Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Well I have just had a nightmare conversation with a Girl I met last week. I yopld her I had a GF and she seems not to have listened. Been having a text conversation with her tonight and got a text asking me to call her on a different number. I did as she asked and got some cunt on the other end telling me to fuck off and never call thia number again.
Wow! I called her and left a msg. I think her battery had gone. She texted back later asking what had made me so angry. geez.
Women. Stick with what I have got or run to a life od celabacy???
I don't fault you for finding celibacy odd - there is something odd about sharing a tube of toothpaste with someone, just because you dig them. You like the girl, sure, but do you like her enough to buy Tartar Control Whitening Mint Gel when you really prefer Baking Soda Whitening Regular Paste?
But what's the alternative? Luckily, you seem to have a good grasp of the possibilities. When you refer to "sticking with what I have got", for example, clearly you mean dating one woman while arranging sexy texting with another. Still, you might consider adjusting your selection techniques, limiting yourself to women who are on the ball enough to listen closely, to give correct phone numbers when prompted, and to keep the batteries of their phones juiced up. Believe you me, any slut worth her salt keeps her phone battery locked and loaded at all times.
At any rate, if you are going to go the celibacy route, odd as it may be, I'd suggest that while you're yoplding some new girl that you have a GF, you might want to mention to her that you have a girlfriend as well.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
THE AGONY OF CROW'S FEET
Re: "The Agony of Crow's Feet"
I think I'm beginning to understand what's going on. Oh, I still maintain that we're going to hell in a hand-basket - shows like "Extreme Makeover" and everything leading up to it are but a small part of it - but with regard to appearance, we've gone about as far as we can go using "ordinary" means. The majority of the population, at least the demographic that counts, no longer beats the shit out of itself (or has the shit beat out of it) working the mines or the fields or the sweat shops; awareness of and better diet, exercise, hygiene and dentistry, not to mention "natural selection" as a result of who winds up screwing whom, gradually making more pretty than ugly people, have all contributed over the years to making an over-all better-looking population. In short, what was drop-dead gorgeous - male or female - not even a half-century ago is merely average today, or at least "average" as presented by advertising and television. (Forget "Friends" and Clairol commercials - when have you ever seen real people in The Home Depot as handsome and pretty as those in The Home Depot commercials?)
The latest craze, the process of aging which we can't seem to accept (or have been marketed into not accepting), seems to be the gradual (and natural) yellowing of teeth. Whereas once upon a time, just avoiding the stigma of dentures and keeping your real teeth in your head (and straight as those in Crest commercials) was good enough, now, judging from the myriad products dedicated to the task, it seems as if we must strive to keeps those dents as white as refrigerators.
I see an almost eerie resemblance to my grandmother in my aunt when I see pictures of my grandmother at my aunt's current age. But my grandmother, by the same age, after adjusting for hair styling, make-up, etc., was more "worn out."
Pretty or ugly, we've always fought aging, but creams, ointments and colorings - and the gym, even a bit of a nip & tuck, for the truly dedicated/obsessed - just aren't cutting it anymore. Having exhausted all natural (or reasonable) means of maintaining and improving ourselves, we're simply taking it to the next level, moving more from the topical to the invasive.
Just the other day I considered buying those "whitening strips" for my teeth. I mean, I can't very well walk around with yellowish teeth when everyone else in the world has a mouth full of white Chiclets.
I do think that having plastic surgery is a personal choice and people should do whatever makes them happy. I have no negative judgments of Tammy Guthrie, I just happened to like her old face better. The slant of "Extreme Makeover" is downright surreal, though. To imply that what this self-sacrificing mother really needs, more than anything, is a brand new face? Unbelievable stuff. Plus, the structure - letting people go hog-wild with surgery ("Do my nose, too, what the hell!") is more than a little sick.
I understand why women don't want to look old. I don't want to look old. But imagining a nation of older women who look like talk-show hosts freaks me out. Is it absolutely impossible to accept and embrace the look of aging women? I know it's a challenge for most of us, but is the ideal really that tightened, generic, button-nosed look? I mean, bleh.
