A Celebration

I had to call Laura in the management office today of my apartment complex today, and I was hit in the face with a wet slab of retardation. Let's watch a re-enactment:

Me: Hi, can I talk to Laura?
Girl: What building?
Me: Um, the management office? Your building.
Girl: Wait, what building?
Me: 78/79 York. The management office. She works there. [She's your boss, you stupid cow!]
Girl: Please hold.
[Shakira music. Rock out.]
Girl: Thanks for holding.
Me: ....
Girl: ....
Me: Is this Laura?
Girl: No.
Me: Ummm...
Girl: She's not in the office right now. Do you want her voicemail?
Me: No, I already left her something this morning. Can I just have her direct number?
Girl: That is her direct number.
Me: Yeah, give it to me so I can call later.
Girl: *Connects me to Laura'a voicemail*

How does this species even survive?

Maul of America

This is another perfect reason for neurotic people like my mom and ignorant neurotic people like America to never leave the house again. Every time there's an animal mauling, the news media explodes. People eat this shit up. Pun totally intended.

You may not know it because the article is near impossible to find at this point, but there has been a series of shootings all over New York. Unfortunately, all they get is a crappily-written article with no picture. The animal story has trumped it because being mauled is such a shit way to die. What seems to be forgotten at times like this is that getting shot is ALSO a shit way to die. The problem is that shootings in a big city are so commonplace that nobody wants to hear about them anymore.

Shootings aren't real or interesting unless they happen in a school or a shopping mall or somewhere else where the people are innocent and hopefully healthy, wealthy and white. In other cases, there's this general assumption that if a guy (male) gets shot on the streets of New York, he somehow deserved it. He lived in a bad part of town, he ran with the wrong crowd, he had it coming. Who cares, he was probably on drugs anyway. You barely ever hear "Oh, the humanity!" or "Gun control!" after things like that. The school and mall ones, though? They always spark the same tired debate that goes nowhere.

In a similar vein, why is it that when an adult is killed, it's pretty sad, but when a child is killed, it's "Oh, again, the humanity!" and "He had his whole life in front of him!" And at what age does that shift happen? Does a 30-year-old not also have his life in front of him? And why is it that there's a difference between the death of a 20-year-old man and the death of a 20-year-old college sophomore? You know one tugs at your heartstrings more than the other, which is pretty much proof positive that you're capable of valuing one human life over another, you dick.

Here's a quick-reference guide to how people react to the unnatural deaths of the innocent:

  • Elderly death -- "Well, they were gonna eat it soon anyway."
  • Middle-aged death -- "Yeah, it happens."
  • 30-something death -- "Only sad if he/she was hot."
  • 20-something death -- "Pity. What a world."
  • Student death -- "What is our society coming to?? How can we let this happen????"
  • Child death -- [tears] "An innocent child! I can't even.... please, no... it's too much."
  • Baby death -- "I can't believe it! Animal! Why didn't she have an abortion or put it up for adoption?"
  • Miscarriage -- "Yeah, it happens. They were gonna eat it soon anyway."

But back to the tiger. That's what this entry was supposed to be about before I got all distracted with how bad I feel that I'm no longer young enough for people to care if I'm murdered.

HPJC

Anyway, they shot the tiger dead, which I must honestly say I found more upsetting than the death of the man. This is for hippie reasons of the injustice of animal captivity and stuff. Tigers are carnivores. They prey upon the weak by nature. If you're going to put yourself within 50 yards of a tiger, much like mixing with gangs and walking the mean streets of New York, you probably have it coming.

That's not to say that all zoo-goers should be mauled. I like the zoo too. I'm just saying that this is what tigers do. Here's my favorite part of the article:

Officials said that the same tiger, a Siberian named Tatiana, had mauled a zookeeper in front of horrified visitors about a year ago.

Maul me once, shame on you. Maul me twice...

I know the same guy was not mauled twice. Just go with it.

Right, so after this big coup at the zoo, we're going to be hearing all about zoo safety and tiger taming and crap like that. Typical media hooplah. "It could happen to you!" "Wild beasts! In your own backyard?" I hate this stuff, but there it is. They say it's in the name of security and protecting the children and "better safe than snack food", but really it's a sad attempt to make our lame lives sound more interesting.

