I bought one of those healthy cereals that some hippie on the farm his lawyer wife bought him invented because when it comes to this body, ladies, we are dealing with a cut temple, and because it was actually cheaper than Cheerios. But I started to regret my decision almost immediately, when I got home and unpacked my groceries and saw this:
We all want to save the world without any effort or sacrifice more demanding than a mouthful of crunchy natural-maple flavored organic corn flakes and unsweetened raisins, but I’m pretty fucking sure you can’t just donate money to PEACE. Philanthropy without organization and even, dare I say it, a low level of beaurocracy, is impossible. If this weren’t true, I would have already made a huge donation to PROBLEMS THAT MAKE ME SAD.
Then again, I did give all that money to breast cancer, so…[link]
Awwww, look! A baby hungrily approaching a lucite dildo.
So Lindsay finally convinced me to sign up for dodgeball, which, I don’t really want to talk about it. Up until about a month ago I had still never sent a text message in my life, which I felt was one of the last few good things you could even say about me, and now I am signed up for a special text messaging service? One that allows greater ease and efficiency in text messaging? This is a horrible, horrible development.
But here’s the thing: every time I get a dodgeball text message, it says that it is from Davy Rothbart? Creator of Found Magazine? So every time I get a dodgeball text message I am hesitant to open it because I’m not really sure that I want to read someone’s suicide note, or, you know, some grammatical horrorshow that some black kid wrote to his girlfriend during Earth Science about how his love for her makes his heart beat faster than a Farari [sic].
sinbad weighs in on the kramer controversy
worker3116: oh man
i screenshot that this morning
bootsUK: yeah, totally!
worker3116: so hilarious
who cares, sinbad?
haha, who cares, houseguest?
ok, i have to go
internet cafe time is running out
bootsUK: so i didn’t realize that sinbad had been at the club where kramer had been performing
worker3116: doing what?
bootsUK: being a fugitive from the mob and having to pretend he was a houseguest at the late phil hartman’s comedy club
worker3116: then maybe he shouldn’t have voiced his important opinion on this hot-button issue
i wish sinbad had been in Nuns on the Run
bootsUK: mobsters read cnn.com
i want to imagine mobsters with blackberry’s watching streaming video of sinbad on cnn.com
worker3116: mobsters subscribe to the cnn.com rss feed
bootsUK: this is the 21st century
(New York Times)
1. Oh, hell non!
2. I’m not surprised that the Louvre wouldn’t know that rappers are black, but you’d think the photo researcher at the New York Times would be sharp enough to realize that this guy is about as “street” as the new H&M Viktor & Rolf collection is “haute couture.”
I predict that this year’s seasonal culinary sensation will be the Whalepheasantelopenfant.
You’ve probably already seen this on the cover of Gourmet, but it is a whale, stuffed with an elephant, stuffed with pheasant, which is in turn stuffed with antelope, all wrapped around a human baby.
And for you vegetarians: tofalepheasantelopenfant!
The man who lives in the apartment next to me is this old black guy of indeterminate nationality. He mops the floors once a week with straight ammonia, and sometimes he sticks incense in the doorframe, but the building still smells like shit.
But this weekend there was an envelope for him in the entryway from the ASCAP, or American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.
Just saying, when you start noticing that this diary has become some Finding Forrester shit, it’s because it turns out that long forgotten genius who changed music forever is living next door to me, looking like a homeless man, and has decided to take me on as his pupil in one last act of greatness.
No one that I spend any time with does jive handshakes, which means if I am experiencing a jive handshake it is with someone I’m just meeting. Now why on Earth would you think that I’d want to spend any more time having physical contact with any part of your body than I absolutely need to? Why does your handshake have to take five minutes? And is snapping your fingers really so cool that you have to make it an even more elaborate two-person procedure and then give me a dirty look when it doesn’t work?
I will admit that a certain amount of liberal guilt allows me to overlook a jive handshake from a real-life black person. But when you are white and “working on your dredlocks” and want to tell me how fucking unbeatable Midnight Marauders is, and then you go real deep on my hand like we’re in some secret society of unexplainable assholes, I want to lynch you.
If you were cool, you saw Superchunk last night, but you are not cool, which is why I was the only one there.
I don’t have anything funny to say. It was nothing but hits, and it took me back! It was like that Three 6 Mafia song about when you were a kid, but with white people and less crack smoking!
Driveway to Driveway
Detroit Has a Skyline