You guys know I'm allergic to peanuts, right?

So I got this raise today. It's a raise that was supposed to have come through over a year ago before I even started working here, so we got these nifty little retroactive paychecks too, which should be like a great Thanksgiving bonus unless you know my raise was like .05%.

I exaggerate, but not by a lot. From what I hear, our union kinda sucks. Yes, union, it surprised me too, but they made me join. My raise doesn't even cover my monthly dues.

On the plus side, I'm finally making 4 digits every two weeks after taxes. Yes, I know, big money. Almost like what a real grown up would make. Have I complained before about the utter bullshit that is my economic tier?

My employer emphasized our great benefits to compensate for the horrid pay scale. And they're pretty ok, I mean there are about 10 doctors in the tri-state area who take my insurance, 2 of whom I have learned are total idiots. And I get a break every day. That's pretty neat, I guess. Y'know, I can stretch my legs. And there's some sort of retirement fund, so every time I get paid I can think "Ooh boy, another 2 minutes at the rest home!"

That retroactive check will cover the jacket and sweater I shouldn't have bought this weekend with maybe a little left over to take myself to a nice meal by myself. Or maybe pay my internet bill, I can't decide which.

But for those of you who are thinking "You shouldn't have taken the job if you knew how badly it paid and how expensive it is out there", I'm gonna say "Eat it, I'd rather be poor in Manhattan than rich in the rural province of Whereinthehell."

What gets me through these crappy moods (in case you haven't noticed I'm in a crappy mood) caused by my uniquely abysmal pay rate is reminding myself (or deluding myself into thinking) that I'm just biding my time until my inevitable stardom takes affect. Not celebrity stardom, I'm not stupid enough to think I'll be famous... but professional stardom. I feel like something's going to drastically change and relatively soon too. It's part of my unshakable optimism that tends to get masked by an often cynical demeanor and tendency to criticize people's outfits.

I'm just not sure what to do to make this change happen because I don't know the direction in which I want it to be. New career? Back to school? Supplimentary job that don't suck like waiting tables does? Surprise inheritance from long-lost biological uncle (every adopted kid's secret daydream)?

I dunno, it doesn't matter right this second. And it's difficult because I do love my job and the people here. We're all smart and fun, and most importantly, we're all underpaid for our talents and educations. So there's solidarity in that, which helps a bit too. Granted, 99% of them are two-income families living outside of Manhattan, but I don't let that get me down. I'm also 10 years younger. And as much as I'd love the financial stability, I'm really ok not being a Mrs.

I forgot what my point was. But it's 5:00, so I'm gonna end this without one. They don't pay me enough to stay late for any reason.... or to quit blogging during business hours. And y'know... I'm really ok with that.

Entry about the elections

[Statement of general satisfaction regarding election results.]

[Statement of more acute satisfaction at watching Rick Santorum's son crying for some reason on national television. Liberal use of the word "pussy."] [Suggestion of where Santorum should go, what should be done to him there, and what he should eat.]

[Liberal celebration of Katherine Harris's slaughter.] [Expression of surprise that breasts did not get their own votes.] [Plastic surgery joke.] [Ironic misogynist statement about ugly women.]

[Link to alternate celebratory blog post by like-minded, attractive homosexual man.]

[Rah-rahs for Montana.] [Disappointment at voter turnout among macacas in Virginia leading to delay of results and possible election of total disaster.]

[Cynical discussion about nothing getting better as a result of the elections because democrats can be so useless, but at least there are enough people to pitch a fit that things probably won't get worse.]

[Pithy conclusion.]

Good work, America.

Yes.

I love hunky man!

What I really really want

This is the fourth time I've started this blog entry because I have nothing to say, nothing! I'm hyper and in a good mood, but every story I start runs itself into a festering pit of boring despair. I was going to talk about how I learned some Latvian today. Then I was going to talk about the Borat movie and how excited I am. Then I was going to ask everyone if that the only reason I'm seeing Happy Feet on opening night is to catch the Harry Potter trailer makes me a huge dork. But it never started right and all I did was sound like a boring, stupid, pitiful loser with no personality and a weird mole on my face and maybe some hideous skin affliction where I'm not allowed to go out in the sun.

And that's not who I am at all.

So I'm thinking of making up a story about the fabulous evening I had last night where I met, I dunno, Julia Stiles and Mark McGrath or something and then went to a new club that only lets you in if you're famous but I got in and then I got cast in the next Superman movie as Lois Lane's intelligent yet superficial gay nephew intern. And Kevin Spacey didn't hit on me. Because that would be a cooler night than you had.

But I respect you too much to lie to you.

So I'm not going to say anything today and instead wait until tomorrow after I've had my fabulous date with Johnny Depp and David Beckham shows up so they can fight over me, and while they're duking it out, I become best friends with their wives and then become the 6th Spice Girl. Because that's what I'm doing tonight.

Guilty Pleasures

Raise your hand if you like sexy, blonde, masculine 18-year-old Australian boys in tight pants.

Keep them raised.

Ok, now keep your hand up if you like obscure, badly-written television shows that barely lasted half a season for good reason.

For those of you with your hands still in the air, I am about to make you very happy because I am going to tell you about my new favorite DVD. It's this show called Roar, right, and I love it in the same way I used to love The Adventures of Sinbad, Young Hercules, and Beastmaster.

Roar

Heath Ledger plays this Celtic prince trying to unite the disparate tribes of 3rd-century Ireland against the encroaching Roman military. The show is kinda bad. It doesn't matter what it's about. Keri Russell's in a couple episodes because it's B.F. (Before Felicity... and she even has all that hair.)

Mostly, the show is my new favorite because I like the grass, Heath Ledger is so hot especially with a fake sometimes horrible Irish accent, and sometimes the music's pretty cool. Oh, and he wears these shammies the whole time. They're sorta too small because he hasn't killed enough animals, I guess, so it makes his butt look real nice.

Beastmaster

There's just something appealing about these programs, but I don't know what it is. The plots are simple, the characters are a little transparent, the villains and sidekicks are really over-the-top. The special effects are very often special... in the new "retarded" sense of the word.

So why did I spend hours of alone time staring at these on TV. Yes, I was always alone... I never shared it with anyone.

Sinbad

I'd watch Sinbad real late at night on UPN or something when I was in junior high and high school. I was totally obsessed with it, though nothing memorable sticks out anymore. I don't even know what it was about, but I remember one episode where he was in this harem with all these gorgeous women trying to seduce him. That sticks out.

Beastmaster aws on during the day sometimes, and I never caught the schedule, but whenever I found it on I was hooked. I know less about this show, but it was enthralling. My sister liked the animals. Again, I have no idea what this show was about, but I know it wasn't good.

Young Hercules

Young Hercules I didn't discover until grad school (last year) and I could only watch it with a friend (never alone), but I still associate it with the others anyway.

Right, so despite being really bad and useless, there's something so awesome about these programs that would bring me to a very special place. I'm just not sure what I liked about them.

It's the weirdest thing.

Show me the light

There are some trends that just shouldn't be. We all know this. Ugg boots, popped collars, garden shoes, obsessively belting otherwise cute clothes... historically, we're talking wallet chains, leggings, huge flannel shirts, anorexia... With all the horrible ideas attractive people come up with, it's a wonder anyone has sex at all anymore.

But there's one trend that I'm totally on the fence about, so I'm hoping to work out my feelings towards it by improvising a blog entry and seeing where I end up. I'm excited to see the result.

Today's topic is Old Lady Sunglasses.

My mom used to wear these things about 12 years ago. They were huge and dark, and she'd wear them with a big green winter coat with a huge fuzzy collar, and then she'd be chewing gum with her trademark wide toothy grin. Now that I'm older, I think my mother is beautiful when she smiles, but at 12, I was mortified when she picked me up from Hebrew school looking so bizarre. But I'm going to try to push aside those memories of the past in evaluating how these same sunglasses function today. It is, after all, a new millenium.

The Good:

The Bad Ass:

The Bugly:

Let's examine these closer.

Sarah Jessica Parker IMveryHO looks super cute in giant sunglasses. Her face is narrow, she has that nose that only I like because it's the same as mine, and the look just works, ok? It just does.

Carol Channing is the shit and looks so awesome in giant sunglasses that it makes me want to put her in a box under my bed and keep her forever. But that's mostly because she's totally crazy and if there were no giant sunglasses, there would be no Carol Channing... and vice versa. Carol Channing is the peas and giant sunglasses are the carrots. Giant sunglasses are the cream and Carol Channing is the coffee. Carol Channing is the bran and giant sunglasses are the gelina.

Now the flipside. Yes, Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan, and you have NO idea how fortuitous it was for me to find one image file where both of them are looking stupid. They are always the two examples that come to mind when I think "What are the cons of giant sunglasses?" (Well, and Mary Kate Olsen, but I don't even want to get started with her. ...maybe it's Ashley.) Paris Hilton especially looks like a giant, round-faced bug, like the one that would be the eccentric, senile, toothless grandma beetle in A Bug's Life 2. Lindsay just looks screwed up. Granted, I am one of those people who thinks Ms. Lohan has only been hot twice: The Parent Trap and the party scene from Mean Girls.... and I understand that giant sunglasses are only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the aesthetic dementia of these women, but that's not the topic of this blog so all we are focusing on today is their role as "Hells no!" in the eternal giant sunglasses debate.

So you understand the problem I have.... Two awesome people in giant sunglasses. Two...sub-awesome people in giant sunglasses. The answer "Maybe it depends on the wearer" is too easy, I want to love these things or hate them. What do I do? This is a delicate situation. Advise.