Don't fall for it. People don't just get mauled. They do, however, just get shot. But that's not so exciting anymore.

Broken Dreams, Broken Glasses

Explosive

I'm home sick from work today for two reasons. For one, I'm sick. Fever, sniffles, yuckiness, ookiness, all that. Whatever, who cares?

The OTHER reason I'm sick is because I broke my fucking glasses last night! I don't even know what happened! I reached up to adjust them, and the delicate touch of my supple hands caused the "ear attachy stick thingy" to snap right off! I would have been better if I sat on them or stepped on them or something real, but they broke in such a pitiful way that it makes me feel more pathetic.

For any of you who have experienced broken glasses, you know it's the worst feeling in all the world. Worse than being dumped. Worse than losing your job. Worse than accidentally killing your pet. (Hi, Kitty!) To quote my favorite movie, "I felt like my stomach was gonna fall out my butt!"

Broken Glasses

So I had to sit through all of Grease, the musical, with my hand to my face. Now I'm home sick, feverish, achy, sweating, and legally blind. The only positive thing about this is that it just put "Legally Blonde" (from the musical) in my head, but after about an hour of repeated refrains, that won't be so positive anymore.

So that's my shitty day. Tell me about yours. I bet I win.

Cookie Party?

I'm back from L.A., where I went for the past week and didn't tell you. There are a lot of great stories I could tell you about it, but there is something more pressing I'd like to discuss.

"Somebody brought in cookies!" Ah, those sweet words are a rare cause for celebration here at the office. We get no Christmas bonus, no proper holiday party, and no free coffee machine, so cookies from an anonymous donor are infinitely more exciting in the month of December. When there's something good to eat at work, productivity skyrockets and Jesus smiles, so it was with great relish that I stalked across the room to the cookies only to find that they weren't real cookies but rather OLD PEOPLE COOKIES! I was so pissed, but I decided to eat one anyway just in case these old people cookies were different. They weren't; it was a nightmare!

Old People Cookies
A colony of Old People Cookies at rest.

In case you don't know, here's a quick lesson in old people cookies from a science and nature magazine I just made up:

The Old People Cookie is a nefarious beast that takes the form of a dry, unadorned, artificially-colored and entirely tasteless lump. Old People Cookies travel in groups called Shitty Gift Boxes. They are nomadic creatures, though they will often settle for brief periods at church receptions, rest home Christmas parties, ghetto blood drives, and the already-occupied houses of old people. Ironically, despite the name, the Old People Cookie has only one natural predator: old people. This is because they produce a natural toxin to which old people are immune. Other species who ingest an Old People Cookie are inflicted with the non-lethal but incapacitating poison that some victims have described as "fucking disgusting." The Old People Cookie is therefore able to enjoy a life relatively free of predation until its natural life cycle ends in staleness, though at what point staleness sets in is often unclear, and the corpse of an Old People Cookie can be passed off as a member of the community for up to 50 years.

I don't know why anybody buys these gross cookies or how the companies that make them haven't a) gone out of business or b) been bombed. The picture above represents how many cookies were on the plate after I took one. It also represents the number left on the plate when I left for the day. NOBODY LIKES OLD PEOPLE COOKIES! STOP TRYING TO FOIST THEM ON US! These were probably a regift of a regift of a gift originally given in 1960.

Fucking Old People Cookies. Fucking old people.

Nobody better bother me because I'm mad.

Flimflammed! Bamboozled! Hoodwinked! Egads, I'm upset!

A friend of mine has seen fit to dangle in front of me a shiny golden trinket, only to reveal later that it resides behind an invisible web of DECEIT!

I was supposed to go to the premiere of There Will Be Blood at the Ziegfeld tonight. I have this spiff new outfit for the occasion (as well as for a show premiere in LA this weekend, but pretend that's not happening to enhance the indignation.) Anyway, it should be clear by the fact that I'm blogging that I'm not wearing my sexy outfit on a red carpet with Daniel Day-Lewis! Instead, I'm sitting at home on my couch ALL BY MYSELF IN MY VOLDEMORT T-SHIRT! Yeah, I was stood up. AM BEING stood up.

Here's a MySpace-style mirror self-portrait to illustrate my annoyance:

Annoyed

Can't you just feel the flames of wrath?

