salabare

PORTLANDIA SONIC PREP WORK

2009-05-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I voyage to Portlandia, and in order to properly enjoy the flight, I need a Marvin Gaye biography and a bevy of enticing sounds.

While in the midst of (procrastinating) making an knockout travel mix for my journey, I thought I'd pull a little mini-mix together (procrastinate) for you, courtesy 8tracks.com, the post-Muxtape online mixtape....

The Anomalies - "1830"
Two dope MCs explore a textured sonic soundscape of rock & hip-hop, with poppy Franz Ferdinandesque undertones...

The Field - "Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime"
This 1980 Korgis hit has been covered by everyone from Beck to Erasure, but homeboy gives it a haunting pulse and a new life...

Hesta Prynn - "Seven Sisters"
Dude, sorry people went sour on Northern State, but if the result is this kind of trip-hip-hop sing-song jam, I'm totally down with Miss Hesta doin' her own thang...

Moray McLaren - "You Make Me Feel Like A Star"
Man. This song is just so pretty. I probably like it so much because I wish someone would sing it to me...

seagull - "End Could Come"
A supberbly fuzzy, anthemic, smart Aussie indie rock earworm...

Wardens - "xxyl" & "Enjoy The Show"
This wouldn't be right if I didn't include a pair of my absolute favorite songs right now...by my own band...

Woods - "Rain On"
I cannot get enough of lo-fi folktronica; it's like sonic bacon or Twinkies or Coke Zero or whatever your vice is...

LISTEN TO THEM ALL, NONSTOP-ROCK-STYLE:

DRY MY EYES SO I WON'T SHOW

2009-05-11T19:47:00.000-07:00

This weekend was transformative. The air shifted; the taste of bittersweet so tangible.

As most weekends do, it began on Friday, innocuously enough. And then, just past noon, it soured on a dime. My mother lost her job for the second time in a year. I offered her words of encouragement - the type that promise that these things happen as they do so that you're propelled forward in life. She and I both know that she'll move onward and upward, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

Then an hour later - the souring day turned rancid. My aunt Karen, like my uncle Roger - her husband - not three years ago, suddenly collapsed at home and died. Found by one of my cousins each time. The shock hit my abdomen like a medicine ball. What happened? No one knows. But it's heartbreaking.

I've never felt compelled to divulge this kind of intimacy on a blog, over the internets, for all of you friends and strangers alike, but this weekend evolved into something profoundly affecting, and it seems right to write.

Later that evening, after I broke my eyeglasses and after my cat sailed out of my window like a flying squirrel by attaching himself to my screen with every claw and pushing outward on his magic carpet of freedom (I found him some time later), I went to bed puffy-eyed, tear-stained, and concerned that there was no way in holy hell I would be able to run a 5k - my FIRST 5k - in the morning.

But I got up, laced the shoes, and went.

I stood in line, waiting for the race to start, earphones in, conscious of the shirt I was wearing - a T-shirt made by a friend, of a friend - Lowry - who just endured a bilateral mastectomy and is in the process of kicking cancer's ass, preparing for an unanticipated and unexpected round of chemo to start in a few weeks. I was proud to run for her.

As Miley Cyrus cried out that the race was on (this is L.A., after all), I slowly churned through the throng, reading the backs of every T-shirt in my eyeline - "I run to support my mother," "I am a survivor," "I run in memory of my sister." Then there were the photos on the T-shirts. The words, the photos, the dates commemorating a loved one's death...

...my "Running Mix" kicked off on my iPod and it was then that Lykke Li caught me off-guard:

"And don't you let me go, let me go tonight..."

And I started to cry. Big fat tears carving through the thin layer of sweat I was already accumulating. I cried for everything - for my aunt and my family, for my mother's job loss, for Lowry, for these people on this course, and the people who couldn't be on this course, and for myself, somewhat in awe that I was even attempting this race in the first place.

That moment forever redefined Lykke Li's "Tonight" for me.

It's an amazing thing when a song's meaning morphs so utterly and completely - and instantly. Just a week ago, that song propelled me around the reservoir, thighs and butt pumping in rhythm with its assumed metronome. Not an ass-kicking song, by any means, but it was a running anthem for me, nonetheless.

Now it sits in my iTunes, overtaken by the powerful moment at that Start Line, weighed heavy with emotion.

My tears soon dried, my mind refocused, and I continued running, more benign fare pumping through my earphones. I made it all 3.1 miles to the end of the race without stopping once, and I decided to turn off the music as I entered the Coliseum. I didn't want an artificial soundtrack for the homestretch. Then I saw my friend Bella waving me on, I saw the finish line, and I heard "Tonight" in my head, and I cried this time, totally overwhelmed and elated.

I cried once more this weekend, very quickly, silently, and unnoticed, while hiking up to Sandstone Peak, the highest point in the Santa Monica Mountains, with my friend Rebecca. After several hours of mildly strenuous hiking, and a steep scramble to the top, we stood on the peak, looking out over miles of mountains, towering over the clouds. While Rebecca climbed over the monument at the top, I felt the familiar sting welling in the corner of each eye. But this time, it was not preempted by any sadness; it was sheer exhilaration. The sting retreated as quickly as it came.

If I - afraid of heights as they come - could climb to the top of this peak, one day after running my first 5k, and two days after receiving some emotionally draining news, I must be stronger than I think, both physically and emotionally.

I think I'll reclaim "Tonight," not as a song reflecting a moment of gut-wrenching emotion, but rather, a moment of mind-boggling triumph.

I will.

Lykke Li - "Tonight"

PLEASE EXPLAIN "INTERACTIVE"

2009-04-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

Coachella was about two things for me:

1. Sir Paul McCartney
2. Other Stuff

I've already waxed on about how Macca stole the show, from loving tributes to Linda (on the 11th anniversary of her death) to the fireworks spectacular of "Live And Let Die" to thousands of people singing "Hey Jude" in perfect unison, but in the category of "Other Stuff," we have:

- M.I.A. (well, mostly her dancers and Rye Rye, who was thankfully there to pick up the rap slack left by M.I.A.'s underperformance)
- Hipster craptards who spent the entire day in the VIP area drinking, admiring one another, and waiting for Jared Leto to sulk by, instead of actually checking out bands
- Horn section from Antibalas + Tunde's badass Latin shuffle = another great TVOTR performance
- Peeing in an air conditioned bathroom behind the stage, only to emerge into a delicious photo op with Kanye "Fishsticks" West
- Getting a contact high at the Fleet Foxes show
- 10pm pizza salvation

And:

OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART A
When Tanya and I checked in to the Hilton Garden Inn in arid, beige, geriatric Hidden Valley Rancho Mirage, California, we were told that our room was given away due to our checking in a day late (never mind the fact that management okayed the late check-in). We sulked, we pleaded, we finally got a room. Before we left the front desk with our hard-won room keys, Snarky Front Desk Guy slipped us each a small grey bag that said "Welcome." He kind of smirked and half-winked and sent us on our way.

When we arrived in the room, it was a suite...with one bed. There was certainly a pull-out couch, but considering it was upholstered with slippery old-man-polyester circa 1972, we thought it wise to ask for a room with two beds, instead. Snarky Front Desk Guy said that the hotel was booked solid, and shooed me off. I sulked back, buoyed only by the promise of Macca later in the evening...and the "Welcome" bag of free stuff. You know how much I like free stuff.

Tanya peeks in hers - "Eh. Coupons." I look in mine...coupons, shampoo/conditioner samples, ponytail holders, Aleve, Pepcid AC, and...

What? No. What?? Noooo. What???

....Silky Glide K-Y Jelly. For Her Pleasure.

Needless to say, upon checkout, we both left our samples for the housekeeping staff.

OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART B
The next day, Tanya and I hopped into Ruby to pick up Cornflake and head over to the festival. While admiring the relative non-tackiness of Cornflake's room, we saw a menu of spa options for Spa Esmerelda. Curious, we opened it...and then saw this offering:

GARDEN OF ROMANCE
Experience this romantic treatment in the spa garden and enjoy the warm desert sun, flowering gardens, and the soothing sound of cascading water. Your therapists will prepare a private bath of herbal elixir to soothe. While soaking, you and your partner will be able to "play in the mud" with an interactive facial mask. Your treatment sanctuary will be adorned with rose petals as you enjoy an aromatic massage.

Two questions immediately arose:

1) How exactly will you and your partner "play in the mud?" Why is "play in the mud" in quotation marks? Is the massage therapist hanging out with you? In the mud? "Playing?" Is "playing" just a euphemism for "sexing?"

2) What exactly is an "interactive facial mask?" While you're "playing," are you using your pointer finger to trace funny things in your partner's facial mask? Is the therapist tickling you while you have the mask on?

I think that my friends who went to the Michael Jackson auction exhibit today were less creeped out than I was after reading that.

MEAT - APPARENTLY, STILL MURDER

2009-04-18T03:00:00.000-07:00

Ridiculous Amount Of Time It Took Me To Get Home From Culver City At Noon Today: 50 minutes

Ridiculous Amount Of Time It Took Me To Drive From My House To Just East Of Palm Springs Today: 4 hours

Artists I Wanted To See At Coachella But Missed Because Of Said Traffic And Also Because The Stupid Hotel Totally Screwed Up Our Reservation And Wasted Thirty Precious Minutes Of Our Time: The Black Keys, Leonard Cohen

(Supposedly) Gay Celibate Husband I Finally Got To See Perform For The First Time And During Whose Performance I May Have Immaculately Conceived Said GCH's Baby By Way Of Osmosis: Morrissey

Reason All That Driving And Shit Was Worth It: Paul McCartney

I wasn't even going to come out to the desert at all (keywords: desert, dry, hot, people on drugs flailing around with glowsticks), but then tickets and super VIP passes magically worked their way into my paws and I couldn't say no. Tanya and I piled into ole Ruby and crawled across the 10, only to arrive at our hotel and find out that they gave our room away due to some front desk misunderstanding/malfunction.

We missed the Black Keys, and we arrived just in time to catch a few Leonard Cohen songs. What I did hear was deep and dark, and did nothing to belie his 73 years. Break it on down, brotha!

Then on to the main stage for Moz, a man I've pined for since the Smiths served as part of my high school trifecta of mopedom. My impressions, you ask?

a) Morrissey is one hot bastard
b) His voice is still panty-droppingly torchified
c) Multiply that by 20

The only odd moment for me? When he started pinching his nose and grimacing and cutting short lines to his songs, explaining, "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human."

Dude, I know you're a veggie, but a) that was creepy, and b) have you never performed in a festival setting before where there's meat a-cookin'?

He ducked offstage, presumably to vomit, then returned and said, "The smell of burning animals is making me sick; I just couldn't bear it," then proceeded to swagger around, grimacing a bit. It totally unsexed the whole thing for me...and oddly, caused me to crave an In N Out Burger, plain, protein-style.

But Paul, OH PAUL!
If you've never seen Paul McCartney live - which I haven't, until tonight - you MUST. He is the consummate performer, he has a catalogue spanning over 40 years (and he performs songs from across the spectrum), and his band kicked all of the ass.

Ok, and there were fireworks. Fireworks always win in my book.

But really - Paul McCartney? PAUL MCCARTNEY?

ROCK GOD!

I must admit that I kind of wrote him off in the "old guy milking his iconic status for dollars" category, but tonight - all three hours, three encores of it - proved me entirely wrong. His performance was simply the best rock show I've ever seen. EVER.

I just want to hug Paul McCartney and never let go.

WHEN FOOT MET MOUTH: A RAMEN TRAGEDY

2009-04-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

When I think of Ryan Gosling, my mind naturally darts to The Notebook - not because I have some sort of estrogen-wired theatrical hard-on for chick flicks (I don't), but because I met him on the set of that movie.

I answered an open call listed in the Charleston City Paper, and though I had to pass up the opportunity to be cast as Nurse due to a work conflict, I was later granted the meaty roles of Moviegoer, Soldier's Girlfriend, and my pièce de résistance, Swing Dancer.

Yes, Swing Dancer.
You had no idea that I could swing dance?
Oh...that's because I CAN'T.

I was on set one day, preparing to channel the inner-workings of Carnival Girl's soul, when the casting director started pointing at me, then walked over to me, followed by director Nick Cassavetes.

Casting Director: We like your look. Can you shag*?
Dumb Me: No.
Nick Cassavetes: Well, can you swing dance?
Quickly Wisened Up Me: YES!

* If you're not familiar, shag is a type of dance popular in the Carolinas (esp. mid-century), popularized by the most awesome Phoebe Cates vehicle of the same name

And so I found myself wearing half-size too small shoes from the 40's, working with an impatient choreographer who assumed I actually knew how to swing dance when I said "Yes" to Nick Cassavetes.

One day, we were rehearsing some very important background dancing for a carnival scene in which the Ryan Gosling character dangles off of a Ferris wheel, trying to get the Rachel McAdams character to take him up on his offer of a date. In between scenes, Ryan planted himself at the side of the stage and worked his way through a cup of ramen noodles.

Shy Stupid "Oh, wow, he's so cute" Me: Oh, ramen noodles! Yum!
Ryan Gosling: Yeah, they're pretty good.
SS"OWHSC"M: Man, I just LOOOOOVE ramen noodles!
RG: Right. It sounds like it. You can get some in the catering tent if you're hungry.

And then I walked away, mortified by the exchange that had just occurred.

I saw Ryan oot and aboot once at a photo show here in L.A., and my gut reaction was, "OH SHIT, that's the guy I orgasmed over ramen noodles to." Then I remembered that I was probably one iota of one speck of his memory, and I slunk away.

Long story short, I'm thinking about Ryan Gosling because he has a band, Dead Man's Bones, with Zach Shields, and they posted a new video just this week, and it's pretty great.

On a visual level, the vid totally appeals to my undying desire that Alfred Hitchcock rise from the Great Beyond and continue making cheeky, yet haunting noir (dream setting: Savannah's Bonaventure Cemetery). I keep hoping for a starring role when this film is made, but sadly, ole Hitch probably hasn't seen my epic turn in The Notebook, and also, he's still dead.

On a musical level, the song is a lo-fi, funereal barge of beauty that morphs into a tambourined clap-along folk barbershop revival, then transitions back into a raw tape-rolling, wind blowing twilight lament.

AND it features the children's choir from the Silverlake Music Conservatory. Five outta five stars for this alone.

MYSPACE: myspace.com/deadmansbones
WEBSITE: deadmansbones.net
WATCH: "NAME IN STONE"

DEAD MAN'S BONES - "NAME IN STONE" from biz3 publicity on Vimeo.

DON'T PUT BABIES IN HERE

2009-04-04T23:48:00.001-07:00

Today I earned the privilege of becoming Headmistress of the School of Stupid Stupids.

I received an unsolicited package in the mail yesterday from Walgreens.com. I sized it up, gave it a few squeezes, and concluded that it kind of felt like a package of sanitary pads, which would technically make sense coming from Walgreens.com, even though I never have and never will order pads from the internets.

Curious, I ripped through the weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing the pad-feeling things were wrapped in and I was pleased to find that inside, it was decidedly NOT pads, but rather a set of photo-coasters that my mom sent.

[My favorite photo-coaster, you ask? The one featuring my lil sister and I sporting our Ralphie For The Modern Era very shiny Candies tracksuit pajama Christmas presents. At the time the photo was taken, my sister put hers on and said, "I feel like a 12-year old Mexican girl." When Kevin saw that particular photo-coaster, he said that she looked like Lady Sovereign. Six or a half dozen, I say.]

Anyways, back to that Headmistress of the School of Stupid Stupids business.

I keep a shredder in my office so that all of those identity thieves prowling the dumpsters outside my apartment can't, you know, steal my identity, and I use it to shred anything with my name and/or address on it. The weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing containing the photo-coasters totally qualified as bearing both.

Before feeding it into the shredder (the 2nd cheapest one available at Target, by the way - I figured the cheapest one wasn't a good idea, but also didn't feel like springing for anything moderately expensive, so 2nd cheapest won out), I paused - should this go in there? Should I just go mental on it with my scissors to prevent identity theft?

No, no, no. The only way to keep my precious personal information private would be to put it in the shredder. I'll just fold it a few times and pass it through.

So I feed it in slowly...and the shredder starts chewing at it...and chewing...sloooooowly...and then I notice a bubble forming at the top of the weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing...and it begins to feed even mooooore sloooooowly....

And then it just stops.

I try reversing. I try using another piece of paper, then an envelope, then a folded-up cover of some magazine I got from Mo's swag bag at SXSW. No dice. This bitch is stuck.

It dawns on me - maybe I shouldn't have stuck a weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing into a paper shredder.

I unplug it and look at the 6 diagrams printed on top of the shredder and decipher their meanings, in order to see if this guy was meant to handle anything other than paper:

- Danger! Warning!
- Don't put babies in here
- Don't high-five the machine while in operation
- Don't put neckties in here
- Don't put 80's hair metal bands in here
- Don't spray paint graffiti on here

Long story short, I ended up sitting on the floor for well over 15 minutes, using a dull pair of scissors to dig out every last stretchy piece of weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing from the shredder's teeth. Eddie Cat Halen watched on in fascination.

Lesson?
If a piece of machinery indicates that you shouldn't feed it babies, neckties, or 80's hair metal bands, you probably shouldn't feed it weird mylar baggie envelope-y things, either.

THE BEST BAND I DIDN'T SEE LAST NIGHT

2009-04-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

Local Natives opened the show I attended at Spaceland last night,but due to working late on ye olde podcast and driving around for what seemed like ten hours looking for a parking spot, I missed them.

Thankfully, Laurie saw them and told me how amazing they were, so I checked them out online today and was incredibly disappointed...

...that I missed their damn set yesterday.

I'm sure they get the Fleet Foxian (and possibly even Bon Iverian, during their slower moments) comparisons (sparse songs, harmonizing), but thought I really love both of those artists, Local Natives have something a bit different goin' on - more of a pop sensibility, a bit more flair for the percussively dramatic, and the potential to be anthemic.

MYSPACE: myspace.com/localnatives
NEXT L.A. SHOW: Bordello, Wednesday, April 8 (tix)

WATCH: "AIRPLANES" ACOUSTIC
This vid is them doing one of their songs ("Airplanes") acoustically in an abandoned floor of a NYC building. Pretty, sparse, haunting, and kinda down home all at the same time...

THE BEST BAND I DIDN'T SEE AT SXSW

2009-04-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

Sometime the buzz'll gitcha...

And then it will toss you off, half-baked, unsatisfied.

