonerjam)

Phew! Now that I've set all these health goals for myself, I deserve a small reward! One chicken nugget ought to do the trick - now let me just smash a hundred chicken nuggets together so they equal "one" big-ass nugget!

HEALTH!!!

ADVICE FOR WOMEN BY GAZEBO FEMININE SPRAY

2010-07-21T08:15:00.000-07:00

What can you do to make a man notice you?

Mmmmm….very good question. You have to have a smile like light hitting a glass bowl. All of your curves have to be rounded and your body has to be plush and easy. Think of easy living and wicker chairs. Think of yourself as a hotel suite in key west, with plush places to sit and modern hallways. And you want to be sure that your modern hallways always smell good. I mean really good. They should smell like a peach sun burst. Or a fresh sheets flapping over a field of lavender. This is where you’ll want to pick up some Gazebo Feminine spray.

How should I act?

Ah yes…the question of the ages. You’ll want a voice like streams of golden lace falling and crumpling to the ground. You’ll want to appear sassy, yet vulnerable. (A good way to do this is to attempt to open a jar, and then when you can’t, stamp your foot and have an adorable tantrum before passing it to your man). It helps if you have a perfectly upturned nose, like that of a Disney character. And by all means trace your hands alluringly along some bulging kitchen appliances.

What about the morning after?

Wonderful, yes. There are many ways. Arrange your hair in a jubilee of golden curls on the pillow. Try to position your body so that you are being cupped by the sun. Rest one perfect rose petal on each of your mounds. Transfix your man with your loamy female aura. This may be enhanced by some Gazebo Feminine Spray. There are many scents to choose from, including Sun Nut, Tit of the Ivy, and Violet Flap.

Not That Anyone Reads This Blog...

2010-07-12T10:13:00.001-07:00

But I should mention that my book is called The Patterns of Paper Monsters and comes out on August 9th from Reagan Arthur Books, and you can find more information on my website: www.emmarathbone.com

Homemade Gifts I Am Considering Making For Emma To Congratulate Her Upon The Release of Her First Novel

2010-07-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

Six-CD Pan Flute Mega Mix

A Collage of Pictures of and News Articles about Emma that Looks Kind of Like it Was Made By a Serial Rapist

Hand-sewn Long-Sleeved Old-fashioned Bathing Suit

Hot Pink Puffy-Paint Fake Diploma from the University of You Go Girl!

Copy of Her Book with the Author's Name Crossed Out and My Name Written Instead

Golden Coupon Good for One Free 2-hour long Phone Conversation Where I Let Her Ramble On about Her Paranoid Fantasies of How Everybody Probably Will be Out to Get Her Now that Her Book is Out

A Giant Check Made Out to Emma Rathbone for the Amount of "Lifetime Supply of Tampons"

A Sterling Silver Frame Engraved "Best Friends" with a Photograph of Me and My Cat

A Dictionary I Wrote Myself (will be mostly "Urban")

And last of all, the Best Present a Girlfriend Can Make: A Baby

Ways in which I am attempting to manage my anxiety surrounding the release of my first novel

2010-07-12T07:58:00.000-07:00

Doing some half-assed yoga.

Hitching up a smile whenever someone says, “So. Your book is coming out soon,” and wondering if they secretly wish for my demise.

Imagining myself in a very safe and secure place—like a kangaroo pouch or the breast pocket of a giant.

Thinking about the wonderful logic and order that goes along with a network of pulleys and tree bridges a la the Swiss Family Robinson.

Trying to have the soul of an old oak tree.

Considering taking up smoking again.

Listening to Dr. Dre’s “The Chronic,” the first cassette tape I ever got, because it reminds me of elementary school, when all that mattered was my cutthroat campaign for social dominance.

Doggedly turning my rain stick over and over.

Imagining a more simple life in which I wear a sack dress and make natural soap.

By getting really, really excited!

Why Doesn't My Brother Appreciate My Cat?

2010-07-09T11:07:00.000-07:00

There's something kind of upsetting going on between three members of my immediate family: me, my brother, and my cat. Even though we're supposed to be "related", and to "care about each other", my brother doesn't act like that at all, at least not when it comes to my cat. And it's not like I haven't been trying. I go out of my way to send him a cute jpeg of my adorable kitty sleeping on the sofa at least once a day. Whenever my cat does something truly amazing, like rubs his face against my computer screen in this twisty way where his face practically turns upside down and it is literally the platonic image of cuteness, I call or text my brother right away to fill him in on the news. And what do I get in return for this open, heartfelt generosity? Stone cold diddly squat. Or worse: a one-line email, reading coldly: "Please remove me from this email chain." Today he de-sibling'ed me on Facebook, citing "too many wall postings of your stupid fucking cat" as his vague excuse. I'm confused by this logic because, when it comes to members of our family, especially four-legged furry ones with sleepy green eyes, there's no such thing as "too much." Apparently the bonds of family mean nothing to my brother. Well, I'll teach him. Guess who's going on a private picnic today? Me and my cat, that's who. We'll set out a third plate for my brother, who won't be there, because he's not invited. Maybe an old crow will come and pick at it. Who cares!! That's our attitude. And by the way at the picnic my cat is going to be wearing a mini-pair of sunglasses. Which you, my brother, will NOT being receiving any pictures of!! Except MAYBE one!!

PEN PALS

2010-07-08T09:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Ming Li,

Hello. My name is Denise. I am going to be your pen-pal. I picked you because I have never been to China and I want to go there some time. I am ten years young. My English teacher is named Mr. Delaney. We call her Mrs. De-LAME-y, ha ha. She smells like a bran. My mom says I should be nice to her because she lost a breast. Do you like toast?

Tell me – I just want to know. What is it like in China? What do you like to do? I like lasers and space and sunglasses and toast. Sometimes I think I’m going to go to space, sometimes I don’t. I am Catholic. We go to church every Sunday. I don’t think it’s fun. Last Sunday when I went, I sat next to an old lady who made a piece of candy drop out of her sleeve. Then I ate it and everyone smiled and it was a really big deal. Sometimes I think that when I grow up I’m going to have a car shaped like a laser. Do you? Is China fun? Sometimes America (that’s where I live) is fun. Sometimes it’s just okay. We have lots of little napkins here. Everyone says my dad has a good sense of humor. Well okay bye.

Your best friend,
Denise

An Attempt To Get In Touch With My College Roommates

2010-07-07T14:48:00.000-07:00

Dear "Maisie" and "Alison",

I seem to recall that you were my roommates at a small Quaker college I attended around the turn of the millennium. I thought it might be a gas to reconnect with you this weekend if you don't have any other plans. The only hitch is that I am now in a wheelchair having lost the use of all four limbs. But I still really like to smoke weed. So HOLLA....

Cordially,

Alena (the Jewish one)

Meditational Poster

2010-07-07T14:38:00.000-07:00

"LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOU."

Motivational Poster

2010-07-07T14:33:00.000-07:00

"GET PREGNANT! DON'T WAIT TILL IT'S TOO LATE."

I HAVE MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT THE MYSTICAL SOUNDS OF THE PAN FLUTE

2010-07-07T05:40:00.001-07:00

Let me just put it this way: when I walk along the downtown pedestrian mall in the small town where I live, I’m not always ready to be transported to the glowing dunes of time by the sounds of the pan flute. It is often being played by a few guys with obvious ties to the netherworld, as evidenced by their far away expressions and tacky amulets. I’ll be on my way to CVS to buy trash bags or something like that, and the sounds of the pan flute will waft through the air, and suddenly, against my will, I’m being swirled into a Celtic soundscape. Or I am swimming through the ephemeral wreckage of an underwater kingdom guided by the light of three moons.

It’s sort of like being at the dentist and hearing Enya, and suddenly everything feels sweeping and timeless, except for the fact that when you open your eyes you are being offered bubblegum flavored fluoride by a very pale grownup.

What could be more discombobulating?

