I Can't Forget the Lyrics, Holiday Redux

I've been meaning to write this forever, but sometimes...life, man. Whatever. It's pretty boring. I got a promotion! Because my boss moved away, but I'm sort of killing it regardless, so it counts. Anyway, I've been distracted. Until now! I've been compiling my Year End Spotify Playlist, which I just capitalized the first letter of each word like it's a fancy thing I do each year. It's not. But it is a wonderful opportunity to revisit some lyrics I loved, loved to hate, or absolutely did not understand.

My Story -  R Kelly f/ 2 Chains
Problematic Lyric: This is my story/yeah I'm from that Chi town dirt/I went from being broke/To sleeping in Versace shirts.

I don't so much have a problem with this as I do a question: Does R. Kelly own a drawer full of Versace nightshirts? (Are there Versace nightshirts? Can someone get Kanye to design theVersace nightshirt?) Or does he simply end most days by passing out in the Versace top he'd been sporting all day? Either option is delightful.

Also, his new album is amazing, if simply (like most things R Kelly related) for the mere fact of its existence. At one point he claims that every baby in the 90s was conceived to his music. Which might not be entirely off-base.

Fine China - Chris Brown
Problematic Lyric: It's alright/I'm not dangerous.

I hate Chris Brown. And I REALLY hate that he makes catchy ass music that I car-dance to a whole bunch before I realize what's happening. This track is like, particularly wrong, though.
He's just lying. Look at that - I'm not dangerous.
Oh, really, Chris Brown? You're not? Are you not the same dude who beat up your girlfriend and then got a COMMEMORATIVE NECK TATTOO OF THE EVENT? Fuck you.

How Many Drinks? Miguel f/ Kendrick Lamar
Problematic lyric: How many drinks would it take you to leave with me?/Yeah, you look good and I got money/But I don’t wanna waste my time/Back of my mind I’m hoping you say two or three/You look good, we came to party/But I don’t wanna waste my time

This song raises like, a host of red flags. First, as Kyle and I have repeatedly discussed: ladies love Miguel. Like, we love Miguel. And why shouldn't we? He makes jams. His hairstyles are consistently creative. When he was a guest coach on The Voice, he seemed like a legitimately lovely young man. He is the best. And he knows what ladies like! We like him. Anyway, this song has me wondering if he realizes all this. Also, if maybe he needs to look elsewhere for ladies. And also like maybe when he's at the club he's sort of a panicky jerk. Let's break this down:
a) How many drinks, Miguel? Zero drinks. It will take zero drinks to get that lady home. It sounds like you're in a club, so she's probably already had a drink. You're fine. You're Miguel! No one needs to drink to want to spend time with you. I bet your shoes are amazing.
b) Are you on a schedule, Miguel? Time management seems like an issue for you. Not money, though. I don't really understand this dynamic.
c) Miguel, this seems like a terrible strategy. Biggie told you: let that other guy go buy the wine, then creep up from behind and ask her what her interests are, who she's there with. You know - things to make her smile, and what numbers to dial. Don't make her guess at a magic number of drinks like it's a fucking carnival game. And what if she wants four drinks? Is that okay? What if she's like 'five drinks'? Besides the fact that she's drunk now, is that a deal breaker? She needs to know beforehand, exactly how many drinks?
d) Wait, is this normal? Do people walk around the club assigning How Many Drinks to other patrons? I am so happy I never go out anymore.
e) I don't know. Miguel says he came to party, but I really wish he would just like, hang out and enjoy the night. This all sounds really stressful.

Bad - Wale f/ Tiara Thomas
Problematic Lyric: Not the lyrics - just the metal bedspring that creaks in the background throughout the entirety of the song.

WTF is happening in this song. Are they in an abandoned house? Is this mattress from the 70s? Wale. Aren't you a rapper? DON'T YOU HAVE A POSTUREPEDIC?


BEYONCE*.
There is a new Beyonce album. I haven't bought it yet, because I think iTunes is stupid and I won't watch any of those videos more than once, but it's fine because Beyonce can do whatever the hell she wants. It is a completely true fact, that every emotion you've ever had about a boy, Beyonce has a song for. EVERY EMOTION. I love her. She completes me.

