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?

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.

A Short List of Human Bones Which Serve No Purpose, Yet, When Injured, Hurt More Than Would a Combination of Many Other Similarly Injured Parts

1. The Funny Bone

Yesterday, I whacked my funny bone on the bathroom door so hard I almost blacked out. This wasn't the 'owee it tingles' funny bone pain: I saw floating neon watercolors and got nauseous for a good 30 seconds. I think it was the closest I've ever come to understanding what guys describe when they talk about getting kicked in the balls. (I could listen to guys talk about getting kicked in the nuts all day. It fucking fascinates me - just knowing that I'll never get to experience it makes it terribly intriguing.)

And I recognize that the funny bone is like, part of your arm or whatever, but what the hell does it do? I've got at least three other bones in my elbow area that I can see, there are probably like, 8 more under the surface, so what element of my existence would be so dreadfully impaired if my funny bone would cease to function? Other than the four times a week I bang it into something and have to spend a minute holding it and rocking myself back to semi-consciousness? I'll take the funny-bonectomy, please.

2. The Tail Bone

Oh my God, I hate the human tailbone. First of all, the fact that we all have a vestigial tail between our ass cheeks is just totally gross. If we still had actual tails ... well, I think it goes without saying that would just be the most baller shit ever. But no. Instead we have this gnarly little cropping of bone that you can't see, and that does nothing...except hurt like a fucking demon when you injure it.

A few months ago I was exiting Good Time Emporium (fuck you, IKEA!!!) in the rain, and I happened to be wearing the same pair of flats I'd sported during the City Hall Plaza Tumble of 2007 that resulted in my broken right foot. Apparently, the stairs at Good Time and the stairs in the plaza have a similar texture/spacing/lack of traction/I'm an asshole, and I went down. Right down the stairs and into the parking lot, scoring a direct hit on my coccyx in the process. That shit hurt for WEEKS. No exaggeration, if I lean back on it too quickly, I still need to take a minute to recover. In the weeks following the injury I even had to buy myself the furniture-equivalent of a hemorrhoid donut (yes, shit, I know I bought that at Ikea, but it actually helped). And what part of my daily routine was seriously impacted by this irritating fester of an injury? Exactly nothing - except for the part where I had to explain to everyone that no, I couldn't accept a seat on that nice wooden stool they were offering, because I'm a moron and my fucking ass hurts too much to sit down on a regular surface like a normal human being. The tailbone is the worst. Get this bone outta my ass!

3. Eh, that's sort of it, really.

I told you it would be a short list. As I was making it, I realized there are lots of bones that hurt when slammed against a surface like concrete or wood, or when trapped between a door and the body of an automobile - but all of those bones serve various purposes, so they didn't quite fit the criteria for the list. And the appendix fits all the requirements except for the whole 'it's not a bone' thing. If some one's taking suggestions, though, I could probably work up a whole presentation on parts of the body that are utterly annoying and, in my opinion, supererogatory. I'd start by proposing we eliminate those really sensitive little hairs at the nape of your neck. My barrette just got stuck on some, and I almost started crying at my desk.

Straight Flush

You know who are totally best friends? The fat bastards who eat lamb curry on the T, use the elevator to travel one floor, and the asswads that chatter on their cellphones in the fucking bathroom stall. Not just in the bathroom, mind you, everyone has had to do that from time to time. And not just sequestered in one far stall while occupants do their business far far far down the other end of the row. I'm talking about the freakish specimens that find it perfectly acceptable to sit in the stall next to you in the tiniest bathroom in the building, and carry on to whatever poor slob has deigned to associate with them. Fucking unreal.

I mean, in what universe does this constitute a proper way to behave? Never mind that you are totally obnoxious to your own conversant, Toilet Talker, you are making me SERIOUSLY UNCOMFORTABLE. I don't like public bathrooms generally, due to the gross lack of privacy. Now you are totally knocking down all fathomable boundaries by broadcasting the sound of my urination to a THIRD FUCKING PARTY? I don't want them to hear it, they probably have no interest in listening, and what the fuck is so important that you can't call them back? Seriously, hang up the phone. My bladder is about to pop, and this performance anxiety is the last straw, lady.

Alas, there is hope in this situation. Whereas you're mostly limited to disgusted glares and angry looks in the 'stop spilling garlic mayo on my lap...really, garlic? On the subway?' and the 'you just waited 2 minutes for an elevator to go up to the next floor when the stairs are right there???' situations, in the phone invasion scenario, you can actually give it right back to them. Oh yes. I figured this one out all by myself. Why should just I suffer? When I can very easily fuck your shit up with a...flush. And another. And another. And another. Really. This happened like, 15 minutes ago, I tried it...and just flushed that trollop right out of the bathroom. She was on the phone in the hallway when I left, and tried to shoot me a death glare...but I declined the negativity. Sure, for a moment I did wonder if my retaliatory flushing was a bigger dick move than their invasion of my privacy, but ultimately declared myself the moral victor. I mean, I would never have flushed the toilet 8 times in a row if they hadn't first made it impossible for me to pee in peace. And why couldn't she have just taken her phone call in the hallway to begin with?

I am a little worried about how triumphant I feel, though. Next thing you know I'll be sneezing all over your meatball sub on the Green Line. Just kidding. Really though - meatballs? Marinara sauce? This train is bumpy as hell. You're just going to dribble all over the seat, then? No napkin or anything. Huh. Oh, hang on...ah...ah.ahhhhhchoooo.

