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.

Fruitful Discoveries, I Shall Share

Recommended: Bananas.

Not Recommended: Leaving an already extremely ripe banana in your desk over a long weekend.

Not Entirely Unpleasant Side Effect of Above Caution: Subtle banana scent adopted by desk, cubicle and surrounding environs.

Miss Heigl If You're Nasty

Just now I thought to myself: 'That Katherine Heigl seems like a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I want very much to like her, so I would like to know why she feels the need to go and make movies like '27 Dresses' and this new 'The Ugly Truth' thing that seems so dreadful it makes my brain sore, because that makes me feel like maybe she's an idiot who I've just talked myself into liking because she's funny and weird and doesn't care that people know she smokes and her skin is divine and she looks lovely in satin and that's a very hard fabric to pull off, especially in warmer climates.'

Then I was like: 'I am also a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I smoke sometimes and if someone offered me a million dollars I would make the shit out of a crap movie like 27 Dresses and this evening I left the house wearing a pile of extra long tank tops, leggings and some Reefs that the dog chewed most of the toe off of five years ago so maybe I should QUIT JUDGING Katherine Heigl.'

Check Yourself Before You...

Do you ever do something that requires you to have a 'let's be real here for a second' moment with yourself? And then when your feeble attempt at self parenting totally fails you just start having a lot of questions about your potential for success as like, a functioning member of society?

Like, when it's 2.00 in the morning and you totally have to be awake for work in not-a-whole lot of hours, and you should be at least trying to sleep, but instead you're sitting in bed smoking cloves and listening to some weird mix of like, Babyface and Stevie Wonder and Tori Amos that you made in 1996? And then you're like "What the fuck are you doing man?" But, rather than your self-check resulting in an actual change in your behavior, you just CONTINUE whatever the fuck meaningless shit you're doing, because damn, you put SWV on this mix, too?!?

No? This doesn't happen to you?

The Favorite Son of Greenfield Mass

Tom Bergeron has a book!!!

I love that man. And this picture is the best fucking thing I have ever seen. I want this on a t-shirt.

Band Names, As Inspired by the 2008 Summer Olympic Games

- The Elementary Backstroke

- The Crazed BeeKeeper Outfits

- Panda Babymaking

- Like He Knows What a Whitman's Sampler is, You Fucking Lesbian.

- Bob Costas' Boner

- Pieter van der Hoogenband

- Tancock, of Britain

- On a Completely Unrelated Note, I'm Hard.

- Sewer Rat Love Product

- In Re: An Ugly French Swimmer

- I Think My Mom Could Probably Anchor This Relay

An Open Letter to Our President Elect

Dear Mr. Barack Obama,

I'm reading the news lately, and I'm noticing: people have some high fucking expectations where you're concerned. Even though we haven't yet struggled out from beneath the slow moving plague of shock and appall that was the presidency of George W. Bush, the American people are somehow of the belief that you're already well on your way to revitalizing the economy, solving the foreclosure crisis, curing AIDS, feeding every hungry child- and healthily, so as not to contribute to the obesity epidemic, finding homes for the abandoned pets in every animal shelter, eliminating the clusterfuck that is the BCS,removing heinous musicians from the airwaves, giving everyone a hybrid car by next Christmas and renaming all of Sarah Palin's children.

That's a lot of pressure, man. Especially considering that you recently had to move halfway across the country, your two (adorable and seemingly delightfully well mannered) daughters have to start at a new school, you're looking for a new pet and I'm sure your wife is totally stressed out about what to wear to Inauguration, considering the debacle that was her Election Night frock. (I'm not suggesting that's all Michelle is stressed out about - I'm positive she's stressed about all of the above, combined with the uncertainties of her new role and I'm sure some conflicted reluctance about the sacrifice of her own career - I have a lot of respect for Michelle Obama. I'm just saying - it's one more thing on top of a really huge pile.)

So, dear President Elect - I know I'm just one girl, and you likely won't hear me above the chorus of millions chanting their love, admiration and oh yes - their demands - at you, but if you can hear me, listen: it's all going to be ok. You're fucking awesome. Enjoy your party. People really love you, and if they're a little too insistent about everything, it's only because we've all been starving for so long, and in a lot of people's eyes, you represent the feast of what we've been missing for the past eight years/forever. We're excited.