I'm sure I'll love the whole thing, but for now I've only heard what they've played on Hot 97's morning show:

Drunk in Love f/ Jay-Z: I have no idea what's going on here, other than Beyonce and Jay have a fucking WEIRD TIME when they drink, and they seem to enjoy the hell out of it. From what I can put together, they wake up on the kitchen floor post-blackout, continue drinking, retire to a half-filled bathtub for some adult time - for which 'surfboarding' is apparently the chosen euphemism in the Knowles-Carter household - then Jay Z eats her boobs for breakfast.

Obviously I prefer the Jay of a simpler time, when he boasted about acquiring Magnavox television sets, rather than his personal art collection and Twitter beef. That said, dude is a grown ass man and has nothing to prove to me. But it is really nice to know that even if he isn't popping Molly (ugh**) he's still down to occasionally get inappropriately drunk with his wife and make what sounds like an ungodly mess for the staff to clean up the next day.

Mine f/ Drake: Is this a song about post-partum depression? An emotional trial I've never had! Beyonce is a GENIUS AND WE'RE LUCKY SHE SHARES HER EXPERIENCES TO BETTER PREPARE US FOR OUR OWN LIVES. Also, I suppose if I were to pick any male artist to collaborate on a song about post-partum depression, it would totally be Drake. Well done, Bey.

Merry Christmas and shit!



*That Beyonce and R Kelly released new albums within two weeks of each other is my Christmas Miracle.
**I think my deeply judgy attitudes regarding Molly can be chalked up to some old lady hater issues, since it really came on the scene after the time in my life where I'll be trying any new drugs. Like, that's it - I'm not going to be trying any new fun shit. My body simply can't take it. My body recently brought to my attention that I can't even drink through hangovers anymore. That's off the table. Getting older is sort of like slowly realizing you're a superhero, except your abilities are only revealed as you lose them. I think Molly represents all of that for me. 

A Shot and a Beer, Delores

It probably goes without saying: I'm delighted by the outcome of the election. Obama is my jam, and I want to have a beer with Biden so much, I own a cozy with a picture of his face on it. There are more lady senators than ever, and check it: burgeoning religious diversity! A Buddhist lady! A Hindu lady! (Which made me think, if I were ever to take office - it's a hypothetical, roll with me - would they allow me to swear in on The Ballad of the Sad Cafe? Carson McCullers is as close as I get to religion.) We're four states closer to universalizing the right to marry whoever the hell you're crazy enough to want to do that with. And I have yet another reason to visit the baby brother in Boulder. America 2012: now with more weed!

But, hey, stoner! Pay attention.We're not done yet. This is just another good step. There's still so much to fix. Like - there is still a ton of racist garbage going on. Case in point: The Washington Redskins.

One cool thing about DC is that most of  the sports teams are in different divisions than Boston teams, so I can be a fan without betraying loyalties. But I realized this fall: I cannot root for the Redskins. Because...what...how...this the name of the capital city's football team? Guys, that word is a fucking slur. It's disgusting. It is not celebratory. It is a hateful, hateful thing. Because it's a tradition, because everyone's used to it: these are not reasons to continue the practice in perpetuity. Do you really need examples of 'traditional' practices where, in hindsight, it's just 'Holy shit, what the hell was WRONG with everyone?' I brought this up with Kyle the other day, and he was like 'Okay, but is the Cleveland Indians mascot not more racist than Washington's team name?' And he has a point, that bullshit is also terrible, but we don't need to involve a scale of racism. It is all vile. Like, HOW IS ANYONE OKAY WITH ANY OF THIS?

Why isn't everyone talking about this all the time? Every game? Why haven't the Commissioners of ALL THE SPORTS just gotten together for lunch one day and been like 'Guys, none of this is alright. Let's fix it right now. Let's just split some calamari and - what, okay you want the mussels? Bud, you don't like mussels? Of course you don't. Hmm. Beef carpaccio? What? No. We aren't getting the spinach-artichoke dip. This isn't TGIFridays. Okay FINE, get it, just can we please talk about changing all these abhorrent team names and mascots? Fans would be so into this! It'd be like the time M&M's had people vote on the new color! Remember? Okay, sure some people miss tan, but that's not a super valid comparison, because tan M&Ms weren't COMPLETELY FUCKING RACIST. I mean, we changed the Bullets. To the Wizards, I know, entirely stupid name, we'll need to brand-manage better this time, but really. DC didn't want to be the Bullets anymore because of the negative associations with violence and being the murder capitol and all. What about the negative associations of, oh, I don't know, murdering millions of people with smallpox blankets and forcing them out of their homes just because some white people wanted to raise their stupid cows there? That's not negative enough? I'm just saying - OH MY GOD, DAVID, NOBODY WANTS THE APPETIZER SAMPLER, THAT IS ALWAYS THE WORST DEAL ON THE MENU.'