My bad.

Puck This

So I have a little bone to pick with celebrity endorsed products. Not with their existence, generally - we're a consumer culture, blahblahblah, and if you buy one brand of energy drink above all others solely because your favorite BMX rider is paid to say they like it, then you're a moron, and you shouldn't really share your opinion (and please, can we stop with the energy drinks already? What the fuck do you do all day that you need so much freaking instant energy?).

Sorry, tangents. Anyway - I don't fault anyone for endorsing products. Hell, I don't even fault them for hawking products they don't even like. Who cares? What bothers me is when someone devotes some portion of their face-time to a really, really completely unbelievable product endorsement. Not unbelievable as in outrageous (more of those, please, actually) but as in 'No, man. I don't buy it. An Oscar worthy performance would not convince me that you use this product. Stop.' It's just maddening. Initially, for how stupid advertising execs think the public is, and secondly, because it is through this type of effective advertising that I am forced to admit how stupid the general public actually is. How do you believe this shit?

For example: If you're famous for something really specific... say, how Wolfgang Puck is really famous for his abilities in the kitchen - and you're widely recognized for the quality of your product above all else (like, say...Wolfgang Puck. For his good cooking.) then I just think that the product you're shoving at us should demonstrate some moderate compatibility with your purpose as a celebrity.

There was a certain strange era during which my mother would enter a strange, house-bound psychotic fuge, hole up in the tv room and watch QVC and HSN for extended periods of time. As far as parental insanity goes, it was a pretty innocuous sort, but it still resulted in the purchasing of several interesting items. Once, it was a giant faux-Oriental rug. One time it was a pretty awesome down blanket, and on one very relevant occasion, she purchased a set of pots and pans, endorsed by none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck. Like, his signature is on the damn handle and everything.

My problem with these pots is not they they suck, or that they have major design flaws (they do, but we'll get to that) my problem is that it is COMPLETELY FUCKING OBVIOUS THAT WOLFGANG PUCK HAS NEVER NOR WOULD EVER USE THESE POTS AND PANS. I was not fooled for a second. These are the worst fucking pans I have ever used in my life. Invented for the casual cook in the era before Teflon, these pans are 100% heat transferable metal - including the goddamn handles. THE HANDLES ARE ROUTINELY THE SAME TEMPERATURE AS THE REST OF THE POT. No matter where the handle is pointed during cooking, it is always scalding, injuriously hot. I have burned the shit out of my hands so, so many times.

I know, I know, you're saying "stop crying, asshole, and use a potholder." Well, you know what? Fuck you. I am not a chef, granted; on the rare occasion I do break out the pots its usually for the purpose of heating soup, heating water (for ramen noodle soup, or for regular damn water, since I seemed to have misplaced my teakettle in one of my last three moves) ...and that's pretty much it. So I know it seems like I'm not exactly in the place to comment on utilitarian elements of cookware, but think about it this way: wouldn't you expect the expert cooking of Wolfgang and his employs to be going down in a loud, crowded, high pressure kitchen environment? Do they always have a sizeable, heat absorbing potholder readily available? Don't you think sometimes they have to just grab a damn pan and get on with it? Probably, right? Don't you think it would be somewhat useful for the kitchen staff at Mr. Puck's esteemed restaurants to have access to pots and pans with some insulated fucking handles? Probably, right? I mean, I'm just saying.

And yes, parents, I do own a potholder. Two of them actually. I bought them last month at Target.

And, assorted palms scalds asides, I do appreciate the pots.

Combodious

Once upon a time, I routinely engaged my friends in lengthy conversations about a certain snack food. They weren't so much conversations as they were hymnal duets in praise of the mighty Combo. We spoke of Combos when we had several varieties spread before us, and we spoke of Combos when there were none in sight. Simply, we composed odes to Combos because we loved them.

It was during one of these inspiring discussions that one of my dear Combo-loving friends queried: "Is there any type of Combo that you don't like?" Several of us, sitting around the kitchen table, started at one another and thought hard...but ultimately came up empty. Certainly, there were varieties of Combos that we preferred - I for example, hold the Pretzel- Cheddar flavor supreme above all others, and much prefer the Pretzel varieties over the Cracker (after much prodding I once revealed that I would never buy, with my own money, any Cracker variety if a Pretzel option was available) but I still like the Cracker varieties. Sometimes they are exactly what I need. But no - none of us could conceive of a situation where we would be disappointed by a Combo.

And so it went, everything in the Comboverse in happy harmony, with all of us loving the delicious combinations of crunchy carbohydrates and artificially flavored cheese sprays. And then one day, last fall, I came across a new flavor. Salsa Combos? With a tortilla crust? What was this blasphemy? I was thrown - but intrigued. I purchased them. And they were everything great that I knew a Combo to be...and then some. It was a new generation of Combo. Edgier, modern, showing multi-ethnic influence. It was the Combo of a new world.

After that new prototype was received - to wide acclaim, based on the taste test I conducted amongst 5 of my friends - all was quiet in the Combosphere for nearly a year and a half. Combos remained perfect, with an unblemished record of product enjoyment. I was sure the Combo could do no wrong by my taste buds. Certain of it. Until now.

Oh, Black Thursday, when I walked into the 7-11 on State Street and stumbled across not one but TWO new flavors of Combos! Both Cracker, such a bad sign. And the flavors? Cheeseburger...and Bacon, Egg and Cheese. Of course I was skeptical, of course, but what could I do? In the name of research, in the name of love, I bought them both. And sampled them. To disastrous effect.