Top Ten Reasons I'm Not Upset About the BP Oil Spill

2010-07-05T18:33:00.001-07:00

10. Everyone makes mistakes and it's really unfair to get angry about every little thing.
9. I live in New York so this doesn't really affect me.
8. It will definitely be okay by August, September at the latest.
7. Wait - what happened again? I'm sorry, my brain just exploded from sadness and now I can't remember anything about this event.
6. There are other planets.
5. Same thing I always say when stuff goes wrong: Murphy's Law!
4. Okay, so an oil well broke in mid-April and it's still leaking tens of thousands of barrels a day, well, you know what, I ALSO HAVE REALLY TERRIBLE BODY-IMAGE PROBLEMS. So I kind of have some other things on my plate!
3. Compared to the global nuclear war of 2013, this is gonna seem like pretty small potatoes.
2. I have faith that a great American leader is soon to emerge from a sweet little political movement known as the TEA PARTY.
1. Let's all just admit it. The ocean was never THAT awesome.

POSSIBLE PEN NAMES UNDER WHICH TO WRITE MY NEXT NOVEL

2010-07-05T05:36:00.001-07:00

Emma Angelou
Angelou
Emma Safran Angelou
Emma Angelou Dickens
The Situation
The Game
Lil Darlin
Lil Sprout
Safran Safran Angelou
Emma D’Stand King
Grisham
Cassidy Lace
Tony Toni Tone
Rathbone
Dry Ice

Handkerchief McTramps, Tween Hobo

2010-07-01T08:00:00.001-07:00

Hooo, boy! You wanna hear my tale? I been ridin the rails since I was jest a baby, way back in the blessed year of 1998. Now I’m all of twelve, and I’m a hard twelve, believe you me. I spent many a night huddled up in the dusty corner of some box car, dreaming of the day when I’d make it all the way out West to good old Hollywood, where my dream boat, Robert Pattinson, would be waitin fer me with his hottie vampire smile. And if that no-good Kristen Stewart tries to get in my way, well, let’s just say that a certain fresh-outta-middle-school cute ‘n’ sassy li’l hobo is ready for a fight. I got everything I need, right here in my kerchief satchel tied to my stick. You wanna see all the what-nots and doo-dickeys I got bindled up in here? Well, sure as the moon shines on a cold prairie night, sure as three lines carved in the dirt mean a hobo better make tracks, sure as my bowl of mulligan stew, I’ll show ya. I got some pink lip gloss. I got some o’ that magic lotion that ya rub on yer limbs and they sparkle like a sexy tooth fairy. I got two, count ‘em, two rainbow scrunchies. I got a push-up bra with these fun li’l hot-green paw prints all over the place, and oh yes. I got some tampons. And some sanitary napkins. A.K.A. maxi pads. Because this scrappy li’l tween hobo just pulled in at good old Menstruation Station! That’s right. I’m a little woman now. I texted all my friends. And my mom said I can get my ears pierced. Which I’m doin at the Malibu Claire’s Boutique jest as soon as this old steam engine carries me to Cally-for-nigh-ay!

Diary of My Captivity With the Undermoon Sioux

2010-07-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

Day twenty eight. I am cold. I am hungry. I have been given the pelt of an everbeast to keep me warm, yet it scratches, and the roughness of the hide is almost as unpleasant as the piercing wind. But I can see: these people are having a hard winter. The amulet they worship has been ebbing in its glow. One of the young men road out yesterday afternoon, and came back with only a sack full of sunberries to feed the tribe. As far as I can tell, we’re lost somewhere south of the Overman pass. To the east, according to my calculations, lies Harrow cliff. I’ve been making slow progress with the tribe wise man, a formidable fellow by the name of Windharness. He wears a belt made of noorhawk feathers, and if I am to understand the pictographs correctly, many moons ago he caught the soul of a whale, and now keeps it in a leather satchel. Yesterday, through a series of hand motions, we were able to communicate a little. He pointed to my bag as if to see what was inside. In my haste to show my cooperation, I pulled out a tampon. We both looked at it, and then looked at each other. I slowly put it back. I think he left more confused than he was when he came to visit me. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it is that sometimes in order to take a step forward, you must take two steps back. I close with this: the moon is red tonight, and a chill rises from the east.

How To Be Late For Work

2010-06-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sleep late. Hit the snooze button like it's your job (except you actually show up for this job). Luxuriate in your bed (don't you have the most amaaazing bed in the world?!?! Yes, your bed is so awesome. Your bed is the best). Have like twenty more dreams. Plan your outfit while falling back asleep again. Look at your cat - he's sleeping, and he seems really well-adjusted. Shouldn't you follow his lead? Plus it would be so mean to move and possibly wake him up. Finally, wake up due to evil construction noises outside that should honestly be illegal because noise pollution is really bad for you, like toxic, seriously, the way it affects your reptilian brain is basically like inhaling cancerous fumes, but through sound. Get out of bed and then immediately fall back into bed again. Then get up again. Go to the bathroom. Make coffee. Sit down at your desk and realize you have about twenty minutes to get ready for work. Read old journal entries for twenty-five minutes. Acknowledge, again, that you don't have it all figured out, but you're definitely noticing some subtle shifts, if not all positive, then at least positive in the sense of being shifts, which implies that nothing is static and that things do change. Turn on your Sean Paul Pandora station and close your eyes and try to remember your dreams.

Fiddle-dee-dee!

2010-06-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

Why, I remember the first time Mr. Wilkes came ridin’ up the path to Tara, I was sitting on the porch flirting with the Tarleton boys wearin’ my best new Moroccan slippers. Even though I, Scarlett O’Hara, could have any beau in the county, I knew right then and there that Mr. Wilkes was the one I wanted. “Oh Mr. Wilkes!” I said, “How you do go on, teasin’ a little country girl like me!” Well, it wasn’t long before I was Mrs. Wilkes, the most beautiful bride in all of Georgia! Now, neither Mammy, nor my mother, the great Ellen Robillard, had told me what to expect on my wedding night. True southern ladies never discuss such things, and know how to tame a gentlemen with a peck on the cheek, a batting of the eyelashes, (or if you’re a fast girl, like Belle Fontaine, you can show them your ankle at a barbeque), which is why I was just as surprised as could be when Mr. Wilkes turned me around, put my hands against the wall, lifted up my hoop skirt and started fussin’ with my hindquarters.
“Why, Mr. Wilkes!” I said, blushing to my hairline, “What do you think you’re doing?” I craned my neck around to see that a fine sweat had developed upon his forehead.
“Mrs. Wilkes,” he said. “This may come as a shock to you, but as your husband, it is my duty to inform you that the passages of marital conjugation and baby making are…from behind.”
I continued to stare, and, wishing to spare me anymore embarrassment, like a true gentleman, he then said, “In the butt, Madam!”
“Thunderation!” I thought to myself. But then, after a moment, I did what any true lady would do, I harnessed the grit and pluck that is the very nature of my character and said, “Well, fiddle-dee-dee! If that’s the way it’s done then that’s the way it’s done! Never let it be said that Scarlett O’Hara couldn’t make a child!”
We have had many gentlemanly butt sessions and still I have not produced a baby. But as god is my witness, I’ll never give up. After all, tomorrow is another day!

The Thirteen Suckiest Beatles Albums (From Least Suckiest to Most Suckiest)

2010-06-03T07:05:00.001-07:00

13) Magical Mystery Tour (1967) – Probably their finest moment. “Blue Jay Way” is a total classic, and “I am The Walrus” is simply hilarious—as if a walrus could sing!! Lowlights include “Strawberry Fields Forever” and the first song, which sucks.

12) Please Please Me (1963) – Some fun moments but already the politics are kind of heavy-handed. “I Saw Her Standing There?” Sir John Mellencamp spins in his grave.

11) Beatles For Sale (1964) – After the commercial failures of their first three albums, the ~~Beatles~~ ~~Beetles~~ Beatles (sp????) were dropped from Capitol. This was their first album with Jermaine Dupri’s So So Def Records (dirty south!!) and let’s face it, the title gimmick worked better for Abbie Hoffman and Steal This Book. The album was even released at full price which pissed a ton of people off and further alienated the group's dwindling fanbase.

10) Rubber Soul (1965) – This album probably deserves to be ranked a lot lower but truthfully I’ve never even listened to it. Something about the British spelling of “sole” always put me off. Rule number one of show business: know your audience!

9) Abbey Road (1969) – Mmmmmmrrrrrreehhhhhhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

8) Let It Be (1970) – This album generated controversy upon its released due to its title, clearly plagiarized from the Replacements’ 1984 album that has the same exact name. I know imitation is the highest form of flattery but come the fuck on.