Because kids, we're better than this. You know? Just today I was bitching about how we haven't changed Columbus Day to American Holocaust Remembrance Day, and the discussion turned to getting credit for 'finding' something you stumbled across while looking for something else. Like when I 'find' an ill dive bar in a weird neighborhood after wandering around in search of a subway station. People have been drinking there for mad long. It was merely a personal discovery. Later my friend compared America, at it's best, to a great dive bar, and we were both like 'Oh shit, that is the best way to think about it.' And there's no place I'd rather be than a great dive bar. You know?

Tuesday night, I left Kyle's still nervous about what kind of country I'd wake up to on Wednesday (the Metro should totally run late on election night). I was walking down the street listening to Rihanna on my giant headphones, in an outfit that involved no pants and a lot of scarves, eating a cookie with TWO KINDS of chocolate chips, and I was like 'Dude, I love America! Romney can't win.' Then I didn't feel like eating the rest of the cookie, so I threw it in the street. Obama's America: Where the streets are paved with chocolate chip cookies! Half-eaten chocolate chip cookies, though. We've still got a lot of work to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go help those old white men get through their lunch meeting so I can feel okay cheering for RG III. Because he's dope. And before Goodell starts pegging waitresses with dinner rolls. He's a mess when he doesn't get his way on the first course.

I love this bar.


a) Despite the lighthearted end note, we still need to fix all the mascots, and Columbus Day. 
b) I wasn't like, naked and wrapped up in scarves or anything, it was my typical unbalanced ratio of leggings-to-layers-on-top.
c) I figured throwing the cookie in the street wasn't littering because there are animals, but now I feel bad about luring them into the street, and what if chocolate is bad for raccoons like it is for dogs? I feel bad about this now. See? LOT OF WORK TO DO. 

This Hardly Qualifies as a Dope Beat

I write to myself all the time. Everywhere. It's like thinking, but you look crazier. The following is some shit I wrote to myself on the subway last week, loosely titled 'On Work Travel'.

April 17, 2012

It's possible that this hotel was created specifically for me.

It's pretty swag inside, yet situated between a police station and a methadone clinic. Precisely how I prefer my luxury: with a side of recovering heroin addicts.

The bed is awesome. I thought about lifting up the sheets and checking out what kind of mattress action this is, but I don't really care that much. Also, mattresses are hard to move, and I don't know where I'll be living in six months. (Not that I have concrete plans, of course. That's just like, a general truth.) Also, I'm poor and those shits are expensive as hell.

The shower! First of all, there's a window, which I always like. And the water pressure is on point. I don't know how anyone would manage this showerhead if they were more than an inch taller than me, but I don't care, because I am not more than an inch taller than me. The downside is that there's no tub (is it gross that I take baths in hotels? I don't know why it would be any grosser than anything else you do in a hotel. Not like it matters. If there were a resounding chorus of 'that's gross', I'd still do it.) but the shower door is this whole glassed-in floor-to-ceiling situation that would allow one to hotbox that section of the bathroom in the morning before a 75 minute subway ride to far-far-far Brooklyn, if one was inclined to do those sorts of things.

HBO. I realize free HBO was available at like, the Bates Motel, so it's not exactly a drawing point, but I was really excited to watch the premiere of 'Girls'. That was, of course, until I watched the premiere of 'Girls'. I think I hate it. Fuck. I did not want to hate that show! (I've watched it since, and I still hate it.) I really like Lena Dunham. And I really, really liked 'Tiny Furniture'. 'Girls' is like a watered down 'Tiny Furniture' with more annoying characters. I mean, I am the demographic they're appealing to, so I should empathize with the inertia inherent in the whole 'suffocated by our myriad opportunities' thing, and I do, but I also have limited patience for all this whiny bullshit. Oh, your boyfriend is too nice and the sex is boring? Break up with him. Oh, you hate your job? Find another one and quit. Oh, your parents aren't paying for your apartment anymore? Thank them for helping you this far - graciously, and figure your shit out. Although, her parents were kind of dicks. They just left the hotel without saying anything? My parents would not pay my rent, but they would wake me up and have coffee with me and tell me they loved me and that everything would be okay before they left. That's probably why I'm not an asshole, though. At least, not the 'Girls' kind of asshole. I did just talk about hotboxing the fucking shower. At least I don't eat cupcakes in the bathtub. What the shit was that about? You can't...you can't eat in there. Especially not baked goods, just...no.