Shame on you, Combo! Shame on you for creating not one nauseating new variety but TWO flavors so gut punishingly revolting that I throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I revisit the traumatic tasting of this afternoon. What the FUCK were you thinking, Combos?????? This is worse than when I found out about Santa Claus.

For shame, Combos. For shame.

Freaky Elephant (and Donkey) Love

Ok. So I originally wrote this whole long diatribe about the recent rash of sex scandals involving Republican political figures, and why I find them so especially heinous. The heinousness, in my opinion, is a result of the gross, drippy hypocritical situaion that results when someone who comes to power on a platform of mandatory minimums, abstinence-only sex ed, banning condom distribution, and decrying non-traditional, non-heterosexual lifestyles as wrong and immoral is caught chowing meth, getting down with prostitutes, texting teenage boys about their engorged genitals (ew) and tap dancing for anonymous sex in public bathrooms (ew squared).

I wrote about all that and it just came off as preachy and annoying, and I realized I was being hypocritical because 1) if I'm judging GOP-holes about violating the bonds of their party promises, I should probably be subjecting my own party to the same treatment. After all, I can't think of any Democrat who won an election by expressing their preferences for cheating on their partners and frequenting brothels. So that led to the realization that 2) Politicians are full of shit. And from there 3) When shit filled assholes get caught with their pants down (literally) it's ok to laugh at them. Because they deserve it.

Got it?

1) Judge everyone equally + 2) Politicians are full of it = 3) Time to make fun of them!

So here they are, in no particular order -

The Most Entertaining Political Scandals That I Have Time to Write About

1) Kwame Kilpatrick, Mayor of Detroit, And the Most Inappropriate Municipal Messages Ever

Explicit text messages crack me up. What a weird format. The inclusion of 'LOL' makes for unconvincing dirty talk. It's just so stupid. And the texts are like, riddled with spelling errors. Not sexy. Add the fact that they exchanged these messages on city issued Blackberries...you deserve to be laughed at, Mayor Kilpatrick! My favorite text isn't even one of the creepy "I'm waiting for you in the Ramada on Route 43" messages. It's the one where the mayor is at a Lakers game, and security won't let him in. The Mayor is like, 6'3", 250. Badass. Then he asks his chief of staff if he made her "feel good, sexually?" Oh, this shit had me laughing forever. Until they referenced Jerry Maguire. Then I threw up in my hands a little bit. This is still an awesome scandal, though.

2) Marion Barry, In the Motel Room, With the Crack Pipe. Oh, and that FBI Informant Who Looks Like a Hooker.

This one has everything. Scantily Clad Ladies/FBI Informants! Crack! Police busting in...to a cheap hotel room! Have you ever seen the video of this? He's in like, silk boxers and a wifebeater, smoking crack. Then when the police rush in he starts shrieking about being set up. Dude, shhhh. You're the mayor of the Capitol City of the United States. You're smoking crack in your underwear. It's damage control time.

The best part of this story, though isn't what happened in the hotel room. It's what happened later. First, he went to jail for six months. Then he got re-elected. And he keeps failing drug tests. This guy doesn't give a fuck.

3) Bill Clinton; Or Why You Should Never Cheat on Your Wife with Someone Who Doesn't Thoroughly Launder Her Clothes.

Right, everyone knows about this one. Clinton philandered. With ugly chicks. Including one particularly dirty little thing who got her dress messy in the action...and then didn't wash it. I adore Bill Clinton, and I wish this hadn't happened. Like, I wish he hadn't tarnished my image of him by hooking up with someone who apparently had extreme difficulty finding a decent dry cleaner in Washington DC. Gross.

4) Larry Craig, a Professional Freakazoid of the Seated Tap Dance

Another one that's had too much press. But are you really tired of hearing about it? It's hilarious. And pretend it didn't change the way you behave in public restrooms. Also, it opened my eyes to this whole sub culture of public sex solicitation that I knew nothing about. I wish this escapade had gone further. What's the next step here? Where do they go? Nothing happens in the bathroom, right? Is passing of notes involved?

5) David Vitter, Whose Fall Validates That Excellent Investigative Journalism Going on Over at Hustler

I lived in Louisiana for a while, and was always for the opinion that David Vitter was a particularly gross dude. He just has smarm-face. So I was not at all surprised to discover that he was an avid supporter of the world's oldest profession. I was, however, surprised and delighted to learn that Hustler was in large part responsible for breaking the story. It's spelled i-r-o-n-y, you conservative prick.

Oops. Am I getting preachy and hateful again? You're right, time to stop. I have to go delete all those weird emails from Ted Kennedy, anyway.

Live Action Oscar Rambles

Oooh look! The Oscars are on! I didn't realize those were tonight. Hey - Jon Stewart is hosting? Yay! I love Jon Stewart! I'm going to watch this.

8:15 - Ok, there is a half hour pre show? On ABC? Hasn't E been doing this all day? I'm going to walk the dog.

8:30 - Finally. Opening monologue. I love you Jon Stewart. I even love your jokes that fall flat. Love you, love you.

8:40 - Initial thoughts on Oscar Hair 2008: so far both Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner are rocking messy textured hair that would look a whole lot better if it was just a little shiny. Messy hair is cool, but reassure me that it's clean, ladies. Jennifer Garner's hair actually looks exactly like mine did this morning. But I woke up on the couch this morning, after arriving home Saturday night and determining that my bed was simply too far, and the path there littered with too many shoes. Jennifer Garner's hair looked like it shared the evening with mine.