8) With The Beatles (1963) – Hey assholes, I know your first album didn’t sell but can’t you at least put a color photograph on the front of this shit? Talk about mailing it in.

6) A Hard Day’s Night (1964) – A collection of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons covers that’s mostly remembered for its use in the soundtrack to Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 art-house sensation, Blowup.

5) Help! (1965) – See above.

4) Highway 61 Revisited (1965) – Not technically a "Beatles" album but rather part of an elaborate John Lennon side project called “Robert Zimmerman” or “Bob Dylan” depending on the level of Lennon’s anti-Semitism in a given period. The few people who bought this album found it predictably indulgent. “Lennon” continued touring as “Dylan” periodically until his untimely death from a heart attack in 2006.

3) Revolver (1966) – Aside from “Yellow Sub-marine,” which catapulted special guest vocalist Ringo Starr to fame as the narrator for the beloved children’s series Thomas the Tank Engine, two words best sum up this snoozer: deservedly forgotten.

2) The Beatles, or “White Album” (1968) – A double album? Are you fucking serious? This thing is an hour and a half long: for a quick comparison, that’s how long some movies are. I don’t think there’s a single person who’s listened to this monster all the way through. Hey guys, some of us have a little something called a job.

1) Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band (1967) – Yikes. Luckily for Paul McCartney this thing has been out of print for years. There’s no way Wings would have sold all those records if people knew about this!!! Again, I haven’t listened to the whole thing and precious few have, but the rumor is that the label was so embarrassed that they had them put it out under another name, hence the title. In the 1970s Peter Frampton made a movie about it, which is actually pretty good (as if we should be surprised!).

Less Popular Board Games, Continued

2010-06-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

In honor of Chamberlain, I hereby add to his McSweeney's List (http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/boardgames.html):

Super Slippery Library of Congress
Hot Pockets (The Game)
Cardboard Facebook
Jenny McCarthy's Hand-carved Chess Set
Badonk-A-Donk
Badonk-A-Donk Junior
Scotch Tape!
Actual Murder
Spy On Mom and Dad While They're Fighting Spy Kit
Splooge
Fetal Position
I Love Your New Haircut (The Game of Fake Compliments)
Who's In The Closet?
Joseph Goebbels' Propaganda Pictionary
Pantsed!
Chicken Parts
Celebrity Domain Name Takeover
MILF Attack

Reality Show Confrontation

2010-04-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

A: Look, I'm sorry, but I'm saying something, okay, because I'm real with my friends, I'm real with my friends, and when somebody does something that needs to be called out, I call them out on it, okay, because I'm real, I'm real with my friends, and we're friends, okay, like I think of you as a friend, but you did this thing, and you need to be called out on it, you need to be called out on it!

B: Okay, we are at a fashion show? And this is not the time or the place? And I have no idea what you're talking about?

Astrological Compatibility

2010-04-05T21:14:00.000-07:00

Your Sign:

Insecure, hollow, full of doubt and self-loathing. You tend to fixate on romantic objects onto whom you project your lack of an integrated self. You spin fantasies of an "other" who could validate you, provide you with your missing sense of self-worth, make you feel whole in the places where you are broken. You are compulsively controlled by your need to feel wanted; you falsely believe that you can trade physical intimacy for emotional connection.

His Sign:

Down to fuck.

TOP SECRET

2010-03-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

What am I working on these days? Oh, you weren’t wondering? Well, just so you know, I can’t really talk to you about it. It’s a secret. What am furtively scribbling on this little notepad I keep in my back pocket? I could tell you, but I don’t want to disorient you with my paradigm blasting ideas quite yet. What’s that? You didn’t even ask? Well, not technically, but I can tell you’re curious. I know that when I start talking about my writing, and your face gets strained, it’s from the effort it takes not to lose yourself in the ass-rocking chord progression of my ideas as I run them by you, one by one, over and over again.

What’s this scrap book doing on the table? Oh, you didn’t notice it? Well, I’ll tantalize you with a few choice details. It’s got some character sketches in it, a few back-burner metaphors I’m working with, and a photograph of a wire fence I find particularly inspiring. Mind blown yet? No? You do a good job of disguising it.

You see, I can’t talk about my novel when it’s still in the idea stage, okay? I don’t want you to molest my genius with your grubby fingers of inquiry. It needs to germinate in a sound proofed and air locked chamber while I watch shit on Hulu, before it can fully bloom into the self conscious, underdeveloped first draft I slam dunk onto your desk and then force you to read.

So, don’t ask me what I’m working on. Because it’s TOP SECRET. Unless you really want to know?

Dear Daphne Merkin

2010-03-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

I recently read your article in the New York Times Style Magazine called “Houston, We Have Facelift” and I just wanted to say thanks.

Thanks for writing another one of those articles in which the female author, after much hand wringing and an avalanche of rationalizations, decides that she might, in fact, be open to plastic surgery.

And then thanks for winkingly shilling us this product (where we can get it and how much it costs) under a girl talk veneer.

Thanks for contributing to a culture in which we feel inadequate upon seeing a rogue crease in our mouth area when standing in line at the fucking Au Bon Pain.

And thanks for contributing to a future in which our daughters will feel compelled to spend their lives on a heinous crash course of dogged adjustments to their faces, having a reduced compass with which to find value in themselves.

To all of the women who have written similar articles, leaning against huge couch cushions and staring sadly into the distance, thanks. It’s great to know that there are so many options for looking younger.

Epiphany #33

2010-02-21T22:39:00.000-08:00

I just realized that for Snoop Dogg's whole life, wherever he goes, whatever he does, no matter what -- Snoop Dogg is there.

Emma Rathbone's Secrets To Blogging Success

2010-02-21T19:18:00.000-08:00

Hi. I'm Emma Rathbone, and I co-run a blog called The Highlights. Now I'm going to share with you my secrets to blogging success.

1) Decide every month that it's time to start regularly updating the blog.

2) Have a really serious, plaintive, full-throated phone conversation with your best friend and blog co-author about this where you repeat like a hundred times that it would really be great to start updating the blog on a legitimately regular basis.

3) Make homemade cinnamon buns.

4) Go to Spain.

5) Watch Girl, Interrupted (you own it on DVD).

6) Brush your hair.

7) Join the "1,000,000 People Who Support Same Sex Marriage" group on Facebook.

8) Never update the blog.

Being Single Is Just Like The Movie SINGLES

2010-02-21T18:56:00.001-08:00

I am a single woman living in New York City in the year 2010, and in fact, it is pretty much exactly like the Cameron Crowe movie SINGLES starring Kyra Sedgewick and Campbell Scott. First off, New York is just like Seattle. Whenever I go out it is either to a loft where a lesser-known grunge band is playing, or else to a laidback, divey coffee shop. And it is always raining, or at least, misting. I live in a duplex with a one-car garage, and I drive everywhere. Second: fashion. Yes, I do wear enormous sweaters, oversize blazers, and baggy, high-waisted jeans. Let's just say if it's not a little too big, I'm not gonna be caught single in it. And my hair is blown out, and I'm often caught tapping the steel toes of my doc martens along to the hum of R.E.M. in the background. Now let's get down to the brass tacks of being single, that is to say, dating. Dating is all about meeting people, which you can do through something called "Video Dating", or by making eye contact at a grunge show, or by meeting one of your neighbors in your duplex (they are all single as well). And then it's about getting through a few rueful, weary, wistful, baggy-shirted, we're supposed to be 25 but we dress like we're 40 encounters without doing it, and then finally doing it, with a condom, of course (hello, this is today's world!). And then it's about staying in touch. Which you do with the help of a chunky portable phone that's sitting at the coffee shop waiting for you to extend its antenna with your teeth as you and your friends debate whether it's better to have an act, or to have your act be that you don't have an act. On the whole, being single is a pretty banal, relaxing experience, rather preciously sectioned into brief episodes, with flashes of wit but a sad grime of cliche wiped over the whole thing. There isn't really any point to living through it; you might as well just watch the movie.

Full Body Scanning Doesn't Bother Me AT ALL

2010-01-05T17:34:00.000-08:00

American airports may start using full body scanning technologies to detect and prevent terrorism. In other words, airport workers will, with the use of machines, have access to imagery of my full, naked body. Some, such as the ACLU, say this constitutes an egregious violation of privacy laws. But full body scanning doesn't bother me AT ALL.