(Okay, I have TOO MUCH to say about 'Girls'. I'm going to watch more episodes and give it its own post. Which will not talk about the show's lack of diversity, because that's the only realistic part. Have you ever met girls like that? They are only friends with other girls like that. That was the only part of the show I didn't want to stab at least a little. No one complained about the lack of diversity on 'The Sopranos'. It's a snapshot of a subculture, and that part, at least, was pretty right-on.)

The bar downstairs has really decent cheap red and an attractive bartender who is married with kids that I instantly asked to see pictures of, so all sexual tension is reassuringly put aside (seriously, this is a great technique, especially if you travel all the time and like to sit at the bar by yourself. Pictures of someone's kids are an automatic tension disabler.) and he just pours me a bunch of free wine. He also acted really irritated at other patrons, and shooed kids away from the bar like an angry grandpa when most people our age would have tried to play it cool. I love when people are over being cool. I just really adore cranky and/or emotionally volatile people. I have been totally Stockholm Syndromed by my upbringing; it's stamped all over my life. What can you do, though. I love a grouch.

We talked about California - he's lived everywhere. I like it when a bartender talks more than you do. Another reason dive bars are the best. You learn so much! I wish you could send your kids to bars with permission slips. I would send mine to the Tam at 16. Nothing bad's going to happen. That's a satiated addicts bar; everyone's got their fix. They aren't looking for much else. It took actually dating the bartender to get myself in trouble there.

I am writing this on the train and everyone can see, and Pops called me out on not posting anything new lately, so this is probably going to turn into a blog entry. So self-aware! That  is going to be awkward to type. (It wasn't that awkward.)

Were the BareNakedLadies kind of awesome sometimes? Or is my appreciation of 'Brian Wilson' just a wicked case of nostalgia? I literally cannot tell. No idea.

Sometimes you notice a girl, and she's so pretty, it breaks your face in half, somewhere really deep. Like, it just cleaves you. I don't think anyone ever feels like that about boys.

I am obsessed with where I might have left my deodorant. (I lost it between leaving the hotel for dinner with S, and not-finding it the next morning. What? I don't even think I took it out of my purse. Yes, I carry deodorant with me at all times, and you should, too.)

The sanitation grades here are a nice thought, but every time I eat anywhere in an old East Coast city, I pretty much assume there's trace elements of rat feces in whatever I've ordered. I don't like, actively think about it, because that's super unappetizing, but come on. Kitchen's are gross. Especially kitchens in the basements of 150 year old buildings.

History, yum.

Honestly, There's Nothing Sexier Than Manners

(Not even those sex-line ab muscle things that go into a guy's jeans. Those are totally top five, though.)

So I have some beef with DC. Mostly it's my own shit, because I have beef with everything (including, even, beef itself), so I'll leave most of it aside and just focus on the manners thing.

Oh my goodness, why does EVERYONE in DC have the most terrible manners? I have three examples from JUST TODAY. Pretty much every single time I went somewhere, some motherfucker was just so crazy rude/oblivious it made it hard for me to continue about my business.

Example One: Not Saying Thank You.

This afternoon I got some grub at Zorba's*. I was waiting on the wall for my number to be called, so I had an amazing perspective on the guy whose order was called right before me, who picked up his souvlaki and fries from the gentleman behind the counter and DIDN'T SAY THANK YOU. He didn't even look at homie. Just picked up his shit and turned his back. The cook was like 'thank you!' without a hint of snark in his voice, and I just wanted to apologize on behalf of all people who've ever eaten at his restaurant, ever.

Like, when, EVER, ever, is it acceptable for you not to thank the person who made your meal? I don't want to think about what kind of upside-the-head-slap I'd incur from my parents if I pulled that shit. Oh, wait. Zero, because my parents taught us to thank people who do things for you, because they were interested in raising decent human beings. Imagine being on a date with that guy? There's literally no explanation he could give me that would make me see the rest of that situation through. Almost anything would be easier to rationalize than that:

Second Worst Date Ever: "I gets real Norman Bates with it. My deceased mother is on a rocker in the basement."

kk: "Oh, word? Is she...was this a request of hers? Is she like, at least preserved and shit? Are you waiting for an ideal location in the cemetery crypt to open up? Are you saving up for an ill plot? That shit is pricey."