Actually, I'm not in as shitty a mood as I could be, but it sure is fun to pretend. FUCK YOU!

Anyway, since I never post pictures of myself, let's take this opportunity to examine how much I've grown. Here's a closer, less irate, but still slightly constipated-looking shot:

Yeah

You will notice that my hair is quite a bit longer than it used to be. It has also stayed a vibrant shade of red instead of fading to the anemic strawberry blonde of yestermonth. But mostly, I want to show off my new Voldemort t-shirt that I got on the Internet.

I'd also like to point out my enormous Jew nose, proving my ancestry for those who may think I was born gentile like my "friend" did today.

Anyway, enough examining my face. Put it back in your pants. I'm lookin' at you, Bagel.) I'm in a bad mood for being stood up, so I don't feel like being the object of anyone's affection. Oh, and by the way, observe here the cherry on top of a fabulous evening:

Zit

The Golden CompASS (hee hee, did you see what I did with the caps?)

So I saw The Golden Compass last night finally, and I'm going to tell you about it.

Everyone was cast well, especially the little girl who isn't nearly as creepy as I thought she might be. She was actually fabulous and I wish I could be 11 again so we could be friends. Nicole Kidman was fine, in her breathy sotto voce kinda way. Kathy Bates, however, managed to claim the Fierce Diva Award with her portrayal of Hester, this jackrabbit thing. She had one scene and about 5 lines, but she pretty much stole the show. Horribly miscast was that ass ugly child they got to play Roger. I don't know what side of the swamp he came from, but the toads must be happy to see him go.

Moving on, don't expect a recreation of the book. The concepts in the novel are too complex and numerous, so a lot of the film ended up being really talky, but it was pretty ok anyway. The ending fizzled out into this schlocky "movie" ending with no sense of wonder or inquisition like in the book. Without reading the series, I have no idea why anyone would want to see the second movie. The last 5 minutes of this one were utter crap.

Flat Gold
"Lyra, ask the alethiometer
what happened to my breasts."

My number one gripe, however, was the level of violence. There wasn't enough. This movie would have been 1,000% better with a) blood and b) kids getting shot with arrows. Let's examine these two concepts.

First of all, there was no blood in the entire movie despite countless images of people getting mauled and stabbed and one scene where a bear gets his entire freaking face ripped off. Apparently the citizenry of this alternate universe survives on pure willpower because not a drop of anything was spilt the entire film. This is war on snow! The land should awash in the blood of the innocent!

Speaking of the blood of the innocent, there's one scene with a bunch of men in furry hats trying to 'get' a bunch of children, and this whole battle breaks out with witches flying about (as witches do) and shooting everyone with arrows. You're gonna tell me that not a single child dies in this bloodbath? I mean willpowerbath. So that was disappointing, along with the removal of one really important death of a child from the book, which is a proper plot point that I was sad to see go rather than disappointment due to my twisted, violent desires.

Kate Bush
It's just a name, Kate.

One thing that really stood out about The Golden Compass was the score by Alexandre Desplat. It was totally effective and exciting and blah blah all that. Imagine my surprise, then, when the movie fizzled out to the credits and instead of some rollicking overture, I was treated with some hippie Enya new age crap. "Oh Lyraaaaaaa..." It was pretty much the most shit song ever written. Thanks, Kate Bush. In case you don't know who she is, the picture on the right embodies everything that is right and wrong with her.

In conclusion, The Golden Compass is worth seeing only if you are already going to see it no matter what I say.

Good morning, Internet!

It's a miserable day today because I'm starving, hung over, and I can't think of a thing to do with myself. I have to run to SoHo to pick up some clothes--oh crap, and I've had dry cleaning ready since Tuesday. God dammit.

Man, and I can't find my cell phone now... ok, y'know what, screw the blog entry. I gotta get going.

Here, look, the Pipettes released a video for one of my favorite songs of theirs. Watch it.

Inspiration

As you've all surely noticed from your late nights of desperately hitting the refresh button on my blog, I haven't been writing a lot lately. The problem is, I've not been inspired. I don't know why, especially considering I've done lots of great things lately worth writing about. I've also learned a lot of neat things like all about sea monkeys. Yet somehow, when I go to write anything, it either doesn't come out or sucks.

But I recently came across a video from one of my favorite internet personalities, Ze Frank. The video, from his blog, is about inspiration.