Such is the case with half of tonight's show at Spaceland - a post-SXSW double-bill of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart and Austin's own White Denim, both highly recommended to me by various friends and hangers-on during (and after) the festival. When Laurie mentioned that she was headed out to see them both tonight, I parted with $12.25 and joined her, stage left, ready to fulfill the promise of palpable, frenzied capital B-U-Z-Z.

Sadly, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart were just...good. A quick flip of the ole dictionary will tell you that Good ain't Bad, but it's definitely not Great. I like shoegaze, I like a buzzy synth. I like double-guitar attacks. What I don't like are slightly-too-precious-and-shy twee vocals that are nearly inaudible, and when a band has all the stage presence of my grandma taking a nap.

(Love you, gramma.)

South-By Strikeout, sadly.

But White Denim made up for it with their space-rock blues, entirely captivating, even when they tread a wee bit too close to the fuckin'-rockin'-out vs. totally-jammin'-dude line.

Guitar Guy had an array of pedals, including a much-lusted-after Boomerang that I stared at for most of one entire song, and he used them to dive into psychedelia and layer on sounds no doubt culled from teenage years spent immersed in 70's prog rock.

Drum Guy sat front and center and threw alla his weight on the floor tom and the crash, making delightful loud noise after delightful loud noise. Though I called these guys out as being "space-rock blues," Drum Guy didn't dwell in the blues-rock ghetto, and though I loves me a good blues-rock experience, he spanked the blues with a hint of punk and I loved it even more.

Most surprising to me was Bass Guy, who looked like he was swept out of algebra class at the Rock n' Roll Middle School For Clean-Shaven, Ruddy-Cheeked Androgynes, but he ground into his four strings like he was having his way with Carmen Electra or something. You know it's a good show when you're noticing the BASS PLAYER.

No offense to all of you bass players, but really - who watches the bass player at a show? Unless you're a bass player yourself, or you're the mother of one, or you're hoping to bone one because neither the singer nor the guitarist are available and the drummer is just too crazy-seeming, NO ONE pays attention to the bass player.

So kudos you, Pat. Or Sam. Or Chris. Or whatever your name is. Kudos you.

CHECK OUT WHITE DENIM:

NOT JUST GOOD, BUT GRATE

2009-03-30T23:52:00.000-07:00

Halfway through The Grates' set at Spaceland tonight, Giselle shouted out, "MY CHEEKS HURT!"

Presumably, from smiling for a solid twenty minutes straight.
I totally empathized.

On the way home tonight, I tried really, really hard to think of when I've seen such a happy band.
Nope, can't think of such a thing. The Grates are definitely The Happiest.

Drummer Alana sits unassumingly at her kit, permagrin slapped from cheek to pudgy cheek, playing all herky jerky like a kid simultaneously overstimulated and trying to rein in their sugar high.

And singer Patience? White socks cranked around her knees, she bounds around the stage, Siouxsie after shooting up rainbows and lollipops with a sprinkling of meth backstage. She's transfixing, hopping and pointing and smiling and bouncing and Roger Rabbit-dancing and twirling onstage, getting off on the most genuine of connections with her audience. She peeeenches our heads with her forefinger and thumb, dedicates songs to us, comes out and dances with us, places her hand on our shoulders familiarly as she encourages us to join her in chorus. Simply put, she is Happy personified, and I love it.

The icing on the ridiculously sweaty, joyful evening? Unfurling a $20 bill, asking for a T-shirt and a CD, and having Patience lean in conspiratorially to tell me, "Shhhh...you're getting an extra T-shirt in there. It's like there's a menu and you just ordered off of it. You ordered off the menu and you get an extra T-shirt," then patting me on the shoulder, thanking me, and pumping her fist in the air. Awesome.

Watch - "Aw Yeah" by The Grates:

NOPE

2009-03-27T19:28:00.000-07:00

Why is it the men who always reject me?

Case in point, excerpts from the email I just received:

"It could, under different circumstances / planetary alignments etc, have made it all the way..."

I did read that the next few weeks were supposed to be a crapalicious time for we Cancers...

"I sincerely wish that we could..."

Coulda, shoulda, woulda....

"If you're interested in some more detailed feedback, I'll do my best to provide it..."

You know, I'll give him this...most guys aren't this amenable to talking about why it didn't work out.

Yeah...so there won't be a 33 1/3 book on Sleater-Kinney's One Beat this time around.

Bummer, bummer, bummer news to start the weekend, but I'm thankful and proud that my proposal made it to the shortlist. Thanks to all of you who supported me along the way. You're all superstars.

Off to have a tiny little pity party...
xo

SXSW - THE AFTERMATH (AKA - YES, THERE WAS A DAY 4)

2009-03-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

Yeah...so there was a SXSW - Day 4, but I just never got around to posting about it.

That's not to say that it wasn't awesome.
It was.
Or that I didn't see some great music.
I did.

It's just that I went to bed on Friday night feeling like a pound of live Maine lobsters had taken up residence in my entire digestive tract, from gut to throat, and by the time Saturday evening rolled around, I could barely speak, much less muster the energy to comment on what I enjoyed all day through my germy haze.

So let's take a trip back down memory lane. If I recall:

LIGHTS ON
Like a zombie, I amble down Red River to the Red Eyed Fly, to see Lights On at noon. But it's noon:oh:five and the doors are shut. Hmpf. I catch a glimpse through the back - Oh! There's Chris! And Daniel! They will see me! They will let me in! [Ignore fire ants burning my entire esophagus] Texts, calls...ignored. I run into Chris Mollere and we make small talk. Clearly he just woke up, as well. When we finally get in to see the band, they are kick-in-yer-pants electro-synth rock greatness. Why do I have to feel like scorpions are crawling up and down my throat? Why?

PRESS HERE/DOMINO PARTY
Blindly make my way to the beautiful French Legation Museum grounds. Trip a little as I walk in, because my throat is burning like I just spent an entire week crossing the Gobi. Buy water. See Mo. Make feeble attempt at conversation with various people, all of whom probably thought I was either extremely hungover or on really bad drugs. Excuse myself to go die a painful death in my hotel room.

NOPE
As soon as I drag myself back to my bed, Daniel texts that Lindsay Wolfington is around and wants to meet me before she flies home. In 20 minutes. Drink the last Emergen-C in one hot, fiery gulp. Eat cough drops like after-dinner mints. Die a little more inside. Walk 16 minutes to meet Lindsay. Meet Adam Swart. Drink mojitos to quell the sensation of hot lava inside of my neck. Pray the alcohol kills whatever bacteria have taken up residence in there.

CHOP SHOP PARTY
How did I get here? Did I walk? Did someone carry me? I know that I mingled and talked and acted human, but I did not feel human, that I assure you. I think I might have scared Amy Treco with my ghastly pallor.

30 MINUTE NAP
Bliss!

SUGAROO! DINNER
Hot Tea. Ice water. Alternate. Conserve my voice. Feels like this may be my last meal before death takes me in her burning grip. At least it was really tasty.

EUGENE MIRMAN
Tried for a 2nd round of Efterklang, but the line was down the alley. In my weakened, delirious state, I cannot stand in an alley. No. Mo texts. I join she, Ric, & Ben for some comedy at Esther's Follies. Ric hands me a whiskey. It burns the burn that is already burning in my throat. But I am still hopeful that germs are dying with every sip.

DUKE SPIRIT / SILVERSUN PICKUPS
The homestretch. I may faint. I eat 20 Luden's cough drops and drink all of the free water in the cooler. I try not to collapse on Mo and Bronson. Leila Moss lifts my spirits with her slinky Lady Jagger dance moves and raspy howling. Silversuns do her one up with their CAPITAL R-O-C-K. Drew Barrymore pushes in front of us for "Lazy Eye," hippie-dancing, arms-a-waving. I barely recognize her because I am certainly two steps away from death's doorstep at this point.

SLEEP

So that was Day 4, in case you were wondering.

SXSW - DAY 3

2009-03-21T09:25:00.001-07:00

I have the chills, a sore throat, and bags under my eyes. Don't expect any fancy writin'.

YAYS
- Vitamin-packed lunch w/ Shayla of W+K
- Scraggly, dirty garage blues of The Fumes
- Atmospheric waves of shoegazey sound from School of Seven Bells
- N'awlins food, cajun grooves, and fine folks @ Bug par-tay
- The overstuffed cab ride and photo session back across the rivah from the Bug par-tay
- Mojitos and mingling at Bank Robber/Zinc par-tay
- Cajoling my way (with the solicitor) into the NZ party, though I only caught 1 or 2 Cut Off Yr Hands songs before I got let in
- Detour to The Infamous Ric Baca Pool Party, leaving with Metallica press pass around my neck
- Boiling Pot!!!!!!
- Skipping Metallica for a 2nd dose of Mumford & Sons
- High-thumbing w/ Baca, Ben, & Mo

NAYS
- Hoofing all the way over to Scoot Inn to hear some Nino Moschella, only to find myself sick as a dog
- Waking up today with swollen glands

But I shall forge on, Emergen-C willing.

SXSW - DAY 2

2009-03-19T23:58:00.000-07:00

WILDBIRDS & PEACEDRUMS
Soon as I headed over, work summoned me to hotel room, but I put it off enough to enjoy some hearty Nina Simonesque blues scat-bellowing & minimalist tribal drumming. Steel drum! Dude! Where'd that come from?? Do it again!

MARK OLSON & GARY LOURIS
Ran into Eric Danton of Hartford Courant. And uber-Last Town Chorus fan button man guy. And Trish Wagner. And David Hirschland. And gave Marky Mark a big hug. Then wached he and Gary sing sweetly folksy timeless tunes. Beauty.

THE GRATES
Took awesome photo with Mo, as we do. Drank free delicious shot of something and something. Then rocked the fuckity fuck out. Singer is something special. Like "special kid" special. And that's why I loved her. Tube socks! And white polyester shorts jacked up to her armpits. And high voltage rock n roll. And the drummer smiled nonstop. I love smiling drummers. I should smile more when I'm playing. Noted.

THE DRISKILL
Eat. Rest. Eat. Rest. Juliette Lewis, flower in hair. Eat. Rest.

HAWK & A HACKSAW
Tuba, trumpet, violin, accordion = gypsy jammin'. Sorry to the guy I kept elbowing not-on-purpose. And thank you for remaining stoic in the face of adversity.

THE GUGGENHEIM GROTTO
Hey UFO peeps! Word to the up. I like the way our favorite Irish folk rock duo is now incorporating copious ukelele. Uke it up.

THERMALS, BLITZEN TRAPPER
BUST. The lines for these were here to nevereverever. Find Daniel Higglesbeebigglesbeeboo, Nike JT, & others instead. Impressed by Daniel's meticulously ordered, notated, & bolded schedule. Wish my own included "sleep."

EFTERKLANG **FAVORITE OF THE DAY**
Sweet, delicious, melodic, 7-man surprise. I clapped, I danced, I marveled. Sing so pretty, play so pretty, moustache so pretty. All-star jamz, xylophone included. Top notch awesomeness.

SOME BAND I DON'T KNOW THE NAME OF WHOSE BASSIST LOOKED ALL OF 14 AND WAS BADASS
Finally, after nearly 48 hours of text/phone tag, I meet up w/ Kevin Taylor & Libby from the Shooting Gallery. Drinks, rememories, awesome times. Eyes start crossing. Start walking back to room. Well, hey Britt Daniel! Lookin' good. You can turn my camera on any ole time.

BED
Now. Had to skip the Deep Vibration because I may die if I don't sleep. Not an exaggeration. Good night.

SXSW - DAY 1

2009-03-19T00:39:00.000-07:00

BEGINNING
Up at 4:15am. Text from Sir Ricardo Baca at 5am. Double-planing it to Austin. Caloric intake: a Luna bar and a coffee

SALT LICK
Ridin' w/ funny, road-weary Irishmen (The Guggenheim Grotto) on day 1,245,555 of their US tour. Delicious BBQ, first calories after Luna bar & coffee, besides caffeinated mints. (Yes, you read correctly). Start to feel human again. Enjoy the company of Domino, Native Tongue, The Guggenheim Grotto, Max Tundra, Mara from Bug, Mike from McCann Erickson, & JT from Nike. Belly full.

LADYHAWKE
Synthesized 80's lite through a veil of blonde bangs. "She could have been in Labyrinth with David Bowie. Who's got the baby with the voodoo? You do!" I say to Mo. She laughs. We hydrate.

HEARTLESS BASTARDS
Move closer, in Avett anticipation. Meet Carter w/ Rollo & Grady - he skools us in how to get yungins to gitcher drinks when you're at a show. It works. Carter is magic. Heartless Bastards...not so much. First two songs promising walls of wailing blues rock...and then it crawls into a wall and sits there like a dull midtempo country rock lump. They play for entirely too long. We fidget. They close with a number that included three REPEATED solos at the end. Like they're Primus. Or Zeppelin. Or...

THE AVETT BROTHERS
Delicious. Happy happy times. A yungin brings me whiskey on the rocks. Good kid. Ric Baca & Denver gang appear and hugs all around. Delicious hugs and happytimes. But what...5 songs? Turns out the Heartless Bastards, true to their name, played 20 min too long and we all lose out. But Avetts are awesome. And they play a catchy tune from upcoming Rick Rubin album, for which I am simultaneously nervous & excited.

DD/MM/YYYY ** HIGHLIGHT OF DAY **
Mo and I stumble in after Kevin Taylor mentions he might be at Emo's post-Obey. No Kevin, maybe b/c it's Emo's Jr. I just want to say "Elmo" when I type that. This show is THE RAD. (Except for the couple ballroom moshing. Perfect description.) Loud, melodic, punk, spazzy, tuneful, masterful noise orchestrated by 5 superrad Canadian kids. Their guitar broke. Their drumhead broke. Then they said, "We're still looking for a place to sleep tonight. We have a tent. We're sleeping in a tent and our stuff's broke." And then the rocked the shit some more.

MUMFORD & SONS
I go solo. (Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down, so my hair can blow? No.) I realize my Artist band will gain me entry to Artist Lounge, so I go in just because I can. Boring. But there's drinks. Head to Friends. Mumfords = Sweet English trio, looking tired and harried, begging forgiveness as they were stuck at La Guardia (cesspool) Airport for 10 hours today. Somehow, their keyboardist, Ben, did not make the cut. Is he still at La Guardia? Was he deported? Is he in a holding cell? Who knows. But they're sweet little British bluegrassy folksy sweetie pies and though I wanted to deck the girl in front of me who kept drunkenly falling backwards onto me, I had a tender Mumford moment. Even sans Ben.

NOW
Mo is plotting Thurs. I'm plotting sleep. Did I mention the been up since 4:15am L.A. time thing? Yeah. I did.

zzzzzz

WARDENS

2009-03-08T19:58:00.001-07:00

The 2+ year hiatus is over.

Begin the musical stalking:

MySpace

Facebook

Wardens demo to surface very, very soon

WHEN WORK & PLEASURE DOTH MEET

2009-03-06T20:01:00.000-08:00

This morning as we prepared to record Episode 24 of the iTunes Weekly Rewind (feat. the music of The Watchmen, Neko Case, Simon & Garfunkel, and the 20th anniversary of Do The Right Thing), Bobs & Rockbarry were chatting during his call-in about PPP, and I slammed my pointer finger ("index finger," my ass) down on the Talk button:

"Dude, PPP is amazing. We rep them for licensing. They. Are. Awesome."

Then I picked up my laptop, opened my iTunes, and started playing PPP's "On A Cloud," which is just a massively dope, catchy shoop-a-doop hip-hop ride to funkytown. And then I held up my laptop and pushed the Talk button again, and danced around in the control room, swangin' my hips with my laptop in the air. Bobs bobbed his head; Rockbarry couldn't hear or see me because he was calling in to the studio. Everyone else laughed.

Then Bobs requested a copy of the album and Tanya looked it up on her iPhone.
Because "On A Cloud" is the jam.

You have to check these guys out. I'd toss an mp3 up here, but that wouldn't be kosher since I rep them for licensing via my job at Sugaroo!, so you'll have to do the legwork yourself - I can assure you an iTunes download or (egad!) buying the physical product (their brand-new album Abundance) is totally worth it. These guys are the new wave of old school master craftsmen of hip-hop and they're gearing up for a well-earned breakthrough, I hope -

PPP MySpace: Go to "On A Cloud" feat Karma first. You'll thank me.

(Yeah, that one guy totally looks like a baby Tupac.)

It made me think about the redonkulous amount of music that passes through my ears on a daily basis. Some of it is meh, for sure, and some is good, but there are some really, really stellar artists that I have the utter privilege to pimp out on a daily basis. I should probably be turning you on to these every now and then.

Here be a few nuggets for now...

Drumroll...

NEKO CASE
Duh.

Beginning her ascent from the alt-country ghetto into the greater consciousness with her last release Fox Confessor Brings The Flood, Neko Case is finally allowed to own the stage (in the case of Los Angeles in June - the Greek Theatre!) that is so rightfully hers on Middle Cyclone, her 6th solo album after leaving the New Pornographers. Her voice is a singular powerhouse, a bellow both wild and willfully wrangled that simultaneously hits below the belt and forces you to fall in love with her. If you're not a fan of "alt-country" or "country," give Neko a chance. Her music is a complete and utter knockout, and her voice a weapon of mass destruction.

Listen to "People Got A Lotta Nerve" from Middle Cyclone. Then go buy it. If you haven't already.

(And despite all of you naysayers that don't like it for whatever tightassed reason, I think the cover art for this album is badassedy delicious. That woman is not just a firecracker, she's one of those giant wads of dynamite tucked under Wile E. Coyote's armpit).

MIKEY & THE GYPSYS
The Swedish pop train will not be stopped.

You don't know them, and you probably won't hear about them for a while, because a) they're in Sweden, and b) they haven't yet released an album stateside...or in Sweden. But they're about to...and it will be a pitch-perfect piece of expertly crafted power pop, heavy on the infectious choruses and sunbright guitars.

Mikey & the Gypsys MySpace: Go straight to "Echoes" and "Monday." It's like snorting pixie stix while doing a keg stand.

(Since the upcoming album - Enormous Shows Combined is not yet available in full, head over and download the Caravan EP from iTunes to get your sweet Swede on.)