I say - chill for a minute. Take the rest of January to settle in. Take February too, if you need it - it's a short month, and nothing really important happens. It's freezing in one half of the world, and the other half is on vacation because it's end of their summer. All that shit will still be here when you're ready to take it all on in March. In the meantime, I'll work on tempering everyone's insane expectations. Like seriously, you're not going to be able to get Nickelback roasted over a rotisserie spit on live television. That's fascism shit, you don't have that kind of power. But deportation? Maybe. It's all about managing expectations. No, no, you don't have to thank me, I'm happy to do it, really.

But if you could - tell Michelle I think she'd look divine in something long, and steel-grey blue with very simple lines. Or a maroon/purple hue. Just a suggestion.

OMG, WTF

This is the most fucked up news I've heard in a while. And considering how fucked up the news is ALL THE TIME, that's really saying something.

They are outlawing smoking on the beach. The beach. The name we have given the part of the Earth where the land meets the ocean. The beach. THE MOTHERFUCKING BEACH. IT'S OUTSIDE. No. No, no, no, no. NO. We've taken it too far now, people. It's time to start reigning things in. We need to reorganize the whole system, or shut it down and start it over, something. This is not working.

No one is trying to argue that smoking is good for you, or that people should be allowed to smoke in hospitals or on airplanes anymore - although that period of history always seems quite naive and amusing, so excuse me and my conveniently invented nostalgia - and I totally understand why restaurants went smoke-free rather than doing the whole 'non-smoking section' thing - that sliver of raised PlexiGlass wasn't fooling anyone - but this is ridiculous. This is not something that should require government regulation. This is something that reasonable adults should just be able to work out on their own.

When you're paying about 37 cents per cigarette (Jesus, remember when the Loosey seemed like a rip-off?), you should be permitted to decide where you would like to smoke it, within reason, of course. Don't smoke at the waterpark, fine. No smoking at the zoo, I get it. Keep it in the pack at the movies - obviously, what kind of asshole do you take me for? But now I can't smoke at the beach? At the public fucking beach? FUCK OFF.

Listen, I don't even smoke (that much, anymore) but this is JUST MEAN. What are people supposed to do? What if I get to the beach FIRST and just post up on my towel with my book and my umbrella and don't bother anybody, and then Asshole Clan '08 sets up camp next to me, and their kids kick sand all over me while they shriek and eat trans-fats and squirt Capri Sun all over my towel, and then when I reach for a Camel because these stupid morons are stressing me out and ruining my lovely serene beach time I'm all of a sudden the bad guy? What, I have to go stand in the parking lot with all the other ostracized members of society on our sad little patch of sweltering blacktop all because your lungs can't handle second hand smoke outside? OUTSIDE, BEFORE THE SPRAWLING EXPANSE OF THE FUCKING OCEAN??? Enough. Seriously.

Lions and Tigers and...Well, that's Enough, Really.

There are some evenings when I'm home and it's freezing outside and all I want to do is be entertained without effort. On those evenings I turn to my television, and when its myriad channels disappoint me, I often think about disconnecting the whole thing and subsisting solely on my dvd sets of the The Wire and Chappelle's Show. But I don't, and next thing I know I'm sucked into Top Chef, or Real Chance at Love, or Rock of Love Charm School, and the night dissolves into a weird shame spiral that usually involves a lot of red wine.

Then there are other nights where my HBO subscription pays for itself, and all it's under-performing sibling movie channels, in one glorious swoop. Last night was one of those nights. Last night, I found 'Cat Dancers' .

"Ron Holiday, Joy Holiday and Chuck Lizza, aka the Cat Dancers, were one of the world's first exotic-tiger entertainment acts. For years, the trio shared a happy, if unorthodox, life as performers and lovers - until a pair of bizarre deaths brought their story to a tragic end. Premieres Monday, December 15 at 8pm.