I don't know how he does it, but the man is fabulous and hilarious one minute, and then he'll come out with sage advice that makes me feel so good about the world. Ze Frank is the best, and he's one of those people I secretly watch out for when I'm walking around the city.

Anyway, I still have nothing to write about, but in the spirit of "keep on making stuff," I've decided to share some things that might inspire you. From my lack of inspiration, I have been inspired to inspire. I'm so meta it hurts so much it hurts.

Anyway, I'm going with the philosophy here that seeing people be creative will make you feel creative. To begin, this was floating around the Music Librarian Association listserv this morning:

It gets annoying at 3:18, but better again at 4:22. My favorite is the pepper kazoo.

The following is one of my favorite things to watch, largely based on the content at Indexed:

I imagine that man being very sexy.

Ok, I gotta get back to work, and you've wasted enough time watching videos. Loser. The moral of the story is I'm going to blog more even if I'm not inspired, so be prepared for a whole lot of shit in the coming weeks.

Also, speaking of Ze Frank, you should go to The ORG, which is basically this community of who I consider to be some of the most creative people on the Internet just having fun sharing pictures and videos and projects. I'm a member, but you all know I don't do much of anything, so.... whatever, ok.

But before you go, here's a holiday video sorta related to the Vegetable Orchestra one above. It's the most adorable Japanese man ever and his rendition of Angels We Have Heard on High:

Nyup nyup...

My morning:

So you'll very kindly let me have my way today. Alright, I'm going to work.

Quickly! There's no time!

I gotta get my ass out the door to a meeting in a minute here, so two quick things.

1. Look at this picture of a picture of Tyra Banks:

Tyra Eyes

Does girlfriend not have a touch of the crazy eye? Her left eye's looking at you, but the right one apparently sees something more interesting behind you. Is this something everybody has already noticed?

2. I wrote something for someone else's blog. The blog is Ration Reality, and you should read it. The article's about cussing. I also make fun of an innocent 14-year-old boy who's just trying to put some decency back into the world, so if that kind of thing upsets you, you should probably just turn around.

"You smell like a baby prostitute."

meet_pig_pen_big

We went to play at the men's cologne counter at Lord and Taylor during our morning break, and now you can't come within 50 feet of me without your sinuses melting.

First I tried the Diesel fragrance, but it was too effeminate and faded into "Bath and Body Works Vanilla." Since I'm not a 14-year-old girl or Rainbow Brite, I couldn't possibly go all day smelling of that cloying sweetness. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I sprayed some Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue on a card. It reeked. I decided to put Kenneth Cole RSVP, which my coworker was buying for her husband, over the vanilla because that stuff's pretty nice. Now I smell like a man again. Sadly, it's a man who just had sex with a 14-year-old girl or Rainbow Brite.

buddy

But that's just my left side. On my right, I put on Kenneth Cole Reaction because we wanted to smell the fragrance on something that wasn't a piece of paper. It would have been fine, but then this Armenian man (I'm calling him Armenian to avoid calling him "foreigner" but really I have no idea what kind of infidel he was).... where was I? Oh, right, this man came and was talking on his cell phone and probably hadn't showered today because he picked up a sample bottle of something light blue and sprayed a noxious effluvium that made Chernobyl seem like a hamster fart. Naturally, half of it got all over me, so now I smell like 4 kinds of men's cologne and my throat is closing up.

I feel pretty.

Nick Hogan is a Douchebag

Hi everyone! I hope all your Thanksgivings were as fattening as mine! Highlights include: turkey AND ham on Thursday. Not one but two lasagnas on Friday. Steak AND lobster on Saturday. McDonalds AND Arby's on Sunday. The entire weekend was a gastronomic onslaught to rival the Great Binge of '03. It's about time. My "I Ate the Big One" t-shirt got destroyed in the wash.

Speaking of destruction and big things, I'm finally back home in New York where my internet history is not saved on any friend's computer, so I am free to do the important research to which my academic mind is accustomed. I like to learn a new thing every day. Today, I learned that the single cultural icon for which my father and I share an affinity, Hulk Hogan, has a reality show. Chronically behind in all things television and music, my late enlightenment to this program is actually right on schedule.