I mean, I'm not going home with Bates Jr., but I'm staying through the end of lunch. For the story, at least. But Non-Thanking Guy? Bye. Give me your falafel, and I'm out. Yeah, ALL your falafel, son. Also, that guy was with a lady. Unless she was on a pound of Xanax from dealing with that dick day in and day out, there's no excuse for letting that slide. She's accountable, too.

Example Two: Not Giving Up Your Seat on the Bus for a Child

I'm breaking in some new boots, and my right foot hurt like woah, so I took the D2 rather than walking home this afternoon (I swear, it's just as fast.). Three stops in, a woman got on with her adorable, curly haired girl child. The kid could not have been more than three. Despite the fact that both rows of seats along the front of the bus were lined with able bodied adults, not ONE person offered their seat. (I was standing, towards the back, before you throw your stone.)

My father once said, in reference to the Titanic and other disaster situations: "That women and children shit? No way. Children only. I'm not giving up my seat to no lady. I might kill your ass and float on you, but I'm not giving up my seat."

Which, word, I totally get that. I should know how to swim if I get on a boat. I can't rely on my tits for everything. But children! Children! Yo, get the fuck up and give that baby your seat, jerk off. I mean, seriously. You know what's right.

Example Three: Yo, SAY EXCUSE ME

I am getting heated again, so I'll cut this one shorter.

But, on the real, I don't know if it's because there are so many international people...no, okay, that doesn't excuse the fact that there is no real flow to the pedestrian traffic patterns here. I was going to be like 'well some people in the world drive on the left...' but in reality, if some adorable British dude walked into me because he didn't get how to pass and shit, that would probably charm the tights off me, and that has also happened a total of zero times. Usually, it's what happened this afternoon: a crazy white lady on a run spasms and runs directly into me, and just spins on by, like how an insect flies into you. Also, why are you running down Wisconsin at 5:30 in the afternoon? You realize there's like, woods and paths and LESS CONGESTED STREETS AND SHIT, RIGHT? No. You don't care. And it's not just runners. It's people everywhere in this city. They bang into you, and just don't excuse themselves. How is this okay, ever? I want to have everyone's parents over for a conference: You raised some rude ass humans. You have failed so solidly. Address this.

That's it for now, I guess. I'm also really annoyed that the whole city recycles at a second grade level and no one knows how to cross the street, but I can save those for later posts, I'm sure.

*Shout out! To the bomb ass Greek gentleman who ran the coffee shop on the 8th floor of Boston's City Hall, and who made the straight up greatest Avgolemono soup I have ever had in my life. Nothing has ever come close. I half expect to go to Greece and be disappointed. It was also like, two huge servings for three dollars. Homeboy kept me sa-ti-ated.

One of the Many, Many Who Sip Henny

More Disturbing:

That the newly released 'Best of Ja Rule' album exists, or that I know almost every word to every song included in said Ja compilation?

**Okay, there are so many hilarious pictures unearthed by the Google Image search 'Ja Rule be Trippin', but this one of Ja in a tiny mirrored space is one of my favorites. Why are you in a tiny mirrored space, Ja? Where on Earth could this possibly be? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ASHANTI? Seriously, Ja, where is she? Lady should be singing hooks somewhere. Wouldn't it be awesome if she went and found LL Cool J and they did a song for Ludacris to do a crazy remix of? And even the non-remixed version is sort of awesome because the video has Uncle L doing push ups under a waterfall while Ashanti lounges on his back, and they play it on Vh1 Soul all the time?

Yeah, I don't know what we're talking about anymore, either. Someone find Ja Rule so we can make sense of all this!

