Alicia Keys=Black Fiona Apple
Christina Ricci=Poor Man’s Helena Bonham Carter
Alicia Keys=Black Fiona Apple
Christina Ricci=Poor Man’s Helena Bonham Carter
The woman who sits in the cube across from me does either an internet jigsaw puzzle or an internet crossword puzzle every day during her lunch break. In her head it must be like, “12 O’Clock Noon, puzzle time, Cheryl!” I think this is very cute, but not as cute as her dyed hair and matching pant-suits.
ã??ã??Everyone is impressed by letters written by Kamikaze pilot. Ican’t keep back my tears to read them. They joined to the Special Attack Mission and died purely to defend their country and people they love.
ã??ã??At that time,officially their letters were censored by troops to keep the military secret. They left their mind in letters,otherwise their limited conditions.
ã??ã??There were rumor that U.S troops would punish people strictlywho had data concerned with Kamikaze Special Attack mission afterfinishing the war. So people threw letters and articles left by thedeceased into the fire. But, in spite of the situation which people were dangerous, some people secreted and kept those things very carefully. Thanks to their courage and love, we can read their letters and are moved our mind deeply.
ã??ã??I quote those precious last letters home from reference books. Please read letters. I would like to add letters in the meaning of mourning for Kamikazes.
You know, it wasn’t so long ago that it was all Ja Rule this, Ja Rule that. Where’s Ja Rule now? Note to thugs: when every single you release is a “love song” no one is going to love you for long.
Last night I dreamed that I was passing under this willow tree after a heavy rainstorm and I looked over to my left and President Bush was sitting in a chaise lounge reading a magazine, and I said, “Mr. President, I’m really sorry, sir, but I think that when I pass under this branch it’s going to knock a bunch of rain water on you,” and he said “It’s okay, I totally know what you mean.” For some reason, though, this exchange inspired the President to come talk to me on the steps of a brownstone and as soon as he sat down his press secretary appeared, but it wasn’t Scott McClellan, it was more like Suzie McClellan, and President Bush turned to me and was like “Do you have any questions for me, the President of the United States?” and I don’t remember what I asked him but then Suzie McClellan was like, “I advise you not to answer that, sir,” but Bush was like, “No, that’s a really good question, I’d be happy to answer that.” So then he gives some answer that is basically like “Our mortal enemy is Saudi Arabia,” and immediately the President realizes he’s made a mistake and Suzie McClellan is super pissed and all of these journalists appear to try and get my story and everyone I know is really amazed not only that the President of the United States of America—The Greatest Country on Earth—wanted to talk to me, but that I was able to extract such a startling piece of top secret information from him with just one insightful question. To give you a sense of what a big deal this was, a few minutes later I picked up a newspaper and there was already a front page story told by a guy who simply overheard our conversation, right, you see, but everyone was still dying to interview me and stuff because now I knew that the President was going to invade Saudi Arabia if he was elected to a second term. Then I was standing in this apartment thinking about calling People magazine and selling my story when the President burst in with a bunch of Secret Service agents and he kept being like, “You have to understand…” and “See, the thing I was trying to say was…” and I was like, “Mr. President, sir, talk to the hand because my face is not listening to you at all.”
Saturday I woke up at noon and there were no eggs in the house, so I went to the store and bought some eggs and some juice and some bacon, and the lady at the register was like, “Ooh, looks like you must have had a good night if you’re making breakfast at noon,” and I was like “First of all, my night was just okay, second of all, STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY BUSINESS, and third of all, obviously if I’m making breakfast at noon I’m in no mood for chit-chat.”
McCullen and I have written another movie treatment. Cornolat is the irresistibly romantic tale of a mysterious young woman who moves to town and sets up a deliciously exquisite corn shoppe, selling divinely sinful, homemade corn concoctions. Old marriages are rejuvenated, young adults are falling magically in love, children are obeying their parents, and no one knows just quite how these little corn holders that this mysterious young woman sells are having such a wonderful effect, but why fix what isn’t broken? That is, of course, until the crazy corn pirate arrives and puts everyone’s bigotry and ignorance on display to a tragic end.
Seriously, though, no more food-for-passion metaphors in movies please. I saw a preview this weekend for some shitty Italian movie where a lovelorn woman pours her heart into fabulous desserts and I laughed so hard that I threw up the half a burrito and leftover chinese food I ate before going to the theater all over my raging boner.