8:47 - Hey! George Clooney in the audience! Did you know his girlfriend was a waitress until like 15 minutes ago? Vote Clooney!

8:50 - 80th Oscar Birthday Montage. I dig the montage. By the way, when did the whole cultural backlash against Billy Crystal begin? Like, all of a sudden everyone hates him. What the hell did he ever do to you?

Oooh, I wish I had been alive when Isaac Hayes performed Shaft. That should win the Oscar for best performance in Oscar History. Then the category should be closed. It was that awesome. And Jesus, Hollywood was really open about its rampant drug use in the 70's. Oh, and the 60's. And the 80's.

8:52 - I love Anne Hathaway's skin. Her dress, however is heinous. It looks like she snipped a red lei in half and stapled it to her chest.

Jesus, I have seen no movies this year. This whole 'waiting till shit appears on HBO/On Demand' thing is killing me. Was Hot Rod nominated for anything? No?

Katherine Heigel...so, one shoulder brightly colored dresses are in this year? Kinda ick. But I am digging this pale skin thing.

Hey, the third Pirates of the Carribbean movie came out already? I still haven't seen the second one.

8:55 - I'm seeing La Vie En Rose like, immediately. I just developed the hugest crush on Marion Cotillard.

9:00 - I hate the Oscar songs. Always. These songs always suck. Except Shaft, of course. And when Three Six Mafia was nominated. The song sucked, actually, it was just a really weird cultural moment. Why the hell is Amy Adams singing about scrubbing toilets? Why is she wearing an outfit from my elementary school music teacher's wardrobe? Her heels are killer, though.

9:05 - Yes! The McDonald's commercial with the b-boy kid dunking his apple slices! I want to hang out with that kid.

9:07 - When did The Rock become a legitimate actor? What did I miss? I mean, he's not presenting for Best Actor or anything, so he's not that legit...yet. At this rate he'll be the mayor of someplace in three years. Oh, you don't believe me? Did you know that Jesse Ventura was in Predator? Wrestler --> Actor --> Politician. That's how the politically ambitious and heavily muscled roll.

9:10 - Vanessa Paradis has lipstick on her teeth. I didn't know that actually happened in real life.

Ooh, Cate Blanchett is presenting. I LOVE Cate Blanchett. It's almost impossible to believe she's real. Did you see Notes on a Scandal? She's super human. I could write poetry dedicated to her hair in that movie. And I like her dress, except for the collar. What the hell is going on at the neckline? It looks like she's holding the fabric up with a floral boa constrictor.

9:20ish - Best Supporting Actor Award, presented by Jennifer Hudson. Goddamn, Jennifer Hudson. Did you take like 4 Ambien and attack your dress with a pair of scissors before you got on stage? Are you a robot? Is your system malfunctioning? Someone help her.

Javier Bardem wins! And then immediately makes out with the old lady next to him. Isn't he dating Penelope Cruz? Did he just love all over his mom? That was weird. She looks like she rocks though - check out her bracelets! And dope speech, Javier. God, he's sexy. Ok, but stop making out with your mom, man. It's creeping me out.

9:30ish - I adore Kerri Russell, and her necklace and her dress...but why is the bodice so huge? I love that she's cool with her small chest...but a camera with a birds eye view could make this shit x-rated real fast. You're Kerri Russell. Get it fitted.

Woah, the song from August Rush does not suck. Who is this little girl singing? She's incredible. Is she wearing track pants?

And the Oscar for Whitest Moment of the Evening goes to Jon Stewart...for referring to the ubiquitous white person dance as 'the cabin patch'. My flame of love for him flickered a little there.

9:40: Best Supporting Actress Award. Tilda Swinton wins! Goddamn, Tilda looks a hot mess. That is the ugliest dress I have ever seen. And I love the pale skin this year, but this woman looks dead. Like she was buried for 3 months, and dug her way out of the ground just in time for the ceremony. She is still wearing the shroud she was buried in. Her speech was cool, though. She said 'nipples' and 'buttocks' in the same minute. Jesus, how freaking hot is George Clooney? I need to see Michael Clayton.

9:45 - Even Jessica Alba is pale! I love it! God, she's gorgeous. But what the hell is with all the horrendous bodice-feathers tonight? The inspiration, apparently, was a very timid showgirl.

9:50 - Best Screenplay Based on Material Already Produced or Published or Something...damn, didn't this category just used to be called 'Best Adapted Screenplay'? How do they fit all that on the Oscar? There's not much room for text.

9:52 - Another wack song. Miley Cyrus terrifies me, although her dress was beautiful. (Did you know Miley is short for Smiley, which is what her parents called her as a baby? That is the stupidest nickname I have ever heard.) Kristin Chenowith is so cute, I wish she wasn't torturing my ears with this heinousness. Do she and Kerri Russell shop at Too Big In the Bodice 'R Us? It's cool that you own your flat chestedness. But you're rich. Find a tailor. Oh my God, this song is awful.

10:02 - Is it weird that I have an ENORMOUS CRUSH on Seth Rogen? I don't usually go for pudgy guys with JewFros. And yet.

