Duck You, NorthFace in July!

So today I witnessed a Duck Tour driver hit a truck, which subsequently hit a car, which all happened at a red light. While they were stopped there, the flourescent vest wearing driver of the car got out of his automobile and berated the shit out of the Duck Tour driver (not the truck driver who actually hit him). On seeing this, a Duck Tour participant stood up, leaned over the rail and snapped a picture of the driver getting screamed at. This all happened across from Fanieul Hall, and was the most incredibly perfect melange of Boston moments that I wish I could have frozen it, put it in a snow-globe and sold it to tourists and locals alike. So I was like 'today is awesome, everyone is awesome.

But then this happened: I was exiting the supermarket, with my armload of dogfood, hummus, apples, febreeze and the other weird shit I buy at the supermarket, I nearly walked smack into some of the yuppiest goddamn yuppies ever to walk the Earth. I could smell that they were yuppies even before I noticed the heinous Crocs on their feet or the awful RayBans they were sporting or the Jeep Liberty keys in their hands (I don't know why I've been picking on Jeep owners lately, I don't really mean to. One of my best friends drives a Jeep. I swear.) so I was all 'ew, yuppies' when I happened to overhear their conversation. The section I caught went a little something like this "yeah, so, you know, Chad was tired of his black NorthFace, so then he bought his grey NorthFace, and now..." Seriously? You're fucking talking about your North Face jackets? Do you have nothing else to fucking talk about? North Face jackets? Are you 15? Also, it's July. It's like, 100 degrees outside

Jesus. Go pack all your Crocs into your Jeep and drive it off a fucking cliff. I hate you.

Eat This, Dr. Spock

The Setting: Sullivan Square, a little past midnight a few Thursdays ago. My brother and I were returning from Wonderland. We were a few blocks down Broadway when we noticed, in the distance, a scraggly, hunched figure staggering towards us. This person was of indeterminate age, race, or gender. It was also unclear whether their genitals were covered. The only things that were clear, was their death grip on an unlit cigarette, and the very stained, very worn grey sweatshirt covering their torso.

Brother: "I really want to know if that person is a man or a woman. I also want to know if they're wearing pants. (Pause) But I really don't want to get thrown up on. Or, stabbed with a hypodermic needle. So...let's cross here."

We crossed the street. The person, now separated from us by four lanes of blacktop and a grassy median, twitched on towards Sullivan Station.

Brother: "I think we made the right decision."

If my parents ever get to wondering if they did a good job raising us, I think this anecdote may soothe them. Sure, we go to the dog track on weekday evenings...but at least we have the good sense to cross the street when we see hepatitis coming.

Front and Side Dickbags

General Life Guideline: If a vanity license plate makes any sort of reference to the make and/or model of the car that it's affixed to...then the owner of that car is a total fucking dickbag.

I'm just saying.

A Touch of Grey. Or Blonde. Shit. What Color Is This?

The important facts: I'm 26. I'm a brunette. I'm excessively, inordinately, obnoxiously preoccupied and paranoid about aging. Ok, you're ready to proceed.

Last winter, in the depths of a deep late December funk, I had my hairdresser add some lovely light brown highlights to my hair. Usually, I stay far away from dye of any sort, even in small doses - due to a heinously addictive personality and some really scarring choices in 9th grade - but there was just so much fucking brown everywhere, and it was so cold, and there had been no direct sunlight in like, a week, and I was just depressed as shit, man. I had to do something.

So I changed up my hair a little, and it actually worked, I think, for a few weeks. Or maybe it was the vacation to Florida. Either way, I stumbled out of my Seasonal Affective Disorder doldrums, and resumed my life with a 'do full of lighter pieces. In early spring, it started to look a little root-tastic, but since I can't even pledge allegiance to a brand of shampoo for the time it takes to use up one bottle, I didn't really feel like embarking on a lifetime commitment to hair-streaks. I let it grow. And then...well I don't know what really happened, but sometime in May I noticed that the shit all turned blonde. And the other day I discovered all these brand new blonde strands all over my head. They're just growing, totally independent of the highlights. The highlights like, infected my hair or some shit, and now it's like scattering dandelion fluff, the shit is everywhere. I can't explain this. And really, it wouldn't be a problem, except 1) I like my dark hair and 2) I CANNOT TELL IF THESE NEW PIECES ARE BLONDE OR GREY AND IT'S DRIVING ME FUCKING BANANAS.

Seriously. Every day I notice a new piece, and I summarily freak the fuck out, and examine it under seven different lighting conditions. Then I talk to myself in soothing tones for a while, explaining to my freaked out little soul that grey hairs are NOT the end of the world, that people fucking age, and that aging is natural, and that my age and the number of grey hairs on my head have nothing to do with my character and blahblah, fuck it, I believe that, but I'm really not listening to myself right now because I am DISTRACTED by this FUCKING HAIR, WHAT COLOR IS IT??? And then I pull it out. It's gross.

This just happened to me, three minutes ago. I was in the bathroom, cleaning a spot of yogurt off my dress (yogurt stains are THE MOST unladylike of stains, up there with vanilla, rice, and tapioca puddings, mayonnaise, and cream cheese. I don't know why I insist on eating these things at work, the place to which I most frequently wear black) and there it was - a new hair. I separated it from the others, I twisted it around...it was blonde. Pretty sure. But maybe grey. Shit. I don't know. So I pulled it out. And carried it with me back to my office, with the intention of showing to my colleagues and asking their opinion. I know! That's so fucking disgusting! It's completely, totally the sort of obscene request I routinely force upon my friends and family, but at work? So inappropriate. Jesus, I need a new job. I'm getting entirely too comfortable at this one.