**I just spent a LOT of time Googling Ja Rule.

They Call Me U-S-H-E-R-R-A-Y-M-O-N-D

Imaginary Phone Conversation Between Myself and Mr. Usher Raymond, circa February 2009

kk: Hi, Usher?
ur: Hey! kk! Iwas just thinking about you!
kk: Aw! Ush! Stop. Seriously, though, I called for a really specific reason.
ur: You want to act out that R.Kelly featuring Nivea 'Laundrymat' video from 2003 again?
kk: No. But I love where you're heading with this.
ur: I'll put it on ice. What's up?
kk: We need to talk about your video for 'Trading Places'.
ur: It's dope, right?
kk: I'm obsessed with it.
ur: What did you think about the Hologram Ice Piano?
kk: Dude. I LOVED the Hologram Ice Piano. More than that though, can we talk about your lyrics?
ur: I guess. But I'm a little...it's just...some people on the internet hated them.
kk: Usher. No. Only nerds use the internet. These lyrics? Are GENIUS.
ur: Really? You think so?
kk: Yes.
ur: You're not fucking with me?
kk: Never. Clearly, your recent collaborations with R. Kelly have been paying off.
ur: 'raises eyebrows' (Sometimes my imaginary conversations are video chats)
kk: I'm serious. Like...okay, the part where you make your lady breakfast in bed and then you list all the items on the plate? Amazing. And you provide her with "strawberry and grape jelly"? Both jellies!

ur: I like both. When I'm at a diner, I like that they have all the little kinds so you can mix it up. Sometimes I even go crazy and get some orange marmalade in there.

kk: Me, too! What I'm saying, though - only people like you and the Kells really get that shit.

ur: Well, thanks, then.

kk: Also, the part where you're listing all your household chores? I mean, you don't go too into much detail, but it seems like a relatively non-gendered division of labor. Also, I like that in your household, taking out the garbage is a pants-free endeavor. These are interesting things to me.

ur: Do most people wear pants?

kk: To take out the garbage? I think so. But I've lived in the northeast my whole life.

ur: Next summer, try it. It's liberating.

kk: Noted.

ur: Anything else?

kk: No, I -- oh! Yes! The end. When you encourage us all to stay tuned for part two, where you reverse the scenario...back. To your normal roles?

ur: Yes.

kk: Wouldn't that just be...like all your other songs? So we're staying tuned for --

ur: Yeah, I noticed that after I released the song. That's why there's no 'Trading Places: Part 2 - Regular Sex and Our Usual Chores'. But now that you mention it --

kk: See? This is exactly something that R Kelly would do! I love you so much. Did I tell you that this year I made my own 'Usher's Greatest Hits' cd and listened to it like, four times in a row when driving up I-95 on Memorial Day weekend?
ur: You did. You mentioned that during our last imaginary conversation. But that makes it no less awesome. I love you, too. Okay, I have to go take the garbage out. Should I try it with pants?
kk: Never, Ush. Stay you.

If Pandora Were A Person...

10:25 p.m.. On a Sunday. The Sunday after Christmas. It is snowing. Sort of.

Pandora plays Mobb Deep's 'Hell On Earth'.

Pandora: What kk? What?

Me: Are you trying to get me pumped up right now?

Pandora: Yes. You look like you're falling asleep over there. It's time. For you to get pumped up!

Me: For what, exactly?

Pandora: I want you to get really pumped up --

Pandora plays 'Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing Ta F' With'.

Pandora: to MAKE YOUR LUNCH FOR TOMORROW! YESSSS!!!

Me: I have to admit, I'm legitimately excited to make to go make my lunch right now. Spinach salads better recognize!!! But why are you using all this motivational goodness up on me right now?

Pandora: I know you, love. Better than anyone else. And I care about your well-being in a completely proportionate amount. If I'd played that one-two while you were getting ready to go out last Saturday? Scary things might have happened. That close to the full moon and the solstice AND the eclipse? People might have died. Or at least disappeared. Wait, what are -- are you doing the butterfly right now? Hang on.

Pandora plays SWV's 'Rain'.

Pandora: Are you...is that a little better? I don't want you to stab yourself over there.

Me: That was exactly what I needed. Now I'm relaxed. Unpumped, a little. But still ready to continue chopping. Also, the SVW got me thinking about Taj, the lady in the group who got to be in SVW, marry Eddie George, and then was on fucking Survivor. Like, she is so awesome. Holy shit, I just Googled her to link to her name, and her Wikipedia page is unexpectedly inspiring. I was not expecting to read that and be like 'what an incredible story!' She is going to be so creeped out when I write her a letter asking if I can write her biography.

