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.

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.