Library of the Poison Mind

Today's topic is celebrity look-alikes.

I don't get compared to a lot of celebrities. I just ddn't look like anyone. One time, someone told me I look like Marilyn Manson crosses with Tina Fey. But normal Marilyn Manson, when he's not wearing makeup to look like an alien goth fetus. I've also been told I look like David Bowie on more than one occasion... again, when he's looking like a weirdo, but at least he was pretty cool.

So recently, I was on an elevator at work with one of the cleaning guys. Custodian? Janitor? I never know the proper terms for people, I grew up calling Asian people "Orientals." Anyway, he's friendly and somehow decided I look exactly (exactly, not just a little bit) like Boy George.

Boy. George. You've got to be kidding me.

He backpedalled a little and said "Well, a young Boy George, you look just like a young Boy George."

Now will somebody please tell me because I really want to know just why do people always compare me to men whose identities are firmly grounded in gender-bending and cosmetic experimentation?

Look at this picture. Does something about my person, who I will remind you is today a librarian in a cardigan, that screams "Viva glam?" In college one year around Halloween, I lost count of the number of people who recommended I go as Hedwig because I was already half way there.

So I'm walking into the library after lunch last week, and this particular custodian is talking to another outside, and I distinctly heard him say "Oh, right there, he's the one" to which his companion replied "Hey, you're right!" So apparently my appearance inspires water cooler conversation and now the entire cleaning staff is in on my secret identity. "HEY BOY GEORGE!" he yelled. "Yes, hello, do you like my new sweater. It is from Zara" is not really the way to answer that so instead, I just used "Hey, what's up" and accepted my new reputation.

So I guess that is the way of things. I'm the only person I know who can wear brown hair, a beige sweater, Kenneth Cole shoes and a Michael Cors shirt and be told he looks like a glam rockstar.

No, not a glam rockstar. Every glam rockstar.

If my blog had any actual readers, I'd ask them to comment and name someone I look like who is NOT a glam rocker, but alas, you'd probably just say Marcel Duchamp anyway. You wouldn't be the first.

So I accept it. At least I have something to look forward to:

This entry sucks, we'll say it's because I was sick

This week I was able to cross something off my list of Things Never To Do In New York.

Basically, right, it's a list of things I never will ever do if my life is at all what I want it to be. And if I accidentally do one, it gets knocked off the list because... well it's too late. So, there's now a big ol' blank space between "pee on the third rail" and "make out with a homeless guy". Why? Because on Wednesday, I totally passed out on the subway. Yes.

It wasn't some drunk thing like half of you are probably thinking. I don't have enough of a life to drink during the week. I was just standing there at 8:30 in the morning on my way to work looking, I might add, super biz cas adorable in a zip-up sweater and shirt from J. Crew, which I never wear.... but I look even cuter today, you should see what I got at Mexx last night.

Wait, what?

Ok, so I was standing there and suddenly BAM nausea, light-headedness! Then we kick it up a notch with a little garlic I mean some stars and suddenly the really sweet young couple sitting near me is helping me into their seat and I was hoping they'd have some Vitamin Water to give me, but instead I had to settle for nothing. It was really freaky because I wasn't thinking of Emeril at the time and who just passes out like that? I didn't know what was wrong with me.

Emeril wasn't really there, but there was a Rachel Ray poster on the wall, and I think that's where the symptoms came from.

So I got myself home and slept for 8 hours.... then I ate Jello and watched Charmed like the doctor would have told me to do and then slept for 8 more hours. The next morning I felt fine but didn't go to work anyway because I had the perfect excuse just to play it safe. I sat around and then went shopping.

I think it was some sort of virus. I hope it was. It had better have been because I feel better and am not doing anything about it except maybe telling my doctor who I am meeting next week for a physical. I hope he's cute and young and gay (I already know he's Jewish) but he's probably not.

Right, so now I've passed out on the subway, which isn't scary and horrible anymore because I feel better. Now it's just embarassing. On top of it all, now I'm out of sick days and I had to cancel my haircut appointment.

This weekend it's gonna rain, so I plan to spend the whole time in my apartment making my list of Things Never To Do In New York even longer so I feel better about myself.

Girls! Girls! Girls!

And the George W. Bush Idiotic Idea of the Year Award goes to the Education Department for their fantastic contribution and solution to idiocy in America.

Boys have trouble with math because there are girls in there... what... befouling the information transmitted from the teacher's mouth? Or are you implying the girls hold the boys back because they're only good at shopping and cooking and couldn't possibly grasp the concept of an integral? Exactly what studies were these that suggested a gender fender would help kids do better?

I just watched Mean Girls the other day, y'know, where Lindsay Lohan is a math genius but fails quizzes on purpose to get the attention of that hot boy with the eyes. Basically I'm thinking this plan was based on that movie. But I mean, the movie was based on a book, so it's totally ok.

My favorite part of this plan is that it completely eliminates the threat of blame. Oh, it's not our fault education sucks, it's the mixing of genders, it's passing out condoms in health class, it's the spectre of gay marriage!

How about this? If there's a problem with education, there's a problem with the people in charge of it. So instead of throwing out gimmicky little solutions like gender segregation and the Atkin's diet based on a couple of little studies, why don't we go straight to the source (parents? I dunno, probably the government) and fix idiocy where it originates? But I dunno what that would imply or anything, hell, I don't know anything about politics. I think it's because I sat next to Irina in government class senior year.... y'know, and she was a girl and all.

Or maybe it's the Russians.

Make a wish it's post #111!

Y'know those days when you're totally not feeling the diligence vibe so work and other important things are not only undesirable, they're impossible? This is today.

All morning I cataloged tango music in Portuguese, and it was boring and I don't even speak Portuguese except I know this one song about a bird and an orange and feet from this capoeira class I took. I'm totally not feeling the diligence vibe.

So I'm sitting at my desk looking for a distraction and the nearest thing is this long article called "The Geometry of Musical Chords" filled with math-heavy music theory all about voice-leading and counterpoint. It's actually really interesting, and my copy is a printout of the stuff you can find here if you're interested. I'm supposed to be cataloging it, but cataloging things people randomly print off the internet is a pain. Anyway, I read this article, but seeing as though I haven't studied theory or done an ounce of math in the past 3 years, it was heady work to get through and understand it (which I do, I'm pretty smart y'know) so now I'm all worn out and really not feeling the diligence vibe.

Furthermore, almost everyone's gone except this one coworker that I had a really strange dream about the other night, and I know it's dumb but I feel awkward and dirty around said coworker now and don't want to talk to this particular coworker, so I'm kinda burying my head and pretending to be busy every time the coworker comes by to chat, which is usually a nice distraction when I'm not feeling the diligence vibe. It makes screwing off hard work to have to be so fake about it.

To conclude, I can't wait to go home where wasting time isn't so stressful and draining.

*UPDATE* P.S. It wasn't a sex dream so don't be all "oooooh, he had a sex dream" because I didn't god you're all so immature.

Cravings

I'd give my boyfriend's left nut for a bucket of chicken and a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper right about now.

Any takers?

Like a cooler

I'm wearing this shirt today that I have had for years but have only worn once because I don't know how I feel about it. I got it at Lucky in Chicago.

You're probably wondering why I would pay exorbitant Lucky prices for a shirt on which I am not 100% keen, so I'll take this opportunity to remind you that I'm a spoiled semi-rich kid, and I got the shirt in college when shopping was all done on daddy's credit card.

Whatever, so I've trucked it around through 3 or 4 dorm-switches and apartment moves across 4 states, so I decided I would put it on again today. It's long-sleeved and the weather told me "Wear the cowboy shirt." (It's kind of a cowboy shirt, it has a collar and a sort of rope thing embroidered on it, but it's also a zip-up. It's hard to explain.)

Anyway, I put it on and decided to gauge people's reactions to it to decide whether the Salvation Army needed it more than I do.

So the Russian woman I work with likes it a lot, so that was points in the positive column because she has this odd glamour about her that I think they only make in Moscow. Then, Olga da Polga liked it and told me it was semiotic.

I was like "What the fuck are you talking about, nobody knows what that bullshit word means."

Actually, I just said "huh?" and he explained and I still didn't get it (I mean, I get the word now but it still doesn't make any sense.)

So I'm not sure whether to put a few points in the "Good Shirt" column or a million points in the "Bad Shirt that Only Freako Guinea Pig People Would Wear" column, but you can see why it's so important that I find out.

You're gonna think I'm a total queer, but I'm really sad because the sixth season of Charmed comes out today but I have a friend from out of town staying with me tonight and tomorrow night and he's not gonna wanna sit and watch it with me for 5 hours each day like I was planning on doing, so I'm not even gonna bother picking it up after work and they introduced this new character at the end of the fifth season and he's totally hot and I think he's evil but I dunno because I've never seen the show on TV so all I know is the first five seasons and I've been waiting for so long to find out what happens and two more days seems live forever I can't even handle it.

I have a master's degree.

More awesome than you

I was at this housewarming party Saturday night, and it was super fun, right, and I iced cupcakes and drank lots of things and met all these people and most of them went to Bard, y'know the college, which apparently is awesome because it churns out awesome people.

But I'm all embarassed. Anyone who's seen Napoleon Dynamite knows it's important to have skills, and I actually got into a conversation with a German girl and an Icelandic girl about skills and parties and dating and why and how and it was silly but we knew it was silly so we're not superficial or anything.