The Sound Mixing and editing Award...Tommy Lee Jones was in No Country for Old Men? I didn't know that. There's this whole weird segment of the population who insist he looks like my Dad. Really! Whenever my Dad used to tell me this, I never believed him, because he looks nothing like Tommy Lee Jones. Then we were having lunch one time and our waitress ACTUALLY ASKED HIM if he was Tommy Lee Jones. It was bizarre. Other, normal members of the human race think he resembles Mike Lowell.

10:10 - Best Actress Award. I knew nothing about Marion Cotillard before tonight, but now I adore her. Not the mermaid dress so much, but she's French, they can get away with that. Cutey speech, too.

10:18 - It was sort of strange that they came back from commercial to Jon Stewart and the August Rush singing girl playing Wii Tennis. Was this product placement? Or did the writesr burn out before they edited this segment? Oh Jesus, another fucking song. Hey! Is Colin Farrel talking about the song from Once? I loved that movie! And all the songs! Are they going to perform? Yay! And who don't I have a massive crush on? Because Glen Hansard? I love him. You know what? I'm going to put the wine down for a little bit.

10:25 - Best Picture Montage. I have seen exactly 26 of the Best Pictures. Out of 79. I feel like I should have seen more. But there are some movies I am just never going to see. Like Lord of the Rings. Oh, get over it.

10:32 - I hate Nicole Kidman. I have to say that before I admit that she is wearing the most gorgeous necklace I have ever seen. Now, I will repeat: I hate Nicole Kidman.

The Honorary Oscar Presentation. Dude - Robert Goyle looks INCREDIBLE for 98. 98! He came out wearing a towel like Rocky, and then spouted nonsense for five minutes. Do your thing old man! 98! This might wind up as my favorite moment of the whole night.

10:45 - ANOTHER song from Enchanted? Really? Hey look! John Travolta! Oh my God! Why is he dancing to this crap? Ah, because he's going to announce the winner. If the song from Once doesn't win...Yay! It wins! And Glen Hansard told everyone to make art and I totally love him and I almost cried a little. Shit, how did this wine glass get back in my hand?

10:58 - Cameron Diaz has my favorite dress of the night.

11:00 - I got hungry here and prowled around the kitchen for a while and missed the people-who-died montage. Ok, I did it on purpose. That shit makes me cry.

11:26 - Best Original Screenplay. Diablo Cody's badass Betty Rubble dress rocked...and her near breakdown was adorable. Look at all these people with emotions tonight! Emotions and pale skin! It's all very deconstructed this evening.

Yes, I need to see Juno, too. I told you! I wait till shit comes out on HBO! It costs at least $10 to see a movie in Boston, and I can never decide which one to see, and I get thirsty or have to pee at least once, and I can never find my seat again, never mind the correct screening room - one time I left to find the bathroom and somehow used an exit that deposited me directly INTO THE PARKING LOT. It took me forever to figure out how to get back into the building. Movie theatres are stressful. Plus, I am a girl who is taking notes during the damn Oscars. I am easily distracted. I like possessing the ability to rewind.

11:30 - Best Actor. I'm actually loving the retrospectives. But I can't even see a clip from Philadelphia without tearing up, so I'm already misting a little when Helen Mirren takes the stage. Weird dress, but she's the shit. Obviously, I am rooting for George Clooney, but everyone says Daniel Day Lewis is going to win. DDL's my Dad's number one man-crush, though, so I'm not mad at him. And he wins! Look at his crazy old school suit! He bows for Helen Mirren! I am so, so charmed by his crazy ass. I know he's supposed to be this super intense method acting nutcase, but his speech was sweet and humble...so charmed. He's a real artist. Make art!

11:41 - Best Picture. Hey! Denzel! My Momma (who is the truth, as mommas go) has loved three men in her life, that I'm aware of: my Daddy, Peter Jennings, and Denzel Washington. As such, I have similar feelings of warmth. Man, I really need to see No Country for Old Men.

Hey, its over? Cool. I'd like to thank my parents and their non-Tommy Lee Jones-resembling, Denzel-loving, pale-small-chested-child producing asses; my brother, the other pale flat chested relative I love; and my dog, whose studded collar was the best accessory of the night.

Don't Be Loony, Vote for...

I don't want to talk about the election. Because if I start talking about the election, I'll eventually get down to sort-of endorsing someone, and I don't want to do that. As a feminist, I should be really, totally stoked that I have the option of voting for a female president - which I am, in many ways. But the reality is that I'm now a disgruntled feminist (yes, there are other kinds) because here we are, with a lady on the ticket...and I don't like her.

So? I'm going to endorse my own candidate.

George Clooney.

I am 100% serious. George Clooney would be the best president ever. Americans have shown that they're totally ok with an actor in the Oval Office, and I think everyone can agree that George Clooney is a way better actor than Reagan. Plus, he's not a snitch.

George Clooney has done his time in the trenches of his profession. This shows us he is not afraid to work hard. He appeared in Return of the Killer Tomatoes. This shows us he doesn't take himself too seriously. He also had a reoccurring role on The Facts of Life. This shows us that he is human, and had bad hair in the 80's, just like everyone else.

Foreign dignitaries like George Clooney. George Clooney owns property in Italy, and can interact with people from other cultures without behaving as if he has entered an interactive zoo exhibit. George Clooney is making a movie to raise awareness in Darfur. Has our president been to Darfur? Can he find it on a map? Does he own a map?