I don't want to ruin it for you, because YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT - for Ron Holiday's performance outfits alone. There's one scene where I swear to God, he has constructed suspenders out of black index cards individually taped to his chest. There is so, so much spandex, and his mullets get progressively more glorious throughout the flashback footage - made all the more incredible by the present-day interviews in which he is completely bald, and expresses his personality via elaborate wigs. Seriously, in the first five minutes, dude looks so much like Buffalo Bill, I honestly didn't know where the story was taking us. I didn't even know if 'tiger' was going to be the cause of death.

See, Ron Holiday and his wife, Joy - who, when choosing between devoting her life to the dance or to the Lord, was told by a nun to 'dance for God' - had a dance act. They danced everywhere. Ron was a lead male nude dancer at the Folies Bergere (an episode to which they devoted like, ONE SENTENCE, to my great dismay) and they did odd sexual ballets at Radio City, and everything was sparkly and amazing.

One night Ron (I assume) overdosed on quaaludes and had a dream where Joy was dancing with a cat. So they just like, got a leopard. And trained it to dance with them. Then they got a whole bunch more cats, and travelled in a circus, and stole a man-boy named Chuck from a competing circus, and trained him to dance with the cats, and then he started wearing satin booty-pants and shirts made out of deconstructed party favors from an event at Studio 54, and it's just insane. Right? This was fucking riveting. And this is all BEFORE Ron tells us about his first sexual encounter with Chuck. Ron and chuck got down! Then Joy started banging Chuck, too. THEN EVERYONE WAS SLEEPING WITH EVERYONE AND DANCING WITH BIG CATS. The best part was how hard these three loonies dug the shit out of their lifestyle. I mean, this was so, so crazy, but watching them all be like "This rules. We just have sex with each other and feed our enormous jungle cats huge portions of raw meat. We're so happy."...it was really convincing. I mean, not like they were hurting anyone. OH WAIT.

Because then they ate a bad batch of mushrooms, and decided to get a white tiger, which I guess was questionable not so much in that they were adopting another thousand pound wild feline to live in a cage out back, but in that white tigers are often inbred, and therefore unpredictable. But they get one anyway, because these people are completely insane. So they get this tiger, and they name him Jupiter, and he's clearly an asshole, but rather than you know - getting rid of their UNSTABLE TIGER they decide he's just 'a brat.' Because tigers are completely analogous to toddlers, and they grow out of these bratty phases. OH WAIT.

Here's the part where I totally spoil this for you: spolier alert? Is that what I'm supposed to say? We already know this doesn't end well.

One day there's a crew of electricians fortifying the fence at Rancho Insano, and rather than leaving all the tigers in their cages until they're finished working, the Cat Dancers put their full grown wild animals on leashes and walk them around. And Chuck, while walking Jupiter, slips and falls - apparently because he has moccasins on - and the tiger BITES THROUGH HIS FUCKING NECK. And then I guess it cried. So Ron blamed the moccasins, and kept their MAN EATING TIGER in their backyard.

Except all is not well, as Joy becomes consumed with grief, and spends the next month in her bed without food, or, apparently, a shower. Which is sort of understandable, I guess, considering her child-lover was just de-throated by a giant cat that's still living in the backyard. I'd probably freak out, too. I'd probably shower a few times, but these people are working on a different scale of reasonableness, so I'm just going to move on.

After about five weeks of stewing in her own filth and hunger pangs, Ron convinces Joy to go out and like, pat the cats, or something. So they go into the garage, and Joy like, rubs her hands with meat and makes out with their ocelot, or whatever, and everything's going well, and then Ron decides to bring Jupiter into the garage. Like REALLY, Ron? Jupiter? Now? But apparently he loves traumatic shock therapy, so in comes the white tiger. Who, upon seeing Joy, LEAPS ACROSS THE GARAGE AND TEARS HER THROAT OUT. And then I guess it made it's 'crying noise' again, and Ron - putting all the pieces together at last - shouts: "Jupiter - YOU'RE INBRED!!!" No, Ron - JUPITER IS A FUCKING TIGER. IF THERE WAS A TIGER IN MY GARAGE, AND THE TIGER DID NOT EAT ME, MY RESPONSE WOULD BE 'WHAT IS THIS TIGER, INBRED?' HOLY FUCK.