Anyway, I'm really embarassed because there was this old 8-bit Nintendo there and I was drunk and people were playing Mario, and I said "Oh you suck" a lot because I like to harass people who are bad at video games even when I'm not any better. It's just fun.

But it so happens that I am better at Mario and I can finish it in about 6 minutes, and so they told me to play and I did and I kicked its ass, so I'm embarassed because then everyone at the party thought I was so good because I spend lots of time memorizing video games and no matter how much I insisted that I have an actual life and no matter how cool they said it was I know they were judging me secretly. Except the German girl, I think she was genuinely impressed and she was pretty so I told her.

So the moral of this blog is that no matter how many skills you have, you're not gonna get dates if they involve video games.

The one where I'm pissed at FedEx

Riddle me this, fatman.

FedEx tried to deliver something to my house, but it requires a signature and, like most of us, I have a job. So they leave a note saying they'll come back the next day at around the same time. You are smart, FedEx. Obviously since I'm not home on Wednesday at 9:30, there will be a good chance I'm home Thursday at 9:30 and if not, I should change my plans to make sure I am. Whatever, so I called the number to tell them "Ok, listen, stop trying I'll come get it myself."

So they took it off the truck and I can pick it up today in Brooklyn. Yes, Brooklyn, because there can't possibly be 1,000 more convenient FedEx locations in the city, 3 of which are within 10 blocks of my home. Fine, that's not how it works, I accept it. (For those of you just joining us, I live and work in Manhattan and have only been to Brooklyn one time in April.)

Today, I wanted to confirm the Brooklyn address because I have no idea how that place works, and so I went to the FedEx site and could find no trace of a location at the address I had been given over the phone. But whatever, I didn't care. All the locations I found said they were open until 8:00 or 9:00 in the evening, so I had plenty of time to figure things out if I got to 100 Morgan St. to find a Starbucks or a hobo or nothing.

But then I got paranoid and called anyway "just to confirm". The guy on the phone was clearly new at the job because he was really into reading his rehearsed lines, which amused me. He was nice. Anyway, 100 Morgan St. does indeed exist and he said my package is there waiting for me and I can pick it up today if I want and they're open until 5:00 and that thank you for calling FedEx and that I should have a great day.

5:00? What in the hell kind of retarded system is this??? (That was the riddle by the way, it took me a while to get to it.)

99% of everyone works during business hours during the week. That means 99% of everyone won't be home to get their stupid packages from maybe 8-6. So FedEx's brilliant solution is to bring them to a place that's only open 8-5. Logic (y'know, that thing you use your brain for) should, in my not-too-outrageous ideal universe, dictate the monumental retardedness of this arrangement especially considering that there are lots of locations open after people get off work that don't require them to go to stinky Brooklyn.

Thanks, FedEx, for going the extra mile to make my shipping experience both efficient and enjoyable. I can't wait to take time out my Saturday to trek to Brooklyn to get a package that as far as you know could be super important top secret government documents that I absolutely need but will not have by 5:00 tonight and now who's gonna save America from the evil that is coming? I hope you're proud.

in the what?'s first current event

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6042306.stm

I'm fine, you can stop calling really.

This happened a few blocks south me, which is alarming, yes, but my apartment is fine, my stuff is fine, my cat is fine if still rather retarded. (I hope the boom scared her real bad, she ripped a shirt I like.) So I appreciate all the voicemails I will be going through when I get off work, but I'm fine. I would have answered, but I got tired of telling people who don't know exactly where I live all about how I'm not affected.

And for future reference, I don't live in a high rise. I'll never be rich enough to live in a high rise. So for the rest of my life, the only airplanes small and agile enough to crash into my building will be paper or remote-controlled.

I'm embarassed to admit that my first thought when my boss told me a plane just hit a building that might be mine was "Again? Plane terrorism is so tired, have an original thought people." My second thought was "Damn, it'll be a bitch to get home today." And it wasn't until my third that "Those poor people, I hope everyone's ok" passed on through. So chastize me for my fabulously selfish priorities, but at least I'm up front about it. It's no worse than people who take disasters as an opportunity to show off how "sensitive" and "compassionate" they can be by writing in their blogs and pasting on their sad face and "Oh, puppy" voices while doing nothing to actually help.

I have someone in mind, and she was driving me nuts a little bit ago, that's why. Cut the crap, you think being nice makes you a good person?

Some schools let out, which I guess makes some amount of sense but not, y'know, a lot. I'm still at work, and my cat's probably breathing in smoke and toxic dust particles through my open bathroom window, so I've even got half a reason to get outta here, but please. What are they gonna do, go clog the streets like silly gawkers at a disaster site? I guess maybe some of the kids may have lived there, so obviously history class is a low priority... But everyone else? I dunno. The world shuts down way too easily these days.

Librarians Crazy For Feeling So Lonely

There's this guy at work who talk to himself or sometimes to his computer a lot while he's cataloging, which is cool, I guess, I mean everyone does that sometimes. It's hard for me, at least, to get through the work day without muttering "Goddammit, I screwed that up" or "I am totally the master" or "Blast you insipid machine, what have you done!?!".

But this guy here has full-on conversations (with the computer?) as he's typing and clicking away, and not quietly either. It's not distracting or anything, maybe because I sit nowhere near him, so I accept it. We all have these conversations in our heads, right? So maybe vocalizing it just passes the time. It's usually just standard human-computer interaction stuff.

Usually.

I was just walking by enjoying a piece of my other coworker's homemade honey cake (it's a Jew thing) when I passed the Talker's desk to hear him exclaim: "I'm a guinea pig!"

Yeah. Right you are.

I slowed my pace, hoping for some sort of context, and I peeked at his computer screen thinking maybe he was playing some sort of Flash game in which his character turned into a guinea pig or perhaps into a rodent that could be mistaken for a guinea pig, maybe like a vole or something, I'm not altogether sure what a guinea pig looks like. But no. No context. Apparently today we are simply a guinea pig.

This isn't the first time he's said something totally off-the-wall. Once I heard something about Santa Claus. Another time it was "But there's a lot of sour cream in that!" I imagine his computer is sitting there thinking "Just smile and nod... damn I wish my cell phone would ring right about now."

Now, he's the super nicest guy ever, so I don't want to have him committed or anything. He's smart, and when he's talking to you, it's pretty normal. Fairly normal. Normal enough.

But it's weird and kinda creepy like crazy-talking to nobody is just a gateway drug to the Great Sukkot Library Massacre of 2006. (Look it up.)

I don't know why, but I've taken to calling him Bo Peep in my head. I think in my metaphor, the sheep represent sanity. But whatever, since that doesn't make sense, so now I'm going to call him Olga da Polga instead.

He'll make your dicky allllll sticky

They're keeping my cafe open for another couple of weeks, probably because the entire place is going to go under at that point, I don't care, at least I get my decent cafe for a little longer. I had the guy make me a peppermint hot chocolate today, and it was the best thing ever. Instead of using the pumps, he took the caps off the huge bottles and just dumped a bunch of syrups into my cup and then added like a teaspoon of steamed milk, I felt like I was in Candyland.

Speaking of Candyland, this is a picture of Mr. Mint, who was pretty much my idol growing up. I always thought we had a lot in common because we were both tall and thin and cute, but now I think it mostly is because he's a total queer.

I'd suggest that I be him for Halloween, but it would be way too hard. It's too bad because this bitch needs to be brought back into popular culture. He is totally underrepresented. Even a Google image search brings up shit on him, one where he looks like some goofy cherub reject and the other, which you see here that I even had to crop some shit out of.

I have even more reverence for Mr. Mint than I do for Grimace, and I have a freaking Facebook group in honor of Grimace. The next paragraph is where I say awesome things about Mr. Mint.

Mr. Mint is awesome. Getting to Mr. Mint is half the fun. What can Mr. Mint do for you? Mr. Mint is the champagne of ginger ales. Mr. Mint thinks outside the bun. Only Mr. Mint can prevent forest fires. The answer is Mr. Mint. Now what was the question? Mr. Mint flies the friendly skies. Mr. Mint is the top banana in the west. Mr. Mint feels the warmth and luxury that he deserves. It's Mr. Mint, stupid. Mr. Mint is the mark of a man. If you don't show up in a Mr. Mint, don't bother showing up at all.

I hope I used his name enough times to be the top of every Google search by now. I'd say more, but I gotta go home. Make sure you go do something Mr. Mint related today or I should be very cross with you.

Super cute!!!

Normally I don't say anything about the silly books I read because most of the people that care about books for young people are young people, and they don't read my blog, and if they do their parents should punish them or better yet send me nasty e-mails about exposing their impressionable niblets to gayness and language because anybody who knows anything knows that parents in America prefers blame over responsibility. Also, parents may be concerned I influence their children to use ridiculous run-on sentences.

Since I never get any of those angry messages, I figure nobody cares what I have to say about the Artemis Fowl series (cute), David Wiesner's illustrations (beautiful), or the oeuvre of Garth Nix (brilliant). But between last night and today at lunch, I read Kiki's Delivery Service by Eiko Kadono, which is just the darlinest little book I ever did read.

It's about this little witch who turns 12 or 13 or so, and she has to go off by herself and start a life in a new town, so she picks this big city. Unfortunately, she's been lazy and bored all her life so the only thing she learned how to do was ride a broom, so she sets up this business where she carries shit around for people. The rest of the book is all about her little adventures helping people out.

