WWPJD?

The election is making my head hurt. Every day I am in front of Brian Williams, his giant head all up in my living room delivering the nightly news, and I am saying "Why, Brian Williams? WHY? I am SO CONFUSED. Why does nobody care that the nutty Alaskan bitch couldn't win a seat on the PTA in most communities and that old man is obviously senile for appointing her and he is CLEARLY GOING TO DIE IN THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE AND THEN WE WILL HAVE A PRESIDENT WHO THINKS DINOSAURS AND PEOPLE ROAMED THE EARTH AT THE SAME TIME SO CAN YOU HELP ME UNDERSTAND HOW THIS IS HAPPENING BRIAN WILLIAMS, CAN YOU PLEASE?????"

And Brian Williams just gives me this look like, "No, kk, I can't. My head hurts, too. The physically inexplicable white rings beneath my eyes that you've been obsessing over for the better part of the last decade are even duller and less snowy-hued, haven't you noticed? I'm doing my best, I swear. I wake up every morning, and I look at my glorious coif in the mirror, and I say to myself: "Brian Williams - what would Peter Jennings do?" And then I think "JESUS CHRIST, Peter Jennings never had to deal with this shit. Peter Jennings had Nixon and Nam and the crack epidemic and Reaganomics and Bill Clinton and I have RETARDS IN THE OVAL OFFICE AND LARGE SCALE WEATHER DISASTERS AND AN IMPENDING ECONOMIC COLLAPSE AND OK MAYBE THIS IS A GREAT TIME TO BE A JOURNALIST AND MAYBE I'M JUST FREAKING OUT BECAUSE IT'S A LOT OF PRESSURE TO ENDEAR YOURSELF TO THE NATION AS A TRUSTED NEWS SOURCE AND I DON'T KNOW HOW PETER DID IT ALL AND STILL HAD TIME FOR HIS FAMILY, NEVER MIND A BALANCED DIET AND NOW I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND WHY HE SMOKED BUT THAT'S ALSO WHAT KILLED HIM, AND I'M JUST REALLY STRESSED OUT, OK, KATIE?"

And then I'm like "Jesus, Brian Williams, I'm sorry. I didn't realize." And he's all "WELL NOW YOU DO."

And then the news is over and Entertainment Tonight comes on and I have to give myself a lobotomy before they start talking about Miley Cyrus and my face explodes.

No, I Actually Have NO IDEA What Time It Is

I complain about Boston all the time. I mean, you can’t totally blame me – besides the weather (this summer has been an apocalyptic mash up of skin blistering heat and prolonged bring-on-the-malaria downpours. We’ve had like, four nice days.) and the assholes, and the tourists, and the college kids - it’s hard to be perennially cheery about a place where HAPPY HOUR IS ILLEGAL. (Silver lining – cigarettes now cost like, fifteen dollars a pack, so cutting down on random post-work boozing also probably reduces certain types of lung cancer, at least in those people who only smoke when drinking. WHICH ISN’T ME, MOM, I SWEAR.)

But all shittiness aside, there are some dope elements to Boston. Like – I hate the T, but it makes me laugh all the time. When I’m going all the way across the city on the Orange Line, sometimes I get off at New England Medical and walk all the way to Haymarket, just so I can cut through the Common. Seriously, you can walk everywhere downtown, and it’s all so pretty, even in the winter. Our sports teams have become pretty excellent over the last half decade, and being that I remember when we REALLY SUCKED ASS AT EVERYTHING, it’s been pretty awesome to witness the transformation. Plus, my father can die that much more happily now. Half the neighborhoods are like living museums and I’m not sure who I love more – people who love it, or the people who’ve lived here forever and don’t even notice. And there are a crapload of odd holidays celebrated nowhere else in the country (Bunker Hill Day, anyone?) which certain workplaces consistently recognize, and provide their employees with plenty of long weekends. And of course, there are piles and piles of ‘old shit’, as my brother so eloquently refers to our abundance of physical history. Graveyards, war sites, ships…and of course, the architecture. With which I am so insanely in love. The old shit, the new shit, I’m obsessed with all of it. That’s not to say, however, that I don’t have some complaints.

Today’s Major Damage: The Custom House Clock.

The Custom House itself I fucking love. My parents actually took advantage of one of those TimeShare scam-talks one time, so we could stay there for a weekend. So no, I don’t have a problem with the building. It’s just the goddamn clock – and not even all the time. I just hate the shit out of that clock at night. See, once it becomes dark, the clock face is illuminated. They’ve chosen a lovely palette of blues and an orange-yellow, so it’s visible without being neon, and sort of retro without being period-specific…that’s all fine. It’s just…why are the clock hands NOT ILLUMINATED??? Why would you spend thousands of dollars lighting up all the numbers on the clock, and then LEAVE THE HANDS COMPLETELY DARK? Seriously, this is the most retarded design flaw. Like, I know what numbers are on a clock. There are twelve of them. I even know what order they go on. So, considering I’m not a toddler, figuring out what numbers go where on the clock face isn’t actually the part I need the most help with. It’s that whole ‘what fucking time is it?’ part where I could actually use some fucking assistance. DOESN’T THIS BOTHER THE SHIT OUT OF ANYBODY ELSE??? It’s made me crazy for like, my entire life. If they reversed the lighting scheme – lit up the hands instead of the number – it would automatically become like, 85% more effective. (Ok, so I’m not really that good at telling time. People who run around with watches like that – just the hands – confuse the hell out of me. I’m in awe that they're not at least an hour off at all times. Then again, if I ever saw someone consult a watch that consisted of just numbers and no hands, I would SMACK THEM UPSIDE THIER FUCKING HEAD because that is not a WATCH it is a FUCKING BRACELET, you IMBECILE. Good Lord.)

I know this is totally irrational, misplaced rage. But I live in Boston people, I’m an asshole. I can’t really help it. Just fix the fucking clock. I bet the tourists will appreciate it, too.

Ooh, and just so I don’t end this on a totally sour note: another thing I love about Boston? Fenway Park. Which is the most delightful combination of old shit + sports + architecture +overpriced beer. It is also where I am headed in about one hour. Yay! Except I am wearing white pants, and will be sitting in the bleachers. Which is going to make enjoying my giant soft pretzel with gobs of mustard EXCEEDINGLY DIFFICULT. I’m going to need to bring like, a towel and spread it over my lap. Where the hell am I going to get a towel? You know what? Fuck it. What the hell am I doing wearing white pants after Labor Day anyway? Just a small sacrifice to the mustard gods.