Right. Exactly. It's the most fucked up shit ever. I scratched the surface, too - there's so much more. For instance, we learn that since the tiger mauled his family, Ron now teaches ballet to children - creepy, especially considering the wigs - and also posits himself as an 'animal behaviorist' and gives tours of the exotic ranch his big cats now live on. That's like calling yourself a criminologist because you invited some wacko drifter to come stay in your house and he murdered your whole family. I don't want animal behavior advice from this guy - HIS TIGER ATE HIS WIFE. YES HE STILL HAS TIGERS.

I could talk about this shit all day. Please do yourself a favor and do whatever you need to do to see this film. You may have bizarre dreams about leopards and leotards for the next few nights, but it is so, so worth it. SO yes - thank you, HBO. You truly are more than just TV.

Oh, Lord. Awkward Confession Time.

I have a dilemma, sort of.

See, there are approximately 20 movies out now/that will be released in the near future that I really really really want to see, and 'Milk' is at the top of the list, because it's supposed to be amazing. However, unfortunately for me, I already know that I will not enjoy 'Milk' - at least not like everyone else will. And you know why? It's the worst reason ever. It's...because ever since Sean Penn starred in 'I Am Sam' I CANNOT TAKE HIM SERIOUSLY. It's so stupid, but I can't get over it. It's not even Sean Penn's fault - I just hate movies that are purposely emotionally manipulative, I hate mannequins and I hate robots*...so OBVIOUSLY I hated 'I Am Sam'...

I am trying to get over this. Generally, I think Sean Penn seems like a pretty whacked out dude, and that's pretty appealing - I like my artists a tad unhinged. I'm aware he's actually a really good actor or whatever. AND THE MAN PLAYED JEFF SPICOLI. I mean really. What is my problem? 'Milk' is going to kick ass. Gus Van Sant! James Franco! I am going to love it. Really. NO I PROMISE MY BRAIN WON'T OVERRIDE THE SYSTEM AND ONLY HEAR SEAN PENN YELLING "IT MATTERS TO ME" DURING EVERY DRAMATIC MOMENT. I promise to try, anyway. Sheesh.

* Dakota Fanning is probably a robot.

Dunk You!

Seriously, why do I only ever see basketball-associated celebrities in real life? It's a really weird thing to be annoyed by, but it's just been following me around my whole life. Like, growing up in Amherst - people saw Uma Thurman at the bookstore, or ran into Robert Downey Jr. at Rao's. I? Saw Marcus Camby off the court a few times. And some lady that is now in the WNBA like, guest-coached at my brother's basketball camp when he was nine, but that totally doesn't count.

And when I lived in New Orleans? People were always like "Ooh, I was out at some weird bar in the Warehouse District last night, and I saw Jude Law and Sienna Miller!" Or "Ooh, there was this drive by last night at the corner of Magazine and Prytania, and I totally saw Sean Penn outside in his bathrobe drinking a beer and watching the cops like, search the area!" You know who I saw in New Orleans? KOBE BRYANT. In the French Quarter, on my way to a Bloody Mary lunch at Pat O's my first year of law school. And I was so underwhelmed. I think I even turned to the person I was with like "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, THAT TOTALLY ISN'T KOBE BRYANT, KOBE BRYANT IS CERTAINLY TALLER THAN THAT, BESIDES, WHO CARES ABOUT KOBE BRYANT, HE'S A TOTAL DOUCHE." (Yes, I was absolutely yelling.) And of course, it was Kobe Bryant, but WHO CARES because KOBE BRYANT IS A TOTAL FUCKING DOUCHEBAG. Christ.

Then one time when I was visiting L.A. (I know, Los Angeles, right? EVERYBODY spots a famous person when they're out there!) do you want to guess who I saw? No, DON'T BOTHER because you would not guess if you had a thousand chances. John Salley. Yes, John Salley. We were driving around Venice and he was just crossing the street in Bermuda shorts and a polo. First, I was like "OF COURSE I WOULD SEE, OF ALL POSSIBLE QUASI-FAMOUS PEOPLE, JOHN FUCKING SALLEY." and then I was like "why do I even know who John Salley is?" but whatever. That's my own issue.