Half the things that transpire leave you thinking "What? That would never happen. And nobody talks like that." But then you remember it's Japanese and somehow that makes it alright. Also, Kiki is 13, right, but she really comes off more like a 10 year old. Not in a whiny way, though... just that she's not all learning about sex and death and love like young people in young people novels so often do. She's just kinda traipsing about on her broom la la la la OOPS, I dropped the stuffed cat I was supposed to deliver, I'll just give the kid my real cat instead, try not to breathe, kitty, so he doesn't know you're real. Also, if for some reason you have children, this book is totally episodic and would make a perfect nighttime read-aloud over about a week and a half. (There, I've said something useful.)

Maybe it's because in the book I read before this, a 12 year-old boy was pushed out of a 10th-story window, paralyzing him because he saw a woman fucking her twin brother and plotting the death of his father.... but the innocence of Kiki's Delivery Service was really refreshing. Now I'm at home watching the movie version (Hayao Miyazaki) which looks to be as fabulous as everything he's ever done.

Hee hee, you said dick

There was this score for a piece called Requiem, but it was clear that it wasn't a real requiem, so I had to read the text to find out if it was secular or sacred. But the text was in Icelandic, which appears to be the hardest language ever. The lyricist's name is Íslenskar Þjóðvísur, and I thought "It sounds like his mother was getting brutally stabbed when she named him."

I'm sick and didn't feel like getting up, so I found a free Icelandic-English translator online that didn't know shit. It kept most of the words in Icelandic except "mossy bruise", which... yuck.

Whatever, that's retarded, so I went to the closet and got a dictionary and started looking shit up. No matter how hard I tried, the most coherent translation I could come up with was: "Well-rested [as after a good night's rest], the beautiful dandelion goes out to pasture. [There is a] mouse under the moss, [and] the blurriness gives birth to cows and sheep."

Unless that's some sort of Icelandic idiom that means "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them", I'm gonna go ahead and say that Icelandic is fucked up. I went with "secular" and decided that Björk's music must be pretty mundane and straightforward in her country.

To conclude, I still have this horrible cold, so I can't think of anything amusing to say except to relate boring stories about being a librarian.

Also, I just realized the post before this was number 100, and I should have had a huge party with cake and Paris Hilton would be there, but I got sick and had to cancel it.

Small Retailer Falters, Barnes and Noble, Starbucks Do Dance of Capitalist Superiority

I have some sort of bullshit cold today. A sniffle, a scratchy throat, and a sneeze an hour, but I'm playing the whole thing up a little, trying to hit that magic level of exaggeration where my boss thinks I'm a dedicated trooper for coming in despite my condition but where my coworkers don't think I'm a drippy pathetic mess who will leak onto their keyboards.

Anyway, they're closing my cafe, and I'm real pissed about it. I walked in yesterday, and there were these numbers taped to the cash register: "5 4 3 2 1 GOODBYE!" I thought it was about the credit card machine because the manager said they weren't gonna take them anymore. Turns out the cafe itself is saying goodbye.

The bookstore attached to it is doing all bad, so they think gutting the cafe part and filling it with more inventory will help sales. That seems pretty dumb to me, especially since the cafe was turning a healthier profit than the bookstore could ever dream of turning.

The bookstore is a "paperback specialist" meaning they mostly carry paperbacks. They get a few new hardbounds of more popular stuff, but not nearly everything. Apparently somebody thought it would be a good idea to open a store in the center of a city filled with Barnes and Nobles with the pitch: "Wait, but get this.... we'll charge the same prices as Barnes and Noble, but we'll only have three-quarters the selection!" Now they're filing for bankruptcy.

I hate that bookstores have to charge the prices on the back of the book. It's so super boring and takes all the fun out of shopping around.

The only reason I ever shopped at this bookstore was because I go in there every day during work for coffee and sometimes I just can't help myself. Without the cafe, screw it, I'm using the 20% off coupon I get in my e-mail box every other week from Barnes and Noble, which is conveniently just 3 blocks away no matter where you are in the city.

I'm all about supporting small and independent retailers over big ones (which is why I'm pissed I have to use Starbucks from now on) but if they're going to make retarded decisions, I have no sympathy, sorry, Barnes and Noble has DVD's.

Maybe I'll buy one to go with my cold. The Little Mermaid special edition comes out today, and B&N sent me a 28% off coupon. I wonder what Borders will offer.

Wow, I'm boring when I'm sick.

Blogging Unplugged

So I am kind of a dork, right. I wrote this entry yesterday in my little notebook in a cafe because I didn't feel like reading my book. Here it is transcribed for your pleasure:

-------------------------------------------

At Barnes and Noble, killing time, watching an attractive young med student study an anatomy book and lingering just a bit overlong at full-color drawings illustrating the penis and testes, I was happy. Stifling a giggle, I admired nerd glasses, sexy forearms, and most importantly, big, solid hands.

Digging into my bag, I inserted my iPod ear buds (a term I hate, like they're gonna make my head sprout flowers as if I weren't girly enough) but I didn't turn the device on. It's my secret eavesdropping technique, shhh, nobody knows.

Then he started talking to the guy next to him and the magic was gone. Sure, his voice was sexy enough... but med student he told me (or suggested by his choice of literature)? Ha! Med student my ass!

He just loves the human form. Looking at a model is one thing, but to see the inside gives a whole new perspective and blah blah unoriginal blah.

Turns out his fat, sour-looking, slightly dirty friend is the med student, so after Forearm Boy returned the anatomy book and commenced highlighting some standard art history tome, I turned my iPod on for real hoping my Mendelssohn piano music would sufficiently drown out the boring REM album playing. Oh, how disappointing that was too.

(REM, though admirably persistent in cultivating their every-song-is-the-same sound, will never surpass U2 in that respect and is therefore not even worthy of my contempt.)

I don't hate artists, I'm just tired of the cookie cutter conversations lots of them have, just like I'm sick of hearing freshman music students thinking they're intelligent for adoring Mahler and respecting Bach... or forward-thinking because they own a recording of Lulu.

Seriously, Forearm Boy, there is no beauty in cartoon diagrams illustrating testicular descent unless you count the years you can spend playing with them afterwards.

There's an artform I appreciate.

Dammit, I have an hour to kill before my author comes out to do his talk, and my pumpkin spice frappuccino is almost gone.

That's the only reason I'm sitting here writing in a little notebook in nerd glasses and a hoodie as if I were, Lord help me, some sort of artist.

It wouldn't be the first time I was mistaken for a writer. A kid in Florida thinks I am because he reads my blog (Hi Ian!). A drama teacher from Indiana U did too because he read my now defunct Livejournal of all things, like that's such a swirling miasma of artistic expression.

And pretty much anyone who reads my gay.com profile thinks so too, but mostly I think they just wanna fuck me.

So maybe I will be a writer... I've already got the image: glasses, scrappy appearance when I want it, no money, little notebook. All I'm lacking is talent and inspiration, but can't you get those from a workshop or something?

Now Asshole Cell-Phone Guy is talking real loud into his cell phone like some sort of asshole. He sells insurance, which is appropriate, and he's probably cheating on his wife. Pig.

It's all about sex for him. That's so typical. When we starving artist types cheat, it's only out of out passion for descending testicles. You wouldn't understand.

But I could never be a writer because all I can think of to write about is my life. And all the things in my life I can think of to write about I don't want my mom to read like about the time my friend tried to choke me while we were having sex or the time my other friend bit my ass during sex so I punched him in the face or the time the Republican brought his gun on our first date in case I was a psycho... we had sex anyway.

Don't read my blog either, ok Mom?

Computer Viruses Created By Dateless Nerds, Studies Suggest

My computer at home was broken again this weekend, but I fixed it, thereby proving myself $1000% superior to the asshole that decided to spend the time writing it. I started to wonder, as I've wondered before, what exactly drives a person to create a computer virus... not because they're so malicious or evil or anything.... but because they're so lame. I mean, it can't be only friendless losers who do this kinda stuff, right?

So I asked Google, and it turns out I was wrong, it really is just friendless losers. (Here's a longer version.)

I never made fun of anybody in high school because I was in band and on the lit mag staff and took calculus my sophomore year, so I wasn't allowed to. It wasn't until I went to music school and EVERYONE was an artsy geek that I learned that I'm cooler than a lot of people.

Now that I'm in my mid-twenties, I'm finding that "cool" isn't so important anymore. Being together in a gigantic workforce kinda evened the playing field because everyone's underpaid, everyone wears stupid ties (except me, which rather gives me a leg up if the Cool Factor ever becomes important), and everyone rides the smelly subway.

That's probably why virus creators are primarily under 25 -- because they've spent too many Friday nights playing World of Warcraft with 13 year olds to realize that the rest of humanity isn't talking about them and that even the football jocks are losing their hair and carrying Blackberries.

So, to all the current and ex-losers out there, I just want to shout out a big "Get the fuck over it already!" Everyone gets made fun of, like your life is really so hard.

Also, by the way, the renaissance of geekdom was featured in Time Out New York last month. Now it's "cool" to be a loser, so go jump on that deluded bandwagon and stop fucking up my computer!

-----------------

Ok, now I'm gonna contradict myself about "cool" not being important anymore because I was hit on by this TOTAL loser over the weekend. I told him his job was boring, and I told him he was "kinda socially awkward" and that he looked different (read: way better) from far away, but he didn't get the hint. But I let him buy me a drink anyway before telling him I had to leave (immediately) and that I had a boyfriend ("Oh, I thought I mentioned it before"), so don't worry, your technology is safe.

They were all really pretty, too

So, I was having lunch alone at this little Japanese place just now. It's like a market or something, real loud, not some sit-down place and harass your waitress place. You get your stuff at the counter, and it's super cheap. But there are tables.