George Clooney is a man of the people. He was once a carpenter (like Jesus! If that's your thing). He eats dinner with lowly reporters and locates the faulty carbon monoxide detectors in their apartments by scrambling around in their crawlspaces (I know this because I saw it last night on E News. Yes, sometimes I watch E News after I watch the regular news. Sometimes I need to. It's like a current events chaser.). George Clooney is pro-union. When the writers were striking, he explicitly stated that he would not cross their picket line, even at the Oscar's. And he is nominated for an Oscar.

George Clooney is intelligent, charismatic, grounded, charmingly self-deprecating, and has enough cash to finance his own campaign. George Clooney is also exceptionally attractive. This means that people will vote for him even if they have no idea why. This means that people who would otherwise not vote for anyone will leave their homes on election night and vote for George Clooney. This also, conversely, means that people who become pissed off when they witness the uninformed masses flocking to the polls to vote for George Clooney, will become inspired, and will themselves go out and vote, just to make their individual voices heard above the Clooney Chorus. In this way, George Clooney will have increased participation in the democratic process. Can George Clooney do no wrong?

That was a really great argument.

George, if you're interested, I will happily sign on as your assistant campaign manager in charge of visual aids. I've never made buttons or drafted nifty slogans before, but I could bedazzle the crap out of any campaign paraphernalia you send my way.

Come on Ride the Train, and Ride It

Ah, the T. The occasionally convienient, frequently frustrating hot mess of mass transportation, where your experience is guaranteed to be different every time. There is no damn sense to the T. I know it isn'tlikely, but I believe the people who designed Boston's subway system drew their inspiration from the terrorists of urban planning that mapped out downtown streets. Why are all the stops on the Green Line so close together? Not just on the B Line down by BU (that portion of track makes me believe in pure, free floating evil. It's a tunnel of bad karma) but even through downtown.

Half the time it's faster to walk. It's not a very big city, MBTA. We don't need a whole lot of stops just to impress the tourists. They'll figure out how to get lost on their own. At any given hour, there are entire Midwestern families who are going on Day 3 lost in the Public Garden. I've seen it. They can't seem to get out. And then there are the people who get lost on the Freedom Trail. A red line indicating the trail IS LITERALLY PAINTED ON THE SIDEWALK, and yet. But enough hating on tourists, I'm not really addressing their oblivion today.

No, the T-Ettiquette offenders I'm targeting today make up our local population. People who live here, people who write into the letters sections of magazines and newspapers to complain about students who won't remove their gigantic backpacks, high school kids who won't stand up so the pregnant and elderly can sit down, or tourists who open their fold-out maps of the North End -emblazoned with big cartoon cannoli's and a caricature of Paul Revere's head impaled on the steeple of North Church - directly into their faces.

Yes, those people are annoying. But everyone knows that. And I don't think they're the norm - they're just the spokesperson for the group of assholes they represent, and those people need vacations and education as much as the rest of us. You know how sometimes you're visiting a strange city, blending in, trying your hardest not to annoy the people who actually live there, and then you spy another one of your kind - the visting - and they are so freaking conspicuous, you actually feel shame. With their fanny packs and their books of maps and their infuriating habit of stopping directly in the middle of the sidewalk whenever they have a thought...I don't think most tourists are like that, because I'm not. Just like most college students aren't complete d-bags. We only notice the shittiest members of their demographic and judge the whole group. We all do it, sorry.

One thing we don't all do, it seems, is adequately shame local contingencies of asshole T riders into reforming their behaviors. Seriously, Bostonians, what the hell is wrong with you? I have to spell it out? Oh, a list would be more user-friendly and effective? Fine, then, I'll list your problems. And tell you how to fix them. You're welcome. Assholes.

1. Why is your music so fucking loud?
Jesus Christ! When your ipod/discman/zune/other new technology I'm unfamiliar with is louder than your ringtone, we have a problem. Yes, 'we'. We share the problem. Your problem is that you are an inconsiderate turd, and my problem is that you are hosting Inconsiderate Turd-a-Palooza '08 in close proximity to me. Your musical suck-fest is holding me hostage. I can hear every word, man, and I don't happen to dig Linkin Park. Don't you have anything else on there that doesn't crap ass so tremendously?

And hey, InconsiderateOne, how are your ears feeling? How's your hearing during normal day-to-day conversations? Not so good? Are you always unintentionally yelling at people and freaking them out by coming across as the most intense person alive? Are your personal relationships suffering? I think I can help you! Turn...down...the...volume. Also, get some better tunes. Yours are the worst.

2. What level Sex Offender Are You, Anyway?
Listen, creepo - if we're bothing standing on a packed train, holding onto the metal pole for support, don't slide your hand down the pole so it touches mine. Like, don't EVER do that. Especially don't leave your hand all in contact with mine, and then look down at me and smile. Because it makes me think that you're going to drug me, steal all my organs, and then place them in a shrine decorated with my skin and lit by candles made from my body fat.

Nooooo, it doesn't matter how cute you are. The last time this happened to me, the space-violator was completely normal looking, well dressed, attractive. I still got off at the next stop and walked 30 blocks to get where I was going. 2:00 on a damn Tuesday afternoon, I don't need that shit.