Pandora: Can you repeat that? I didn't catch it all, I'm playing pretty loudly right now. You turn it up a few notches when you're two to three glasses into the bottle. I'm not judging. I just notice these things. Hello, my whole appeal is in the observational data I gather and process. What were were talking about? Taj. Don't look at me like that! I mean it. I want to know. It's not silly. Tell me again. Oh my god, you're just going to tell me later anyway, spit it out. No, I'm not laughing. No. No (snort) I'm sorry, honey, now you're making me laugh. With your angry face. It's a perverse reaction, I know. Didn't I just get you all pumped up to make that salad? I can't relax for a minute? I'm listening to these songs too. Are you...what, you're not talking to me now? Don't test me, child.

Pandora plays an insipid commercial block, then threatens with the monthly listening limit warning.

Dream Log

I had a sex dream about Jaime-Lynn Siegler once. You know - Meadow. From the Sopranos?

We were in a dormitory - what I imagine a boarding school dormitory might have looked like in a time before ascots were ironic; all dark wood and dim lighting.

Jamie-Lynn and I were alone. In the room, in the dorm, we were the only people on the entire campus. We didn’t talk about the Soprano’s. We kept our underwear on and kissed each other’s stomachs, and we stared out the window for hours without leaving bed.

When the sun came, the courtyard in front of her dorm filled up with cars. Every type of car. They - the cars, and people who drove them - held all sorts of events while we watched from the window. There were drag races and a demolition derby, and even a relay to see who could change a tire the fastest.

When they were done, the grass of the courtyard had been utterly ruined, and Jamie-Lynn pulled the blinds. She said she was starving, and we talked about where we should eat until I woke up.

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.

An Open Letter to the Man Playing the Peruvian Wind Flute in Faneuil Hall

Dear Sir,

I want to first say that I commend you for pursuing your passion of playing the Peruvian Wind Flute, and that I admire your determination, confidence and unwavering commitment to filling the Faneuil Hall area with the sounds of the Peruvian Wind Flute from approximately 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. Also, I am in awe of your lung capacity. Because you have been playing the same fucking four songs over and over and over and over and over and over and over again for the last twelve days in a row. So I respect you, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flute Player, there's no denying that. But, that said, I need you to stop. Seriously. Stop playing the Peruvian Wind Flute. Because you are driving me fucking mad.

I realize it's not your fault that the entire back of my office is a giant glass wall over looking Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, and the general congestion of Congress Street. And I realize you have no way of knowing that, after two years in this office, I have an incredibly low threshold for annoying, repetitive noises, especially the sort which emanate from street performers. And since you didn't like, create the Earth and its atmosphere, you are in no way liable for the acoustics of this spatial arrangement, nor for the way the sounds emitted from your Peruvian Wind Flute carry particularly loudly, strongly, and clearly from your patch of brick to my cubicle bound ears. But I am telling you now. It's been going on long enough. You have to stop before something bad happens.

.

Every morning, from 9:15 to just past 10:00, I think to myself 'Yes. Today is the day that the Peruvian Wind Flutist and his evil henchmen have found a new area of the city in which to publically perform. I wish them well, but I am so, so delighted that I will not have to listen to a random scattering of the same four notes for the next seven hour-ah! ah! SHIT HE'S BACK.' Because you are always back. Apparently, no one has told you that there are like 9000 OTHER PLACES IN BOSTON WHERE YOU COULD SET UP YOUR SHITTY LITTLE TABLE AND DISPLAY YOUR CRAPPY CD - WAIT , YOU HAVE A CD? WHAT THE HELL COULD BE ON YOUR CD? YOU HAVE FOUR SONGS. FOUR. SONGS. I mean it, man. You have to go.

.

I know it seems like I'm getting irrationally worked up over nothing. Believe me, I feel guilty for hating you as much as I do. I support the arts, dammit. I hand over portions of my meager paycheck to street performers on the regular. Are you playing water glasses in the Public Garden? Bam, take a dollar. Playing your damn violin in the Common? There's a buck for you, too, kid from Berkeley who totally doesn't need my fucking dollar more than I do. I support your mission that much. And you, guy with the giant boombox and the T-Pain voice modulator thing in the subway? Bam. Two dollars, in your bucket, right now. You made my whole night.

.

But Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist...enough is enough. You had your chance to charm me, and you failed. From the looks of your stand, you're really not charming many other passersby, either. It doesn't look like you've moved a single CD since last Wednesday (yes, I've been checking. On my lunch break, everyday. During which I fantasize about releasing a termite colony into your Flute cases, and laughing with great mirth. Then I feel really, really bad. For about thirty-five minutes. Until, you know, exactly the moment I walk back into my office and hear the strains of 'ba..babababa...babababadflutemusic...ba..babababa...').