And I'm reading my book, which isn't even good but I can't stop even though it's 807 pages with tiny print. I'm on page 400 now and I'm afraid that when I finish it, I'll feel compelled to purchase and read the following three 800-page monstrosities, kinda for the same reason I keep seeing M. Night Shayamalan movies.

Anyway, after 40 minutes, I hadn't paid any attention to the table next to me, but I looked up to find them all looking at me expectantly, and I was totally creeped out until I realized that they must have addressed me and I didn't hear because I was so absorbed in my crappy book.

So I said "Hi" and then proceeded to have the best lunch ever.

Closest to me were two Japanese girls, and they wanted to know what book I was reading. I was really embarassed even though they would probably never know how bad it was, but I covered my ass anyway by saying "Oh, it's just this some novel, it's really bad." The other two people were an American girl and a Taiwanese boy. And suddenly, we were all talking and exchanging e-mail addresses, and it just totally made my day.

The Japanese girls are here studying English. My cell phone was dead, so at some point I asked "Do you have the time?" which ended up being this great experience for them because they learned that "Do you have the time?" is the same as "What time is it?" And then we discussed the difference between it and "Do you have time?" and I was like "English r0x0rz!"

The American girl speaks fluent Japanese, which I don't at all even a little except "Konbanwa!" and "Sumimasen!" but I decided to not showcase my talents. She is awesome and likes Diana Wynne Jones just like me and went to Brown like I maybe should have. Also, she knows a girl I TAed for even though I only remember her handwriting. The Taiwanese boy didn't say anything, but he had cool hair.

So hopefully I have a bunch of new best friends but keep the old.

I think I will e-mail them later and tell them they made my day. Oh, and they all loved my stupid Harry Potter e-mail address. The American girl is reading it in Japanese, and the Japanese girls are reading it in English, so I think I'll order the UK editions so I can read them in English too.

Stereotypes True: Florida Filled With Sunshine, Fogies

So I took this super long 3-day weekend to visit Coral Springs, Florida. I saw Brian, which was kinda the point and everything but the other point was to see The Kid From Brooklyn, his show, which is super good and you all have to come to New York and see it when it comes here.

It's about Danny Kaye, so B had to dye his hair this lurid shade. When I saw it, I remembered that I had forgotten to pack my Natural Citrus Listerine, and I contemplated licking his head to freshen my breath, but instead I didn't and only pretended to in my head.

The show was full of Danny Kaye songs, and they're all really neat. It was real weird because I had cataloged a couple of them in the weeks leading up to the trip, and I came across another one today in one of 4 (count 'em 4) fucking autoharp method books (for self-instruction) that I had to go through today. a) Boring. b) Who gets up in the morning and thinks "Today I must learn the autoharp! To the library, for Lord and Land!"? Nobody.

In Florida, I learned that old people basically just get in the way. If they're not standing around blocking your aisle and ignoring you, they're sideswiping your car, harassing your waitress as if she didn't have 9 other tables that needed her attention, or singing along to every fucking song in a show just to prove that they know them just like my least favorite immature high school friends used to do. Back on the subway in New York, I looked around and realized how young everyone was and was happy until I realized that everyone was standing around blocking my exit and ignoring me, but at least here you can swear at people and tell them to move and sometimes even push them a little bit without having to worry about paying for hip replacement surgery.

Also, drag queens in Miami Beach are pretty (like prettier than most girls) and all have real boobs, but nobody is as skinny as Vicky St. James. ...Or me, I'm a size 8, which I think is pretty good for being both 6'4" and a guy. I wore my new girl jeans out on Sunday night, and I got spoken to inappropriately by two attractive Miami boys, so I'd consider that a success.

Dear Neglected Blog,

I am going to Miami today and I'm not bringing you. There's some old pizza in the fridge. Don't feed the cat.

I promise when I come back we'll be best friends again.

Boring birthday weekend wrapup

My birthday was fine except for the suck parts. I got food poisoning or something like it. It was after eating some really good Thai food; I threw it up an hour later, which was real sad because it was super tasty. I was sad to see it go. Nobody else in my family had a problem and we all shared food, so maybe my stomach just didn't feel like Thai that day.

Chicago was amazing. Usher was surprisingly awesome. I thought he'd suck because I hate when they import people to do theatre, but he was all good at acting and has a pretty voice, so I was kinda mad that I had nothing to be mad about.

Also, he was throwing roses to the crowd during the curtain call, and none of them made it past the third row, but in a moment of total hotness, he produced one more rose from inside his jacket, presented it to the amazingly talented girl who played Velma, and she threw it right into my sister's hand.

I didn't get a rose.

Nobody else has mistaken me for a model, but I feel smart again, so I'm calling it a win.

Insignifican't

My parents are here. I met them during lunch, and my mom mentioned again that it must be so cool to live here and be so close to all these things that are going on. Yeah, I guess it's cool... but eventually, you start to realize that there are lots of things going on, and you're not a part of any of them.

I work at a high profile place where lots of stuff happens. Between the library itself and Bryant Park, I never go a week without seeing some sort of neato cool event. Today, there was some sort of Fashion Week event going on in a tent beside the Bryant Park Cafe. People were crowding around and peeping through a little gap to see what was going on inside and who was talking, I dunno, I guess someone famous was in there or maybe just someone pretty. Maybe the people were just hungry.

Anyway, when I walked out of the library to get my morning coffee, I started to approach this area, and a photographer rushed up to me and started to put his camera to his face only to immediately lower it and spin on his heel when he realized I wasn't who he thought I was. I never thought I much resembled a model, but I'm wearing a tight black shirt today, so maybe it's because I'm skinny and have good posture and long legs and would probably make a good model were it not for the pesky rest of me.

But in that one moment, I felt totally lame. I mean, whatever, I'm not a model who cares. But this photographer was a total nobody, I mean photographers are the ones on the periphery spending their entire lives one-off from their subjects who are leading the real glamorous life.

So I didn't get an excuse me or a sorry or even an accidental shutter click, he just sorta turned around as if he imagined me and realized "Oh, it was just a trick of the light, that person with the cool pants doesn't really exist, and he's certainly not a model." And I was like "Bitch, you're not even allowed in the tent!" But I didn't say that because I was too busy feeling rejected by stardom.

Then during lunch I went to Lord and Taylor to see Sarah Jessica Parker, and apparently you have to buy something from her line to meet her, so my mom bought the Lovely gift set because she was going to anyway, and she got a little passcard to wear and we got in line. Apparently my sister and I weren't supposed to be there because we didn't buy Lovely gift sets for ourselves, so the guards were all "Stand to the side of the line so we can shorten it", which was retarded times infinity because then we were in everyone's way, but whatever, we were still going. Another guard tried to get us to leave, which wasn't going to happen so my mom was like "They're my kids, they're just waiting with me, geez" and we walked by him, and when he scowled I said "Oh get over it" and my mom was all "What's with all these crabby jerks?"

This will come as no shock, but I've found that since I moved here, being mean expressing my feelings to people makes me feel good about myself.

In conclusion, I went back to work before we got to the front of the line because it had been an hour and a half already, but I'm sure I wouldn't have been permitted to accompany my mom to see Sarah anyway. My sister look like a young kid, though, and gets overwhelmed in crowds, so I'm hoping they didn't make her wander off alone and wait at the exit because if I find out they did, I'm bombing Lord & Taylor so much you'll think it was Muslim burial ground.

So all I want to say is that I'm sick of being dissed and pushed around by one-off nobodys today. One day I'm going to be on TV and people will wait in line for 2 hours to see me at a department store, and all the guards and photographers from today are automatically banned for life times infinity and can't come and they especially can't bring their daughters to see me even if they bought my perfume because they are nobody and I bet no photographer ever mistook them for a model.

Past Present Present Present Future Present

Today my first birthday present to myself was a 2 hour lunch break. I ate at 44 Restaurant and why is it called that OH because it's located on 44 W. 44th St., yeah clever right. The service, in retrospect, was extremely slow but the conversation was good. That's why 2 hours could happen with nobody noticing.

My second present to myself is to go home after work and cock around and do nothing. I'm really looking forward to it. I know I do it every day, but this will be an extra special birthday cocking around extravaganza with cookies AND tea AND crackers.

Right now, my present to myself is not working for the rest of the day and only surfing the Internet and writing in my blog.

Tomorrow, my present to myself is to go meet Sarah Michelle Gellar, no I mean Sarah Jessica Parker with my mom during lunch because she is going to be at some store promoting her new fragrance. After we're best friends, I'll know all the hot gossip and my mom will have a new bottle of her favorite fragrance.

Also, you can totally cancel that request for validation that I put up yesterday because someone in my department just came to me with a question (me, meaning not the other music woman who trained me and has 20 years experience, me) and it required a bit of thinking, but I knew the answer right away and was super suave and closed it out by referring him to a website with more information, so I feel like the total king of the department right now, hail to the king!

So instead for my birthday I want Damian Kulash, here he is on a treadmill, thanks:

OK Go Treadmill Video

You were what by two men?

Defend yourself with English

I know I've already obsessed about this video to a lot people, but whatever, go watch it. It's filled with Japanese girls in tight outfits, but it's not porn please, as if.

Fuh fuh fuh fuh fuh

Ok, so I'm smart, right? I mean, I never knew a lot of facts like who's who in politics and where's Oman on a map and what Catherine the Great did to get her name, but I learn to do things fast (like how I learned some French today), I can figure out computery problems, and I understand how there are different sizes of infinity and stuff, so I still get to be smart even if I don't know which president was which, right?