In fact, I have often wished for more ways to expose my body in public. Especially to airport workers, who, I have noticed, are often squat and tough in a way that makes me want them to not only scan my body, but to maybe take home a printout of that scan and touch themselves later while looking at it in the, yes, Privacy of their cold apartment.

Let's face it: I have a great body. And the only way I could imagine my boobs, ass, and vagina looking any better than they look in real life, right now, as I'm posing for myself in the mirror wearing only my "thinking cap" (a turban, haha yeah right, I'm not a terrorist! - no, it's a pair of underpants I wear on my head) would be in that sexy, grainy, oh-no-you-di-int infrared glow of an airport body scanner.

Let's also face it: I'm lonely. And I certainly wouldn't mind a little "extra attention". And if that attention needs to come in the form of a super-invasive, questionably effective counter-terrorism method that slowly, and then quickly, erodes our entire sense of human decency and basic civil rights, I say, I'm "on board"!

So, to sum up, my only question about body scanning is: where do you want me to stand?!

Now let's go kill some terrorists!

Why Is "The Situation" A Funny Nickname? (A Serious Blog Post)

2010-01-02T08:21:00.000-08:00

"The Situation" as a name used to refer to oneself is humorous in its tautology. One's self is "The Situation": the abstract state of affairs that constitutes one's personhood, one's identity; the state of affairs into which one feels oneself to be flung, abruptly, inexplicably, without warning or ceremony. Here you are, this is your life, this is your body, deal with it: that's "The Situation".

What is comical in human beings is the discrepancy between the way one sees oneself and the way others see one. "The Situation", as a character, embodies this principle and plays it to the hilt. His nickname epitomizes this self-blindness - he uses the name (in third person, always) as if it were a badge of honor, as in: "We got ourselves a Situation right here" or "The Situation's under control" - when, in reality (or at least, from the perspective of the audience and the other people on the show, which is to say, everybody else in the world) the nickname is loaded with pathos. The Situation is not under control. The Situation is always out of control, and "The Situation" is always failing to get The Situation under control. He can't control how others see him. He can't even get a girl to call him back. He clearly, pathetically, has not gotten laid in years, even though this is his self-professed area of singular interest and achievement. The situation is, "The Situation" is pathetic.

"The Situation" is an icon of all that we cannot control or mask in ourselves. Our situation are our problems, our embarrassments, our failures - our little rodeos of pain.

Ahh 2010!!!!!

2010-01-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

The year I lose both my feet, and have them replaced by a smaller pair!

The year I start dating Rick Moranis!

The year I live among the antelopes!

The year my dream interpretation skillz get kicked up a notch!

The year I get my period every day!

The year my new blog, Koontz In Boots, explodes onto the "World Wide Net"!

The year NPR will make a donation to me!

The year of boob science!

The year I get caught doing coke in a bathroom with Toni Morrison!

The year where it all goes down in flames!

The year I renew my vows with Chris Kattan!

The year I go viral!

The year I perfect the Japanese art of folding paper, origami!

The year I discover that my perceptions are illusions, cuz I've been living in "The Matrix"!

The year I come out!

The year we all just get along!

The year I alienate everybody thanks to my offensive new personal style, "Always In Snowpants"!

The year I join A Tribe Called Quest!

The year I am honored by an enormous statue of myself at Ground Zero!

The year I secede!

The year I finally, at age thirty, GET MY FUCKING GROOVE BACK.

Ahh 2009:

2009-12-31T15:32:00.000-08:00

The year I finally popped my world music cherry.
The year I got a washer and dryer in my apartment.
The year I got to tenth base with myself.
The year I dabbled in racism.
The year I threw caution to the wind and wore five pairs of underwear at once.
The year I made cinnamon rolls from scratch.
The year I simplified, detoxed, exfoliated and chanted my way to a new me.
The year I settled on a brand of tampon that conveys my spontaneous style.
The year I accidentally swallowed a tiny figurine.
The year I got caught in a phone booth swirling with money at half time during a Knicks game and had a nervous breakdown.
That didn’t really happen, I just saw it happen to someone when I was a kid, and it wasn’t the Knicks, it was the Washington Wizards.

Best Films of the Decade, Part 1

2009-12-29T14:21:00.000-08:00

"Beep Beep!" (2008) - Everybody now: who's got the keys to my jeep?! Burt Reynolds does! Need we even ask? Priceless, priceless. I've seen this movie literally a thousand times.

"Dicktard" (2006) - We lost so many family jewels over the summer of '09, but none more crimson than Pat Swayze and Edward McMahon. This was their swan song, truly.

"Up the Butt" (2007) - Begins with Tolstoy and ends with a bang: again, literally! 9/11. 9/11. Never forget.

"I'm Not So Incredible" (2004) - Ummmmmmmmmmmm...I beg to differ! But seriously: when Tom Berenger sinks his teeth into a role? You. Try. To. Take. That. Role. A. Way. At. Your. Own. Peril. Seriously! You'd have better luck skimming moonlight off the surface of a pond. And then selling that shit to the summer breeze. "M'lady." Fuck that. Fuck you.

Brief Interview With Delta Burke

2009-12-29T14:01:00.000-08:00

Q: What are your plans for the future?

A: I'm'a sell myself into slav'ry. Make myself a pretty penny. Buy myself a li'l slave. Then I'm'n'a let that slave go to sleep on a li'l pincushion. Then I'm'n'a wake 'im up, put 'im in mah vaginah.

carousel!

2009-12-29T13:50:00.001-08:00

build a cat. make it from wood. burn that down; blame the mouse. wait til dark. remember the cat; tell tales of it; believe those. call up the mouse. ask how he is. as you do: build a cat. (not wood this time.) describe it, over the phone. kill that mouse. leave it be. take a picture, or don't: your call.

a new day: wake up the cat. fill him in. cut him open; retrieve the mouse. bury them both, but separately.

dream of a dog. build a cat instead. & next: the mouse. make them get married. become a tiger. jerk off.

nature, redux.

2009-12-29T12:25:00.000-08:00

Like everybody else, I'd wondered how I would know my raccoon when I saw him. And I imagine my face was the same as all of theirs, when the moment came, like that of someone who has been looking for the remote control, only to realize that the television is already tuned to the channel they want, and that their program is starting right then. I know exactly what my face looked like because my raccoon was holding a mirror, in his right paw, when he popped up from behind the car.

He was dressed to the nines: tux and tails, stovepipe hat, spats: the works. His monocle caught the light like a facet on a diamond watch. He stuck out his tongue at me, and I mine, back at him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

THE BIG DAY

2009-12-29T06:30:00.000-08:00

Deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. For today is the big day. You’ve been waiting for this day your whole life and now it’s here. Goddamnit, it’s about time! Ever since you were a little mouse, living in a boot, you’ve known that one day you were going to make your name on the cheese stage. You would rock back and forth in your empty chestnut shell and dream of the day when all of the mice in mousedom would perk up their ears and sway in time to the sound of your voice. No more pushing toothpicks for Rat Clancy! The curtain is about to rise. Did you memorize the words? Check. Did you wash your tail? Check. The moment has come to heal the world with your voice. The lights are blinding! Just do it! Okay…here goes…COME M’LADY! COME, COME M’LADY! YOU’RE MY BUTTERFLY! SUGAR! BABY! SUCH A SEXY PRETTY LITTLE THING! YOU GOT ME SPRUNG WITCHA NIPPLE PIERCE AND YA TOUNGUE RING!!

nature

2009-12-28T21:49:00.000-08:00

there's a raccoon out there with your name on it. literally: your name is scrawled on his belly, in mud. he has functioning dupes of your housekeys, carved out of bark, by a deer. and some nights--not all, or even most, but some--when you're asleep, he comes into your house, and he uses your toothbrush.

My Actual Conversation, More or Less, With Metro-North Train Conductor on Christmas Eve

2009-12-27T18:45:00.000-08:00

"I'm sorry, sir - I have to buy my ticket on the train."

"OHHHH! Oh, you're a BAD girl, aren't you?!?! Ha ha! Where you going today, you bad girl?"

"I'm going to Pawling."

"Pawling, huh? Well! Hoo-boy! That'll be ninety-five thousand dollars! Ha ha!"

"Ha ha."

"Ninety-five thousand dollars, please!"

"Um - how much is it?"