Oh, and I threw the hair away. Once it's out of my head it's nearly impossible to tell what color it is. I wish I could somehow remember that before I pull those little bastards out.

New Holiday Alert!

I am a super duper Mariah Carey fan. I know that's not exactly cool, but there is no part of me even remotely ashamed of revealing my insane love for that crazy bitch's music. I just dig the shit out of it. My first concert was her Music Box tour when I was like, 11 (thanks, Momma!) and I think I could karaoke about 90% of her musical catalogue. No one was happier when she made her Emancipation of Mimi comeback. Seriously, Mariah Carey is one of my top votes for living national treasure. That bananas voice aside, the woman is endlessly entertaining. Odd relationships with celebrities? Check. Duet with ODB and Boyz II Men? Yup. Bizarre marriage? Double check. Nervous breakdown? Check. More number one singles than fucking Elvis? Yeah, that too. Jesus, have you seen her Cribs episode? It is the most creepily entertaining profile to date. She walks on the balls of her feet the entire time, has at least four wardrobe changes and at one point, climbs into the damn bathtub with a towel on. It's fantastic. And remember the Honey video? Jesus, I love when this woman goes to work.

So, confessions of love and adulations of her insanity aside, I must admit that I've never been able to keep track of how old she is. My brother and I have this debate every time a new video premieres, and we just had it again while watching her newest video with TI (it's the MTVJams Jam of the Week). The discussion always goes like this:

"Dude, how old is Mariah Carey?"

"Fuck. I never remember."

"Me neither. Is she older than we think she is, or younger than we think she is?"

"I can't remember that either. How old do we think she is?"

"Shit. I don't know. I just know we're always wrong."

"Well is she 40 yet?"

"She has to be. I mean, by now? She must be."

"We do this every time."

"I know. Hang on. I'll look it up."

So I looked it up for the 82nd time, and discovered...Mariah is 38. Besides the fact that she looks incredible for 38, we realized that it's going to be a really big deal when she finally does hit the big 4-0. So in our house, we're going to celebrate. 40's for Mariah in recognition of her 40th. 40 ounces will be consumed, and a reasonable attempt made to watch 40 Mariah videos. When we run out of videos, we can always just YouTube the Cribs episode, and the time she went on TRL and freaked Carson Daly out by stripping and handing out popsicles or whatever the fuck she did. We will not, however, be watching Glitter. Even I can't get through that shit. And I've sat through Showgirls. Twice. I forgive you Glitter though, Mariah. Even national treasures make mistakes.

Anyway, you're all invited to participate. March 27, 2010. 40's for Mariah on her 4oth. Right. Were working on the exact title.

Quincy Delite Jones Jr...How Could You Be Anything Less than Great?

Word Up, Queen Latifah.

Last night were the BET Awards, and I have to say, that if I am ever given the opportunity to attend an awards show - just one awards show, ever - I would not choose the Oscar's, or the Grammy's, or even the MTV Awards. No. I am picking the BET Awards. That was the best fucking awards ceremony I have ever watched. I didn't get home till around 9.30, but as soon as I opened the door and stepped inside, I was commanded by the Brother and the Other Roommate to enter the living room immediately. I didn't even get to put my damn bag down.

The Brother, the OR and the Dog were sitting in completely darkness, utterly enthralled by what was on the screen. When I walked in, the Brother whispered "it's the BET Awards. Al Green is getting a lifetime achievement award." And he was! And it was a fucking party! Seriously, people were getting down at the BET Awards. Everyone was standing in the aisels, just dancing. Most people had, obviously, been doing their down dances to various Al Green songs for the past 20 or so years (please, you have your own moves to these songs, too. I do, anyways) so it was kind of awkward, but also, nobody cared, because you have to dance to these songs.

And the craziest thing about the Al Green award was that it wasn't even the best part of the night! No! Neither was the Lil Wayne performance or any of the other insane moments I saw. The best part of the night was the Quincy Jones achievement presentation and acceptance. First of all, I had no idea that Quincy Jones a) did so much incredible humanitarian shit or b) was 75 fucking years old. Item b sort of informs item a, when you look at it - he's had a lot more time to accomplish shit than I realized - but still. And I steadfastly refused to believe he was 75...until he took to the podium to give his acceptance speech.

Holy shit. It was the best acceptance speech I have ever heard. It was one of those speeches that makes so little sense that you have to check with the people around you to make sure it's legitimately non-sensical, or if you just aren't getting it. I still have to admit - maybe Quincy is just on a totally different level. Maybe I'm not capable of understanding him.

I can't find this on YouTube, but I honestly didn't look that hard. If you're good at YouTube, just see if you can dig it up. It's totally worth it. It's the best acceptance speech of all time. My favorite moment, by far, is near the end of the speech, when he says "If it rains...get wet." and then holds his hand up like 'ohhh' and the crowd totally leaves him hanging. That's when I knew no one else got it, either. And it was hysterical. Like, we weren't ready for that catchprashe. I'm almost ready now, though.

Other brilliant moments are when he references scientific advances (he's on the board at MIT? For real? Awesome.) and pronounces 'genome breakthrough' like it's the name of a band, and when he makes comparison statements with an empty second line...

Because if it rains...get wet.

Anybody?