SHAWN LEE
Multi-instrumentalist genius-man

This man works harder than Manny Ramirez or any of those other pro sports crybabies, that I can assure you. He is a wizard of the recording studio, the jammiest of jammers, funkmaster fresh, soul brotha #1, commandeer of a mental musical army. In Shawn Lee Hits The Hits, he Shawnicized everything from Eve to Outkast to Gorillaz to Amy Winehouse. And on his newest, Soul In The Hole, he Shawnicizes the shit outta...wait for it...soul. Guest vocalists galore, spot-on production, total jams.

Preview & buy Soul In The Hole on the Ubiquity Records site - same label as PPP, these guys are clearly purveyors of taste. Start w/ "Jigsaw," feat Nicole Willis, and march on from there.

(When you're done foaming over Soul In The Hole, venture over to iTunes and download Shawn Lee feat. Nino Moschella - "Kiss The Sky" - you can thank me later. Or in a comment or something.)

Now I need to go feed my Eddie Cat Halen so he stops chewing on my leg.

40-LOVE

2009-02-16T12:34:00.000-08:00

The last 24 hours have been a hearty bounce on the musical equivalent of the sweet spot on a tennis racket..

HELL YES: 33 1/3
Considering I've already blasted this across the internets, it's now old news, but for the sheer joy of it - my proposal for Continuum's 33 1/3 series (http://www.33third.blogspot.com/) on Sleater-Kinney's One Beat has been moved forward onto the shortlist. HOLY HELL YES!!!

I WANT TO WRITE THIS BOOK. I really rolled it around in my head for quite some time before sending in the proposal. Hell, I even suggested in my proposal that I probably wanted to write this book after my virgin listen of One Beat. It's an album that has personal meaning to me, but I don't propose to worship drooling at its little indie altar...I see a real story behind its making, it's place in and the demise of the riot grrl canon, and numerous other things I'd be jinxing myself to vomit into the blogosphere. I would totally rock the fuck out of this book for you, friends, acquaintances, and general public, even if you've never heard a single Sleater-Kinney song in your some-odd decades on this earth.

In fact - let's remedy that right now. Courtesy the official Sleater-Kinney website (both from One Beat, of course):

One Beat.mp3

Oh!.mp3

WILDBIRDS & PEACEDRUMS
Dude. Dude. Dude. Thanks to Rachel from Woodwork for turning me on to this...

Avant-garde percussive blues opera that is neither a) as hippie-dippie as the band name might make you think nor b) as pretentious as my description might make you think. Caught their set at Amoeba tonight* and it was raucous and beautiful at once. Sister has some freaky/gorgeous pipes, brother can bang some serious textures out of those drums (reminding me a bit of when Liam Finn goes all shit-nuts on the drums and then loops them and then goes even more shit-nuts on them, but this guy does it without even having to loop them).

Maybe I shouldn't refer to them as "sister" and "brother," now that I think of it, a'cause they're married and all. Neither here nor there.

Instead of my getting all tangential, just check them out for yerself:

*RE: Amoeba - I was there to check out the band, but also to pick up the new Dan Auerbach and Bon Iver offerings. I saw You Are The Quarry on sale, as well, so I thought I'd add it to my Moz arsenal, considering we've been dancing in the same air at the Sunset Marquis as of late...le sigh...

Ok, back to the story. So I go to the check out counter and present the dude with my selections. He starts to ring them up and then I look at them: Morrissey....Bon Iver...Dan Auerbach...and I feel compelled to blurt out:

"OH. Well, it's a rainy day. Don't think I'm going to like, go home and put these on and cry and stuff. Ok?"

Counter dude: "Sure. Ok."

I pay for my saddoe music and when I grab it at the other end of the counter, Counter Dude fires off a sly little zinger:

"Enjoy your crying."

Nice.

SCOTT WALKER, WHERE YOU BEEN, YO?
Completing the triad is my newfound obsession with Scott Walker. I've heard of him, but I've never really listened, until Mo invited me to join her at Bronson's last night for Rock Music Movie Night. Now I need mo' Walker.

Bronson screened the Scott Walker doc 30 Century Man to a small room of friends/music nerds, and it was pretty special. The doc is heavy on the music, necessary since Ohioan Walker became a British recluse of sorts over the past few...decades...and his music has generally not been released in the US (aside from imports, some of which I found tonight at Amoeba).

Now, homeboy is not for everyone. But if you have a yen for art rock, Eno, Bowie, Antony & the Johnsons, and the freakier side of Radiohead, you'll find something here to latch onto. Walker's voice is a wounded spectre against a backdrop of haunted (art)house creaks, booms, and rattles and his lyrics are absolute mysteries (even exec producer Bowie laughs at one point during the doc at how ludicrous some of it is).

The doc opens next Friday, Feb. 27th for a weeklong run at Landmark's NuArt Theatre, and I highly recommend you set aside a few bucks and 90 minutes to check it out if you consider yourself any music fan whatsoever. There's also a par-tay/tribute show next Wed. at Bordello feat. the ubiquitous John Doe, Ann Magnuson, & a slew of others. You should go there, too.

In the meantime, here's the trailer. Dig:

SHORTLISTED

2009-02-15T16:41:00.000-08:00

Friends, drank a lil whiskey for momma, a'cause her proposal for the 33 1/3 series has just moved onto the shortlist: http://33third.blogspot.com/2009/02/shortlist.html

Hard to maintain bladder control and all with the excitement, but try your best. I know I am.

MY PRETTY, PRETTY PONY

2009-02-09T19:41:00.001-08:00

I drove home from work this evening with clogged sinuses (and a bit of a clogged mind). I thought about traffic, I thought about work, I thought about love, I thought about music, I thought about dinner, I thought about friends, I thought about my damn sinuses.

And then I stopped thinking.

The San Gabriels hulked in front of me at the end of the 10, like it was a runway to the moon. They were totally dipped in snow, peak to horizon, and because the sun was setting, they glowed a faint My Pretty Pony pink. It was magical.

I divvied my attention between these glowing rose behemoths and the road (maybe they should have a no-staring-at-pretty-mountains-while-driving law, in addition to the no-talking-on-cell-phones-while-driving law). They were like smooth peaks of strawberry ice cream jutting out of a bowl of palm trees. Delish.

I try not to take this city (or the amazing opportunities it's afforded me) for granted - but sometimes you forget. THEN you see giant pink snowy mountains on your drive home and you remember and you're totally thankful.

You want to see a picture?

I don't have one.

I mean...dude, I was DRIVING.

But here's some photos from last year's Olympic National Park trip to give you a sense of just how sexy mother nature can be...

WAITING FOR AN IRA GLASS VS KANYE FEUD

2009-01-05T19:22:00.000-08:00

Nerdy spectacle-sporting white guys love us! They really do!

Well, at least Ira Glass does. Team iTunes Weekly Rewind just enjoyed a spiritual high after receiving a lovely email from Mr. Glass indicating that not only does one of the most famous names in radio listen to our podcast, but he actually likes it. Just waiting on our ringing endorsement from Elvis Costello, and we should be set...

In other news, I was reminded the other day of the HackTone Records press release I co-wrote last year with David to promote our dear Marky Mark Olson, delineating how he emerged the winner of a hard-fought sales battle against Kanye West...in Norway. Image below courtesy of Cable & Tweed, who ran a lovely excerpt from the release...

NOVEMBER 9, 2007

KANYE OUTDUELED BY MARK OLSON IN NORWEGIAN BEEF

The rock-solid numbers just don’t lie—alt-country troubadour and founding member of The Jayhawks Mark Olson has outsold hip-hop popster Kanye West in Norway’s hottest music feud.

Explains a relieved Olson, “I said I would retire—just plain stop making records—if I didn’t outsell him in Norway. Luckily, my fans still believe in the power of romantic folk rock.”

After a tense few weeks spent combing the blogosphere and eyeballing the charts, Olson heaved a sigh of relief, learning that his solo opus The Salvation Blues has clearly trumped West’s Graduation, selling hundreds and hundreds and hundreds...and hundreds more copies to Norway’s esteemed audiophiles. The beef is over and Norwegian music fans have declared Olson the undisputed winner.

As of press time, the defeated West has yet to comment. Critics are abuzz with speculation that Olson’s Norwegian triumph in the sales wars may even push the embattled 50 Cent further towards retirement in the wake of West’s Scandinavian flatline. The message is clear—Olson’s got game and the hits will keep on comin’.

The trash talking leading up to this point has been fairly nonexistent, mostly because Olson’s a nice fellow and because, well, Kanye probably wasn’t even aware of the Salvation/Graduation feud in the first place. But that doesn’t stop HackTone Records’ David Gorman from commenting:

“This is a great day for romantic folk rock and for HackTone in general. We have nothing but respect for Kanye and we look forward to a rematch when both he and Mark are ready to drop their next joints on the Norwegians. Either that or Kanye and Mark could just bury the hatchet and collaborate on a new track. Mark’s a wonderful lyricist and a terrific harmony singer, qualities Kanye can no doubt appreciate.”

Team HackTone remained professional throughout the nail-biting chart-climb, but maintains Gorman, “We always secretly knew that when squared off, Mark would totally top Kanye, especially after the Norwegian press went bonkers over the album. Victory is spelled O-L-S-O-N and man, it’s sweeeeet.”

Indeed, the Norway critics still can’t stop throwing stars at a pleased Olson and his album. Says popular daily paper Dagsavisen, who rated Salvation 6 out of 6, “Et fint etterord til et album som fra før var så godt som perfekt.” Not to be unsportsmanlike, but it’s pretty much a sure thing that Kanye was barely a blip on the Dagsavisen radar.

Olson, ever the kind soul, is quick to add, “But that Kanye’s a good guy—seems real nice, a hard worker...salt of the earth.”

###

BLAST FROM THE PAST: THE ELECTED

2009-01-04T15:20:00.000-08:00

Occasionally I'll throw you a bone from my journalistic past, mostly when I can't think of anything witty to post in the present.

NOT SO SUN, SUN, SUNNY
The Elected's crabby Blake Sennett

(From Charleston City Paper, 11/8/06)

Dear Blake Sennett,

Thanks for talkin' to me today, before debarking in — wait, what did you call it — "Shittown"? "Doodooville"? (FYI: I'm pretty sure the locals call it "Cleveland." Just think about that before you launch into any on-stage shout-outs.)

Anyway, I was really surprised when you played at the Farm last year with Rilo Kiley and packed it. That place never gets full. Well, except for that time GWAR played. But I had to leave early because I felt sick. GWAR will do that to you.

But here's what I really want to ask you, Blakey: why did you sound so morose on the phone? I know that the whole Rilo Kiley touring with Coldplay thing probably wore you out, because you had to spend several weeks dodging Gwyneth and the wee Martins, but are you really that depressed? I mean, we pretty much started our phone conversation with you telling me, "I hate life," and then kind of sarcastically suggesting that my own life was probably "full of vigor and a yen for each day." Not lately, but that's beside the point.

But seriously, dude, the new album by your "side project," The Elected, is called Sun, Sun, Sun! Now, isn't that a happy name for an album? The music's pretty upbeat, although all of the songs on there seem to be about what a lonely dude you are — love lost, breakups, lost lovers, and the like (which you reluctantly pointed out were autobiographical, after pretty much telling me that you hate talking about your songs and giving me the bozo generic "I guess I just write about life stuff" line).

Blakester, don't you have happy things to talk about? Do you always sound like Conor Oberst without his Zoloft? Is there not a joyous bone in your body? I mean, you're in not just one, but two popular bands. People love your music. People want to curl their fingers around that new moustache of yours and pat you on your suede-vested back, and not just because they like guys who dress like they just dropped in from the '70s.

Despite the sad-sack lyrics, you generally write the kind of pretty songs that make me want to snuggle up on a bearskin rug in my nightie and write in my journal. With a cup of hot cocoa. It's warm stuff, and I'm just having a hard time reconciling that with this guy on the phone whose only response to my heaping piles of hot praise was a limp offering of, "I don't know. We bring the thunder, I guess."

Maybe you needed to talk about other things — like the CMJ Marathon, where you were playing last week! I figured we were on the right path when you called me "Shawntizzle" and offered to have your bassist sing a song at the show I was attending. We were buds! But then, you turned right back into Señor Sarcasmo and launched into a parody of CMJ-goers by spazzing out into the phone, "It's 2001! I've got to see Clinic! Oh my god, it's 2002 and I've got to see Ladytron!" right up until you hit 2006.

Actually, I didn't really mind that so much. It was at this point that you kind of commandeered the conversation into forcing me to go online and search for the name of the headmaster, or deacon, or whatever-the-hell-he's-called for the Polyphonic Spree (which we discovered is Tim DeLaughter, not TimmyLovesnake, as you suggested).

You know, I realized that you were probably just tired. You did sound kind of happy when you told me that Elvis Costello once called bandmate Jenny Lewis to share his love for Rilo Kiley. The sun shone for a brief moment, Blake-o-rama, and that gives me hope that you might just keep on making good music instead of diving headfirst off of a cliff.

Affectionately,
Shawntizzle

(I really love my new pet name — you said it with such warmth)

OH DIRTY RIVER, COME LET ME IN

2009-01-01T21:11:00.000-08:00

So I did it.

Yesterday, on New Year's Eve, I submitted my first book proposal. Despite my later appearance at Tiki Ti to sip sweet, rummy dranks with sweet, rummy people, this is how I truly let 2008 go raucously into the good night, my final truly meaningful act of the year.

For those of you who are curious, I submitted a proposal to Continuum's 33 1/3 series (33third.blogspot.com). Each book in the series is written by a different author and tackles a different album; I chose Sleater-Kinney's One Beat.

It will be some time before I receive my rejection letter, and maybe then I'll decide to post my proposal in an act of catharsis, but in the meantime, I offer a very heartfelt thanks to all of you who supported me along the way and congratulated me when I was high on a superbad combo of exhaustion and exaltation once I turned that bad boy loose to the emailverse.

I've called myself a writer for the last 7 or 8 years, but no matter the outcome, now it finally feels true.
Amen.

TOP 10 OF 2008

2008-12-30T11:32:00.000-08:00

I know you're wondering to yourself, "Self, what could Shawnté possibly be listing here?" You may be confused and/or confounded, and that's understandable since, of course, I could very well be presenting any one of my well-researched lists of:

* Top 10 Cheeses of 2008
* Top 10 Words Created and/or Smooshed Together With Kathy in the Hackmart Office
* Top 10 Terms of Endearment Cooed Whilst Snuggling Eddie Cat Halen
* Top 10 Daydreams About Chocolate
* Top 10 Methods for Procrastinating When There is Work to be Done
* Top 10 Lusted-After Items from Anthropologie
* Top 10 Scenarios Cooked Up in Head for When the Day Comes that I Meet Joaquin Phoenix
* Top 10 Beats Created on Steering Wheel and/or Thighs While Driving To and/or From Work

But alas, you will have to wait another day to learn what might comprise those extraordinary lists. Instead, I'm going to go out on a limb here and gift you with my totally subjective list of my Top 10 Albums of 2008.

Surprise, surprise.

TOP 10 ALBUMS OF 2008
In No Particular Order
(Ok, in alphabetical order)

THE AVETT BROTHERS - THE SECOND GLEAM
I wish I'd taken Caitlin's advice sooner and given these Carolina mountainboy-lovehunks a listen a few years back. Luckily, fate intervened when I discovered that an entire chunk of my LA posse was in love with these (mostly) brothers and their harmonious punk rock-meets-back porch holler. When Mo gifted me a "Favorite Avetts" mixtape (er, CD...), I was hooked...and just in time to be wooed at Red Rocks during the Monolith Festival. I would marry them all if I could. Long live the Avetts!

THE BLACK KEYS - ATTACK & RELEASE
Dude, THANK YOU, Danger Mouse. For reals. The Black Keys were great before, but this album was positively stratospheric. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, it was like Cee-Lo was right there, wearing a tu-tu and bowler hat, singing right alongside with The Black Keys. This was space-jam blues-rock at its best. Holla!

DUFFY - ROCKFERRY
With Amy Winehouse up shit creek without a paddle or her Blake incarcerated, thank Wales for producing this little Lulu for the aughts. Her songs aren't anything new, per se, but with her vocal chords wrapped around that slinky 60's girl-group production, ain't no one gonna mind if she's sangin' the same old songs. Bonus points for the infectious title track and how I think of it every time we're recording the iTunes Weekly Rewind and David says, "What's happenin', Rockbarry?"

THE DUKE SPIRIT - NEPTUNE
You gotta see 'em live. Leila Moss is a slinky little minx on stage, all legs and attitude. Oh, and fucking ridiculous pipes. The rhythm section steals my heart every time I give this CD a listen - the build-up in "This Ship Was Meant To Last" gives me goosebumps and would totally make my "Top 10 Beats Created on Steering Wheel and/or Thighs While Driving To and/or From Work" list if that was a real list. This album makes me want a set of floor toms in my bedroom.

FLEET FOXES - S/T
Thank you, blogosphere, for bringing me Fleet Foxes. Listening to this album transports me to the forests ringing the outskirts of Portland, where I have never even been. It's that powerful! What made me even happier and further ensconced this band in my Yes Yes YES file was watching them live and realizing that if angels were bearded, wore flannel, sported hippie hair, and were total geekboys, this is how they would sound. Good lord, those harmonies! Good, good lord.

FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS - S/T
Whenever I listen to my husband (Jemaine) and his sidekick (Bret), it's business time. I had no idea such wickedly gifted musician/comedians existed on this lonely planet until the land below the land Down Unda unleashed this freakishly talented and gorgeously hot-like duo upon us. Are your nipples hard, Bowie? Are your rhymes bottomless? Is that why they're called business socks? Is it the Year 2000, the distant future?

THE KILLS - MIDNIGHT BOOM
This is one of those rare albums that makes me want to do some sort of delicious combination of dancing, playing the drums, and making sweet dirty love. In fact, after seeing them live, I kind of wanted to make sweet dirty love to Jamie Hince, because about three chords in on their opening song, he started looking ugly-pretty like Tyra always says on ANTM. I love blues-dance-electro-rock. I really, really do. I don't care if it gives me fugly rock musician goggles.

LOVE PSYCHEDELICO - THIS IS LOVE PSYCHEDELICO
In the efforts of full disclosure, my name is on this CD packaging, and about 9 months of my life was put into promoting this damn album. But you know what? I fucking LOVED this album. Syrupy sweet Beatles-esque Zeppelinified dancey-dancey pop rock n roll to soothe my soul. Even though half of it is in Japanese, I still sang every word, even if it sounded like "lame in like I did it, same on I three days punt" when I sang the Japanese parts. I still don't understand why "Everybody Needs Somebody" didn't end up on an iPod commercial. Damn the damn.

NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS - DIG, LAZARUS, DIG!!!
Oh, Nick, you sexy menacing man, you. I thought you topped it all with Grinderman. Clearly, I was wrong. Here, you bring back some of that dirty carnival barker-meets-seductive señor magic you did so well in the past, and allowed the Bad Seeds to grind out the rock. I know that I'd probably have nightmares if you sang me to sleep, but I wouldn't mind one bit.

TV ON THE RADIO - DEAR SCIENCE
Do these guys ever make non-genius music? If so, they must hide that shit away because this album, like their others, blew me away with the first song, "Halfway Home," and just kept on going until the end. Walls of noise, layers of sonic fuzz, loud hints of disco, and ridiculously smart lyrics...and even some Massive Attackian whispers, like on the addictive "DLZ." Plus, it's so much fun to say "Tunde Adebimpe."

OTHER STUFF I LIKED A LOT

BIRDMONSTER - From the Mountain to the Sea: San Franciscan Fugazi folk rock

BON IVER - For Emma, Forever Ago: Enters Northwoods Wisconsin cabin a heartbroken boy, emerges a heartbroken man

BLITZEN TRAPPER - Furr: Like snuggling under a fleece blanket with a stubbly-faced mountain boy

THE BREEDERS - Mountain Battles: Because they didn't give a fuck about critics, they made this avant-garde delight

THE CURE - 4:13 Dream: I love you, Fat Bob. Marry me.

DEVOTCHKA - A Mad & Faithful Telling: Haunting gypsy chamber pop for lovers

THE EXPLORERS CLUB - Freedom Wind: Carolina boys channel Brian Wilson & the gang to marvelous effect

GNARLES BARKLEY - The Odd Couple: Eerie-hop from two of the freakiest minds in music

MY IMAGINARY FRIENDS - This is My Knife: A honey-voiced Erin Armstrong wins with heart-on-sleeve and fingers-on-piano

THE PRETENDERS - Break up the Concrete: Chrissie still has the mojo, baby!

THE RACONTEURS - Consolers of the Lonely: The White who?

SCARLETT JOHANSSEN - Anywhere I Lay My Head: Listen, haters, I liked it.

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE - soundtrack: Made me want to scoop up everything A.R. Rahman's ever scored...

TEDDY THOMPSON - A Piece of What You Need: A late find, but a hot one - Richard & Linda's baby boy has The Gift

So...now get all of this on iTunes or at Amoeba! NOW!

2008 – THE COUNTDOWN

2008-12-10T15:17:00.000-08:00

It’s been a good one, I must say—probably the best in memory. As always, it’s been a year of changes and adjustment, but it’s also been a year of incredible good fortune and fun:

1. Having the best family & friends in the universe. I win.

2. Participating in the birth of my dearest friend Christy’s baby boy, Oliver. Speechless.

3. The whirlwind Denver music festival adventure that was Monolith. Now Ric Baca, The Avetts, and Sputnik mimosas hold a dear place in my heart.

4. Being home in Wisconsin. Camp & GC Crew reunions were topped only by a mother-daughter day in Door County, complete with fish boil and sunset on the shore of Lake Michigan.

5. Watching my job at HackTone Records segue into two amazing new opportunities, allowing me to remain pleasantly swamped under a deluge of music every day, all day.

6. Voting for Barack Obama and for the first time, being overwhelmed with emotion as I marked my ballot.

7. Getting a handle on this gluten-sucks bizness and watching my body return to full health.

8. Waking up each morning to Eddie Cat Halen, the most loving ball of fur to trot on four feet.

9. Driving across these great states with MaryEllen & Max, through rainstorms, dust devils, hurricanes, missing headlights, monsoons, and handicapped-accessible rest stops in Mississippi. We made it – with style, and more than a few mementos.

10. Spending my 30th birthday at a cabin in Big Bear with some of the best people I’ve ever met, who created for me the best birthday treat I’ve ever eaten, and even provided shiny unicorn-themed party hats.

11. Riding a beach cruiser around the gorgeous streets and alleyways of Charleston with the two most lovely ladies, on the loveliest spring day – then chowing mushy, salty boiled peanuts on a curb in our skirts, bikes at our sides, totally carefree.

12. Returning to New York after two years’ absence to vague terrorist threats, alone time at the Met, gluten-free pizza, Gencarellaville, scenic Montclair, my old blue casserole dish, and a lot of ridiculously great people.

13. Enjoying Disneyland 5 times in 12 months. This needs no further explanation.

14. Being very pleasantly surprised at the power that is Patti Smith, and remembering that music can often make times and friends far away seem completely within reach.

15. Experiencing a 4 Non Blondes weekend in Encinitas, and being in awe of both Henry Herms’ tortillas and Henry Herms, himself. Always knew Mo came from great stock, but that made it crystal clear.

16. Interviewing my dream man, Jemaine Clement of Flight of the Conchords. We briefly touched hands while I asked him dumb questions about banal subjects for a magazine that wouldn’t care. It was magical.

17. Discovering the Museum of Jurassic Technology on an In-N-Out-fueled day with Alex. Then going back with MaryEllen and discovering that the place was a WHOLE lot bigger than I realized.

18. Watching the Cure at the Hollywood Bowl. I cried during the encore (ironically, “Boys Don't Cry”).

19. Cracking eggs, singing karaoke, drinking tequila, rolling baklava, and delicately peeling off browned spit-roasted crunchy delicious lamb-bits during my first Greek Easter.

20. Enjoying a wine-and-cheese-fueled weekend spent at a faux-gypsy encampment nestled on a lake outside of Paso Robles.

So - thanks to all of you who were a part of all of these memories and the quadzillions more that would have taken up too much space here.

I THINK I'M PARANOID

2008-11-30T11:25:00.000-08:00

Apparently it only takes a few days back in New York City to set my mind at unease.

Laura and I hustled over to Penn Station Wednesday evening to meet up with Cousin Kevin, so that we could all journey on down to the Dirty Jerz, where copious amounts of delicious Gencarellaville treats and booze were laid out in preparation for our impending arrival. Osso bucco. Jigsaw puzzles. Whiskey. All for us to consume.

We were on a mission. We fought our way through an extraordinarily chaotic and packed terminal and tried to find the ticket line. ANY ticket line. Any line. Any ticket.

Me: Laura, it's kind of busy in here.
Laura: Well, it's the night before Thanksgiving, of course it's busy.
Me: But it seems kind of weird, like something is wrong -
Announcer: Attention all...jumble...due to...mumble...there is only one track...jumble mumble...in and out...mumble...Penn Station...

No. There was not ONE train track in operation on the busiest travel day of the year. LIES. I couldn't have heard that right. There was tender veal an hour away. It couldn't be.

Me: So, hey, Laura - did you hear that? I think it said something about there being only one track going in and out of Penn Station.
Laura: No, couldn't be. Let's get in line and get our tickets. We'll figure it out.

We get in line. This line goes on and on and on and on and on. I suddenly feel as if I've been deposited in the train station of a third world country, left to fend for myself in the massive herd. No matter - I'll look at the Departures board and see what track we'll be leaving from:

Departures Board: Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled. Standby. Standby. Standby. Standby. Cancelled.

Hm. I start to get paranoid here. Wondering, worrying what might happen if there really is only one track in and out of Penn Station tonight, if that sweet, tender, juicy veal will be cold when I finally take my teeth to it.

Nonsense. We ask a guy next to us what's going on.

Guy Next To Us In Line: Oh, well, I don't know if this has anything to do with it, but did you hear about Mumbai?
Us: No?
GNTUIL: Oh, well, there were some major terrorist attacks there. And there's some sort of terrorist alert for New York right now.

This is when I whipped out my iPhone (dear, sweet electronic manna) and started reading. Oh dear. Oh jesus. Oh lord. What is the world coming to?? Those poor people in Mumbai. And what's this...credible information about a terrorist attack on New York? Around Thanksgiving? On the rail transport? ON PENN STATION?!?

Sonofabitch. I want to go. Now. I do not care about veal. I do not care about Thanksgiving. I do not want the terrorists to get me.

Oh man. I'm afraid. They've already gotten me.

I keep these thoughts to myself and Laura buys the tickets. We spot Cousin Kevin. I start having a meltdown about how we will never leave Penn Station and we will never make Thanksgiving and we will never eat veal or drink whiskey or make puzzles and I'm thirsty and I'm hungry and WHY AREN'T THE TRAINS LEAVING? DID THE TERRORISTS GET THEM???

Laura: SHUT UP, SHAWNTE

I shut up.

When they finally call the next train for the one track that was both going in and out of Penn Station, there was a massive rush of people. Laura muttered something like, "This is how people get killed," and then right away, all I could think about where those holy pilgrimmages in India where the people got killed in a stampede and if anything, it made me stop thinking about terrorists for a minute.

They finally called our train and we boarded. I sat across from Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who reeked of day-old Popov, with a hint of Coors Light. I didn't care - we were on our way to veal; the terrorists could not stop us.

And then we sat.
And we sat.
And we sat some more.

And then the conductor made vague allusions to some problem on the tracks being the reason for the delay, and once again I thought that the terrorists were going to get me and most of all that my mom would be pissed that I was dumb enough to take public transportation when the terrorists were totally waging jihad against Penn Station. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Sorry, mom.

I did not tell Laura or Cousin Kevin about any of my paranoid thoughts, because I think I came about 2 tiny little filaments of angel hairs away from Laura slapping the shit out of me on the platform, and I didn't want to encourage that trend.

We sat in silence, Kevin at the front of the car, Laura across the way, and me facing Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who was having a field day taunting the restless grade schoolers across the aisle. We had been sitting there an hour. The children went rogue; their father's head was laid gently in his cupped hands; their teary-eyed mother was searching for valium, and Mac McAlcohol-Breath was threatening to pop their balloon.

Then the train moved!
I cheered.
THE TERRORISTS DIDN'T WIN! I'M GOING TO HAVE VEAL, MOTHERFUCKERS! DELICIOUS, JUICY, TERROR-FREE VEAL!

Train Conductor: Sorry about the delay...as we mentioned, there was a fire in the tunnel, but now we're on our way!

YOU KNOW, TRAIN CONDUCTOR, HAD YOU MENTIONED THAT WE WERE DELAYED BECAUSE OF A FIRE IN THE TUNNEL AND NOT BECAUSE THE TERRORISTS MIGHT BE COMING TO GET US, I MIGHT NOT HAVE MENTALLY COMPOSED MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT WHILE WAITING FOR THE TRAIN TO MOVE. THANKS A LOT, JACKASS.

And then I settled in with Sudoku.

MY LIPS HURT REAL BAD

2008-09-21T13:44:00.000-07:00

Dateline: Saturday, September 20th - Liam Finn at the Echoplex

After watching his surprisingly high-energy magnifico set at Monolith, I wanted to see Liam Finn bust out his crazy shit here in L.A. I won a pair of tickets online and took my dearest MaryEllen for a night of Kiwi rock.

Towards the end of the Veils' set, before Liam's set, MaryEllen and I went for a lil rester and sat down to chat about our extremely awesome and exciting lives. That's when I saw him again...

The same guy we saw earlier, lounging in a dark corner by himself. He was wearing skinny jeans, a ruffled shirt, and a piercing stare. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't figure out why. He was slightly disturbing. Also, he was walking toward us. Kind of lumbering straight for us, like a tall, skinny, dark-haired Igor with a ruffled tuxedo shirt on.

Ruffled Shirt Weirdo: Excuse me, do you mind if I awkwardly join your conversation?

Me: Um, I guess you just did.

He sits. We exchange pleasantries and realize that he, too, won tickets from the same blog.

Me: Um, well, didn't you win TWO tickets? Why isn't anyone with you?

RSW: Oh, well, no one wanted to come with me. They were all busy.

Awkward silence.

Yeah, they said they were all busy, dude. That's what they said.

MaryEllen: Well, I guess let's do the basics - where are you from, what do you do?

He lets out a squeaky, George McFly laugh.

RSW: Well, I'm a writer.

Me: Oh, ok. What kind of writer?

RSW: [Fidgeting awkwardly whilst awkwardly conversating] Well, a screenwriter. But I have a day job to pay the bills, since it's not working out so well yet.

Me: Oh, I know a screenwriter.

Awkward silence.

Me: Um, so what's your day job? Doesn't seem like you like it too much?

RSW: Well, I work at Universal Studios, on the back lot tour. I play Norman Bates.

OF COURSE YOU DO.

Me: [Incredulously, realizing that there was a reason that he was so eerily familiar to me] OF COURSE YOU DO. YOU LOOK JUST LIKE NORMAN BATES FROM PSYCHO>

He smiles. Awkward silence.

Me: [To MaryEllen] Um, I think I hear a guitar tuning. [I didn't actually] I bet that's Liam Finn. We should go. [To RSW - ] Enjoy the show!

Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo: [Stands, follows us like a zombie about to siphon our souls from our bodies using only his teeth and a thin piece of cheesecloth] Oh, okay!

He parks himself squarely behind us as we wait for Liam Finn to appear magically and save our souls. I realize that I am in desperate need of some Chapstick, but remember that I lost it at a luncheon on Friday. At that luncheon, you see, I sat next to the son of the founder of Tacori Jewelry, who offered up his Chapstick without a second thought when I realized that I lost my own. Yeah, that was weird.

So, anyways, MaryEllen looks at me, clearly sorry, and says, "No, I'm sorry - I don't have any."

Then I hear a voice from behind me. Oh, dear.

NBRSW: Did I hear you asking for chapstick?

Awkward silence.

NBRSW: [Pulling something out of his pocket] Well, you can use MINE.

No.
No.
No.

Me: [Digging frantically for anything I can find in my purse to smear on my dry, cracked, parched lips] Oh, no, no, no, it's okay. They're not really dry or chapped, really. I'm fine. I'll just put some of this on. [As I smear on the driest lipstick ever formulated in a factory full of Chinese peasants]

When MaryEllen needed to use the bathroom shortly after Liam's set started, I felt a ball of fear grow into my stomach. I dare not turn around, lest Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo Chapstick-Offerer Man try to kidnap and mummify me. MaryEllen returned; she ran into our friend, J. Lynn. Cool.

Then J. Lynn appeared and hugged us both. And Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo Chapstick-Offerer Man bolted away like he just realized we had Asian Bird Flu. It was awesome.

MaryEllen and I physically ran out of the nearest exit as soon as Liam left the stage.

WHERE IS THE HIDDEN CAMERA, I ASK?

2008-09-20T14:07:00.000-07:00

Dateline: Saturday, September 13 - Monolith Festival @ Red Rocks, CO

Though Monolith was a music festival of epic proportions, the availability of foodstuffs totally blew. My fellow festivalgoers and I decided to wander down to the VIP lounge for some tender vittles (i.e. things that weren't fried and/or grease-choked).

Sadly, it was explained (rather rudely, I might add) to my compatriots that they were no longer serving food, but that perhaps there were some crusty old hot wings left over.

After some time and deliberation, the rest of my pack procured some shitty burritos and I settled down for a dinner of potato chips and empty dreams. Then Giselle noticed the chef behind the salad bar...

Giselle: Just go ask him for a salad - you know all the food is still out. And he's looking right at you.

I threw him a quick, hungry glance. He certainly was looking straight at me, almost straight through to my empty chamber of an acid-churning stomach.

Me: I don't know...[Giselle interjects with repeated encouragement]...Oh, OK."

I wander over and upon closer inspection, the "chef" looks like a younger, rangier Christopher Lloyd, perhaps just sprung from jail or the halfway house across the street from MaryEllen's apartment. I cleared my throat, and set my chin on the counter, trying to look as pitiful and starving as possible...

Me: Hi. Um, I know you're closed - but, um, I'm allergic to wheat and I can't find anything to eat upstairs that's not fried or breaded...um...uh...I really just wanted a salad...

Chef Jail Break Lloyd: [Leaning in, conspiratorially] Say, what if someone was to go back and tell the chef that there was a lady out here with low blood sugar, who needed to eat...what would that lady want?

Me: [Ah - I see - he doesn't want everyone else to know that I'm getting an after-hours food gift!] Oh, just a salad is fine - whatever's easiest.

CJBL: Ok. Go back and sit down. Look for me.

Then he retreated into the kitchen. I sat down with a smile and informed the group - and then he came back out and I walked back up.

CJBL: [Leaning sideways, speaking in a whisper, eyes glancing at me, sidelong] Chef says three-fifty.

Me: [Totally grateful] Ok!

CJBL: That's three DOLLARS and fifty cents.

Me: [Still totally grateful] Hey - no problem - let me just got back and get my wall-

CJBL: Yeah, but if it were ME, I wouldn't make you pay nothin' for the salad. Ok? You understand?

Ok, that was a little weird, but whatever. I went back and got a fiver, since none of us had exact change. That way, I could tip Chef Jail Break Lloyd and feel good about the deal I just scored on a salad. I love salad! Well, unless it's a free salad that a man in a squad car is trying to give to me, for no apparent reason.

But that was Brooklyn and this is now. I walked back up with my five tucked in my palm and slid it across the counter.

CJBL: [Noticeably angry] What is this?? I told you THREE-FIFTY. THAT'S ALL I WANT. THREE-FIFTY!!!

Is this guy for real?

CJBL: Whatever. Listen - what do you want on the salad?

I tell him. He asks what kind of salad dressing I want; I say Italian.

CJBL: What KIND of Italian?? Jesus, there are like three kinds of Italian dressing here. [Looks wildly at the dressings below the counter]

Me: Um, a light Italian is fine.

CJBL: What about balsamic? Or how about honey mustard? Jesus, there are SO MANY SALAD DRESSINGS HERE.

Me: [Not wanting to instigate his looming madness] Sure - honey mustard's great.

CJBL: [Clearly not believing my desire for honey mustard] Are you sure? There are so many fucking salad dressings here. Ok, fine. Do you want me to...[he pauses]...toss your salad?

Really? Really, Chef Jail Break Lloyd? Did you have to go there?

Me: Yes, please.

He snickered.

After integrating my dressing with my lettuce and all the other shit he threw in there, he did that sideways look again and whispered:

"See that basket over there? There are TOOLS in that basket. GET A TOOL."

I looked to my left. There was a small basket. Of forks.

I grabbed a fork.

It only seemed right to tuck it inside my brochure, hidden from prying eyes, since this was clearly a crazy-person crusade to give me this salad without anyone else knowing what was going on.