I have this friend who invented an electric candle that turns on and off when you blow on it. Apparently there's a better way to do it than the way he did it because apparently it also turns on and off if you scream real loud, but he knows the better way and could do it if he wanted. (Personally, I'd rather have the screaming version.)

I have another friend who's going to Harvard medical for free. And I have other friends who can sit around all day arguing about international politics while kicking my ass at Trivial Pursuit while I'm all "No, I don't know anything about France but did you see Famous It Girl's dress at That Awards Ceremony last week, I think she's had work done."

Whatever, so I've been feeling dumb lately. And by "lately" I mean the past 2 years or so, but that electric candle thing kinda topped it off. Jenga I'm a retard!

Maybe I should go back to school. I always felt smart in school, mostly because I had people telling me so. I write papers real fast, and they're super well-organized. And once in library school, I gave a project that after the colon was called "The Future of a Domain Specific Data Model" and I used big words with small meanings, so everyone was impressed because they didn't really get it even though it wasn't hard at all.

But school costs money, so maybe I'll just find some dumb people to hang around with sometimes. Then I can get my intellectual snobbery on... or at least find some kindred spirits. I'll bring a big rubber ball so we all have something fun to play with.

Ok, now everyone comment about how smart I am and be sincere because my birthday is tomorrow, and I want my present to be lots of praise and adulation.

Rhapsssssody in Blue

Nobody's pretty anymore

I don't normally go out of my way to say things like this, but the world really needs to know that Scarlett Johansson looked a-fucking-mazing at the Black Dahlia (whatever that is) premiere. Look!

There's nothing like it.

Also, I'm really pissed that it's zero degrees outside. There are seriously no degrees. I blame Florida for having all those damn hurricanes.

Dirty water-colored memories

Overhead in New York made fun of Oberlin, but I'm not hurt because it's kinda true... I mean most of us were Sure and we learned to quickly identify those large populations of Not Exactly and never sit next to them.

I also enjoy the smell of patchouli, though, so y'know, whatever that means...

Hermione is Sure.

A Blogger Snarkily

I saw another crappy movie this weekend, and it was A Scanner Darkly. It was about drugs and Keanu Reeves as an undercover cop who's apparently on this drug too so he can get info on some overlord or something, I dunno, it was all pretty vague, but then it sorta turns around in a really obvious twist, which may not have been a twist at all. You couldn't really tell if Keanu Reeves was a cop posing as a druggie or a druggie posing as a cop, and maybe that was the point, but I eventually decided I didn't care which it was, and then I started wondering if he would show his penis. Turns out it was animated out, more on that later.

So at the end, it was all "Oh, those weird things Winona Ryder said while she was drunk and all cracked out actually meant something, but it was a secret but it all makes sense now, wow that's so deep. But it wasn't deep.

For some reason that was not made immediately clear, all the undercover cops wore scramble suits, which were these body suits that display some vomit-inducing shuffling of all your features with those of 1,000,000 other people, so your whole body is kinda changing all the time and it's really horrible to look at and nobody would tell what gender or race or even how old or tall or whatever you are. Basically it was an excuse to get some close up face shots of Keanu Reeves "under the hood" looking as expressive as ever.

Oh, and it was animated, but not really. Check out the stills. Basically, they filmed it live action and then colored all over it so instead of seeing pretty Winona Ryder's boobs, you see pretty Winona Ryder's boobs as they would appear in a paint by numbers book. It's neat.

Anyway, the whole thing felt like it was supposed to make you feel bad for Keanu Reeves because "oh, look what those awful drugs are doing to these people" but oh please, I didn't tell the morons to start taking them.

In order to arouse this sympathy, they had bad things happen to the people on drugs. For example, Keanu Reeves mistook a dog for a sheep. He was pretty upset about that one. And I think they used his trademarked Keanu Reeves Blankness to make you think he was getting stupider. But mostly, they just used a bunch of scenes where all of his friends are paranoid about stuff like "Ooh, we're gonna get arrested and caught and there's a conspiracy and somebody stole my chapstick!"

I don't remember any lines, so here's some sample dialogue between me and the movie. The movie is in italics:

Wow, these drugs sure make us paranoid!
Yeah. Drugs'll do that.
Whoa! I'm like totally paranoid!
Yes, I see that.
No, but you don't get it. I'm like... SO paranoid. I can't even handle it.
Okay!
Isn't it funny how paranoid we are? I mean it's total comedy, we're like, paranoid.

There were approximately a billion scene like that, and they were each an average of 4 minutes too long. It got so old, I felt like I was watching Gallagher or an Ace Ventura movie like "GOD just get OVER it, this was never funny!"

But anyway, it's not all bad. Don't pay $10.25 to see it like I did, but it you can sneak in, it might be fun. The animation style is pretty awesome until you get used to it and stop noticing. and don't do drugs before you go because they might trick you into thinking it's really good, and then you'll feel bad about yourself.

P.S. I know it's based on a book that I didn't mention, and maybe the movie makes more sense if you've read it, but I haven't read it and I never will and neither will any of my friends.

T[w]o review

"I am so sick of these motherfuckin' losers repeating this motherfuckin' catchphrase!"

Lots of people hated Snakes on a Plane I guess, but they're wrong, it's totally awesome. It's really a lot harder to do kitsch like that than anyone realizes, and Snakes pulled it off expertly. "Oh, it's all hype." "It was totally cheap humor." "The CGI is terrible, those snakes looked like they came out of Super Pitfall." People criticize. The response: Well, yeah!

Hype is fun if you don't think too highly of yourself to fall for it. When I went, I wore my awesome t-shirt (which, incidentally, was better than anyone else's because please, anybody can put a logo on a shirt, but mine actually had the snakes driving the [motherfuckin'] plane).

And anyway, I don't want to see any realistic snakes. I wanna see snakes do shit you know snakes can't do! I wanna see a big fuckin' anaconda eating a guy's head! Of course the CGI is bad...though Kenan Thompson's fat suit was pretty convincing. (I haven't seen him in anything since All That on Nickelodeon.)

I hate when people are all "I can't believe your going to pay $10 to see that movie, it's not going to be good." (They usually spell "you're" wrong when they say things like that.) Do you think I'm retarded and I need your genius mouth to tell me what I'm going to see? Oh yeah, right, I thought it was going to be an entertaining and enriching trip to the theatre (spelled the pretentious way). Good tasting and good for you. If you think you're too good for Snakes on a Plane then great I applaud your obviously learned taste in film, you obviosuly make more money and have more class than me, I don't have any class at all. So don't come, I didn't invite you anyway, I'll meet you afterwards at IFC and you can tell me all about that new artsy foreign film you probably didn't understand in the first place. And then you can explain to me why you paid $50 to see Titanic 8 times.

My second well-written and critically important movie review is about Little Miss Sunshine. Ok, so this movie really is good (in the quality sense) as well as being hilarious and having Toni Colette. It is very important that you stop whatever you are doing right now and go see it. My favorite part was when the guy said "Fuck" really loud. My other favorite part was the grandfather. My least favorite part was all the little girl beauty queens because they were disgusting, and I don't think they were exaggerated very much.

I considered writing something actually useful and thoughtful about this movie since I do have the capacity for that (like right here), but that takes time and whatever, it's just a movie. But there's lots to say, and all of it is good, so just take my word for it like you be doing already for everything else I ever say.

Remind me to tell the one about the kid at the hospital too

I like my new New York friend Stuart because he's way gayer than me and now I have someone to sashay up the stairs with.

So I was at this bar called Vlada, which was super cramped, and some guy knew Stu (ha ha, knew Stu... but don't call him Stu, I don't think he'd like it) from online or something, so he bought us both a drink and we stood and chatted with him and this other guy he was with, whatever. They're like in their 40's, though you never would have guessed, and the friend was super hot with these perfect arms. Turns out they weren't friends, they had just met. Whatever, that doesn't matter.

Anyway, my friend and I had to go to the bathroom after while, so we did and on the way out we decided to check on the two other people we came with because they're in from out of town but don't know eachother, which was weird, so ok fine. We go to the upstairs part and do that, and then the guy who bought us drinks came up and stood there talking to someone, whatever, so I go back to say hi again because he's super nice, but when I tapped him on the shoulder he totally turned on me and got all up in my face like "WTF THAT WAS SO RUDE I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST WALKED AWAY I BOUGHT YOU A DRINK BITCH! WHY DIDN'T YOU COME BACK?"

Whoa. I've never been called bitch before except when it's funny. But ok, misunderstanding, I said "I am back, I'm right here. We weren't ditching you, see, our friends over there are from North Carolina and--" but he wasn't done having his hissy fit yet. My mistake. "NO! SHUT UP! YOU DO NOT SAY THAT! YOU APOLOGIZE!" "I'm trying to."

So he yelled some more and I just sort of stood there with a bemused look on my face thinking "I can't believe I'm getting chewed out by a gay guy at a bar." It felt like a rite of passage. I was also totally proud of myself for staying cool and not being intimidated. Anyway, not only was he bitchy, but also totally holier-than-thou because he said to me, and this is a direct quote: "I MAKE MORE MONEY AND HAVE MORE CLASS THAN YOU! YOU HAVE NO CLASS!" Ok, so maybe my Emily Post is an old edition, but who's the one throwing a temper tantrum in a bar? And of course you make more money than me. I'm 23 years old, I'll be making plenty by the time I hit my 40's. What's your masters degree in, bitch? Plus, hello, trust fund! But I didn't say that because, as you know, I have class. Instead, I smiled and said "You're right."