3. Are you going to share that paper/sandwich?
Of course people read on the T. And sometimes, they grub. I engage in plenty of the former, and none of the latter, but that's mostly because I am incapable of eating anything without a fair portion ending up covering my lap, my face, or my hair, even when I am eating somewhere completely stationary. That's a personal issue though, and I don't see anything wrong with the gifted among us taking part in a little grindage on the go.
That said, there are plenty of people who are reading or noshing who should not be allowed to do so on the train. If your newspaper must be opened all the way for you to enjoy reading it, then you need to get your own damn seat, or wait until you get where you're going. If you need to extend into my seat, then you need to a) say excuse me, then b) fold your paper back on your side. Same goes for food. If you're able to eat your sub without jabbing me with your elbows, and without spilling tomatoes and mayo all over the car, then snack away, man. However, if your intention is to have a fucking picnic all up in my area, then you are an asshole, and you need to put your shit away. Also, if your food is incredibly pungent, you need to wait till you're in an open-air environment. It may be delicious, but between the homeless guy, the guy who is apparently opposed to showering at the gym, and your panang beef - it's too much.

4. We won't leave without you, I promise
Oh, that heading doesn't refer to you unlucky bastards running towards the T as it closes the doors and makes moves to depart the station. It's not waiting. Bye! You just look silly running! Stop running, already. Goofball. I'm actually talking about the people who CANNOT wait for everyone to get off the train before shoving their way on. What the hell is wrong with you? Is there a seat you like better than all the others? Are you in training for something for which this is an integral activity? Is it so hard to wait until everyone else is off - and JESUS YOU'RE GOING TO STEP ON THAT BABY.

They aren't the only ones guilty of creating congestion havoc. There's also the Door Hoarder. You know - that person who stands in front of the door the entire ride, and when it stops at oh, say, Kenmore on a summer night at 6.30 when about 780 people are trying to exit they REFUSE TO GET OFF TO ALLOW OTHER PEOPLE TO PASS BY. I have seen those people get like, trampled - and they don't care. They just cling to the pole by the door. You crazy freak, you can get out for a second. Say it with me now...we won't leave without you. I promise.

There's more - oh so many more - but I have to go get on the T now. Orange Line!!! You know, the other day, I saw a PSA ad on the Orange Line warning teen hos about the dangerous pimps out there? It broke down all the pimps moves, what they'd say, what they'd buy you...it was the most informative ad I've ever seen. And also, my hands-down favorite, ever. And I've only seen it once. Once! I'm on the T all the damn time! That must be the worst-funded public awareness campaign in history. Pimps got teen hos in this city locked down. They're a well funded group, too - when was the last time you saw a pimp and his teen hos riding the train? Your shitty manners have likely turned them off the whole experience.

Easy Exercises to Tighten...Your Vocab

There's something I'm going to change in this country, and you have to help me change it. We're all part of the problem. If you don't know what the problem is yet, then you might have a lot of work to do. I'm not talking about global warming, or recycling, or over dependence on foreign oil. I'm talking about the three skin blisteringly horrendous phrases that need to be eliminated from every American's vocabulary. It needs to happen now. Like, right away, before I start doling out lobotomies. You might not even realize you're guilty of what I'm about to accuse you of. I didn't, until I had a few inadvertent self-interventions. Ready? Your life is about it change. You can sit down if you want.

1) "Basically". We need to stop saying this word, and we need to stop RIGHT NOW. You might not have noticed it's sheer prevalence in every day conversation. Believe me - it's there, and it's a problem. And it breeds like a rodent.

Step one: start listening. You're going to hear it constantly after a few days of tuning your ears, and its going to drive you fucking bananas. I apologize for soiling your innocence, but it's going to make you a better person, I promise.

Step two: Understand that people are throwing this word around with little to no regard for its actual definition. Listen: I don't hate 'basically' because I hate adverbs, like some people. I like adverbs. There aren't enough adjectives in this language to suit me, and when I tack on an adverb, it's like making a whole new adjective. I find that delightful. So I don't hate basically for what it is. I hate that its being so brutally abused. Every second, basically gets strapped in front of some situation that it has fucking nothing to do with, just to soften the blow. Jesus people, leave basically out of it! What did basically ever do to you?? For example, you can't 'basically' be dead, or 'basically' be bankrupt, or 'basically' be in jail. You either are in one of those situations, or you aren't. You can argue with me all you like, but ask actual dead, bankrupt or incarcerated people - there's a whole big line, and once you've crossed over, there's no more 'basically' about it. And if you ever ask a waiter what's in a dish, and he responds with a definition that includes 'basically'...leave the restaurant. Immediately.

Step Three: Begin cringing when you hear yourself use the word. Look, I know change hurts. But admitting you have a problem is the first step towards sounding like you might have a clue what you're talking about. If you start now, you'll be using the word appropriately (and thus, sparingly) by spring.

2) 'At the End of the Day'

Last year, this was voted the most overused phrase by a variety of sources. I heard that story, and was like 'who even says that?' The next day I was just cruising around, chatting, when I realized: OH MY GOD I SAY IT ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME!!! I was so grossed out I had to gargle with the non-pleasant-tasting Listerine for five whole minutes.

Since then, I've noticed that this phrase has infected the language like a termite colony. Shit is everywhere, shit cannot be killed, shit compromises the integrity of everything around it. People freaking start sentences with the phrase, just gearing up to say whatever it is they're actually trying to communicate. 'Basically' + 'shitty justification no one cares about because we don't know what you're trying to say, vague-ass' = 'At the end of the day'. Stop the insanity. What does it even mean? That you're ok with being a dickhole for the other 10 hours of the day that you're out interacting with other humans? You mean 'long term'? Are you talking about a goal? Fucking say that then.

3) 'Giving 110%'

Oh, man. This one makes me especially crazy. By telling someone that you plan on giving 110%, it only demonstrates that you are unaware of your own capabilities, and possess unreasonable performance expectations. I see disappointment in your future.