CJBL: [With the conspiratorial voice again] Now listen carefully. LISTEN. I'm going to give you this salad. I want you to take it back to your seat and eat all of it. ALL OF IT. Ok? Now, if anyone asks you where the fuck you got this fucking salad, you tell them to fuck off, OK? TELL THEM TO FUCK OFF."

I nodded, suddenly really glad that there was a giant counter separating me from Chef Boyardbatshit.

CJBL: Now, take this to your seat. When you get back, make sure no one is looking, especially those fucking waitresses, and slide it over the counter REALLY QUICKLY. I MEAN IT. SLIIIIIIIIDE IT OVER QUICKLY. And then walk away."

He nodded at me once and disappeared into the kitchen. I took my salad and sat down.

I have to say, for a salad made by a raving madman, it was pretty damn tasty.

CURB YOUR PEE

2008-09-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

Dateline: A Rest Stop Somewhere in Alabama/Mississippi, August 29, 2008

I was driving cross-country with MaryEllen and her handsomely awesome border collie, Max, when we decided it was time to relieve the bladders. We parked at this lovely little rest stop somewhere in the Southland, MaryEllen went to walk Max, and I went inside to pee.

When I entered the bathroom, all stalls were occupied, except for the handicapped stall, from which emerged an old ass lady hunched over a cane. She motioned for me to use the toilet, rasping out, "Go on, no one's gonna be upset."

Now, I've seen that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I do NOT want to be that person who goes into the handicapped stall for the extra luggage room or the supreme grip support of those nice bars and then emerges to see a very angry person in a wheelchair glowering down at me. It is not my bathroom to use, so I don't use it.

I kind of shook my head at the old lady, who then egged me on even further, "Come on, GO ON." So I did, knowing that 45-55 seconds later, the whole thing would be behind me - no harm, no foul.

I stepped inside, sat down, and went to work getting rid of three coffees, one orange Vitamin Water, and some Coke Zero. (Hey, a woman's gotta stay alert on the road you know?)

I heard some movement in the bathroom, but didn't think much of it. I wiped, pulled the drawers up, and unlatched the door.

To my infinite terror, standing in front of me was:

- Not 1, but 2 old ass ladies
- 1 young person with Cerebral Palsy
- 1 young person with Down's Syndrome
- Not 1, but 2 people in wheelchairs
and their various handlers.

Sweet baby Jesus, was this a guilt-induced mirage? Could there really be SIX FREAKIN' PEOPLE WAITING TO USE THE HANDICAPPED BATHROOM??????

For a moment, I considered limping away, but my asshole sensor ruled that out.

Therefore, I muttered, "Sorry," and ran past all six and their handlers, and out the door, into MaryEllen and Max, both of whom looked at me quizzically.

"My worst nightmare just happened," I explained.
MaryEllen went in to confirm.
Then she laughed at me for the rest of the day.

Later on, when we arrived in a ghost town, pre-Gustav New Orleans, we checked into our fancy schmancy hotel and took the elevator up to our room. Before I got close enough, MaryEllen doubled over with laughter:

"No fucking way!" she laughed, pointing to a brass plaque on the wall next to our door.

I stepped closer.

It read: "Room For Handicapped"

Yes. It did.
Yes, in that nearly entirely empty giant fancy pants hotel, the room they gave us was the handicapped accessible room.

You may have already guessed this, but we went out and drank after that.

SHAKEY, SHAKEY - HAIKU

2008-07-30T10:48:00.000-07:00

Inspired by yesterday's earthquake:

Building is surfing
On a seismic wave of earth
Got your surfboard, brah?

5.4, they say
Well, felt like a big mo fo
Despite the Richter

Hey - shakey, shakey!
It's a tectonic party!
So pump up the jam.

Whoa - is that a truck?
NO. That's a freakin' earthquake.
Oh. Now it's over.

Can't focus on work
Must Google "L.A. earthquake"
Until I go home

Doorway or sub-desk???
Or run out into the street???
Just stood there, instead.

I'M ON A HUNT DOWN AFTER YOU

2008-06-10T01:30:00.000-07:00

When my mom came to visit last year, she remarked that Hollywood was nothing like it looks in the movies; no glitter, no glitz, no glam. And that's the truth - there's an overwhelming amount of artifice glazed over public perception. Living in Los Angeles is not like living in a movie...

...Until it is.

I sat on my couch last night, watching (for the first and last time, most likely) the ridiculously awful nosedive that is Denise Richards: It's Complicated, stealing furtive glances at my window to be sure the neighbors didn't see me engaged in such shame. Oh, the guilt!

During a particularly awkward sequence in which Denise's mostly-sweet-yet-hint-o'-creepy-Joe-Simpson father stands in his undies, receiving a spray tan, I thought I heard a strange noise...like...a megaphone? Like someone making an announcement to a stadium...

I figured it was just the neighbors' TV and when I turned back to my own, Father Richards was getting some sort of massage. Gross.

There it was again, that megaphone voice, more urgent...so I turned down the TV and what I heard was:

"RESIDENTS IN THE AREA - PLEASE GO INSIDE OF YOUR HOMES! RESIDENTS OF THE AREA - STAY INSIDE OF YOUR HOMES AND LOCK ALL DOORS AND WINDOWS!"

Then something to the tune of:

"COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL USE FORCE AGAINST YOU."

Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat.

And then I noticed all of the cop cars lining the street and the alley...circling my apartment.

HOLY SHIT.

I did what you think you might do when you watch a movie in this situation. I grabbed my phone, my purse, and a pair of flip flops, turned off the lights, got scared and turned them back on, then sat on the floor of the bathroom and called my neighbor:

Me: (Whispering, so the baddies wouldn't hear me) Melinda! What the hell is going on??????

Melinda: I don't know. This is freaking me out.

Me: I know! I'm sitting in my bathroom!

Melinda: Ok, I'm going to let you go - I'm gonna grab my nunchucks.

YEAH, SHE SAID "NUNCHUCKS."

Then I called Mo, who recounted a particularly morbid story about an old roommate being shot on their steps in Berkeley, which didn't particularly make me feel better, but still, always good to have someone to chat with when there is some sort of maniac running around your neighborhood.

After some silence, Melinda and I both cautiously ventured out of our apartments. The upstairs neighbor peeked out. Melinda asked one of the officers what was going on - apparently someone had jacked a car, crashed it, and was hiding out somewhere near our apartments.

We all went back in side. I sat in the bathroom some more, talked to Mo some more, and then made the assessment that the police activity seemed to be diminishing.

WRONG.

Suddenly, a line of cop cars came streaming down our street, floodlights on...parked right in front. Then came the police, many, many police, THROUGH OUR FRONT GATE.

JUST STANDING THERE, IN BETWEEN MY APARTMENT & MELINDA'S.

I put the cat in the bathroom, since he had taken to stalking me around the apartment in the excitement, and periodically biting my leg, which was doing nothing to soothe me. Then I thought better of it, and just put myself in the bathroom again and texted Melinda:

Me: They keep yelling 2 come out w hands up...so freaky!

Melinda: Dude look across to my apt

I looked. MORE COPS. Dogs! Lots of barking dogs!

I listened. There had been a girl at the front gate, crying and telling the police that a man tried to come into her apartment!!!

Back to the bathroom for me. I plotted my escape - I had my purse slung across my shoulder, my computer bag sat next to me...and I wielded a cheapo flashlight. I have no idea why I had the flashlight, but it made me feel better somehow. I kind of wish I had Melinda's nunchuks. I mean, that would freak someone out, yeah? Can't you use those to whip a gun out of an intruder's hand? I fantasized about that for a moment.

Well, I guess I could blind him with the flashlight and I could count on Eddie Cat Halen to at least bite his leg really hard, then we could make a run for it.

Back to reality. The police were still gathered, but seemed to be leaving. When my heart rate slowly descended back to normal, I peeked my head out of the door and asked one of the cops if they found the guy-

Cop: Uh, no. Well, we looked for the one here, but we think they both got away...but you're safe. Don't worry.

There were TWO of them???

So it was that I slept on Melinda's couch...nunchuks at my feet. For real.

Forever? Forever-ever?

2008-04-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

Scene: Standing in long line at Post Office, attempting to ignore Long-Haired Hippie Lady scold Short-Haired Neurotic Lady about not returning her Bible in time. Line moves slowly, but finally, Medium-Haired Average Lady steps up to the counter...

Disgruntled Postal Worker: (Clearly looking at clock, which reads 4:45pm; possibly wishing for sweet release from the shackles of government servitude--then realizing that will only mean joining the long, slagging line of cars crawling down the interstate. Considers how much he hates life. Wishes he could punch out every customer that walks up between now and 5pm.) M’am, how can I help you today?

M-HAL: Well, I need some stamps! I have to mail some letters now, and some letters later!

DPW: (Thinking to self: "No shit, lady. This isn’t Home Depot. You’re not here to buy a shovel. But if we did sell them, I would hit you over the head with one.") Sure thing! What kind would you like?

M-HAL: I’d like some of those "Forever" stamps! Um, how much are they worth?

DPW: (Itchy government-issue button-down, collared shirt barely containing the rage that boils within. Wishes he could snap the neck of every godforsaken customer, just like he snaps the rubberbands off of the piles and piles and piles of filthy parcels he must deal with every day.) Well, right now they’re 41 cents.

M-HAL: Oh, perfect! I’ll take a book of them. Well, maybe two. I’ll need to mail some letters later. How long can I use these for? For...

DPW: (Blood shoots to surface, threatening to pump furiously through every pore and splatter the entire decrepit concrete box he’s forced to work in, day in and day out, with gore.) ...EVER. M’am, the Forever stamp lasts FOREVER.

End scene.

The Office: A Reality Series

2008-03-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

Just a short hot while ago, I emerged from the bathroom to find a youngish man clutching a clipboard and speaking to my coworker Kathy in that faux-official voice that marks the telemarketer and his brethren.

Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"

This is where it gets special.

The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"

Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."

Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"

"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.

Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"

Wild laughter ensued.

Wild, wild laughter.

Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"

Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.

Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.

Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.

Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.

"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."

Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."

Aleeta: "Oh, right!"

Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.

Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.

I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.

is that a burqa or are you just happy to see me?

2008-03-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

My bulky Cameroonian trainer Parfait really came up with a zinger this week:

As I straddled a stack of step platforms, squatting until I was pretty sure some muscles were going to start stripping away from the bone, Parfait shot me a very serious look and simply asked, unprovoked:

"Mademoiselle - are you a Muslim?"

I squatted my ass right down onto that stack of steps.

Me: "HUH? Did you just ask me if I was a Muslim?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. Well...ARE you?"

Me: "HUH?? Are you serious?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. You maybe are a Muslim. Like from Zaire or Congo."

NOTE: I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP

Me: "HUH??? WHAT??? That is the weirdest thing I’ve heard in a long time. No, I’m not a Muslim. Was there any reason you wanted to ask me that?"

Parfait: "No reason, Mademoiselle. I just thought maybe you were." Enter high-pitched laughter. And then he moved me on to do lat raises, end of topic. What the hell? WHAT THE HELL?

Two more training sessions to go, people. I have a feeling that after the last one, he’s going to ask me to be his fourth wife or something. Oh, the many adventures of Parfait.

Hyperion Tavern, Den of Hussies

2008-02-28T06:59:00.000-08:00

If I was into short 23 year old video game dorks, Hyperion Tavern would be the best pickup joint.

As it is, within 45 seconds (literally) of me walking in the door last night, I got these two awesome lines:

Said by a short guy wearing flannel and rubbing on a small white dog: "I like your tattoo...it looks good with your face!"

Said by a short guy who bumped my ass with his motorcycle helmet: "So, do you wanna ride on my motorcycle sometime?"

Send them all to Africa -

2008-01-12T02:51:00.001-08:00

Again, from the Parfait Files:

Yesterday, as I convinced my thigh muscles to pleaselordpleasepushthatgiantstackofweightsupandawayfrommybody, Parfait was in an inquisitive mood.

Parfait: "Mademoiselle, I bet you read those magazines about all of the crazy people, like 'Oh, what is he wearing?' and 'What is she doing'...?"

Moi: "Um, are you talking about celebrity magazines?"

P: "Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. They are all about Britney Spears and Brad Pitt."

Moi: (struggling to prevent a large quantity of weight from tumbling backward into my fragile knees and crushing my lower extremities) "Um..."

P: "You know what I think they need to do with Britney Spears?"

Moi: (Setting lock on weight machine as to prevent the aforementioned leg-smashing from happening, knowing that this will be a good one) "No...what?"

P: "I think that she should go to my country."

Moi: (delighted that my prophecy has come true) "You want them to ship Britney Spears to Cameroon? What would she do there?"

P: "Oh, Mademoiselle - she would find peace. Britney Spears could have peace in my land."

I dissolve into laughter.

End scene.

Swing, batta, batta...

2008-01-07T00:47:00.000-08:00

From the Parfait Files...

On Friday, I lugged my tired, germ-ridden body to the gym for the first session in several weeks with the one and only Cameroonian trainer, Parfait.

While exhorting me to pump it up during a particular exercise, Parfait inquired as to whether or not I liked playing any sports besides soccer. I do, and I told him as much. I then added that one sport that I've never, ever, ever been good at is baseball (substitute softball, if you will) - I just lack the stick-ball coordination necessary to even corner first.

To this, Parfait had an immediate response:

"Oh, mademoiselle, I must be slow or maybe retarded because I cannot understand why American men like to take that little stick and hit that ball. I just do not understand."

[Enter signature high-pitched laugh]

I did what anyone would have done in that situation--I dropped my weights and laughed my ass right off.

munching

2007-11-06T01:56:00.000-08:00

Overheard in L.A., whilst eating brunch:

(Scene: Two butchy lesbians seated to my left at a Carribbean café, discussing lesbian sex in VIVID DETAIL, then diverting to a discussion of their mutual circle of friends...)

BL 1: So, my friends all came up with nicknames....like Shayna is Sheniqua and Laura is Lakisha...

BL 2: Well, what is YOUR nickname?

BL 1: (Appearing confused) Um, I don't HAVE a black nickname...because I'm BLACK.

BL 2: (silence) Oh. Right.

Cruisin'

2007-09-20T13:33:00.000-07:00

Rejoice, women of the world, for I have found the best place to meet men:

Venice Blvd. between Robertson and National, I swear.

It is in this glorious stretch of semi-abandoned wonderland that I have been flagged down not once, but twice by nubile young male motorists.

Today it began with a technique I refer to as The Parallel Drive...the car on your side (most usually the passenger side, which makes this maneuver all the more special), suddenly slows down and starts driving as if magnetically attached to your vehicular forcefield.

After this slick move came the come-hither hand motions; I glanced once, to be sure I wasn't hallucinating a hawk or something fluttering outside my passenger window (it had been a long day), and then again, locking eyes with a dude sporting a serious fade and driving the auto world chick magnet, an Aztek.

This is where it gets tricky, my friends. I was about to dive into a road rage-reducing book on CD, when I realized that I actually had to roll my window down and find out why Kid n Play was wildly gesturing in my direction -

You see, the last time a gentleman flagged me down on that particular stretch of Venice Blvd, it was to tell me that my right front hubcap had flown off somewhere near Overland and bounced off some guy's rims before boucing off some other guy's bumper.

Concerned Motorist: M'am, you should probably go back and get that.
Unconcerned Motorist: (Crawling in rush hour traffic) Yeah, sure. Thanks. (Sacrificing wayward hubcap to the gods of the roadway in order to avoid slowing my drivetime commute)

So I couldn't risk not knowing whether or not my car was once again producing projectiles.

Vaguely Concerned Motorist: (Keenly aware that it is impossible to keep one eye in front and one looking at homeboy) Yes?
Aztek Warrior: I'm sorry to bother you, m'am. (Always with the "m'am") You are just so beautiful.
VCM: Wha...? (Stopping at red light)
Aztek Warrior: (Joining me at red light) I mean, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question...
VCM: (Driving rapidly through green light)
Aztek Warrior: ( Engaging in The Parallel Drive) You're just so beautiful - can I take you out for a fine lunch or dinner sometime? Or maybe invite you to one of my concerts?"
VCM: (Putting book on CD into player, rolling up window)
Aztek Warrior: Wait...wait....girl, you'd get to come backstage, I promise...

The left lane. Hot new pickup spot. Just make sure you have automatic windows, or else you're screwed.

Thome pretty good pathta

2007-09-10T12:00:00.000-07:00

Today began with yesterday.

And an ill-fated piece of chicken.

I sat in a borrowed chair at my own dining room table, supping with a fine selection of Katy's ex-roommates and such, when I speared a ricotta-smeared cut of chicken. I registered the fresh basil, the tomato, something herb-y, and then pain.

Oh, the pain.

A sharp, horrid pain that shot right down the right side of my tongue, where I'd mashed it between my ravenous molars. I shot a panicked look at Jonathan, to my right. I said, "I think I may pass out." I saw quick flashes of bright light. Jonathan looked confused.

Then I just looked straight ahead, focusing hard on my tongue, trying to will the pain away. Meditating on that hunk of pink flesh and muscle, half-panicked that I gnawed a chunk of it off, effectively cannibalizing myself.

Then I ate some decadent, silky chocolate mousse pie, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when you chaw half your tongue off? Chocolate is the food pyramid's equivalent of Vicodin, I am sure of it.

I woke up this morning instantly aware of my tongue, of my saliva sort of pooling around it. I am a serial teeth-gnasher at night and I did myself no favors during my slumber. The entire right side was sort of...well...scalloped. I stared at myself in the mirror. My tongue was deformed.

And it hurt like hell.

I went to work, conscious of my mangled tongue every long minute of the drive. When David arrived at the office, I felt compelled to explain what happened:

Me: "If I thound funny, it'th becauthe I bit my tongue latht night."
David: "Wow, what were you eating?"
Me: "Thome pretty good pathta."
David: "Well, that's all that matters, then."

Yeah, I gave myself a temporary speech impediment.

After slurring myself through our Monday staff meeting, I went to Costco for an eye exam. While I filled out the paperwork, I noticed a vaguely elderly gentleman with a sort of neo-jheri curl staring at me. Once caught, he blurted out:

"I am so sorry, but you are really beautiful."

Me: (Checking "No" next to Glaucoma) "Um, thank you."
Neo-Jheri Man: And you have really nice skin. Just great skin."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Cataracts) "Thath's really nithe of you. Um, thankths."
N-J Man: "I don't mean to be rude, but are you a model? You look like you could be a European model. You just have grrreat skin!"
Me: (Checking "No" next to Old Guy Hitting On Me) "Uh, no."