And now I'm in Boston; there are all these celebs running around and filming movies and whatnot, and I've NEVER SEEN ANY OF THEM. You know who I saw outside the Colonnade Hotel last year? COACH FUCKING CAL. Who also happened to live in Amherst for the majority of my formative celebrity spotting years. Cannot. catch. A break.

I don't know why I even give a crap. It's not like I'm going to see Kate Hudson on Newbury Street and be all "I AM NOW COMPLETE." But still. I just want to see one. Because an alternate explanation might be that I see celebrities ALL THE TIME and I only recognize basketball players. Which is even weirder than being able to identify John Salley in a beach ensemble.

Hey! Your Pack Mentality Is Showing!

Gripe time!!! And I'm giving the ladies a break today, because - oh, boys. Men, guys, dudes, whatever you are - did no one ever tell you that when you're at that point in yor life where you find yourself wearing a suit and tie to work everyday, you're also at a point where A BACKPACK SHOULD NO LONGER BE A PART OF THAT OUTFIT.

And if, in fact, no one ever told you...you needed to be told? Just get a briefcase. If you need your backpack that much, get a job that encourages athletic footwear and alternative hours. You'll probably be happier in the long run. Or just like, go hiking or sightseeing on the weekends or something. You can scratch the itch. Just leave it at home until you figure it out, ok? Stop trying to justify all the zippers.

No, I'm serious. You look like a Boy's State delegate. So just...stop. Ok? You're making me a little sad.

A Call to Spines

I actually have something really, really important to bring up today. Ladies of the Metro Boston area, I beseech you: QUIT SLOUCHING.

On the real - didn't you people have mothers? I mean, I can almost excuse that your portable music is too loud, and that you refuse to let go of the skinny- jeans-with-heels-trend (it looks messy, seriously. Really, really messy. Say what you will about leggings, but those shits give a very clean line, ok?) and that you insist on chattering on your cellphones in totally inappropriate settings (in line at the coffee shop, really? That barista is just trying to make enough money to buy beer and he doesn't need to know about how bitchy Ambrianaelle was at Ned Devine's last night, or about the jacket you just found on sale at Zara... seriously get the fuck off the phone for like, 2 minutes). There's only so much your mother can do about your shitty manners and lemmingesque fashion sense once you're out of her house, and I'm sure your friends aren't helping matters. But your posture? Why didn't she take care of that? That shit should be like, deeply ingrained by now. But it isn't too late, I promise. Here, just pay attention:

On the T: did you score a seat? Nice for you. Now get all your scarves and shit out of my personal space - there you go, very nice - and SIT UP STRAIGHT. I swear to God, ladies, the next time I see one of you slumped over like the village schnapps fiend, someone is going to have to physically restrain me from reaching over and pushing your torso back until your shoulder blades touch the back of the seat. Whatever, I get it, you're used to squishing yourself down to hide your furious note-writing from the watchful eye of your Calculus teacher, but you're a fucking adult now, so please do us all a favor and lengthen your spine. It's depressing watching you try to get through life all crumpled over like that.

New scenario: You're standing outside, waiting in line at the ATM, smoking outside the bar, waiting for the bus, I don't care WHY ARE YOU HUNCHING OVER LIKE IT HURTS TO LIVE? Good God woman, you look a mess. Chin up, please. I realize all those white boys wearing eyeliner and sweater vests who are singing inside/on your Ipod/in your head are trying their hardest to crush your soul, but try to overcome, dear. Get out of Allston once in a while, try to get around the city without riding the Green Line, and I promise things will start looking up.