"Ha ha! Ninety-five thousand dollars, for the bad, bad girl who didn't buy her ticket at the station! Running late, were ya? Didn't realize there'd be such long lines on a holiday weekend? Day before Christmas, if I'm not mistaken! Didn't think about that ahead of time, didja, you naughty chickenhead! Ha ha! You slut! You ho bag! You sexy little amateur porn star! Oh, this situation is so hilarious! Why don't you pay me twenty bucks and give me a blow job and we'll call it a merry Christmas! Ha ha! Oh, I love my job! Whoo-whoo!"

Neytiri's Blog: Skin Care

2009-12-23T10:04:00.000-08:00

Kaltxì. Ngaru lu fpom srak? Oh - I'm sorry! I totally forgot that the readers of this blog are on Earth, not Pandora. (By the way, did you know that my planet was named after the website where you can create your own radio station? I just found this out when I sexually bonded with the Tree of Knowledge the other day and heard the voice of my god Eywa say, check out this website, it's actually the origin of your ancestors and your homeland and all the holy energy that creates you! So I logged on immediately and speaking of creation, I created a Sean Paul station because I love dance hall!) Anyway, the subject of my blog post today is something dear to the hearts of all female humanoids, and that is, skin care. Eywa has blessed us with this gorgeous shiny cat-like fish-like kinda-striped and kinda-sparkly epidermis, so how are WE gonna protect it? You have to see skin care as being like a war: you and your skin are the innocent, indigenous people, and the light from our multi-solar system is like the crass, rape-y American Military of the Future, determined to destroy your natural beauty. So obviously you already know the range of organic products available on our planet that can help keep you looking radiantly bioluminescent: hometree juice, thanator seed, glow-in-the-dark banana blossoms, the list goes on and on. But what you DIDN'T know is that there's something you can do that's even more effective than using all these extraneous materials - something you can do with your very own Na'vi body. The power is within YOU, right now, right here, to add that special shiny blue glow to your exterior layer. I'm talking, of course, about masturbation. And not just any kind of masturbation - I mean the kind of mind-blowing frond-sucking yet uber-casual masturbation that is achieved just by spending the day riding around on the plasticky back of your own ... Banshee. Yes! Banshees are not just for transportation anymore! The next time you hop on the back of your specially bonded flying dinosaur horse creature, I want to you hold on extra tight. And kind of rock yourself back and forth a little. MAKE THE BOND. And I promise you, on the underwater graves of all the dead Na'vi, you WILL see a difference. You'll look younger, fresher, blue-er, and more creepily racialized in no time! Beauty comes from within... Skxawng!

on newstands now

2009-12-22T11:16:00.000-08:00

Possible Titles For Our New Blog

2009-12-22T10:15:00.001-08:00

World of Koontz
Nothin' But Koontz
In It For The Koontz
Koontz Musings
Does It Get Any Better Than Koontz?
Don't Hate Tha Playa, Hate Tha Koontz
Koontz 'N' Friends
Everybody But Dean Koontz Stand Back
Ramblings On A Master
Koontzeanera

American Second Acts, or, Fuck You Fitzgerald

2009-12-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

Peter Weller, best known as the eponymous Robo-Cop from the 1986 motion picture, "Gimme That!" completed a Master's degree in Roman and Renaissance Art at Syracuse University, where he now teaches.

Michael Crichton, author of such acclaimed science-fiction novels as "These Dinosaurs" and "Til We Meet Again at the Sleepaway Camp," died in 2009 to become a supernatural being. He manifests most commonly as an unexplained noise, but also occasionally as a glowing skeleton.

Cindy Sheehan, who rose to prominence as an anti-war activist after her son's death in 2004, ran unsuccessfully for Congress in 2008, and then transformed into an owl, through processes which remain obscure. She is now believed to reside in a forest, in a tiny house.

Mike Piazza, celebrated Major League Baseball catcher, killed and subsequently assumed the name, skin and familial duties of New York-area welder Dale Rogers in 2007.

My Greatest Regrets

2009-12-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

That I spent most of today in bed, on Facebook.

That my computer is now almost out of batteries.

That I didn't come up with a zingier idea for this blog post.

That I never walked barefoot under a pale prairie moon.

That I once "pantsed" a kid at a pool party who didn't deserve it.

That I did not develop any marketable skills in my first 30 years of life.

Questions raised during the process of packing up my apartment and moving to a new apartment

2009-12-02T11:21:00.000-08:00

Where did this Yoga matt come from?
How long am I supposed to keep this shrink-wrapped cd that came with my laptop three years ago? Forever?
When did my third desk drawer become a black hole of tax forms smudged with pizza fingerprints?
How majestic—I just found a pellet-like marshmallow in my hair.
Since when did I own this heavy marble pen?
Why am I suddenly wearing a piano key tie?
Why are there raisins in tuxedos playing the saxophone behind me?
Why am I sashaying down this glowing staircase?
Why am I clenching a rose in my teeth and sitting down at the piano to play a jazzy duet with a dapper cat?
Why am I turning over this huge hourglass so I can do it all over again?

Dating Do’s and Don’t’s For Dead People

2009-11-02T10:37:00.001-08:00

Is it possible to find true love after you are dead? The answer is yes, as long as you follow these few simple rules for dating beyond the grave.

Rule #1: Make Eye Contact

It’s hard to follow this rule when you’re alive, and it’s even harder when you’re dead. Probably your eyeballs were long ago eaten by worms, and what you have now are more like empty black sockets. Still, the best way to let another corpse know that you’re interested is to kind of prop up your bones so your skeletal frame is facing his, and angle those creepy peepers so they’re boring uncannily into his. And let the cold winds of post-mortem lust blow eerily between you!

Rule #2: Conversation

A couple obvious conversational starters: How did you die? How long have you been dead? Where are you buried, or were you cremated, or did you have a ritualistic Tibetan sky burial where they laid you out on a mountaintop and the vultures came and ate your flesh and entrails? Do you like being dead? Are you haunting anyone? What do you miss most about life? If you could meet one historical figure, who would it be – and have you actually met them yet, because if not maybe I know them and I could introduce you at one of our mixers.

Rule #3: You Can’t Hurry Love

One great thing about being dead is, you got nothing but time. So don’t rush it. Wait for that special stinking rotting someone to come along, and then enjoy the leisurely pleasures of an eternal flirtation. Your baby-making years are over. So are your heart-beating years. So are your walking around and breathing and hot-tubbing years. It’s all over now. So no stress. Don’t sweat the small stuff (you can’t sweat anymore anyway). Just do what you’re doing anyway: lie there disintegrating into dust. Who knows – maybe that’s all you were ever doing in the first place. And if someone wants to do that with you, well okay – just remember, old bones can be brittle, so watch out with the hand jobs.

Celebrity Sighting

2009-10-29T09:05:00.001-07:00

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Maggie Gyllenhaal? Oh my god, it was so funny. She was walking down the street in Brooklyn, pushing her baby in the stroller, just like a typical Brooklyn mom. She looked so normal! And I was like, oh my god. I was so excited to see her in real life! And I was like, Maggie! And she kind of looked at me. And then I was like, Ramona! Which is the name of her baby. And she kind of smiled and pushed the stroller a little faster. And I was like, How’s Peter! Which is her husband, Peter Sarsgaard. The actor? And she looked down at the sidewalk and was like, rushing away. And I was like, How’s Jake! Which is her brother, Jake Gyllenhaal, the actor. From Brokeback Mountain? And she kept walking (she was already pretty far away from me at this point). And I was like, How’s Reese! Which is Jake Gyllenhaal’s girlfriend, Reese Witherspoon, the actress. From Legally Blonde? And she was like this little point of blue-colored light disappearing down 5th Avenue (her coat was blue, it was probably Marc Jacobs or something. The designer?) And I was like, How are your parents! Who are like, screenwriters or something. And then I couldn’t see her at all anymore. And I was still standing there, right where I’d sighted her, and I yelled really really really loud, FUCK YOU MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL! FUCK! YOU! EAT A FUCKING DICK! Because I was like, kind of offended?