I made it through the appointment unscathed and presented my Amex to pay, but alas, it was not allowed.

"You take Vitha?"

Yeah, they took Vitha.

Except for my card was declined...twice. I called the company and they explained that I reported my card lost or stolen....in early August. Which I never did. Because it was right there in my wallet, accounted for. My Vitha, nestled in its little pocket.

After twenty minutes of my spitting out of the right side of my mouth and hassling the call center lady, I convinced her to at least accept the transaction for the sake of my continued sight, especially since one sense was already impaired. Then I was home free.

My last errand of the workday was a trip to mail out approximately 11 large boxes. I stood in line next to a bouncy girl dressed in the color wheel equivalent of Pepto Bismol and a decidedly hairy dude in a festive mix of tie-dye and paisley. And sandals. With socks.

While I stood behind my tower o'boxes, the two of them forged an inexplicable bond and the girl began yammering about Burning Man:

Pinky: "Oh my god! So you've been to Burning Man, too! So you get it! It's all about love and peace and we're out there in the desert just building our own utopia, and when we're in that dome, with the rainbow ribbons flying around, spinning and holding fire, that is what society is supposed to be like. You know? Yeah, exactly. And I just think that people have the wrong view of us, like we're some sort of cult, like a gang or something just out there in the desert. They don't understand our true spirit. It's not like we're all camped out there in these little groups, like, planning bad things to do to people."

Clashing Patterns Man: "So, well, uh, I'll see you there next year..."

Pinky: "Oh, yeah, well, look for our group. We all dress the same--all pink!--and kind of have our own secluded area that we camp in; we're called the Pink Ladies."

CPM: "Oh."

Two Things That Brightened My Friday Even Further Than I'd Imagined

2007-07-21T03:48:00.000-07:00

1) When I was listening to the radio and a guest on the show was making up his very own version of The Kinks' "Lola" and rhymed "LaVar Burton" with "Beef Curtain."

2) When I was doing some sort of sadomasochistic thing at the gym (wherein Parfait instructed me to pull the weight of 10 oxen whilst squatting at an uncomfortable 40 degree angle whilst thrusting my chest out like a tranny with overfilled implants), and said instructor suddenly initiated the following conversation:

Parfait: Mademoiselle, do you have any brothers or sisters?

Mademoiselle: (Grunting like an overworked Romanian peasant girl, straining under weight of oxen) Uh, yeah. A sister.

silence.

Mademoiselle: (Inner monologue realizing that P-Diddy wants me to ask if HE has siblings) Do YOU have any brothers and sisters?

Parfait: (Signature, high-pitched laugh emits from giant head) I have twenty-four.

Mademoiselle: (Dropping oxen, feeling tiny muscle threads start to splinter away from the pack) WHAT? All by the same mother and father? Or different ones?

Parfait: (Clearly bemused. SO VERY HAPPY that we have the chance to discuss this; not paying attention to my crumpled body leaning against the wall in the wake of oxen.) No, no, no, Madame. My father have three wives.

Mademoiselle: (Clearly shocked. Eating flies. Making undecipherable sound. His father have three wives.)

Parfait:: Yes, in my village, polygamy is normal. (Leaning in uncomfortably close, swishing his finger around in the air in front of my nose) In my village, the more wife and children you have, the more respect you have. The chief, you know how many wife the chief have?

Mademoiselle: (Inner monologue only making mumbling sounds now)

Parfait: Mademoiselle! You look so funny! The chief have 200 wife! 200 wife!

Mademoiselle: (Finally realizing that this may be the only time I get to interview a Cameroonian polygamist-in-training; seizing the opportunity; regaining use of voice) So, Parrrrrfait, how many wives do YOU want to have?

Parfait: (Emitting that high-pitched sound again, like he's a pec-heavy helium balloon slowly losing air) Madame! I think you are afraid of many wife in this country. I am not married now. But, if I meet a pretty girl, why don't I marry her, too, instead of cheating on my other wife? The whole word do it this way; only America is backward. The world would be happier place if we all had big family.

There you have it, folks. The secret to world peace, as told by a hulking, log-necked Cameroonian personal trainer at LA Fitness.

je t'adore l'eau!

2007-06-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

This week was the week that my cat picked to start rubbing his wet little cat-nose all over my face at approximately 5am - each morning. Without fail.

This week was also the week where I accidentally deleted all of my work mailboxes from my mail program.

This week was also the week wherein a dirt-caked dude motioned and attempted to whisper sweet nothings to me whilst peeing on the sidewalk in front of the post office; incidentally, the post office where I was nearly escorted out after engaging in a verbal disagreement with the very stupid postal worker lady behind Window No. 1 who insisted that I needed a pin number to use the work-issued, specifically-for-the-post-office-so-I-can-mail-packages-to-dudes-like-Ben-Fong-Torres-which-I-did-this-week gift card that said "Gift Card" on it.

However, this week was also the week that, at 8:30am, a man sauntered into the office and said that he had free water for me...

Oh yessss... FREE water. For me.

The upside had arrived.

Aqua Delivery Man: Hi, I'm (insert generic, one-syllable name here). I have your free water sample from Contrex.

Still Half-Asleep Me: (Dude, CONTREX? Sounds like an incontinence drug). Uh, I don't think I ordered free water.

ADM: Well, I spoke to Allejandra...Allejandro...Allegria...

SH-AM: We don't have an Alle-whatever here... (Reconsidering, after brain finally computes word "free")...but, say...what kind of water is that?

ADM: Contrex! It is natural French mineral water designed for women! It will [insert catch-phrasy crap here that sounds totally bogus]! How many cases do you want - there are 12 bottles to a case.

SH-AM: (Considering how we already get overwatered bi-weekly by a different, overly-zealous ADM) Um, one is fine.

Time elapses. Consider the bad choice I made in "brewing" the instant-decaf coffee that was hidden behind the shiny foil party hats (yes, really) and plastic plates. Stomach starts to turn. Eat a chunk of dark chocolate sitting next to the Maker's Mark (yes, really). Wonder when I'll wake up.

Suddenly - a noise from the doorway -

Contrex Man: (Wheeling in a giant palette of boxes) How about 4 cases! So thats...12 liter bottles in each case. Where should I put them?

SH-AM: (Holy Jeezus, that is a lot of freakin' Contrex Water.) Uh, in the store room.

Contrex Man cheerfully dropped all 20 tons of Contrex Water and, no joke, 30 pamphlets (for our large office of 4 staff) and bid me adieu. I stared at the space that used to be the storage room, now occupied by a mountain of Contrex. I took a bottle. I sipped. It was weird. I kept sipping. It was free.

As luck would have it, none of my co-workers enjoyed the mineral-y tastes of fresh French Contrex. I am now the proud owner of 48 liters of weird-tasting water. FREE water. My week has been redeemed.

making enemies, with a cherry on top

2007-04-23T13:28:00.000-07:00

Oh, the gym....land of opportunity, land of pain.

Now that I'm a bona fide gym-goer, I've been assigned a regular personal trainer (sadly, I bid adieu to Rico/Fox, as he has other potential suckers to lure into this den of sweat and beefcakes).

The name of my new personal trainer, you ask?

Parfait.

It is pronounced like you think it is pronounced.

I approached the training desk for my first session with Parfait, and asked for her as such. The swarthy dude at the desk laughed and said, "Hey, Pudding, your 5:30 is here."

Parfait/Pudding turned out to be a big, bald, burly, brusque, beefy black man.

My internal monologue raced, as it tends to do in these types of situations:

Ha hahaha FUCKIN HA that man's name is Parfait!

Do I have to call him that?

No, no, no. His name CAN'T be Parfait. That guy is obviously joking. This man looks like an American Gladiator with a steady stream of adrenaline flooding his bloodstream and an appetite for big slabs of protein. His name isn't really Parfait. They are fucking with me.

Pudding/Parfait: [In indecipherable Germanic/French accent] You are Shawn?

Shawn: Té - Shawnté

P/P: Okay [mumbles something similar to my name] have a seat. We talk about how you eat. Do you eat good? Tell me what you eat.

Té: [Dying to say, "Parfaits," but my angel side told my asshole side to shut up] You know, I eat pretty good. Healthy-like. Um, you know, vegetables and fruit and granola and stuff. Crackers. Pasta.

P/P: [Face blanching when I mention Crackers, Pasta.] No, no [again with the mumble], that is why you are tired and want to lose weight-

Té: [Imagine me, but indignant] - Hang on, I don't want to lose weight. I just want to be....[thinking of what Rico/Fox said the last time]...deeeelicious. For the beach.

This is about when Parfait (Ha! Hahahahaha! HA!) and I walk towards the free weights and I suddenly can't control my inner monologue anymore; dear god, it just vomits out:

"Your name isn't really Parfait, is it?"

He stops. Looks at me. I suddenly wished I was beached on my couch instead of cowering in the shadow of Parfait's steroidally ripped physique.

He says, "YES, IT IS," and then proceeds to work me out so hard I grunt "FUCK" no less than 20 times in a 30 minute span.

It is 4 days later and even my armpits still hurt.

sea legs on the head

2007-03-31T11:59:00.000-07:00

So, today I was supposed to be camping in Joshua Tree, eatin' s'mores, roasting hot dogs, drinking whiskey, running around like a headless chicken in the desert...you know. However, I did not confirm early enough and wasn't no room for me to cop a ride, so I accepted a ride on a yacht instead.

Yeah, baby. A fuckin' yacht!

There were only a few rules on this yacht:

1) Flush the toilet with the foot pedal
2) NO PAPER IN THE TOILET
3) No falling overboard

Easy as pie. Right?

About five minutes after this speech, I visited the loo to prepare myself for an afternoon of alcohol and sun (superb combo, if I might add). I did a quick tinkle, wiiiiped, and...threw the paper into the toilet...

NO! Nooooooo! RULE #2!!! SHIT! (Not literally...at least at this point.)

I made a power dive and caught the last dry corner of the TP and just held it there, over the bowl, thinking, considering my options...

If we aren't supposed to put the toilet paper in the toilet...where are we supposed to put it....?

I looked around, still gingerly holding the dripping tissue above the bowl. I pulled open a cupboard. No. I slid open a door. NO. I looked to the side and saw...

A garbage can. The toilet paper needed to go in the garbage can.

Well, fuck. It is sopping wet.

I flung the TP into the can and stared at it.

I need to cover that with something. Anything. Tissues! Yes! I will just ball up tissues and throw them on top of that sopping wet, used TP and it will be fine!

Wad, wad, wad...throw...

...right into the fucking toilet.

How is this possible???? I haven't even started drinking yet!! SHIT!!!

I made the second rescue attempt of the afternoon, but I wasn't so lucky with this one...it started to go under, slowly, slowly....so I grabbed even more tissue and started wadding it up to try to fish this tissue out of the toilet. Pieces started splintering off, floating around in the bowl.

Then, as if things couldn't get worse, there was a knock at the door. I banged my elbow on the wall. Yacht bathrooms are tiny. A line was forming outside. Now they were going to think that I was taking so long because I was taking a shit in there. GREAT. 5 minutes into my virgin yachting experience and I was ruining not only the septic system, but also my reputation.

Fish, fish, fish....finally I had a large enough wad of dry tissue that I was able to sort of dredge up the wad of tissue I inadvertently dropped in the tank. God, wet tissue is heavy. I whipped the whole mess into the garbage can, flushed the toilet, threw down the lid, and stuffed several more wads of dry tissue in the can to cover up my mess.

Then I went and drank 4 bellinis in a row. Because that's what you do when you're on a yacht and you just spent 10 minutes fishing used toilet paper out of a toilet bowl and everyone thinks you have irregular bowel movements.

And now I think I have the flu.

Falafel is the New Ceviche

2007-02-03T03:53:00.000-08:00

You'd think "once bitten, twice shy" for me when it comes to replicating my favorite foods outside of their natural surroundings (See: Ceviche), but alas, it's more like "twice bitten, maybe the next bite will be better."

It was a sunny afternoon earlier this week that I decided to make a combo bank-food run (there is a natural relationship there) near my Culver City workplace. I parked my car without feeding the meter, because I like to tempt fate and I give a silent victory call each time I return after a prolonged, unpaid absence and find my car sans ticket. Suck that, meter maid! Also, I just forget to plug the meter sometimes, because I can be kind of spacey when it comes to those kinds of things.

Anyways, after depositing the equivalent of a month and a half's worth of unemployment income into my account (the process by which I had to find the one, singular Chase ATM in ALL OF LOS ANGELES in order to withdraw the money from my New York State WorkForce card was a struggle, let me tell you), I strolled across the street to Daphne's Gyros. Mediterranean! I love Mediterranean food!

Let me preface by explaining that not only did I live in New York for a chunk of of time, but I also worked for a Jewish organization for a chunk of that chunk of time, so I have developed a sophisticated taste for hummus, falafel, tabouleh and their culinary kin. (Why I never pursued a food writing career path is beyond me...and you, as well, I'm sure...)

I scanned the menu...Yes! A falafel sandwich on pita! With...french fries? Okay, I'll take french fries. I would rather have an Israeli salad, but okay, Daphne's, I'll take the fries. (Strike one for authenticity, but I was hopeful.)

I waited and waited and the hostess finally called, "Shwantee?" Because my mother used to force me to do this as a child, I muttered a quick "Shawnte'" and grabbed my goodies.

As I approached my car, I saw an ominous figure...nofuckingwayametermaid!Shitshitshitshit! I tried to run over to my car and...tripped. In front of a patio full of lunchtime diners. Nice, Shwantee, nice. But, as I am a trooper, I brushed myself off, ignored the guy at Table 2 who whistled "Niiiiice, baaaaybaaaaay..." and made it to my car right before it was about to become victimized. Whew.

I put my blinkers on and, unable to resist, I tore into the takeout box. The fries were coated in paprika, but I didn't care about fries...it was the falafel that I wanted. I slowly unwrapped it....

...why is that tomato green? Did I order the Southern falafel? Hmmmm. Is that...a wedge of red onion in there? Like a quarter of an entire red onion? Okay, I can separate that out myself, I don't mind a D.I.Y. lunch. And....wait...what are THOSE???

Apparently, when they said "falafel" they meant "tiny, flat discs of burnt, greenish chickpeas." I tried a bite and until that moment, I never before considered that falafel could be considered "tough."

I wrapped it back up and drove straight to work. I will never eat another falafel in this town again.

crossed signals

2006-12-14T21:38:00.000-08:00

This evening, my suspicions were confirmed - there is, indeed, a particular stretch of 14th St. that is prone to crazy ass dudes using electronic devices. I walk down this way often, en route to the writing space I use, so therefore, I am obviously qualified to make this assertion.

Lately, the area around Union Square (on the 14th St. side) is packed with consumers buying assorted crap from the red and white tent-like structures that sprung up right around Turkey Day. Move up a block, and it's just your average pedestrians. But right after you cross Fifth Ave, it's like you've stepped into another dimension. The proportion of Sane:Crazy is thrown radically out of whack.

Right around the Guitar Center, there is always a man - up until today, I wasn't sure if it was the same dude or not, but now I'm almost positive. This guy is memorable for one reason and one reason only - he makes crazy talk into portable electronic devices on the regular. And by "on the regular," I mean "every time I walk by."

Frequently, he uses a cell phone. I'm not even really sure that he's speaking to anybody, but by the tone of his voice, he probably thinks he's carrying on a conversation with a higher power. Or sometimes, his crack dealer. One day he had a portable radio (so very 80's breakdancing video!). But then there was today...

Today, homeboy (let's call him "Transmitter Tom") had a walkie talkie! He was talking into it, as he generally does with smallish electronic devices, but the difference today was that someone was talking back to him!

It quickly became apparent that the walkie talkie was...uh...borrowed, because the male voice on the other end was yelling angrily to the tune of "return this immediately!...static....prosecuted!...static..."

Tranny Tom was having none of this, however. He calmly pressed the "Talk" button and said to his accuser, "Don't you ever be makin' me late to dinner! OR lunch!" Then he paused, trying to think of a clincher. "OR SNACKS!!!!" With that he strode rapidly towards 6th, walkie talkie in hand, crazy mumbles leaking out of the side of his mouth.

Turning a new leaf - haiku

2006-11-18T07:47:00.000-08:00

"Unemployment Check"
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression

"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough

"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks

"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up

"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07

I will become an advertising executive

2006-09-26T08:22:00.000-07:00

Overheard today on North 7th & Havemeyer, as I walk the long walk to the police station:

Teenage girl: What I'm concerned about is pollution. When that stuff gets on your skin...

Adolescent boy: What stuff?

TG: Butane. It's like lighter fluid. It will mess you up.

AB: Cool! I'd set stuff on fire!

TG: (Very upset that she is walking next to a pyro-in-training) No, Cal! Then you'd get burned. Do you want that? Your face will be horribly disfigured.

AB/Cal: (considering what it would really mean for his face to become horribly disfigured) Wow! Then I'd look just like Michael Jackson!!

This conversation prompted me to consider a turn on the ol' career path. Why, you ask? Well, consider this:

a) Smokey the Bear is kind of played out.
b) Fire is still bad, whether or not Smokey is passé.
c) Michael Jackson is frightening to adolescent boys.
d) Adolescent boys are the prime fire-starting cohort.

a + b + c + d = Award-winning print & television public service announcement that makes the connection between setting fires (not just forest fires, mind you, but any kind of hot, burny fires), getting horribly disfigured from the flames, and subsequently morphing into Michael Jackson. (Um...but not cool morphing, like in that "Black or White" video.)

Now, where's my Obie? Is that the award advertising executives receive?

sleep tight

2006-09-17T02:47:00.000-07:00

I think that there is a homicidal maniac living in my apartment building.

I swear, the above statement is totally founded; it's not just the paranoia of city living OR the fact that I watched Natural Born Killers and Mulholland Dr back to back last night getting to me. No, no, no. Homicidal maniac, I swear.

And, if I'm counting correctly, last night was Night 3 of his rampage of death and destruction.

Yes, I'm sure.
No, I haven't called the police.

After my uplifting movie marathon, I returned home at some late hour, made a phone call, and buried myself in my bed. At 4:00am, I heard the following, in a homicidal maniac man's voice:

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

I bolt upright in my bed, as I have the last 3 nights. Some really loud, crazed yelling, some other, unidentified loud noises, then a repeat of the inhuman noise above.

As I have the past 3 nights, I get sort of paralyzed with fear - I want to press my ear against my window to listen more closely, but I am afraid that if I do, the homicidal maniac man will see my ear against the window and head in my direction, propelling his rage towards me. This, I do not want to happen.