My dad loves the Hulk. He's met him on more than one occasion at airports, and there are some great signed pictures on our basement walls. Some of my earliest memories with my dad involve laying on him watching WCW (God rest it), and Hulk Hogan's image is this sensory trigger to all of those experiences: the smell of my dad's aftershave, the way he'd yell when one 'roidhead beat up another, and that one fateful day I decided to see what would happen if I pulled out one of my dad's chest hairs. To this day, I'm glad I have none of my own.

The existence of his show comes as no surprise since I got a glimpse of his flagging career last year when I saw him in Bryant Park. Incidentally, seeing Hulk Hogan in person did not cause me to regress to childhood like Hulkster iconography does. Don't ask me why. What does come as a surprise is that he has kids, which I never knew.

Hogans

Obviously--though you could know this without a photo--his wife and daughter look like Russian whores, and his son is an idiot. Fabulous.

Nick and Hulk

The wife is divorcing him, probably for some horrible reason because I imagine him being a nice guy. The daughter wants to be a singer, and I think you should all go support her at your local mall. Anyway, I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about Nick Hogan.

Nick Hogan wants to be a racecar driver and professional wrestler just like every boy does when he's 5. Nick, however, is 17. His racing career is already well underway. He has been stopped numerous times for recklessly driving above the speed limit and has already served time for vegetizing one of his friends in a high-speed car accident. Add in the doofy half-smile and the abominable mohawk to the right and there you go. This is Trixie calling Mach 5! We have a Grade-A Large Douchebag around the next bend.

The only problem with this is that I have this occasional tendency to find douchebags really hot. They may act like morons and pop their collars and sometimes smell kinda off, but there's something raw and animalistic about them that speaks to my inner sex demon.

I've hooked up with a couple of douchebags in my time. One was a guy everyone knew in high school who (SURPRISE!) became gay in college and the other was this Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, Night-at-the-Roxbury-dancing bookie I met here in the city. Both not anything I'd ever show to anyone or even speak to without a quart of alcohol in my system, but I gotta say: Top Quality Coitus.

479px-Nickbolleabookingimage

Douchebags don't care. They're so absorbed in their testosterony douchbagginess that they have no idea what they're doing, but somehow.... SOMEHOW when they've finished lumbering and pawing their way through an hour in the hay, even I'd be willing to bleach my hair, get some implants, and cheer them on in the ring wearing fake nails and a cat suit.

And so, it isn't without embarassment that I resurrect an old regular column that never took off and name Nick Hogan my Celebrity Hard-On for November 2007. Well done, Nick! Don't kill any more of your friends, ok?

Happy Fuckin' Turducken Day!

I'm dating a weirdo--Hey CB!--a weirdo who dislikes meat at that, but I did manage to get past his vegetarian deficiencies by enlightening him to the thrill of my favorite food that I've never had: the turducken. He sounded excited and insisted I write a blog entry with the title this one has, which he made up.

The turducken gets a bit of press every now and then, so you may know of it, but for the uninitiated, a turducken is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken and then roasted. The birds are usually deboned. Observe:

Sliced Turducken

Does that not look amazing? I imagine it being wet and fatty, much like having sex with me in the shower. Dear God, it makes me hungry. I don't even know how people can eat plain old boring turkey on Thanksgiving anymore.

There are variations on the turducken such as further stuffing the duck with sausage. Or, you can make a turduckencorpheail, which is a turducken with a cornish game hen, a pheasant, and a quail inside. It's like those nested babushka dolls, except you eat the turducken instead of taking it apart, getting bored, and being mad you received a shitty toy when all you wanted was a Wii. The point is, meaty bird animals can be combined in any number of ways. It's a medium of exquisite artistry completely lost on you hippie vegetarians.

I'd also like to draw your attention to the mother lode of birds in birds in birds: the Rôti Sans Pareil, or bustergophechiduckneaealcockidgeoverwingailusharkolanbler. It also goes by the name I just made up: Turduckenzilla. You can read the recipe here in Graham Greene's incomprehensible introduction to some weird recipe book. Apparently this dish is an aphrodisiac, which is just what every family Thanksgiving needs. The best part is that lots of those birds are endangered species, which makes juicy just a little bit juicier.

If Turduckenzilla is too much for your family to handle this holiday, I might suggest the simpler goose/pheasant/duck/another duck dish "Gophuckaduck."