Listen - you can improve 110% from a previous performance. Shit, you can improve your performance 500% if you do five times better than you did last time. But you can't give 110%, because it isn't fucking possible. I'm not trying to be an asshole, I'm just letting you know that to anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of percentages, you sound like a tool. Yes, your 100% might be a whole lot better than everyone elses 100%, professional athletes, but it doesn't mean you have an extra 10% to give, because JESUS CHRIST I CAN'T EVEN FINISH EXPLAINING THIS. YOU ONLY GET 100%. That's everything. So knock it off.

Ok, I'm tired now. Changing the world is hard work. Good luck out there.

Yes, This Elevator Makes You Look Fat

I'm convinced there is a special circle of hell reserved for people that use the elevator to travel one floor. I'm not talking about people carrying babies, or in wheelchairs, or those toting oxygen tanks. No. People in those categories - I'm so damn impressed that they're out there at all, I think they're entitled to use whatever means of transportation they find most useful. I swear to God, I saw someone at an Elderly Commission meeting the other day hauling around a portable defibrillator. Jesus! I turned off my cell phone and everything.

That's not the point though - or the demographic I'm targeting. I'm talking about those people who run up to elevator as the doors are closing shrieking "HOLD IT!!!" and then cram themselves in, reach through and around all the other people who waited patiently and push...one floor. One floor? I feel guilty if I ride the elevator for three floors. You're really ok with this decision? You don't want to try again? Did your finger slip? No? Nice elastic waistband, by the way.

Ok, that was a little catty. But I'm not taking it back. National obesity epidemic notwithstanding, there are other reasons I can hate the One Floor Freeloaders. First of all, it wastes energy. It really does! And no, you don't get to make the 'well it was already going to my floor anyway' argument - I have never seen an elevator in my damn life that told button-pushers-flirting-with-laziness how many people were already inside, and what buttons they pushed. Second - you're spreading germs. Really. One more person getting all up in everyone else's space during the height of flu season...I have no data to back this up, but it makes sense to me. And third...in the event the elevator crashes to the floor, your presence will increase the speed at which the rest of us plummet to the basement. That probably doesn't matter either, but you at least could have avoided your own demise by taking the damn stairs.

If you are a One Floor Coaster, and you happen to read this...you probably don't care. I doubt I changed your mind at all. Just know this - in the event of an elevator emergency - say, for example, we get trapped in one, and we're stranded there for several days - the dude with the defibrillator and I are going to divide you up and eat you. What, like anyone will miss you? You're totally friends with that old lady who spends twenty minutes barking her lottery ticket requests at the convenience store clerk while I'm just trying to buy myself a bottle of orange juice. Hot Mess.

True Life: People Be Stealing

So I finally enrolled in my work's direct deposit plan, and it seems like my year-plus of foot dragging reluctance to join the club ended at exactly the right time. Every time I turn on the local news (which, in the interest of full disclosure isn't all that frequently, but often enough so that I don't think this is a coincidence) there's a report about another bank in the area being robbed.

I don't think there's anything that could ruin my lunch break more than being held hostage in a bank robbery. And here I was, running around the city under the assumption that bank robberies as a felony scheme in general had become passe sometime in the 70's, taking my check to the bank every other Friday just because I'm partial to human interaction and dig watching people fidget while they wait in lines. I had been doing all this forever, not even considering that my ass was in danger of being ordered to the floor and then locked in a vault all bound up with duct tape. And then, if I managed to avoid getting shot, and they release me, and the police or whoever take my statement, and it's still only 3:00 - do I have to go back to work? And what happened to my paycheck? Does the bank give me an IOU? Will they give me a note? Because my landlord is totally not going to believe that I was held up in a bank robbery. I'll never have to deal with those issues now though. Nope, direct deposit it is.

I'll miss the bank though. It's weird, I know, but I actually find the place very soothing. Boston has some great banks with seriously iconic architecture, especially downtown, so it's like doing an errand in a living museum. And people crack me up, so I like watching them do weird things with their money, or sing along to the satellite muzak, or make strange requests of the tellers. As an added bonus, no one really goes to the bank anymore for normal stuff, so I'm always in there with some true dyed-in-the-wool oddballs. And they still give out lollipops. Whole baskets of them, just laid out and unattended. I still take a handful like I'm seven, and no one ever says a word. Love the bank. (And I hate ATMs. I just don't trust them. How does it know how much I put in the deposit envelope? What if I typed the numbers in wrong? And -haha irony - I'm always terrified that I'm going to get robbed at an ATM. I feel all exposed.)

And today, as I was waiting to cross State Street to go deposit my check at the bank for the final time, the two guys standing next to me suddenly broke from the curb and darted into traffic - directly in front of a police car. They succeeded in pissing off everyone driving, and failed to use the crosswalk, so I guess they were also technically jaywalking. When they got to the other side of the street, they ran up the sidewalk about 10 yards, then stopped, turned, and gave each other a super-enthusiastic jumping high five. It was the random person moment of the week, and I only saw it...because I was going to the bank. Boo. One more moderately enjoyable activity eliminated from my schedule, thanks to rampant technology and high functioning smack-heads everywhere*. Boo.

*Upon review, I might need to clarify this statement. It is my father's contention that the majority of bank robberies are committed by heroin addicts. I have no idea how true this is, or where the hell his basis for this belief comes from. He's my dad, though, so I believe him. We all have our flaws.