Then, the questions start:

-Why does he do this every morning around 4:00am?
-Who is he yelling at?
-Why does he sound like a live buffalo being gutted every time he yells?
-What is he saying when he is not yelling like that?
-What apartment does he live in, because I sure fucking hope it's not any of the ones near me?
-Why does an eerie silence always follow the crazy, buffalo-death-yelling?
-Should I call the police?

Before I could answer any of the above questions, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up, it was approximately 6:30am, and I was waking from a dream in which Naomi Watts was trying to make out with me as Woody Harrelson danced around me with a sawed-off shotgun.

I think I need a vacation. And a new pair of ear plugs.

NEW!! ADDENDUM!:

I left the apartment about a half hour ago to get a slice of pizza. On the corner, a man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.

Bald Man: I heard it too!
Pale Woman: It was like someone was being killed.
BM: I heard him say, 'I can't love you if I DON'T LOVE MYSELF!!!!'
PW: Oh, my gaaaawd. If this continues, I'm calling the fuckin' cops next time.

I paused. They were talking about homicidal maniac man!!! I deliberately missed the light to cross the street so I could listen in a bit more. It's like Wisteria Lane around here. Thank god, confirmation that I am not nutso and/or hearing voices.

(Sidenote: I almost joined the conversation, but stopped when I realied that BM was, in fact, the crazy dude who accosted a friend and I in the corner bodega one evening and warned us to never, ever do ecstasy like he did back in the Studio 54 heyday, when his brother was a big-name DJ.)

hairdultery

2006-09-10T09:25:00.000-07:00

I try to avoid being a guilt-ridden person by avoiding doing the type of things that will instill a sense of latent guilt...like cheating on my hairdresser.

I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. I mean, it actually hasn't happened yet...I mean, I only made an appointment; it's not really cheating until you go all the way and let them plunge their scissors into your wild mane.

I know it's wrong. There's a reason why I have stuck with the same hairdresser(s) for the past year...a) they are my friends and b) they do a damn good job. My hair is like a bipolar teenager - it needs discipline, love, structure. It needs a caring set of hands. And, truth be told, I already have those in Steph and Lowry.

But, alas, temptation has struck. I stepped into the Origins store the other day and the salesgirl rushed over to try some new treatment on my hands. I let her, because I had time to kill and a free hand massage never hurt anyone. It was good, it was fine...but her hair....it was magical, full of perfect ringlets falling gently against her cheekbones. I didn't want the gooey crap she was slathering on my paws...I wanted her hair.

Me: So....thanks. My hands, uh, feel good...

Perky Salesgirl: GREAT! LET'S GET YOU A BASKET SO YOU CAN CRAM IT FULL OF OVERPRICED LOTIONS RIGHT NOW!!!

Me: Uh, sure. So, anyway....what products do you use on your hair?

PS: Oh! (looks to her left and then to her right and adopts a hushed tone) Well...I actually use products from the salon I go to....a salon for women with curly hair...

Me: (HOLY SHIT! Did she just say "a salon for women with curly hair"? I AM A WOMAN WITH CURLY HAIR!!!) Um...WOW. I want to go there. Right now.

PS: (still speaking in a barely audible voice; visibly nervous) Ummmm....ooooookay. I'll write down the information....tell them I sent you. It's like a cult over there...they don't let anybody in....

A curly-haired cult? Finally, a place I belong!!!

I rushed over to the address she provided. The door was marked with only a swirl of paint - a curl. The secret symbol.

I asked the doorman how I should enter the sacred chamber of curly locks, and he showed me to a side hallway...which lead to a frosted door....which led to another curved hallway...which led down two flights of steps...and then....the antechamber. Filled with women with curly hair.

Oh my god. It was a like a Sci-Fi flick; like Amazon Women Of Curlvania or something. Redheads. Brunettes. Blondes. Some with highlights. Some with short curls. Some with long curls. And all curls in between. I was saved. I ran up to the counter.

Me: I have curly hair. I was sent here. (Yes, I said that. Exactly that. Do you think I make this shit up?)

Desk Lady With Undiscernable Accent But Perfect Curls: Yessssss...

Me: I want an appointment! PLEASE!!!

DLWUABPC: (eyeing me with suspicion)You were sent here? Hmmm....by who? Oh, okay......zen we will get you an appointment in ze calendar....

She handed me my little grey appointment card and I headed back into the sunshine, suddenly a much happier person. I had found my people, the ones who understood my genetic disposition for frizz. I was saved.

It was when I got home that I started feeling guilty. I am cheating on Steph. She will never speak to me again when she finds out that I made an appointment with another stylist. She loves my hair curly. She cut it curly. She knows curls, too. Uhhhh....shit.

I considered cancelling the appointment. I considered 'fessing up to Steph when I saw her at brunch today. But I did neither. Instead, I kept that goddamned hair appointment and the curl masters are going to do brilliant things to my hair and it's gonna look really nice and shiny and stuff and you can't stop me.

(This is okay with you, right Steph? Pretty please?)

apb

2006-08-30T02:42:00.000-07:00

Is Mercury in retrograde? Is that why Fate is giving me the long face as of late?

For the second time since living in New York, I had to call the police today. Now, the first time was because, as I was heading to lunch at the very corporate corner of 42nd St. & 5th Ave., I witnessed a mob on the opposite corner; as I crossed the street, I noticed the mob quickly scatter and found myself standing directly in front of a crazy motherfucker with a neon green box cutter. Blade exposed. Waving wildly in the air.

"Uh-oh," I thought to myself. "Crazy person with sharp object. Must turn away. Must avoid being knifed during incredibly short 'lunch hour.' Must eat overpriced salad and return to desk unscathed."

As I switched my route, Crazy McStabber started slashing at a man standing on the corner near him, making contact with the man's outstretched arm several times. Alarmed and mystified that I had, in essence, witnessed a stabbing on the corner of 42nd St. & 5th Ave. in broad daylight, I dialed up 911 and spoke to a dispatcher who, among other things, asked if I would stay on the scene. NO, I will NOT stay on the scene. I DO NOT want to incur the wrath of Crazy McStabber. The answer is NO, 911 Lady. NO, I will not stay on the scene of the bloody knifing where the knifer is still slashing at the knifee." Instead, I bought my salad and made my way back to the 27th floor.

So this time, luckily, there were no bodily fluids involved in my police-summoning. Instead, I arrived at work at the godawful time of 7:45am and busied myself with opening up and doing my general morning crap, including re-setting the computers in the computer lab. At 8:30am, the Shop Monitor came in. At 8:50am, the Desk Dude came in. At 9:40 a.m, I was interviewing a potential Desk Chick. At 10am, I noticed that some fucking motherfucking fucktard wiped out our computer lab. MO-THER-FUUUUUUUCK.

I searched high. I searched low. I yelled at Shop Monitor. I yelled at Desk Dude. I felt bad and stopped yelling. I cursed. A lot. I kicked a garbage can. I cursed some more.

When we realized that the computers really hadn't decided to take a bathroom break, as I'd hoped was the case, I dialed 911 and spoke to the most lethargic operator of all time:

Me: (panicked) We've been robbed! Burglarized!

Lethargic 911 Lady: (almost audibly rolling her eyes) Queens, Manhattan, Brooklyn....

Me: Brooklyn! We've been robbed! They took our...

L911L: (Letting out a very loud sigh) Yeah, okay. Sure. Where are you located? We'll send someone out when we have the time.

Me: (What? When you 'have the time'??? The time is NOW! Our computers are gone! We need a team of officers!) Our address is.....Oh! Can you send a fingerprint team? I'm sure there are fingerprints...

L911L: Lady, we're busy this morning, so someone will get over there when they can. Goodbye.

You know, I hope they record these things, like they do on C.O.P.S. and Rescue 911 (didn't you just looooove Billy Shatner in that show? Brilllllliant.) This lady obviously didn't understand the gravity of the situation. But the police officers would...I'm sure they would...

(Enter: Two undercover, Johnny-Goumba-type beefy guys wearing - I shit you not - GOLD CHAINS and tapered, stone-washed jeans and sporting enough hair gel to serve as a masturbatory aid for an entire classroom of teenage boys)

Johnny Goumba 1: Hey, yeah, so what's the problem? Heeeeyyyyy....this place is cool. Nice artwork.

Me: Someone came in this morning and burglar...

Johnny Goumba 2: Yeah, I like the colors in here. You got a nice place here. Where's the bathroom?

Me: Um, down there. So, someone came in this morning and stole our computers. While I was...

JG2: You talk to her, I'm gonna go take a leak.

JG1: Yeah, okay. So, what did they steal?

Me: Computers, from the room...

JG1: Yeah, okay. Uh, so what do you guys do here? I think you should all wear name tags. Like on a necklace or something.

And so on and so on and so forth. The Brothers Goumba spent more time talking about how interesting our facility was than about the actual thieving that had occurred. And JG1 just had to use the bathroom after JG2 returned with raving reviews. NEVERMIND THE FACT THAT WE HAD BEEN BURGLARIZED WHEN I WAS IN THE BUILDING NOT 30 MINUTES EARLIER.

NYPD. Sucks.

Oh, Dr. Z...!

2006-08-16T10:14:00.000-07:00

If you frequent the NYC subway system in any capacity, you have surely seen the giant billboards - in nearly every subway car on nearly every line - for Dr. Zizmor ("Dr. Z," if you will).

His chubby little face smiles right underneath a gigantic rainbow, and Dr. Z (a dermatologist, it seems, and one with an unlimited advertising budget - although one that obviously does not include a graphic designer of any sort) implores us to all consider the multitudes of imperfections that our skin surely has. Wrinkles? Dr. Z'll take care of 'em. Zits? Dr. Z will zap 'em. Veins? Dr. Z will banish every unsightly mark on your skin.

Today, I was riding home in a daze from the most boring grant application meeting ever in the history of ever, and happened to look up and spot one of Dr. Z's giant rainbows. However, instead of explaining how he would rid my skin of zits, veins, and wrinkles, he was suggesting that I needed to tighten my skin to preserve my youthful appearance!

And Dr. Z's method of skin-tightening-youthfulness? Why, "a gentle cryogenic spray," of course!

Now, unless you're Michael Jackson going bonkers in a hermetically-sealed underground lair in Dubai, you gotta be slightly off-kilter (and more than hint desperate) to feel as if there could possibly be anything gentle about a cryogenic spray.

I won't be able to sleep tonight with thoughts of Dr. Z laughing like a maniac while spraying my face with the steam from dry ice racing around my brain. Someone should revoke his subway advertising license.

Observations in chlorine and purple

2006-08-06T11:04:00.000-07:00

I thought that it was impossible, as an adult, to feel the same kind of sheer fantastical excitement that a Santa-lovin child feels on X-Mas Eve. But, when MaryEllen uttered a sentence that included the words "Splish" and "Splash" and "Waterpark," I rocketed into the atmosphere. Fuck an old guy with a beard. Fuck presents. Fuck candy canes and figgy pudding and cherubic children singing carols. Water slides are where it's at.

I talked about Splish Splash all week. I annoyed my co-workers. I couldnt sleep Friday evening. Visions of inner tubes danced in my head. After carefully selecting a book for the train ride and slipping on my favorite, favorite, favorite bikini of all time (the one I won by sending in a postcard to Jane Magazine, by the way), I busted ass to Penn Station.

Once there, I sprinted off of the train and barreled up the stairs. I spotted MaryEllen across 34th St. We ran to each other and jumped around a bit, not unlike exuberant Girl Scouts hopped up on too many Thin Mints. We were going to the motherfuckin' water park and we were going to have fun, dammit.

The train ride to Ronkonkoma (or Ron-KON-ko-MA!, as the conductor pronounced it, emphasis all his) was uneventful, save for the fact that every ten minutes or so, one of us would squeal, "Were going to SPLISH SPLASH! FUCK YEAH!!!"

When we arrived at the Ron-KON-ko-MA train station, we searched for the Coastal Fun Shuttle to Splish Splash, but all we saw were several ratty school buses. MaryEllen nudged the sweaty woman standing beside the buses. "Do you know where we can find the bus to Splish Splash?" The woman pointed at the row of rusty yellow. Oh, it doesnt matter that its not a comfy, cushy, air-conditioned coach bus, we thought. We're going to the water park! Everything is GREAT!

Our bus driver (Jackie, we would later learn) was a Long Island goddess, resplendent in purple. Purple tank top. Shiny purple shorts. Layer upon layer of gaudy purple necklaces. A stack of jingly purple bracelets. And, topping it all off, a puffy purple scrunchie wrapped around her brassy ponytail like a cloud of grape cotton candy. Jackie was divine.

MaryEllen and I settled in the back of the bus, bags on our laps like well-behaved schoolchildren on a field trip. Besides Jackie, we were the oldest Splish Splashers on the bus (save for a few cross-looking mothers and fathers tending over hyperactive children). But it didn't matter - We were going to float in the lazy river! We were going to frolic in the wave pool! We were going to run around barefoot, eating greasy french fries and dripping on the concrete! We were going to the water park! Everything was GREAT!

It was when Jackie dropped us off, unceremoniously, in the vast asphalt lot surrounding the park, that something in the cosmos changed. We pulled out our tickets and waited in line at the gate, only to be told that we needed to exchange our tickets for other, prettier tickets. Ok. We waited in line at Window No. 1, only to be told that to receive our prettier tickets, we must move down a few windows, to Window No. 3. Ok. We waited in line at Window No. 3 when the family of 10 in front of us suffered a complete meltdown. Dad had mistakenly given Jackie (she of the purple haze) his park admission ticket instead of his bus ticket. Jackie was attempting to placate a trio of irate school bus passengers. Mom was employing the word "fuck" a lot. Junior was running full-tilt into the parking lot. Ticket Girl was chewing her gum and staring vacantly at the rangy kid running Window No. 2. MaryEllen and I exchanged a glance.

When we finally had clearance at the window, Ticket Girl gave us the prettier tickets, but then told us to head back over to Window No. 1 or Window No. 2 to run our credit cards. We did so. We headed back to the main gate, pushed through the turnstile, and felt excited again! "Let's get a locker!" MaryEllen enthused. "YES!" I replied.

Oh. There were no keys in the lockers. You need to pay $10 to get a locker. Ok. So we wait in another line, this one also filled with mothers employing the word "fuck" a lot. It was while we waited in this line that we started to understand the strange phenomenon of theme park queues - why you stand and stand and wait and wait and never move anywhere. This is because the mothers who employ "fuck" a lot figure that because they are pushing a baby carriage filled with a screaming toddler, because they need a cigarette, and because their daisy dukes are perpetually jammed up their ass, they deserve to cut right in front of you.

Regardless, ten minutes later, we had a locker. We smooshed our shit in it. We were excited again! "Lets ride on the lazy river!" I shouted at MaryEllen. "YES!" she replied. After a twirl around the lazy river, we headed to a ride where you had to climb a tower before sailing down a steep tube in a raft. YES! FUN! Towers! Rafts! We got the signal to begin climbing the tower stairs and we eagerly began our ascent.

But HOLY SHIT! The stairs were ON FIRE! Burning hot sear-off-the-flesh-on-the-bottom-of-your-feet-hot!! We bolted up until we could go no more and then quivered on our tiptoes in the shadow of a small oak. We looked down at our blistered feet. The steps were made out of black plastic. Because, as we all know, black plastic would never soak up heat and blast it back onto your naked feet like some sort of atomic Death Star.

After scorching our toes, we were a bit weary and decided to take a break and walk over to Fry World (Fry World!) to fill our tummies. We shimmied over to the shortest line. And waited. And waited. The only three things on the menu were: fries, chicken, and soda. Fries, chicken, and soda. I glanced at the counter inside - basket upon basket of fries and chicken and fries and chicken. The soda machine was ready to go. But still, the line stood still. The mother at the front of the line (naturally, sporting a baby carriage and short-shorts) started employing the word "fuck" in a rapid staccato. Fuck-f-f-fuck-fffffuckfuckfuck!

At this point, the serious man in front of us sensed disaster. He turned to his son and with an earnest gaze, gave him the important mission of finding a picnic table on which to spread out the fries, chicken, and soda feast. His son ambled off, and the dad began yelling directives, becoming increasingly more and more agitated with each sentence he sputtered:

Jacob! No! Over there!

Wait! Jacob! See those people leaving? Go for it!

No! Jacob! Just jump in there! Dont lose the table, son!

Jacob! Just stay there. JUST STAY THERE!!!

After another 10 minutes or so, the Fry World line had progressed and it was my turn. I was ready and fired off the following:

Me: French fries with cheese sauce and one 16-oz Coke and I will pay with my Go Pass

Counter girl: What do you want to drink?

Fucking hopeless, this place. Hopeless. After drink confirmation was made, Counter Girl handed me my Coke and motioned for MaryEllen to order, as if she was done with me.

Me: Hey, wait. I had fries. With cheese sauce.

Counter girl: How do you want that cheese sauce?

Me: Quickly.

We scavenged for a bit of picnic table and scarfed down our fries and chugged our Cokes, just in time to be ousted by a family of 16; eight on each side of the picnic table. But you know, we were excited again, because we were going to the wave pool! MaryEllen had never stepped foot inside of a wave pool, and because of this, she was willing to forget the days inadequacies. Waves! FUN!

We waded around for a while in the pool, counting down the time until the wave generator would push forth its walls of water. We avoided splashy children and playful teenagers. We did elementary water aerobics. We started to get bored.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the center of the pool - a group of high schoolers was yelling about something...that appeared to be...a giant condom...filled with something...floating in the pool. A kid with cornrows tossed it out and the lifeguard scolded him. And then blew her whistle. And then made us all get out. We were being punished; there were no waves.

MaryEllen frowned. Things werent going well. I had a headache that had been slowly building all day and was threatening to break into a raging crescendo. We got some water. We waited. After some time, they let everyone re-enter the pool. We took up our positions once again, ready to bob up and down in unison with the other swimmers. We practiced, me pushing the water towards MaryEllen and MaryEllen smiling and popping up an inch or two each time my tiny wave reached her stomach. We pretended that we were baby seals, rolling around on our backs. We started to get bored.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the center of the pool. MaryEllen shot me the kind of look that one might shoot when they realize that they've been stood up for the high school prom and they would never get to wear a corsage or pose for a cute photo underneath the beautiful balloon awning. She was near tears. I say this without exaggeration.