Ok, that was a stretch. I'm done now. Have a good holiday everyone, even though mine will be better!

Watch this!

Saturday posting! Weird. I know! Anyway, I want to share a video that embodies two things I did in high school: marching and playing Tetris.

Please ignore how bad they are.

Ganked from: East Village Idiot

Dedicated to: Kev (P.S. 74!)

Also, here's something that should have existed before, but exists now:

Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians

Happy Prattle

I'm gassy and broken out today, so I'm going to think about some positive things about this week. Here they are to brighten up your day too!

For one, I had a non-hellacious experience at D'Agostino's yesterday, which is pretty much unprecedented and might be considered a miracle but for the bottle of water I got not becoming wine. I went in, I found what I needed, I was undercharged for my marshmallows, and I left. No idiot employees. No moronic organization like how they hide the mayonnaise far away from all the other condiments. No babies, no old people, no inflated prices. It was almost like a regular grocery store!

You don't know how much I hate that place.

Secondly, I just found out that this boy exists, which pretty much makes the world livable again.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, the guy that hands out the Metro newspaper (alongside the A.M. New York, this is a free paper that everyone reads on the subway and leaves on the seat) told me I brighten up his morning every day! It made me so happy, and now we're best friends. He said it because even though I don't want his shitty paper, I always smile and say "No thank you." I don't know why I started doing that. I guess he has friendly eyes.

Anyway, my hard work paid off because now he thinks I'm fucking Mother Theresa. Sadly, since he said this to me, he has disappeared. It must be illegal for those newspaper people to have good personalities. The guy doing it now is as surly and in the way as all the others.

Question of the day: Why do we say "Does anyone have a magic marker?" What in hell is so magical about markers?

Also, read this. It's important.

WTF, Vanessa? Srsly.

Last night I finally got to redeem my birthday gift to myself by going to see Vanessa at the New York City Opera with tickets I bought in September.... y'know, for my birthday.

I wrote a paper on this opera and a couple others in college. I think Vanessa's a great opera because I'm not this guy who feels the need to show us how artistic and intelligent he is with bad metaphors and silly jabs at the plebian tastes of American opera-goers AS IF HE WEREN'T ONE OF THEM HIMSELF. Well, to be fair, he's right about one thing, and that's that Menotti's libretto sucks. But I don't blame Menotti.

Here's the plot: Vanessa is about Vanessa. She's a rich girl who has been waiting 20 years for some trick to return to her from wherever he is. She covered all the mirrors and portraits in her house, presumably to create the illusion that she's preserving her youth. More like VAINessa! It doesn't make sense. What makes even less sense is why her niece and mother, who live with her, put up with such melodramatic bullshit. I'd be like "Woman, don't you touch my mirrors! Find yourself a new man or GTFOI!"

'GTFOI' stands for "get the fuck over it!" I just made it up. It applies to every character in this opera.

ANYWAY, the night Vanessa's old lover is slated to return, his son of the same name comes instead because daddy's dead. Now, instead of being sensible and greeting him like a normal, sane person, Vanessa decides to turn her back to him and NOT ALLOW HIM TO LOOK AT HER until he assures her that he still loves her. The son, Anatol, being a total dipshit, decides to say he loves her even though he has no idea who the fuck she is. Elated, she turns around, kisses him, and then realizes he's a stranger. The rest of Act I is quoted directly from an episode of Three's Company. She freaks out, says "Oh my God, who are you?!" and runs out of the room. I don't know why, but I was the only person laughing aloud when this happened.

Then Anatol seduced Vanessa's niece Erika, who falls in love with him but refuses to marry him because he's a gold-digging, smooth-talking user (a character point we must take Erika's word for because there's not evidence for it anywhere else in the libretto.) Anyway, since she won't marry him, Anatol gets Vanessa to marry him. (He's like 19, and she's over 40 by the way... and if I may say, a little bit hippy.) Anyway, Vanessa loves him too because she's demented and thinks he's the same as his father.

Turns out Erika's preggers (oh shit!) and when Vanessa and Anatol announce their engagement, she goes all nutso even though she rejected him, and runs away into the winter forest to have an abortion by hand. I mean what would YOU do? Then Vanessa and Anatol leave for Paris, and Erika puts the covers back over the mirrors and portraits, ending the opera by saying "Now it is my turn to wait."