Oh, and I’ve finally come up with a porn star name for myself, because I figure with a good porn star name I will finally get some action. Girls love a clever and randy porn star name, don’t you, girls? How about Michael J. Fucks? Does that get you fucking wet?
AMUSE ME, YOU UGLY IDIOTS.
My parents have this lamp in their living room that I just saw in a spread in Details magazine, which either indicates that my parents are way more “with it” than all the evidence suggests, or that Details magazine is for grammys and grampys.
I’m behind the times, this is obvious (remind me to join friendster soon), but so today I discovered shoutcast.com, which I think I’ve heard of before but I did a google search for “hip-hop internet radio” and shoutcast was right there. Right now I am listening to The Notorious B.I.G. “Da Cunt Rennaissance”, which is a good thing, but the discrepancy I’ve noticed is that almost all of the hip-hop stations on shoutcast.com have much lower bit-rates than, say, the “All Death Cab For Cutie All the Time” station, or the “Ze Best Danske Musik Der Deutschlander Funny Times!” station. As Jadakiss might say “Why Halle have to let a white man pop her to get an Oscar? Why can’t black people get the same amount of bit-rates on their streaming internet radio stations? Ahaaaa!”
Also, on the analog “Urban” radio yesterday, the deej was criticizing Carl Thomas and he said “The man will wear a skull cap AND a baseball hat, he’ll wear a Bill Cosby sweater AND a army fatigue jacket, AND HE STILL WON’T EVEN HAVE A HAIRCUT.” Then the female deej was like “Why you gotta criticize?”
This date-rapist (wearing a shirt that said “Moustache Rides”) was sitting at the burrito restaurant with his friend, who would be a date-rapist if he had the looks. McCullen aptly described this friend as “the guy who watches the door at the party.” Note to this friend: no more stripey yellow polo tees for you. Anyhow, so the date-rapist is holding his burrito in his hand and the following exchange occurs:
DR: This thing weighs, like, four pounds.
WBDR: It says eight pounds.
DR: That’s the bag, man. That’s how much the bag can hold.
WBDR: The bag?
DR: The bag can hold up to eight pounds and then it breaks.
WBDR: But I bet if I put my burrito in there the bag wouldn’t break.
Did they try it? Yes. Yes, they tried it.
Also, there are a couple special people out there this morning who I would like to “put in the bush,” and to whom I would like to extend a little bit of friendly advice:
To the girl in the one-shouldered red halter-top who was on the street corner outside of Little Caesars doing straight-up, raw-dawg, hootchie dances while holding a sign that read “Large Pizza!Pizza! 5$”: Please, take off those headphones, brush the weave from out of your face, and take a good long look at what you are doing with your life.
To the guy at the gym who was wearing jeans and a Twin Peaks tee-shirt in the weight room: Don’t worry, my friend, we’ve ruled you out as a suspect in the Palmer case. It was the 15lb bicep curls that tipped us off to your obvious innocence.
We were supposed to get cable/internet hooked up yesterday but the guy never showed up, and so Stevil was trying to get in touch with this lady at Comcassholes who apparently runs the company from her cell-phone, and she had been no help and had started saying crazy things, such as we already have cable and internet, and if we don’t have cable and internet we need to contact the previous tenants and ask them why not, etc…So when Stevil was telling me all of this in a very drawn out email conversation I started getting very upset and panicky and was like OH SHIT, WHAT CAN I DO? WE MUST SOLVE THIS TRAGIC PROBLEM IMMEDIATELY! And it took me literally an hour to be like, “Wait a second, not only will this all work out in the end and we’ll get our cable and our internet hooked up, but it’s also cable and internet, something I did not have in my last apartment without any apparent distress.”
Situations like this, incidentally, make me very concerned for moments in my life that are sure to happen where some real crisis occurs, i.e. I lose an arm and the use of one of my eyeballs in a strange grocery store loading dock accident or my mom is taken hostage by Basque separatists. Because you cannot successfully negotiate with a bunch of violent idiots who think that a stupid strip of land in the middle of Western Europe should be made into an entirely new, politically useless, multi-lingual sovereignty when you’ve shit your pants. Sorry, mom. I’m sorry the Basques killed you.