There was a story on NPR last night about a brutal mob beating in Milwaukee. Basically, there was some party in the street and a guy honked to be let through and 30 people dragged him from his car and beat the shit out of him. It was reported that while the beating was taking place, MUSIC WAS TURNED UP.
I’ve never really been to Milwaukee, although I dated this girl for a little while whose sister was a second assistant cameraman on a really famous indie film called “No Sleep Til Madison.” Anyway, for spring break of that year we went to Madison to visit her sister “on set” and then we flew to New York and then we broke up. But the more important part is that we rode through Milwaukee on a shuttle to the airport and I remember thinking that it looked really fun with all of the dirt and factories and raw sewage in the river and I actually thought about moving there for awhile. Now this story makes it into the national conscience and I’m thinking “Fuck, now it’s going to be impossible to realize my dream because the yuppies are going to be all over this. Fucking gentrifiers.” You know what else sucks? When the girl you’re dating has a totally smoking older sister who’s actually closer to you in age and is the second assistant cameraman on a really famous indie film called “Just Kidding No One Ever Saw No Sleep Til Madison.”
I did like the part of the NPR story, as usual, where no one wanted to talk about the giant African-American elephant partying in the middle of the street and beating up a dude.
Earlier today, I wrote a post about the recent discovery of a co-worker’s on-line romance-novel-in-progress. An anonymous commenter (my favorite fucking kind!) did some basic google research and then posted a link to the full novel in the comments section. Now, on the one hand, this was a gift, because it let me know that there was too strong of a chance for THE NEANDERTHAL-SLASH-DANIELLE-STEEL-WANNABE WHO CLIPS HIS NAILS IN HIS CUBICLE to discover my discovery, and I was able to take down the post before anything worse happened. On the other hand, something about this reminded me of the toonworld1982 fiasco.
DO I NEED TO REMIND YOU OF THE TOONWORLD1982 FIASCO?
Worker #3116: OK, let’s go.
Clown Coffee: Let’s do this.
Worker #3116: Time to make lunch history.
What I like about getting my teeth cleaned:
What I don’t like about getting my teeth cleaned:
Talking about Santa Claus or hearing other people talking about Santa Claus.
When two idle dental hygienists were having a conversation about funny reactions that kids have to Santa Claus, how wonderful it is when kids believe in Santa Claus, and how to convince kids to keep believing in Santa Claus when they actually show a sign of intelligent life and deny his existence, my dental hygienist, who was not idle, could not help but stop doing her job every five seconds to join in. Then she tried to get me involved. “Do you remember when you stopped believing in Santa Claus? It must have occured to me gradually, because I don’t remember being shocked or anything.” The more boring the conversation, the more excited my hygienist was to participate. At one point, after they had moved from Santa to grocery stores to I do not know what, my hygienist dropped her tools and yelled out “Oh, I thought maybe you had watched something sad on T.V.” I’ll give them something sad to watch on T.V., but you won’t be around to see it. Now pay attention to my teeth!
Then it was polish time. “What flavor do you want? We have mint, cinnamon, orange, bubble gum, tuna salad sandwich, BLT, raw dirt, seaweed, loneliness, cabbage, carrot, smoothie, superman flavored ice cream, cherry, did I say cinnamon?” Gross! Where did all these flavors of tooth polish come from? I am a grown man for Jesus Christ’s sake! I have better things to do with my time and brain power than worry about what flavor of tooth polish to use. Superman Flavored Ice Cream, please!
Anyway, successful trip all around. I will see you again in two years, cavity creeps.
It is time for my predictions for 2006.
When I was younger I saw an MTV interview with Anthony Kiedis where he talked about how he loved taking risks, but that he was also a very sexual being*, and that if you asked him whether he’d rather jump out of an airplane or make out with his girlfriend on the couch he would have a very difficult time answering.
For some reason this has stayed with me, I guess because it is still fun, all these years later, to try and imagine someone saying “Well, let me ask you this: would you rather jump out of an airplane or make out with your girlfriend on the couch?” What kind of question is that? And how are those two even comparable? And why can’t you do both? What, is your girlfriend going to dump you if you jump out of the plane? Your girlfriend is jealous of jumping? And why the specificity of the couch? You don’t like to make out anywhere else? O’ Anthony Kiedis, a man of mystery, whose every phrase raises many more questions than it answers.
Then, when I was fifteen, I was in Arizona and I tried to make out with a girl who claimed to be Anthony Kiedis’s cousin. We got under a blanket on a couch, but I could not seal that deal. There was no Arizonafornication for me. But now that I think about it she was probably lying and wasn’t even his cousin. She had a liar’s eyes. Still, were you to ask me, back then or now, whether I would rather jump out of a plane or make out with Anthony Kiedis’s 15 year-old cousin, I would not have Kiedis’s difficulty in answering. Hello, couch, I hope you are ready for some abuse.
*I HATE the expression “sexual being” and anyone who uses it. What is wrong with you people (I’m talking to you, John Travolta)? It’s very “the lady doth protest too much, methinks,” with an undercurrent of an asshole who refers to themselves in the third person. To borrow a phrase, fuck it don’t say it.
Can someone explain the whole bird flu preparedness issue to me? What…what is there to prepare for? Either bird flu comes and kills a bunch of us, or it doesn’t come? I’m not really sure how stocking up on Constant Comment tea is going to change that. It’s not like you’re going to see brown-skinned bird flu on the subway carrying a suspicious looking package. Now, if the government was encouraging everyone to prepare for the psychological trauma of helplessly watching your loved ones die, and seeing huge regions of the world economically devastated by an uncontrollable disease, that’s something I can get behind. But they’re not saying that, are they? No. “Be prepared.”
Prepare this, government.
SEAN Lennon is determined to kick off the New Year with a new girlfriend – and he’s asking PAGE SIX to help him find one. “Any girl who is interested must simply be born female and between the ages of 18 and 45,” John Lennon’s singer/songwriter son, 30, told us. “They must have an IQ above 130 and they must be honest. They must not have any clinical, psychological disorders . . . and a kind heart. Clearly beautiful – but beauty on the inside is more important – but no deformities, third legs, fifth nipples . . . I’m completely alone and I’m completely miserable. So please send your request to [PAGE SIX].” Ladies, we await your responses.
(New York Post)
I had always kind of assumed that his ponytail and lack of personal styleâ??not to mention his solo album: LOOK OUT JAMES IHA!â??were the indicators of Sean Lennon’s lack of class. But surprise! He’s trawling for dates on Page Six, cashing in BIG on his footnote trivia-game-answer celebrity status. “Which of John Lennon’s sons was trawling for dates on Page Six?” No, not Julien! I’m sure Yuka must be very proud to count Sean as one of her former paramours. She knows her chicken! Anyway, gross, Sean Lennon. Gross. There is no stinkier perfume than publicly declared desperation published in the yellow press. I am also kind of disturbed by the 18 to 45-year-old age bracket. “You must be old enough to vote, but not necessarily old enough to drink. But pre-menopausal is fine, too. I will fuck your vagina whether it is kind of new or kind of old. I’m not being picky here, okay, but if I find out you lied and you are 46 years old I am going to write an unflattering song about you and play it unannounced at an East Village location. I am so sad. I hope the world reads about my sadness. I suck. I am pathetic. I am a pathetic suck.”
Is it just me, or is that little scholar wearing a yarmulke? And I have a follow-up:
Is it just me, or is that little Jew kind of young to be earning an advanced degree? And I have a follow-up:
What graduate program makes you come up in front of the class and write on a chalkboard?