A very large teenager was in over her head and was flailing about, screaming something incoherent. A lifeguard jumped in and pulled the girl over her life-saving raft thing, towing the drownee to the relative safety of the 2'5" section of the wave pool. The girl stood up in the water, looked at the lifeguard, and began yelling the kind of obscenities that aren't meant for public consumption. She lost her water shoe in the faux-drowning; she wanted it back. While she was busy harassing the possibly life-saving lifeguard, another guard picked up the water shoe and tossed it the would-be victim, hitting her square in the side of the head. I think I detected a smile on his face.

Needless to say, the waves never came. MaryEllen was depressed. We prepared to go home. We asked a staffer where one would find the Coastal Fun Shuttle back to Ron-KON-ko-MA, and he pointed vaguely back at the asphalt, and so it was there that we walked. And there it was! Shiny! Big! Air-conditioned! Plush! We pulled out our tickets and practically ran to the bus, eager to leave the most inefficient theme park in the world. The woman guarding the bus door (not Jackie) simply said, "Theeees eeees not your bus."

It was then that MaryEllen said, "I am writing a letter of complaint to Splish Splash and to the Long Island Railroad" and I totally believed her.

Jackie finally showed up, surprisingly enough, driving a big fancy white coach bus! We walked up to the bus, only to be intercepted by a chubby guy with a comb-over. "Jaaaaackie," he scolded. "You need to move the bus over there." Jackie shook her head like an insolent toddler, the feathery bits of her purple scrunchie waving back and forth with each shake. "Yes, Jaaaaackie," Comb-Over coaxed, "Come oooooon, just move it twoooooo spots over."

Jackie complied and a minute later, along rolled a rusty yellow school bus. And this is what we rode, without insolent, purple Jackie in the driver's seat. The new driver lady turned to me and cautioned that the air conditioner jimmy-rigged above my head liked to drip occasionally. I didn't care. Just. Get. Me. To. Ron-KON-ko-MA.

MaryEllen started to drift off. I started to drift off. Until I felt a river of cold water splash down my back, causing me to scream, causing MaryEllen to jump, and causing passengers to stare. The bus driver laughed. Bitch.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence. Before boarding the train back to Manhattan, we grabbed some pasta and I realized that I lost the bottoms to my favorite, favorite, favorite bikini somewhere between hell and the bus. Fuck it, I said to myself. I will just sleep on the train.

But thwarting my restful plans were four little girls sitting behind us, ages 5 to 8, giggling and pulling on our hair. Their mother was sleeping (probably tired after employing a lot of very loud "fucks" throughout the day) and was ignoring our stern requests that the little girls stop giggling and pulling our hair. A very, very fed up MaryEllen turned around and threatened to wake the little girls' mother and the little girls finally moved one seat back. MaryEllen then pointed to the two tallboys of Budweiser that the little girls, ages 5 to 8, were draining while giggling and playing the hair-pulling game. Drunk toddlers. Figures. Par for the course.

I did nap for a bit, and MaryEllen and I parted ways when we arrived at Penn Station. Exhausted, I made my way to the train and there, on the platform, heard an operatic voice, belonging to one Rosa Theresa, the Subway Siren. She sat there with her keyboard, singing away, resplendent in purple capri pants, a purple caftan, and a bright purple streak in her graying hair, a far cry from Long Island Jackie.

I relaxed, smiled and set down my tote to dig a dollar out of my purse. I walked over and placed it in the small plastic bag set up next to the keyboard. Rosa Theresa looked me in the eye as she sang, blurted out a quick "Thank you!" in the middle of a verse and continued on with her music. I smiled again as the train rolled up, pleased that a 30-second subway encounter had me heading home on a high note.

Free beating with every spa service!

2006-07-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

Because I am lucky enough to still be cashing in on the whole birthday thing, my friend Sydney offered to take me for a pedicure today. Pedicure! Doesn't the very word just conjure up images of bubblebaths, martinis, and kitten-heeled slippers with those pink marabou feather fluffs on them?

It should, right? It should...

We were heading over to Diva Something Something Nails to have our tootsies pampered. I mean...Diva! Yes! We had to be on the right track....my beauty math tells me that Pedicure + Diva = Something Utterly Fanfuckingtastic!

We fell into a pedi-trance upon entering the salon, most likely a beauty coma induced by the sheer amount of shimmery pink the place was bathed in. Pink + Diva + Pedicure = Beauty Bliss! Exactly!

"We're here for pedicures," I told the petite brunette behind the counter. "One for each of us," added Sydney. Counter girl gave us each a quick glance, made a lazy flip through her appointment book and rolled her eyes back at the full salon. "Bachelorette party," she said, before eyeing us a little more thoroughly. "There's no room for you." Ohmygod....the faint sound of hearts dropping. We would never be bachelorettes and there would be no shimmery pink and there would be no divas and we would never get pedicures. End. Of. World.

We stepped back outside into the hot, harsh New York sun. "Wait," I said, remembering a tiny nail spot I saw a few blocks up. "It isn't 'Diva,' but a pedicure is a pedicure, right?"

Wrong. So. Very. Wrong.

We walked up the block and were immediately seated in the pedi-chairs. My pedi-lady turned on the foot spa thing, and motioned for me to dip my feet in. With gusto, I did so...and OH JESUS, BURNING HOT FLAMING WATER!!! I yelped and whipped my feet out, much to pedi-lady's apparent amusement. "Oh! Oh! I make cold!" she snickered as I studied my red feet.

As she started working on my cuticles, I remembered one thing:

I do not like it when people touch my toes.

I especially do not like it when people start bending my toes, reminding me of one of the main reasons why I do not like it when people touch my toes - they feel double-jointy, like the little foot phalanges weren't connected correctly in the womb. And pedi-lady seems to be enjoying my freaky toe flexibility, bending them all willy-nilly in her quest to remove excess polish, my cuticles, and an approximately 3" layer of epidermis from my toes.

I squirm. I make little uncomfortable noises. I even jerk my feet away in a protective manner. Pedi-lady just continues on with her unique brand of torture, smiling and saying mean things about me and my feet in Chinese to the lady next to her.

It is when she begins to systematically lift each toenail with some medieval torture device and sloooowwwwly, agonizingly scrape New York City from my nailbed - lifting each nail far enough that it makes me believe she might accidentally rip an entire nail off - that I consider kicking her in the head.

But I'm civilized. I let the woman slick on the polish. I gladly walk over to the foot dryer in my regulation-issue paper sandals. I begin talking to Sydney as if I haven't just been traumatized for 15 minutes.

Sydney's pedi-lady then walks over and places two gentle hands on her upper back, giving her a soothing massage. I believe that things will get better from here, that my pedi-lady will come over and rub away all of her indiscretions. I am saved.

Oh! Um. Ow! Errrrrr.... (pedi-lady is kneading my back like I am Rocky preparing for the fight and she is a burly trainer from a seedy part of Philadelphia who has a lot of money riding on this fight)

Oh! Um, geez....uh....you don't have to.... (pedi-lady is now pushing my back flesh up and down through my shirt in a manner that makes my entire upper body bob up and down with the back flesh, alarming Sydney, who is near-catatonic with bliss next to me)

uhhhhhhhhh....grmpppppp....schnfffffffff.....owowowowowowowowowowow (pedi-lady is actively punching me in the back. Punching. Me. In. The back. Pummeling me. Taking out a lifetime worth of aggression from working with people's disgusting, calloused, stinky, nasty feet on my back like she is Nanuck of the North and I am the baby seal that she is clubbing slowly to death)

Perhaps there is a reason why massage therapists are licensed to do what they do. And perhaps there is a reason why I will never again in my natural life get a pedicure.

Can I get some eucalyptus with that?

2006-07-23T00:14:00.000-07:00

I will say this, friends...I am beginning to hate public transporation. It is beginning to give me hives. It is beginning to make me wish that I lived on a small island in the Pacific and spent my days feasting on mangoes, lounging in rattan chairs, and enjoying the cool breeze provided by the palm leaf fanning over me, courtesy of some oiled-up poolboy named Jacques.

Ok, that has nothing to do with public transportation. I just wanted an excuse to sear into your minds the image of an "oiled-up poolboy named Jacques." My apologies.

Nevertheless, back to my contempt for public transport. Being the kind individual I am, and because I probably would have suffered some severe glares at work on Monday morning had I not done the following, I ventured into Brooklyn on a Saturday night to cover a front desk shift at work. The L train was not running, so I walked to Union Square, took the Q to Canal Street, took the J to Marcy Ave, took the B60 bus to Morgan Ave, and walked the rest of the way.

This took me an hour and I really, truthfully hated 58 of those minutes.

The 2 minutes that I enjoyed, however, were the 2 minutes in which a man lumbered up to the B60 bus stop with his buddy. He was a big tall fellow, probably in his mid-30's, Marine-type haircut, brand new kicks on his feet, saggy man-pris straddling his waist. His biceps could probably crush heads and other large objects and were overrun with tattoos of the faux-tribal, pointy, sharp, barbed-wire-y variety.

Tough Guy (that's what we're calling him here) looked at his buddy and said, "Dude, I'm gonna get laid tonight." He was confident, assured. His big tree trunk thighs would be wrapped around some ladyparts later on. There was an actual exchange of high-fives.

What is missing from the above description (which is pretty mundane, in and of itself) is the fact that Tough Guy was wearing a too-tight (bicep-enhancing, perhaps) grey T-shirt bearing a large cartoon picture of two cute, doe-eyed panda bears munching on eucalyptus leaves on the front, and the sentence "I saw the World Famous Pandas!" on the back. Cartoon. Pandas.

Probably to show off his "sensitive side," is my guess. Good luck, Tough Guy. Good luck.

Goin' Down In Chinatown

2006-07-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

Last night I made a valiant attempt to attend a friend-of-a-friend's birthday party. I really did.

I wrote down directions and kept watch over the clock. I showered myself nice 'n clean, applied deoderant with precision, and strapped on the big girl heels. I left the house on time (sometimes a magical feat in and of itself), exactly one half hour before said event was to take place. My route was mapped out, my MetroCard at the ready. It was almost party time.

I descended to the F train platform on 6th Avenue, purse full of dollars, face full of makeup. I waited. I watched a guy warble something remotely countrified at uninterested passengers-to-be. I waited. I saw a girl dip precariously near the yellow edge of the platform, her jokey frat-boyfriend threatening to tip her over. I waited. I slid away from a guy who was surely the Valedictorian of the Samuel L. Jackson Finishing School for Badasses, as he mumbled some crazy shit in a nice, deep (and fitting) baritone. I waited.

Suddenly -
F Train Announcer Lady: "<Static.....the F train .... static .... Queens .... static ....minutes.... static ....please...static...patience."

Valedictorian of SLJFSFB: "crazy mumble...heh heh heh...crazy mumble....i'ts HOOOOOT out there!...crazy mumble....heh heh heh....."

The train eventually came, after I was coated with a slick layer of grimy sweat, and I had about 2 minutes to spare before I was due at the restaurant. No biggie, I thought. There's really a 15-minute cushion built into all party arrivals. 25, if you come bearing gifts. Oh, wait....I didn't have a gift. Shit.

Ten minutes later, I exited in the middle of Chinatown. I know my Chinatown. I know my Chinatown.....I know my.....aw, shit. I don't read Chinese. It's nighttime. It smells. I don't know my Chinatown. I am somehow now 20 minutes late. No gift.

I will call a cab! Yes! Cab....cab...cab....why are there no cabs in Chinatown? Why are there so many dark alleys in Chinatown? Why are there so many suspicious-looking men hanging out on the dark corners near the dark alleys in Chinatown? WHY ARE THERE NO CABS IN CHINATOWN!?!? I am somehow now 30 minutes late. And I am developing a blister on the heel of my well-shod right foot.

Walk, walk, walk....cab! Cab pulls over! Cab lets me in! To the corner of Orchard and Canal, I say! YES!

(8 minutes later)-

Cabbie: "Fuck, miss. I do not think Canal and Orchard join."
Miss: "Yes, they do. My friend's text message tells me so. Please take me there."
Cabbie: "Oh, wait, I am going the wrong way. You take one dollar off! One dollar!!!"
Miss: "Oh....ohhhhkayyyyy...."

(another 8 minutes later, after 2 loops through the edge of Little Italy) -

Cabbie: "Fuck, miss. Fuck. Construction! Fucking construction! I can't do my fucking job...insane cabbie mumble...fucking construction!"
Miss: "Uh, you can let me off here."
Cabbie: "Fuck. No, I get you there. Five dollar! You only give me five!"

(another 5 minutes later, after swerving OVER a curb to avoid hitting an old man on a bicycle)

Cabbie: "Fuck! Look out! Fuck, miss. I can't take you. Five dollars."
Miss: (Realizing that "purse full of dollars" meant "purse full with 8 dollar bills") "grumble....Where IS Orchard and Canal?"
Cabbie: "3 blocks THAT way..." (meaning: 7 that way, 2 that way, and 1 diagonal....oh and, oh, the restaurant is unmarked and ridiculously hidden....)

Lesson 1: Subway platforms are hellish; even more so after 20 minutes of no air
Lesson 2: Count your dollars before you leave the house
Lesson 3: It's best to get out of the cab before the cabbie utters his tenth "fuck"
Lesson 4: "Going down to Chinatown" is not as cutesy as it sounds

Total time spent traveling to party: 80 minutes

Total time spent at party: 30 minutes

fucking summer in NYC - haiku

2006-07-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

"Black Kleenex"
Oh, New York City
Full of much dirt, sludge, and grime
I blow black boogers.

"Turning into Auto Mechanic"
Dirt in fingernails
No matter how hard I scrub
Hand me the noose, please

"Public Transpor-suck-tion"
Filthy subway cars
Homicidal feelings start
Thank god it's my stop

"Ode to Freon"
Air conditioner
Sweet manna, golden savior
I need you now, bitch

"Sominex, Please"
City of no sleep
The heat index keeps me up
Sweat in my ass crack

A Ceviche Scorned

2006-06-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

As I sit here typing this, I am considering a quick little fall to the knees to pray to The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady so that she may not deny me the fruits de mer of her labor as punishment for my recent ceviche indiscretion.

It all kicked off two months ago, with my arrival at the new job. I soon became a member of the noontime group congregated outside, piled behind a hulking minivan and waving dollars in the air, beseeching "por favor" in hopes that there was enough of the good stuff to go around for lunch.

Fridays are the Golden Day, when you double-check to make sure your wallet carries the six bucks that guarantees you a one-way ticket to a culinary Ecuadorian Eden - ceviche. A bowl of the warmest, softest, fluffiest rice ever to puff up on this earth; a salty, greasy bag of homemade corn nuts; and the crowning jewel - a large, full container brimming with lime juice, red onions, cilantro, tomatoes, and gorgeous shrimp.

You take your stash and steal off to the nearest office, picnic table, corner...anywhere you can be alone to slowly blend the rice in, dipping your spoon deep in the mix and soaking in the goddamn glorious flavor.

(Oh, god...I need a moment...)

The other day, I had ceviche on the brain. I had just finished telling a friend the day before about The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady's magical powers, when I passed by a Mexican restaurant. An enchilada? Maybe. A taco? Quite possibly...

But wait...was that...ceviche on the menu? Did I dare? Oh! And it came on a tostada! "The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady will never know," I rationalized. (Although, it can be said that having an internal monologue about stepping outside of one's ceviche paradigm is probably not rationalizable at all.)

I slowly worked my way through a mediocre basket of chips, waiting... hoping. And then it happened. The promised dish arrived on a hard, burnt corn disc, surrounded by wilty lettuce leaves and a pile of something greenish-brownish. It came devoid of shrimp, afraid of flavor, and instead was sprinkled with a generous helping of what appeared to be the cancerous bits of a dead eel.

It also came along with a bout of 10-hour gut rot that made me believe that The Ecuadorian Lunch Lady will most definitely put a hex on you for daring to betray her prized ceviche.

Lesson learned: You don't fuck around with ceviche, and copious amounts of Immodium AD will not cure ceviche hexes

M'am - Step Away From The Sudafed

2006-04-18T21:44:00.000-07:00

Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiist, people.

I woke up in what can only be called a foul mood, furthered by the fact that my body is enjoying a nice vacation from health. On my way to work, I stopped by the crappy CVS and decided to get some Sudafed.

Coughing and sniffling my way to the counter, I had my hand on my credit card when the Most Surly CVS Worker In The World held up my dual pack of generic CVS-brand Daytime and Nighttime Cold Medicine and said,

"M'am, this is a RESTRICTED ITEM [emphasis totally hers], I CANNOT let you buy this until you show me PROOF that you are a NEW YORK RESIDENT with your NEW YORK STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."

I looked at her dumbfounded, coughed a little phlegm up for good measure, and said, "But I live around the corner. And I'm sick. And I have proof of address."

A self-satisfied smile spread across her face, pleased that she caught another pseudoephedrine druggie red-handed. "M'am, you CANNOT buy this medicine if you DO NOT HAVE a NY STATE DRIVER'S LICENSE."

And then, just to further prove her might, she pointed at the bottles of generic CVS brand Nighttime and Daytime Cold Medicine and smugly placed them on the shelf behind her.

Bitch.

Everybody Fung Wah Tonight

2006-03-26T23:12:00.000-08:00

There are a few things a person generally does before boarding a crowded bus for a 4-hour ride, and those things almost often involve personal hygiene.

But perhaps I generalize, perhaps not everyone thinks this way. No, perhaps there is one dirty M.I.T. nerd out there who would be so bold as to reek of B.O. while poring over his fucking Astronomical Geophysics From Mars Advanced Algorithms book during said 4-hour ride back to NY. And not only would this man - so bold - reek of B.O., but he would also have the goddamned worst breath ever breathed on the planet, and he would exhale through is mouth every time he turned a corner on an astronomical geophysics from Mars advanced algorithm. It would sound like this: "huuuuuuuuuuuffffffff" and smell like this: uuuuuuuuuugh.

And that said, when it seemed as if he could assault the olfactories no more, stinky M.I.T. genius gently ruffles a small red bag and produces a bagel. With peanut butter on it. The most goddamned potent peanut butter to ever exist. And now the peanut butter is mingling with the B.O. and the uuuuuuuuuuugh and there is no room to breathe. None.

And to cap it all off, dear friends? To cap it all off?

He slowly turns his head to the window after polishing off the putrid peanut butter bagel and lets out the slowest, squeakiest, motherfucking smelliest fart to ever emerge from a person's sphincter.

This is when I literally sat with my head in the aisle, my finger cradled under my nose, praying for Conneticut to speed by a little faster.