Office Politics

2009-10-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

Cheryl wanted to put a bowl of blue glass pebbles on the desk in the lobby, and I was like, “What’s that all about?” She was like, “I think it adds a sort of breezy tone to the proceedings of this office.” I was like “Breezy? That’s funny because to me it adds a sort of cheap Pier One Imports tone, and what was wrong with the vase with the stalks of hay sticking out of it?” She was like, “Well, that adds more of a prairie vibe. Paging Laura Ingalls Wilder!” She laughed at her own joke, obviously she had been waiting to reference Little House on the Prairie for some time. I was like, “I liked the hay. And I thought it was more of a simple living vibe than a prairie vibe. And also, I happened to bring some dried mandarin oranges and cinnamon sticks to position in a sort of centerpiece on that table. So I’m going to go ahead and do that.” Cheryl was like, “Really? Because I never thought of this place as being a sort of Asian harem where you might get sold into sex slavery.” I was like, “Really?” and was trying to think of a way to make her feel bad for her obviously racist jab my centerpiece when Judy comes in. She’s like, “Hey guys, I went ahead and brought in this rain stick to give this place more of an earthy feel. I’ll just place it next to the photocopier.” Cheryl and I were both like, “Really?” Then Joan came in and was like, “Morning everyone. I brought in this plastic, multicolored scale model of an atom that I got at a children’s museum to put on that table and give this place a sort of elemental, down to basics kind of feel.” Finally, our boss came in and was like, “Listen guys, I just ordered a huge, six foot tall, silver sculpture of a paper clip that we’re going to lean against those doors and that will give this place an early-nineties, raffish, playful, entrepreneurial, safe sex, still care about the Olympics kind of vibe. Got it? And that settled everything.

Big Jon & I

2009-10-22T11:02:00.000-07:00

"But Big Jon," I said, raising my voice so that it might carry up to his ears, which were high above me. "How will we reach the barn in time? It looks so far away!"

"Is it truly far?" asked Big Jon, and in doing so his thunderous baritone vibrated my every body part. "Or does it just appear so, being dwarfed by my Brawny Arms?"

I looked harder, and saw that indeed this was the case! For a Brawnier pair of Arms I had never laid my little eyes upon (nor you, I daresay!)

"You look tired," Big Jon said to me. "Come. Rest awhile in the warm pocket of my dungarees."

And without waiting for a reply, he scooped me up and nestled me in his front pocket, against the warm and authoritative firmament of his Upper Thigh. And I assure you, gentle Reader, I had never felt so snug and secure in all my tiny life.

Rashomon: Text Message

2009-10-22T07:37:00.000-07:00

The text message was sent on Monday night, close to midnight. The exact words used in the text message were: “Hey. How’s it going? Want to get a drink sometime soon?” Immediately upon the sending of the text, human minds were sent reeling by the kaleidoscopic multiplicity of possible interpretations, spins, and consequences of this seemingly ordinary string of digital words.

The woodcutter, receiving the text, said to himself, this is definitely sexual. Come on. A drink? Soon? This is a come-on, for sure, said the woodcutter.

But when he showed it to his friend, the traveling priest, suddenly he was not so sure anymore. The priest said, this could totally be just, like, a friend thing. I mean, said the priest, whoever sent this text message knows you are in a relationship. And I don’t think this sounds like a psycho homewrecker’s text. And if it was sent by a homewrecker, well, I don’t think you should go. The woodcutter, who was having serious problems in his current relationship, mulled this over. The priest traveled on.

Next the woodcutter met up with the bandit, in a rainstorm at a ruined gatehouse. He busted out his phone to get the bandit’s take on the text. The bandit said, there is definitely something flirtatious about this, no question. But it feels pretty low-key. I don’t think it’s a big deal either way.

The woodcutter started to feel more relaxed about the whole thing when suddenly he realized that the samurai’s wife had been standing there silently, watching them, the whole time. She looked intently at the cell phone and said, that message, and this whole innocuous indiscretion thing you have going on with this person, is dangerous, and it may spell the downfall of your current, long-term relationship. Then she jumped up into a tree, crouching tiger style.

The woodcutter’s hands started to sweat. He still didn’t know whether, or what, to text back. Finally the samurai himself jumped out of the bushes, screaming. He grabbed the phone out of the woodcutter’s hand and said, this message was sent close to midnight! It was a drunk dial! You don’t even know if the person who sent it, like, totally regrets it right now! And then he threw the phone in a silent, moonless lake. It sunk to the bottom without a ripple. The woodcutter bowed to the samurai, and the samurai struck the woodcutter soundly about the head, which is a traditional way of waking someone up to enlightenment.

CHOICES, CHOICES

2009-10-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

I am on a padded, absorbweave path. I must pick something to stanch the flow and while I’m at it something to recalibrate my scent. I must smell of a bursting peach-shaped sun in a halo of rosemist. I must smell of Malibu mornings and crisp linen sheets flapping over a field of lavender. I must smell like berry dew, like apple cloud marrow, like a million quiet guestrooms.

Perhaps the pearl ones will suit my purposes. Or the ones with a pearlglide applicator. What product will most accommodate my shiny corridor? This one is shaped to fit my body. This one was blessed by a shaman. This one was made by a little idiot. Ah this is the one I will pick. All natural. Susquehanna Cotton. Not only does it have a flexiglide tip, but it fits the idea I have of myself. Kind of a peaceful, free-spirited woman who walks barefoot in the grass. Kind of a topsy-turvy gal who might fall into a bathtub fully clothed for the fun of it. Kind of a dizzy wench throwing apples at the town shrew.

Ahh yes. This is the one. It comes with its own carrying case. I have always wanted a pastel carrying case with which to conceal my feminine products. I can see myself opening it with perfectly manicured fingernails in a perfectly modern moment, and then closing it with business like efficiency.

How wonderful it is to have all these choices!

PUH-SCUUZE ME. WHERE YOU KEEP YOUR PUSSY PRODUCTS AT?

2009-10-21T17:59:00.000-07:00

Puh-scuze me Rite-Aid personnel. Could you so help me identifuck the locunnilingus of the vag-i-section por favor. I am in the Sunday heat of what you might call a pussy-mergency. I am a damsel in dis-fucking-stress and I ask you, Sir Rite-Aid Business Man, to come (COME) to my aid. No I cannot be any more clarificating with my info-seeking. I need to know what I need to know and I need to know right now WHERE YOU KEEP YA PUSSY PRODUCTS AT!!!!!

6 Philosophers, Misinterpreted

2009-09-22T05:36:00.000-07:00

Arthur Schopenhauer - "Smoke em if you got em"

Martin Heidegger - "In it to win it!"

Gilles Deleuze - "It's Britney, bitch!"

Baruch Spinoza - "Everybody's working for the weekend"

Immanuel Kant - "If there's grass on the field, play ball"

Søren Kierkegaard - "Who farted?!"

Writers Who Sound Like Pets

2009-09-22T03:23:00.000-07:00

Edwidge Danticat

If I Could Travel Anywhere In Time

2009-09-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

If I could travel anywhere in time, I would travel to the moment when John Grisham came up with the idea for The Pelican Brief.

I would just love to be there to witness that incredible fucking flash of lightning slash like a knife through the fabric of the universe.

Nothing was ever the same after that moment.

Every history has its turning points, its split seconds in which unforeseeable, irreversible revolutions take place. And that was one of ours.

Can you imagine the thrill you would feel if you could be a time-traveling fly on the wall in John Grisham’s study that day? I can imagine myself crouched there, in the corner, breathing as quietly as possible, maybe listening to a song on my iPod just to kind of add to the excitement but not turned up so high that John Grisham could hear it at all, because if I made a single sound or if some slight of motion of my body were to alter the reality of that moment in the least, and somehow interfere with the glorious perfection of the birth of that great work of art, I would basically want to reach up inside my vagina so far that I could punch the inside of my own face and even that would not be anywhere near enough punishment for such a crime.

My god. Imagine the way his face must have looked as he sat there, blinking into the abyss of time itself, on the brink, searching, searching and not knowing what he would find, and then by whatever mysteries there are that control the creative process, a god of sorts leaned down from the heavens and whispered into his ear, the pelican brief. And Grisham listened. And a few small tiny lines in his forehead danced a little, and smoothed themselves out, and he leaned forward and lifted up his Bic pen and began to write. He fills sheets and sheets of yellow legal paper with the early, rough sketches of what will become the century’s greatest masterwork. Oh, to witness such glory!

Yes, if some kind of angel came to me with a time machine and I could visit any moment, it would be that one. That or medieval times. I’m not sure.