For what the little drama queen is waiting is never made clear since nobody's coming back for her. There's no reason for her to freak out, I mean she didn't even like the guy. She slept with him ONE TIME. Anyway, her grandmother won't even talk to her anymore because she's being a total crybaby, so I say if she wants to fester away in her musty old house by herself with just her expanding hips and sagging boobs for company, let her. Man, the dude gave her every chance in the world, and even though Vanessa's only happy because she's deluded and refuses to accept reality (the message of the opera, by the way, is that happiness is only found in self-deception and forgetfulness) at least she's happy.

Right, so even though I really like this opera, you have to admit the plot really blows because all the characters are retarded and lacking in dimension. Anyway, I don't really blame Menotti as much as I blame women because they cry too much.

Just kidding, I blame Menotti.

Echo! (Echo!)

You can tell I'm getting fat because my belly button is like 3 inches deep.

I can stick my finger in there up to the first knuckle.

deep

I need a Craigslist boyfriend with a fetish. "Roan cow seeks masculine soccer-playing model/massage therapist. Must enjoy spleunking, Doritos, and body contact because there is no escape."

Pervy Friday (not a regular feature, I promise)

I get so immature at the end of the week. I think I'm being set up for it because it's never until Thursday or Friday that I get music by Anton Titz and Richard Cumming, and I can't help but laugh like a 4-year-old.

Today it's already started with a book of songs from the Triestingtal in Austria. Nothing funny there, right? Yeah, not until you look up Triestingtal on German Wikipedia to find out it's a valley that forms the southern border of the Wienerwald.

First I giggled because of Wiener World. Then I remembered Wald means forest. Now my advanced brain is making up a story about Snow White getting lost in the Wiener Wald. Der Wald des Wieners. There are dwarves. There are monkeys. And mostly, there's magnificent flora.

If I weren't at work, I'd Photoshop you a picture.

Anyway, this brings up an issue that often comes to my mind. That issue is Disembodied Organs of Sexual Interest. I've often heard men make reference to the joys of swimming in a pool of boobs or diving into a vat of.... vaginas or something. I dunno. Basically, total immersion. Not having interacted with a naked breast since my senior year in high school, I find this hard to imagine.

So I turned it around and considered the prospect of jumping into a swimming pool filled with.... well, wieners. And the results are unappealing. I imagine it would be kinda rubbery. So total immersion is out.

But the question is, how much interest comes from the part and how much from the mere fact that it's attached to a person. Consider the following Achewood comic strip. Obviously, isolated breasts lead to insanity.

Imagine now walking through a forest of penises. Or even just seeing one sticking out of a wall or growing from the ground. Would you have any desire to interact with it? Would I?

Some people find dicks attractive and others don't. I, as it happens, do. So, CONFESSION TIME! Given a guarantee of cleanliess and a few minutes of privacy, I would be intrigued by a disembodied penis (but not in a bloody way) enough to see what I could do.

And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

Crossing the Universe Without a Rest Stop

So I walked into work today and wished my coworker Liz a Happy Halloween only to have her tell me that it's still only Tuesday and this week will NEVER END, much like Julie Taymor's Across the Universe.

Kitty Box
Across the Universe

Ok, maybe that's a little h a arsh because parts of it were really good, but in all it had no coherence and was just one musical sequence after another, some of which were good and some of which were "crazy stuff for the sake of crazy stuff and why the hell are there 5 women standing on the ocean right now, I thought this was about the 60's not a pirate ghost story."

I also found it really unnecessary to give the characters cutsey names like Jude and Lucy and Prudence just so other people could sing those songs.

It was very Julie Taymor, who my (new) friend Sam commented "has a good eye, but no taste," which I found a succinct and elegant way of saying it. She's really hit or miss. I did like Frida and heard good things about Grendel, the opera. Anyway, but the acting was ok, the music was great (I've discovered I like the Beatles as long as it's not them singing), and some things worked really well, so I'll give it 2 stars, and to be nice, I won't tell you how many that's out of.

I had something else really important to tell you, and I was planning this great entry on the subway all about it, but now I can't remember. Instead, read this: Jesse Owens: Great American Zero. My friend wrote it.