And no Uggs with mini skirts this year, ok? I understand that they're warm, I own some myself and I do indeed don them when venturing outdoors. But I also cover my legs. Because it is cold. And while we're at it, can we discuss why you own so many denim skirts? That isn't the same one over and over again, is it? Ok, we'll just pretend it isn't. But still - can you think of nothing else to wear? Challenge yourself girls, please. Really though, I will lay off if you just try to quit slouching. And once you're walking around all upright and whatnot, I'm willing to bet that you won't even feel like skulking around in denim and sheepskin. Ten bucks says that three days after you've adjusted to life at your new height, you're even going to be like "WHY do I keep wearing these extremely tight t-shirts with sexually suggestive text often referencing made-up sports team? Jesus, now that everyone can read it, I just feel like an asshole. Oh my God, why can I smell that Abercrombie store from ACROSS THE STREET???"

It might not happen all at once, but once we get that ball rolling...imagine.

Shoulders back, now. There you go. Almost there.

You're welcome.

Punch Your Chad

In the state of Massachusetts, yesterday was the last day to register to vote in the upcoming election. If you did not at least mail in a voter registration form:

a) You can't complain when they eliminate the state income tax because everyone is an IDIOT and afraid of being poor for nine minutes. Like, really? Don't you people understand where that money goes? It adds up. It's 40 percent of the state budget. We need it to like, PAY FOR EVERYTHING. Oh, your kids don't need textbooks? That's awesome. No, I guess you're right. The TV news is the same. Oh, what was that? The tv's in the classrooms don't work? No, there's no money to fix them. You took it home with you and spent it on like, Applebee's and trucker hats and a new weedwacker or whatever you retards will do with the extra $200 you get. Awesome. Also, enjoy explaining to the kids why Rocky the class hamster froze to death because they turn off the heat in the classroom at night. Those potholes are sweet, too. Sorry about your axle.

b) You can't complain when there are no police to protect you from the actual crime happening on your street, because they're all busy busting homeless people and Suffolk students buying weed from that weird guy in the Common with his pant leg rolled up.

c) You can't complain when there's one less random thing to do on Tuesday night because Wonderland has been closed. Now, I know not everyone spent a considerable portion of their childhood at the dog track and therefore don't have the same fuzzy nostalgia for them as I do, but seriously, before you climb all up on your soapbox and annoy the shit out of me with your diatribe on how dog racing is wrong, and cruel, and barbaric, let me save you the trouble: shut up. It's not. Yes, it can be, certainly, and has been, absolutely but you can make that exact same point about every industry: entertainment or otherwise. And have you ever been to the dog track? No? Then let me inform you: it's fun as hell. Aside from the gambling - which is why most people go, I realize, but is actually about my sixth favorite element of the experience - there's cheap beer, and weird food, and it's one of the few places in the state where smoking is still totally acceptable (no Mom, I don't go there to socially smoke, I'm just saying. It's an option.). Plus, it is some of the best people watching EVER. Rich white dudes just out of work, old men who have clearly been there all day, and will return tomorrow, little old ladies, drunk Revere townies, hippie kids, homeless-looking individuals of indeterminate age in sweatpants...I LOVE the dogtrack. Please don't take that from me.

d) You are an asshat. Seriously, just fucking vote. It's not hard.

WWPJD?

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

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

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

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

No, I Actually Have NO IDEA What Time It Is

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

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

Today’s Major Damage: The Custom House Clock.

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

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

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

All That Matters Is What Makes You Happy

I am the weirdest Liz Phair fan. At least, I feel like I am. I don't know - it just seems like there are only two camps on this one, and I don't want to hang out at either one of them. The first camp made up of the people for whom Exile in Guyville represents the pinnacle of creative musical innovation, and the second camp: those who got turned on by - and listen to exclusively to - her latest stuff. I can get down with the campers in the first group, we seem to enjoy the same stuff, but they're a little too...like, intense for me, man. They're camping professionally. I just don't have that kind of drive. And since I don't particularly enjoy light FM radio, Dr. Phil, or Hollister-inspired wardrobes, I obviouly can't mix with the campers in the second group.

I just like WhiteChocolateSpaceEgg the best. It came along exactly when I needed to hear something girly and weird and sort of badass all at the same time. So it's my favorite. I really, really fucking love it. And I have no one to hang out with.

I don't know. It's just frustrating somethimes.

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.