No One Asked For It, But Here Is My Review of Rob Roy Starring Liam Neeson

2009-06-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

There are a few movies that, should they be on TV, I will drop whatever I’m doing and watch them, even if they’re half way through. The Fugitive is one such movie. So is Contact with Jodie Foster. But Rob Roy pretty much takes the cake. The misty Scottish Highlands form the backdrop to this period piece in which mincing aristocrats (one of which is deliciously played by Tim Roth) attempt to cheat joyful peasants and ensnare them in a destructive cycle of debt-repayment. Eeeeeeeer (that’s the sound of a record scratching). No more dancing around in your dirty frock – your thatch roof is being burned! The main theme here is honor: what it is, and what one man will do, against all odds, to maintain it. This man is played by the craggy faced Liam Neeson. Here’s how you tell when someone is serious: when they disembowel a rotting moose carcass in order to hide inside it from their captors. Something else I like about this movie is that Jessica Lange, who plays Rob Roy’s wife, doesn’t appear to be wearing make-up. In other words, when she’s supposed to look bedraggled, she actually looks bedraggled, and not like a peasant woman in an Irish Spring commercial. So there you have it. If you find yourself at your parents house and this movie comes on in the middle of the day, do yourself a favor and grab a toaster strudel, sit down, and enjoy the show.

The Highlights Is Gawker Now

2009-05-15T14:07:00.001-07:00

I saw Ramona Singer from Real Housewives of New York City on the N Train today and I took her picture! LMAO!

EXCERPT FROM MY MICHAEL WINSLOW FAN FICTION

2009-05-14T21:33:00.001-07:00

"BLEEP BLEEP BOOP BLEEP BOOP."

"What the heck?" I said to myself, scratching my head as I looked at the state-of-the-art Fax Machine in front of me. After all, the sounds I was hearing were those of an incoming message or "Fax" but the darned thing wasn't turned on--not even plugged into the power supply! Then I looked over at Michael Winslow, and he gave me his trademark Sly-Cat smile.

"Michael!" I said, unable to suppress a grin of my very own!

"Bloop bleep?" he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say "who me?" and then I knew it was him, and not the Fax Machine, that had made those noises!!

prospective names for proposed cat duo

2009-05-13T22:21:00.000-07:00

Nip/Tuck
Curry/Vindaloo
Chauncy/The Baker

everybody: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW--

wait, who was that. O!SHIT. i think there's someone in the house....

THE CALLS ARE COMING FROM WITHIN YOUR STOMACH

//barf!!//

No One Asked For It, But Here Is My Review of State of Play Starring Russell Crowe

2009-05-13T16:12:00.000-07:00

Why did I see this movie? The reason is because there was nothing else to see. All the movies I had planned on seeing somehow slipped through my fingers because Charlottesville movies have a short run. I don’t know if that’s really true or if it just seems that way. On to my review. Here’s what I’ll say: it was basically pretty good. I didn’t go in expecting much. I thought it was probably going to be unnecessarily confusing and ultimately kind of empty seeming with lots of one-note action. I was pleasantly surprised. Russell Crow was pretty good. Rachel McAdams was also pretty good. Helen Mirren was funny. Jason Bateman was hilarious. Jeff Daniels was in the movie. It’s not like I’m going around wishing to see more of Jeff Daniels or anything, but I wasn’t unhappy to see him, and he, too, was fine. The only weak link in this cast was one Ben Affleck. Something I realized while watching him is that although he seems like he’s not a bad guy, he’s not a very good actor. This may not come as a shock to the general public. But after having never really thought about it, it came as a tiny shock to me. When you’re watching someone trying to act and they’re just a hair off, like they can’t quite catch the wave, it makes you appreciate those who can – like Crowe and Mirren. Here is my final assessment of State of Play: if you can judge a movie by how little your mind wanders when you’re watching it, or by how little you start to think that our culture is some gross parody of a future dystopia, then State of Play doesn’t necessarily disappoint.

Using Radiocarbon Dating Techniques, Can We Pinpoint Exactly When Justin Timberlake Got So Awesome?

2009-05-13T14:54:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when Justin Timberlake was kind of lame? No, you probably don't. The memory of this time has been erased from your historic worldview by the sheer magnitude of his current awesomeness. I mean it basically doesn't get any cooler than Justin Timberlake at this point, and yet, not too long ago, he was a member of N Sync, and dating Britney Spears, and singing in a falsetto, and having a stupid name! Nobody even thinks his name is stupid anymore! The name Timberlake now signifies hilarious antics on Saturday Night Live, the bringing back of sexy, and the boning of Jessica Biel! I am DYING to have sex with Justin Timberlake. I LOOK UP to Justin Timberlake. I would carry Justin Timberlake on my back across a desert of hot coals IF HE NEEDED ME TO. I would do it for THE GOOD OF HUMANITY. I regard him as THE FINEST OF HUMAN SPECIMENS. He is BEYOND A-LIST. And the only question my mind is left with, reeling, shaking with admiration for him, is, when exactly did this happen?

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

2009-05-13T13:25:00.001-07:00

I like to move it, move it
Ya like to ("Move it")

I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
Ya like to ("Move it")

I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
Ya like to ("Move it")

All girls all over the world,
original Mad Stuntman pon ya case man!
I love how all girls a move them body,
and when ya move ya body, and move it,
nice and sweet and sexy, alright!

Woman ya cute, and you don't need no make up,
original cute body you a mek man mud up.
Woman ya cute, and you don't need no make up,
original cute body you a mek man mud up.

Woman! Physically fit, physically fit,
physically, physically, physically fit
Woman! Physically fit, physically fit,
physically, physically, physically fit

Woman! Ya nice, sweet, fantastic
Big ship on de ocean that a big titanic
Woman! Ya nice, sweet, energetic
Big ship on de ocean that a big titanic
Woman! Ya nice, sweet, fantastic
Big ship on de ocean that a big titanic
Woman! Ya nice, sweet, energetic
Big ship on de ocean that a big titanic

I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
Ya like to ("Move it")

I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
I like to move it, move it
Ya like to ("Move it")

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Testing the New Email Service

2009-05-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

This blog will now be emailed to Mssrs. Chamberlain, Rathbone, and Smith automatically every time somebody publishes a new post. Publish or Perish!!!

Get a Job!

2009-05-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

Today something great happened to me on the Internet. I found what I was looking for: a photo of the greatest t-shirt ever made!!! This simple black T features a handsome etching of a slutty lady giving a skeleton a blowjob, with the effortlessly hilarious caption, "Get A Job!" What garment could be more appropriate for our age of rising unemployment, not to mention swine flu?

Script for a Short Comedy Video

2009-04-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

We see ALENA and NEIL at a party, engaged in small talk over cups of alcoholic punch.

VOICEOVER
One thing you don’t want to get at a party ...

A strange expression comes over ALENA’s face.

VOICEOVER
...is explosive diarrhea!

Rock music. ALENA turns and rushes out of the room.

Cut to: ALENA lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. NEIL enters.

NEIL
Did you just poop in my bed?

ALENA gives him a confused look.

NEIL
Did you just poop in my fucking bed?!

ALENA
Yyyyyy-yes.

NEIL snaps his fingers. Dance music. Disco lights. NEIL dances.

NEIL
Dance with me!

ALENA
I can’t!

NEIL
Dance with me, bitch! This is a party!

ALENA
I can’t, Neil! I can’t!

NEIL
(Still dancing.) You wanna ruin my party? Dance!

ALENA “dances” with NEIL without getting out of the bed.

End of scene.

The Fruits of the Land in My Hand

2009-04-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

It was getting dark, and I was having trouble finding a radio station with a strong signal, and I hadn't seen another car for almost an hour. There was a package of Reeses' Peanut Butter Cups on the passenger seat, and I reached for it. I sluiced open the wrapper with my thumbnail and popped a cup in my Mouth. My teeth broke the skein of chocolate and the insides frothed across my Tongue like a velveteen tumbler. In another hour I'd make Texas.