That pissed him off because it confused him, which was the point... confusion is the best way to make mad people madder. So then he was all "GET OUT OF MY FACE, I AM NEVER TALKING TO YOU EVER AGAIN!!!" And I said "Ok." And this bystander next to me was like "Is that a promise?" and became my new best friend so I gave him a smile and a friendly elbow jab that said "Oh, you're awful, I love you" so the bitchy man would notice that I had strangers on my side. And I said to my friend, "Well that was bracing" and we walked away.

And then I got to tell the story to the North Carolina boys, which was super fun. And I watched, and it seems the bitchy man was trying really hard to meet a man. Apparently the man with the arms wasn't interested, and I think the guy he was talking to upstairs snuck away during the tirade, I wonder why.

So the night continues and we're getting ready to go, and Stewie had gone to the bathroom, so we went to head him off and leave. But when he got there, he was talking to the bitchy man! What? Please be all chummy with the man who 30 minutes ago said he never wanted to talk to you ever again. (That was directed at both of us, see.) So I adopted my "What in the hell is this?" stance complete with my patented "Oh, please" eyebrows and just stared. When my friend noticed me he said and I said hi and then I looked at the man and said "Oh good, are we best friends again?" He said "I overreacted" and I said "Yeah ya did."

But I was still SO going to win this, so I changed my demeanor, stepped forward, shook his hand, and said "Thanks for the drink" in the most sincere, truce-making voice I could fake. Oh, and I looked him right in the eye. I was SUCH the bigger person. Even fucking Ghandi would have smacked him with his stick because oh please, how dare you pretend nothing happened so you can hit on my friend because you couldn't make it with anyone else you macked on. Because that's what was going on... the man was giving Stuart another shot. It was unbelievable. I still don't believe it.

Anyway, mad props to me for being awesome, as usual.

Plug

Yeah ok, so somebody totally linked to my Lady in the Water post (I found out on technorati) and then deleted my link, probably because she actually read what I wrote and realized how stupid it was.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I didn't really mean it when I said that people who like M. Night are retarded because Sixth Sense was totally good and only gets better and also, sometimes people just like things that I'll never understand like how my dad likes Castaway and I still let him be my dad, so whatever, I don't judge.

Also, if you wanna talk retarded, I'm the one that knows I'll hate them, but I keep going to see his movies anyway.

To conclude, everyone should go read Susan Hated Literature's review because it's more level-headed and useful than mine and I'm really glad we agree that the word narf is stupid and I bet if you ask, you can just call her Susan for short. Maybe I'll put her on my blogroll and announce it here because I'm a suck-up. Her blog is pretty, but mine is always the prettiest.

How now?

I have brown hair now.

It was supposed to come out more of an cool ash brown, but I guess the red in my hair is persistent or something because it's more of a chocolate, which I can live with. I couldn't get an appointment with Fiona because she is on vacation so I got Agnes instead. She is so the coolest ever. I'll tell you why in a second, but partly it's because she did my eyebrows too, which is superneat to me and it makes me look way hotter in person because I'm pale with dark hair and green eyes now. It looks darker in person I swear.

Awesome at cutting my hair
German with awesome accent
Nice
Easy to talk to
So awesome at cutting my hair

Also, I need you all to know that I bought a little hat that makes me look scrappy, and I got it in two colors, though the following picture will depict neither of them.

P.S. I didn't screw with the picture up top there, my skin is really that clear today, so everyone come quick and have sex with me.

Take me baby!

So that's what happens. First I see Anthony Rapp in Bryant Park, which was super cool. I was like "Ooh, people singing opera" which then became "Oh, people singing Rent." But then all of a sudden I walked behind the stage they were on and was like "Whoa, it's Hulk Hogan Anthony Rapp!"

So I hung around and ate lunch there and he talked about his book and he didn't sing, which was ok. I daydreamed that he noticed me from the stage, turned gay, and swept me away to a land of candy hearts and bumblebees but then I realized that the million highschool/college girls surrounding me were thinking the same thought minus the gay part which was super-lame, girls can be so silly sometimes.

Bad Haircut Girl in the Pond : a review

I know, right, it's been over a week so here's a rundown:

Wednesday I didn't do anything. Same with Thursday. Big surprise, right? Friday I made a friend who is very short but has weird hair and cool sunglasses and is obviously a gay man because everyone I've been friends with for the past three years except one has been that. He works a block away, so we're lunch buddies now so yesterday we were in Bryant Park watching this pair of guys who were obviously on a first date and one was cute and the other probably used a flattering picture when they met on gay.com because he was kinda gross, and the cute one was all closed and then his phone rang and he sat on it for about half an hour probably saying "I'd tell you about the bad date I'm on, but he's sitting right here."

Anyway, nobody better go see Lady in the Water because it's the worst movie in all of history. I'm about to talk about how much this movie sucks and since none of you should see it, I'm going to ruin some parts of it so if you're retarded and really love M. Night Shayamalan and haven't seen this movie and don't want it ruined, you should go away and never visit my blog again. You can't ruin a movie that already sucks.

I was totally cheering for the dog made of grass. My favorite part was when the Chinese lady yelled a lot. My other favorite part was with the monkeys made of sticks. It was also pretty cool when the girl's hair went blonde for no reason because she looked better that way.

My least favorite part was how M. Night Shayamalan cast himself as a writer. And not just any writer, but a Chosen-One-fucking-messiah writer who was working on some sort of stupid manifesto that nobody in their right mind would publish in real life but in the movie it was going to like change the world or something, don't worry, I'm not giving away the ending. Right, M I'm sure, nice wishful thinking. Why don't you keep your stupid daydreams to yourself like the rest of us, do you see me going around making movies about how I'm this totally hot kick-ass actor/superhero/astronaut with lots of friends NO because I have a sense of reality.

There wasn't even a twist at the end. It worked out just like they said it would about 45 minutes earlier. Oh, and one guy died for some reason even though his character had no consequence in the movie whatsoever, but the scene was supposed to be clever but I was like fuck off, this was only clever in Scream like 10 years ago.

And everybody knows your middle name isn't Night you pretentious fartbomb, so just drop it and go open a convenience store or something. Not because he's indian but because I really want a giant sprite right now.

Stars and the Moon

Today I had my first celebrity sighting ever and it was the best celebrity sighting of all time.

It wasn't Pikachu but look I found my camera (because I kinda lost it and forgot about it, but it turned up again). Anyway it was way better than pikachu because pokemon is totally gay, I can't even believe it's been around for ten years. Kids today really need to get a life.

I saw Hulk Hogan! He was totally having to be on stage at this pokemon function for some reason, but I saw him right before he got called on stage. I was behind the stage trying to get back to work and saw this guy, and I was like "Wow, that totally looks like Hulk Hogan but nah it can't be because Hulk Hogan dressed like that like 15 years ago and why the hell would he be here anyway, what like the Hulkster's gotta catch 'em all?"

But it was him and I kinda started laughing because I know if I were him back in the day thinking about where my my future, I would not want to see myself on stage in front of a giant inflatable cartoon character that should have died with pogs and my career. But I couldn't take a picture of him because I was too slow.

I also wanted to get a picture of pikachu from behind because I thought it was funny that he had no butt but there were too many kids playing some game boy pokemon tournament. Apparently child geekdom is sponsored now and those losers get to meet the Hulk because they play video games instead of go outside but I'm serious pikachu has no anus check it out though I guess it makes sense because otherwise he would deflate.

Myspace, yourbusiness

I updated my myspace profile tonight. That's pretty much the most exciting thing I did this evening, unless you count the two stacks of saltines I devoured.

Also, for the record, if I hang out with you once and then you call and I don't call you back and then you call again and I don't call you back, take the hint. Three months later when you see me online, you should not be asking why I never called you back. There is a reason, and I will spell it out for you.

I'm kind of in a bad mood. I think I need a nap and to stop eating piles of carbs after midnight.

Allow me a geek moment

Today I discovered podcasts. Yes, today. Despite what you may infer from my innovative, hi-tech, handmade blog template, I'm always one step behind the rest of my generation concerning Web 2.0. I downloaded iTunes for the first time in May. I clicked the podcast button today.

Well like anyone else who endeavors to explore something with a trendy name like "podcast", I now figure myself a total expert. I subscribe to NPR's All Songs Considered, which I used to only listen to once every few months when I remembered to check the website. I also subscribed to a classical music thing that played Ravel for me today and a Celtic music one that's super-long.... and, geekily, the American Library Association Library 2.0 series.

No news, don't be silly. Why should I use technology for anything worthwhile?

Anyway, I'm totally addicted, but I'm sure I'll get over it soon after I subscribe to more things than I have time to listen to because this is what I do. Right, but the point is that I have nothing to talk about. I seriously have to stop being the boringest person ever. This evening, I am doing laundry. Tomorrow I have a doctor's appointment. That'll be nice... get outta the house for a while.... I can make a night of it.... I'm cool....

I swear, all we did was talk

Right, and so this cute, granola-looking girl flaged me down in front of the library asking if I had some time to spare for the Democratic Party. Relieved that she was not another Jew for Jesus and not entirely looking forward to getting back from lunch on time, I lent her an ear. Well, half an ear, which is really a lot for me considering my political inclinations... or disinclinations as it were. She said something about regaining seats in Congress. The word "incompetence" was used in its usual capacity. It was a typical Democrat spiel/donation request, but the girl was enthusiastic and intelligent, and I was feeling generous, so I decided to give a little and secure my spot in heaven (or possibly hell depending on your God's political party affiliation.) She wanted $100, which is a little steep for me unless it's going towards jeans or home decorating. I settled on $25 and hoped I wasn't wasting her time.