.

Listen - I can't get away from you. I have to sit here. You? You're mobile. You can just pack up your table, and your CDs and roll out. Why are you posted up in Fanueil Hall all the time anyway? These shitty tourists came here to eat overpriced clam chowder and drink a beer at the fake Cheers. They're on their way to bother everyone who works at the Aquarium and on the whale watch boats. What do these assholes know about traditional Peruvian Flute Music? Nothing, most likely. And the office workers surrounding your make-shift amphitheatre? Probably even less. We're World Music philistines. Barbarians, the lot of us. I swear.

.

So please, please - do everyone involved a favor and move your operation somewhere else. The Common might be perfect. Much more comfortable surroundings, and possibly even some hippie parents bringing their kids to the Frog Pond. May I suggest the Green Street T station in JP? There are never are musicians there, and the location is ideal. Somewhere on the Red Line, perhaps? I think you're missing your entire target demographic. Just, please go. Now. I'll even buy a few of your shitty albums if I have to. I could use more coasters. Because, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist, consider this your final warning: If I have to listen to you scaling the fucking notes of your goddamn flute while trapped in a staff meeting one more time, I honestly believe that I am going to snap. I will send you a Trojan Alpaca full of termites, Dutch Elm Disease, pandas, I don't know, whatever fucking eats wood and will decimate your flute collection. I hate you that much.

.

Thank you, and best of luck,

kk

.

.

p.s. - This letter, and the passive aggressive pleas contained therein, IN NO WAY APPLY to you, adolescent boy who bangs on the plastic bucket. I love you. I love you even when you gather up half a dozen of your unkempt teenage friends, and you all bang on your buckets in a cacophony of earsplitting, nonsensical hammerings. This also does not apply to you 'Black Guys Dancing', because you are everything joyous and pure that street performers should be. When you randomly invade a car on the T, it's like fucking Christmas. I live for that shit. Thank you.

Discretion Advised: Apocalyptical Delusions, Hating and Bad Language Ahead

Ever know someone who seemed perfectly nice, well mannered, polite, unobjectionable looking, totally unremarkable in almost every way; a person that all your friends and colleagues either liked or (maddeningly) adored - and who you could not fucking stand? Yes?

To add to your frustrations, this person - let's call them Jerry - is so evenly appreciated across all segments of the population,poor little you can't find a soul to commiserate with. Not a one. Conversations start with promise, then wither and die on the vine, like so:

You: "Hey, do you know Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Who?"

You: "You know...Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Oh. Yes."

You (sensing a possible twinge of disgust - an opportunity?): "I...don't really like Jerry as much as everyone else does."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Really? Neither do I. I - "

You (excited, ecstatic, it's Christmas in July): "REALLY???? Yay! I fucking hate Jerry! I hate his smarmy face, I hate his entitled demeanor, I hate his shallow soul, I hate his creepy sense of entitlement resting on the knowledge that he will be critically and commercially lauded because Cameron Crowe wrote every word that comes out of his date-rapey mouth and directed every drippy, saccharine moment in which he speaks. I hate his complete and total lack of actual spiritual and moral development. I hate that no one else notices that he is the same GAPING ASSHOLE from the first second we meet him until the moment we walk away. I hate that I am the only person walking away in disgust. I hate that Jerry, that caustic prick, takes a series of connected moments of self-entitlement and overblown egotistical grandstanding and spins them into actual character development. I hate that racist, sexist dickhole, and I hate the world that he lives in and the air that he breathes, and he makes me believe in the concept of Hell and that Satan walks among us in human guise."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "I was going to say I adore Jerry."

You (deflated, foiled again, ego bruised from once again misinterpreting the tone of another party in a conversation): "Oh."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Seriously? You hate Jerry Maguire? Everybody loves Jerry Maguire. It was like, the best movie of the mid-90's."

You (red-faced, moving towards scarlet; all shame and embarrassment swallowed by your boiling rage): "The widespread success of the film Jerry Maguire was the very first sign of the Apocalypse."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: Remains silent. Turns and walks away. Avoids you around the water cooler and at all future social gatherings. Whispers conspiratorially with those gathered near them, glancing towards you when they think you aren't looking: "she hates Jerry."