Comment on the Last Post

2009-04-20T20:02:00.000-07:00

OMG LOL LMAO!!! WTF?!?! umm.... NO YOU DIDNT. no you did NOT write a blog post about getting your period. HELLO DATZ NASTEEEEE!!! way to make me gag on my coffee. grrrr....coffeee...grrrr.... NEED MORE COFFEE!!! LOL. but seriously thank you so much for that post. even though i think periods are disgusting, i think that it's great that we should be talking about them. i respect you for coming out and saying what you had to say. i respect you for this but OMG GROSS. like srsly, way to make me sh*t my pants with that last post. ZOMG!!!

The Blood of Evermore

2009-04-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

When I get my period, I nail a piece of cloth to a tree. Then the noorhawk sounds its call, and the eastern visigoths storm the misty moors. After that, it starts to rain fire as the pale sirens perform their pagan dance in their ancient druid coven. The sleeping oracle will sigh and turn in her bed, and then all of the fireflies in the whole world will light up at the same time, making the earth into a beautiful aquarium of light. All the faces of all the clergy in Christendom will turn to linen, peaceful as just made beds. On the fifth day, when the tides are up, the ocean will stop in time. I will wonder down into the dry sea bed and eternity will be revealed to me as frankly as the rings on the inside of a tree. When the moon rises I will forget everything I’ve learned, until approximately one month from now…

How I Got Over My Boyfriend

2009-04-06T09:09:00.000-07:00

I remember the day when I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. I tried to make out with him in my black convertible but he pushed me away. So I punched him in the face, kicked him out of the car, and drove away leaving him in the dust.

Then my car broke down on the side of the highway so I got out and changed out of my flirty floral dress into a wifebeater and jean shorts. I walked away, leaving behind everything I had left.

Next I went to a diner, mysteriously having changed into a sleeveless plaid flannel vest of sorts over a pink t-shirt. At the diner, a pretty hot guy made eyes at me, and I sort of glared-slash-pouted at him like, dude, you don't even KNOW. He got up and came towards me and I thought maybe we were going to go around back and hook up (like me and my boyfriend used to do) but no, instead, he grabbed my neon backpack and took off! I had to chase him down the street till I caught up to him and kicked him in the chest and silently mouthed "Asshole" and walked away with my bag. This episode didn't really add anything to the overall arc of my experience, it was just an irritating nuisance on top of everything that had already happened to me.

But I guess it sort of pushed me to the edge because next thing I knew, I was standing with my back to the sky on a highway overpass in a long-sleeve flannel and some rather baggy jeans and doc martens, balancing there on my heels as the cops gathered beneath me and everybody (me included) wondered if I was gonna jump.

My stupid fucking craphead boyfriend came up to try and get me to come down. He made this little "come-hither" gesture with his stupid hand like "come on, this is silly, just get down" and all I could think was, you asshole, you used to finger me with that hand, and by the way in case you didn't notice I have the shiniest, straightest, most awesome hair ever and it is now blowing in the wind all around me as I ponder whether or not to end this misery. And my heels teetered father towards the edge.

And then - I did it. I fell back and fell off the overpass and there was nothing holding onto me anymore - I was in free fall. And my boyfriend was like whoa.

And then all of a sudden out of nowhere there was a bungee cord attached to me and it stopped me in mid-air. And I was hanging by this cord, dangling over the highway, and I looked up at my boyfriend and gave him the finger, like fuck you. And just then I realized I was over it.

But I will just say this:

There was a time
When I was so broken hearted
Love wasn't much of a friend of mine
The tables have turned, yeah
Cause me and them ways have parted
That kind of love was the killin' kind
Now listen
All I want is someone I can't resist
I know all I need to know by the way that I got kissed

I was cryin' when I met you
Now I'm tryin' to forget you
Love is sweet misery
I was cryin' just to get you
Now I'm dyin' cause I let you
Do what you do - down on me

Now there's not even breathin' room
Between pleasure and pain
Yeah you cry when we're makin' love
Must be one and the same.

Speaking of the Nineties: Microsoft Encarta

2009-04-05T17:57:00.000-07:00

There was nothing like getting a CD-ROM of Microsoft Encarta that came with your family’s new computer on Christmas morning. You could sit around in your comfortable PJs while your dad set it up, and then you and your brother could insert the mystical disc and surf tides of Knowledge (after dad’s boring tutorial wherein you learn about Harriet Tubman for the billionth time). First you might check out a short video clip of a whale cresting the water. Then you might look at a badass picture of a geode. Then, drunk and reckless on learning one of you might shout out “sedimentary rock!” before you spend the next half hour morbidly researching the holocaust. Your brother might insist on controlling the mouse and kind of elbowing you away, and that’s when you grab the mouse pad and throw it across the room like a frisbee, only to realize that the mouse still works on the raw table (duh). You check out some prism shit, some civil war stuff, a line drawing of how a hydraulic engine works. You secretly wish that Microsoft Encarta had some info on whether you can communicate telepathically with dolphins, or at least a video of two people doing it. Then you realize that you’ve broken out into a cold sweat, and it’s lunchtime. So you and your brother go upstairs and think about how maybe there’s something in Microsoft Encarta that would explain why Mom looks so tired all the time.

Growing Up In The 90s

2009-03-27T07:07:00.001-07:00

It’s hard for you kids to understand just how awesome it was to grow up in the 90s. Life back then was a carefree affair, a cool breeze, a colorful splash of candy-flavored excitement. It was a simpler time, a time of Seinfeld, a time of Spice Girls, a time of budget surpluses, big pants, and blow-jobs that changed the course of civilization. A time when somewhere in Hollywood an actor by the name of Bradford Pitt clicked on the Panasonic in his hotel room and saw a lady shaking her newfangled shaggy haircut and called his agent and said, “Who is that delicacy I see before me, I must have her,” and the agent said, “That is Lady Aniston, Sir Pitt, and I shall set up a meeting.” And meanwhile somewhere in a jumble of flourescent purple tubes and wires a certain Lady Jolie was writhing and frenching Sir Jonny Lee Miller and it was called Hackers and it was mind-blowing and nobody had ever seen anything like this so-called “cybernet” before. And in the school libraries we huddled around the single Apple computer and assigned ourselves screen monikers and gained access to the world’s first chat rooms, where we interfaced with strangers and insulted them and tried to engage in cyber-makeout sessions. It was a decade of cut-out Dilbert cartoons adorning office cubicles, a decade of Digable Planets. It was a decade where you could say that the last decade was the 80s. Yes, the 90s were a heady, a marvelous, a spectacular and satisfying era of mall rats, land lines, and “joggable” disc men. A time when teenagers on television were convincingly portrayed by thirty-five year olds. A time when lady rappers wore condoms on their faces and dressed in enormous primary-colored jam shorts and baggy t-shirts with AIDS awareness slogans in bright pink graffiti. Sad to say, we shall never live to see another time quite like the 1990s, and it fades into the blackness of the past leaving only a set of memories that scroll across my mind, like sitcom credits written in casual-handwriting style font.

Last of the Mohicans

2008-07-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

(galloping, galloping, galloping) ahhhhhhh! Native Americans! “I will not let these people lie as they lay. We will give them a Christian burial.” “They are not strangers, m’lady.” (galloping, galloping, galloping). “Prithee tell me, mogwai, why it is that you hate sir grey hair with such passion?” “I cannot explain it, it is a hatred that is hibernating in my heart like the brown bear will do, in the winter.” (sweeping classical score) ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Form a column! Don’t die! Stay alive just STAY ALIVE! “What are you looking at sir?” “I’m looking at you ma’am.” “I will continue to wear this fetching, billowing dress.” We are surrounded by hay!! “What about the ramparts!?!” (What ramparts?) “Duncan, you are an old sow.” “Tell him Duncan! TELL HIM!” “M’lady! Do not trip on that bramble.” (galloping galloping galloping) Why does everything have to be such a HASSLE? “Please accept this treaty, Frenchman, so that peace may duly mount this country.” “No? You will not accept the treaty? What if I give you this trail mix? Still no?” “Tell me, Kicking Bird, why is it that your skin is white, but your heart runs with the Mohicans?” “If you look up at the sky, brother, in the constellations you will see my people doing many peaceful things, including carrying water back to the village in a simple leather bladder.” “Ah, yes, it is very rugged.” Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The end.

A Notable Person You May Have Forgotten

2008-05-25T22:24:00.001-07:00

Kaavya Viswanathan.

Happy 7th Birthday Emma Rathbone!!!

2008-02-28T20:53:00.000-08:00

I love you very much.