She handed me her clipboard, and I filled out my information, making a game of guessing how many spam mailings and phone calls I would receive as a result. I lost count around infinity and decided to just be surprised. Suddenly, it seemed really important that I try and explain to this nice girl why I wasn't inclined to donate a full $100. Really, the reason was that that's a ridiculous amount to ask for, especially from me, who today looks like a college student or at least a hipster-type in nerd glasses and a little polo shirt and skinny jeans who works at an independant newspaper for free and as a barista on the side for almost free... either way, not someone who can afford to give $100 to everyone on the street who asks. So I racked my brain for an excuse and thought back to my most recent high but necessary expense.

Well it just so happens that that expense was the exterminator a couple weeks ago. Remember the bed bugs? Right. So I was all: "I'd give more, but I just paid an exterminator, it was horrible." And she asked why: "Oh God, what for?" And so I, being notorious for telling my life story to total strangers, proceeded to tell her ALL about the bed bugs. Well, it turns out this was just the catalyst for more. I used to think it was alcohol that put me into spill-my-guts mode, but it turns out living in a new city and having no friends can have similar effects to alcohol in that regard. So after the bed bugs, I told her about my job and how it doesn't pay enough, but everyone says that. And then I told her how I'm trying real hard to meet people, but it's just not working out as planned. We lamented the absence of the Guy who was supposed to be here to hand out the fortune and fabulous cosmopolitan lifestyle when we arrived. I told her all about looking for another job. (I might work for a catering company soon. She used to do that in college.) And I went on and on about every little thing that's been on my mind lately... all that big life stuff that you tell to your therapist, your boyfriend, and your mom.

I wasn't whining, and I don't think I sounded too pathetic. I'm not depressed or anything, please. But deep down inside, I felt like I was paying the Democratic party for the brief companionship of this girl. Step right up! $25 to tell this girl anything you want, just $25 folks! For as long as it takes you to fill out this clipboard, we'll give you a chance to let it all out, just $25 for the piece of mind that there's someone (anyone?) out there who will listen to your pathetic ramblings! I feel bad about it, possibly in a similar way to other men who pay for relations of any variety, not that I'd know anything about how that feels, I mean please, look at me. I just really needed someone to talk to at that exact moment. Thinking back on it, though, I think I just need to drink some beer. I haven't had beer in a long time. I need to drink beer and sit at a bar with a pool table and a juke box and Adult Swim playing on mute. It would help if it were filled with gay people. Do they even make those kinds of places in New York?

To conclude, today I paid the Democratic party for the companionship of a young woman. But don't tell her that. For some reason, girls don't like being compared to whores, I don't know why.

You're buggin' what, you're buggin' who, you're buggin' me, and don't you see that ain't cool

Today's topic is bed bugs comma the extermination of.

Woe unto me, I picked up this attractive little pestilence on the Fourth of July because I got drunk and went home with someone the night before, let's not discuss it. We're still dating. Whatever, I'm on it. A few days later: "Wow, I itch! Look at all these funny bumps. If I have scabies again, I'm going to kick his ass." Well when it didn't go away, I saw a young doctor (my insurance kicked in, YAY) and she told me "You have bed bugs." And I said "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your nose ring. Did you say bed bugs?" Well at least it wasn't scabies.

Ah, how naive. Now I pray nightly for scabies because bed bugs are so much horrider! Apparently I took one or two home that day, and they've been living in my house and liberally feeding on some of my fleshier areas. I had to call an exterminator, and he came Wednesday morning, which I also took off from work. Right, so he comes SUPER early in the morning because I guess his job doesn't suck enough so his company says he has to start work at 7 a.m. Fine whatever, I wanted him out, so the earlier the better. He proceeds to tear my entire house apart, checks every crack in the floors, all my corners and cabinets and bookshelves. He removes my mattress and flips over my bed (he is very strong) and wow, great, he didn't find any bugs anywhere. But he found "evidence" of them, which is ok because I had already. I knew they were there. Apparently not seeing any bugs is good, though, because it means there aren't very many. So I have concluded that I have 3 because I think that is a good number. I named them Lavergne, Cynthia, and Mariposa in the hopes that they are all female and will not reproduce.

So we locked up my retarded cat and he sprayed everywhere with this stinky wet stuff and I actually fell asleep on the couch until he kicked me off. In all, the exterminator got to see the weird yuck at the bottom of my sink, the dirty litter box, the furry couch, my book on anal sex that I forgot to hide (I didn't buy it, don't be ridiculous, someone left it on the recycle bin downstairs where the communal leave-your-book-here area is), and my dirty underwear which he actually touched. Whatever, who cares, I shower.

Oh, and there's no guarantee the bugs are gone because they're such good hiders. And I won't know for a while because the bites I already have will continue to itch and the ones I got before might take a day or two to show up.

It's disgusting. Just imagine for a moment going to sleep at night knowing with 100% certainty that a blood-sucking insect is going to feed on you in a matter of hours. Needless to say, I haven't slept well in two weeks, though I have some security now that my exterminator has been through.

Oh, but wait... it cost me $460. There goes my Paris vacation.

So don't get bed bugs. Don't ever go home with anyone. And try not to touch anyone ever again either. It's the only way to be safe.

Not that there's anything wrong with Chelsea (or Chipotle)

Yet another friend of mine is having issues with one of those ridiculous "tragic" gay boys that have afflicted all of our lives in some way or another. You know the type, and you know you've either dated, slept with, lived with, or been one before, probably all at once, which is basically the recipe for a supernova of inevitable yet needless drama about which you feel the need to complain to me even though I told you to stay away from the asshole in the first place. In case you're still unsure about to whom I am referring, here are some characteristics to help you paint a mental picture, though I encourage you to use washable paints:

• Is under 21, though as I progress through my own early twenties, it would seem this age level is negotiable
• Wears eyeliner, perhaps foundation (and if you're really lucky, eyeshadow) for attention because he's so unique and then wonders why he gets his ass kicked all the time
• Steals from, lies to, and plays head games with friends and is then gets mad when they get upset because they don't understand him
• Clothing and appearance can only be described as a cry for help
• Is convinced that all his hardships as a kid are worse than they really were and that somehow, that makes him better than the rest of us, I guess it's because he thinks bad things make them more mature or something, whatever get over it
• Usually is thin, goddamn him, but not in a sexy way. Gym what?
• Regardless of context, inserts stories of dubious veracity about how he sleeps around, knows lots of guys, strips, is addicted to drugs, and/or prostitutes himself (not that there's anything wrong with that) in a faux casual way, again, as if that makes him better because ooooh you have so much life experience and command over men, yet with this tragic acceptance, you must be really strong inside, but I still feel sorry for you, sure you can live with me until your parents let you go home again

You get the idea. And you probably have somebody in mind too. Right, so my friend was dissed by one even though he walked right into his stupid trap. So they have been talking for a while, and the kid says really nice things and calls him all the time but then is all mean and evasive, but my friend sticks around anyway. A few days ago, they're talking online when the kid said "I need sex" or something, and my friend was all "Yeah, right, well I can't right now, sorry" (only something more playful and coy) and the tragic kid was all "Whatever, I wasn't asking" (even though he was) and then my friend got all upset because he really liked the tragic kid, I dunno, maybe because of all the stimulating conversations they've had, who knows. The point is, the tragic kid told him he had no interest even though all he ever does it call my friend and act all interested, it's retarded. And he said some mean things.

So my friend writes me this whole big e-mail because he's upset (right, valid, the tragic kid is, after all, upsetting) and I'm like "Yeah, ok, I've heard this story before and I tried to tell it to you two weeks ago" but I didn't say that. I said this:

He's screwing with you. I wouldn't take anything he says seriously, be it nice or mean. His behavior is too inconsistent to be genuine, and I think you should just wash your hands of him and move on. If he calls to apologize, it will probably be to just string you along. People like him feel the need to collect followers, not necessarily for the purpose of having loyal subjects, but to have people to refer to in their head to justify their own image of value that they construct with exaggerated stories and made-up drama. I've come across 1,000 people like him, all the same, and they'll all end up either growing up and being mortified at how they acted as teenagers or not growing out of it, moving to Chelsea, sleeping around, pretending they've experienced everything and they know so much, and working the counter at Chipotle until they find some deluded younger guy to move in with (and not pay rent) because they think they can shape him into a decent human in their own image. So forget about it.

And don't feel bad about what he says. You can't properly construct an idea of what he really thinks of you when he plays games like that. At best he likes you and can't handle the prospect of a real friendship or relationship. At worst, he doesn't like you and is holding you in a manupulative limbo for his own benefit. Either way, there are better ways to spend your time.

Pack up, move on.

That's what I have to say. Oh, and also that you're 5 years older than me and even I'm too old for him, so you can borrow my calculator next time you meet someone who can't go to the bars.

That was the e-mail. Anyway, this is basically my public announcement that I don't want to hear it anymore, and if you're going to insist upon fawning over people with abhorrent personalities you deserve what you get. I encourage you to print out the above list and keep it with you when you go out so you can refer to it when you meet people. If they fit any one of those items, just walk away, except for the eyeliner one, that can be ok because boys in eyeliner are hot as long as they do it right, which a lot of them don't so use your judgment if you have any.