I guess all anyone really wants is to look like a rabbit.
Monday, April 21, 2003
Overcast Monday with multiple deadlines looming. Having to work hard is totally no fair!
Saturday, April 19, 2003
A COMEDY TONIGHT
Catch the comic stylings of the weirdos at The Ministry of Unknown Science tonight, the last night of their extended run! Just $10 for pure hilarity and strangeness, delivered in sketch comedy form. Now with Science added! Science, baby! What's better than Science?
Century City Playhouse
10508 West Pico Blvd
Reserve tickets online at tmous.com or call (323) 960-4328.
Friday, April 18, 2003
I've been a huge fan of yours since the Suck days. I confess that I miss Terry's cartoons, but hey, that's not a strike against you--I was just damn glad to see you had found another venue.
Another important mole point, which I learned when my brother in law passed away in a shorter time frame than that described by CF: Never, ever have a mole removed by a plastic surgeon, always go to a dermatologist. A dermatologist will always do the proper follow-up on the biopsy, whereas a plastic surgeon (as in my brother in law's case) may not. Apparently, plastic surgeons have a lousy reputation about that among the medical field. They should stick to making big boobs and horror-mask Joan Rivers visages.
I hope everything checks out OK with your situation.
I miss Terry's cartoons, too. I wish I could enslave him and force him to draw whatever I wanted. I would feed him well, take him for walks. He could even bring his cats with him. And any stylish furniture. No more motorcycles though - my health insurance isn't that good.
Anyway, just to clarify for those who are new to worrying about moles, when you remove a mole without bothering to do a biopsy, it's like removing a tumor without bothering to see if it's malignant or benign, or checking out whether or not you got all of it, or seeing if it's spread elsewhere. In your brother-in-law's case, it sounds like it was a melanoma, and the plastic surgeon didn't check the mole so he didn't know it was cancer, and he left cancerous cells at the sight when he might've been able to remove them with a wider excision. Or, maybe the poor guy still would've needed chemo, but by the time he started feeling sick, the cancer was unstoppable.
Now, I want to go out on a limb here and suggest that not every plastic surgeon in the world is as big of a moron as your brother-in-law's plastic surgeon. Certainly you could instruct a plastic surgeon that you want a biopsy on the mole, and he/she will comply and send it to a lab for you. I mean, plastic surgeons did go to med school, it's not like they're not doctors.
Then again, going to a dermatologist who specializes in skin cancer seems like the safest bet. The other thing is, if you see someone who's trained in MOHS, basically they can take out skin cells, analyze them on the spot, and only cut out as much as they need to. Of course, it's expensive. But all of this stuff is expensive. MOHS would seem like the way to go if, say, you had a melanoma or other skin cancer on your face.
Mine's on my back, and I just found out it's a dysplastic nevus. This means that it's a very ambitious mole that dreams of one day becoming a melanoma. Alas, its dreams have been crushed, and now I have to get a wider excision taken just in case my ambitious dreamer mole influenced any of his more suggestible breathren cells, as ambitious dreamers often do. Once all the ambitious cells have been removed and executed, that should snuff out any future revolt. In theory.
Unfortunately, there's a price we pay for tyranny, ruling the cells of our bodies with an iron fist, making sure they're homogeneous and conform to our wishes at every turn. In my case, that price isn't covered by my insurance, because my deductible is so high. I also might end up with an unsightly scar, but my lower back has been complaining that it's too "nondescript" and "lacks character," so it should be pleased with the news.
The best part of all this was when, after telling me I needed more surgery and it might leave a scar, the doctor put me on hold, and the hold music was, "Always something there to remind me!"
But let's not end on that note. Let's get back to you and your moles. What about that one on your leg? Isn't it a little bigger and a little blacker than it used to be? You don't have health insurance? And you can't scrape up $100 to get it checked out, you'd rather just see if you start feeling sick eventually?
I put off checking mine out for 3 months, which I now realize was really stupid. If it were a melanoma, I would've felt like such an asshole. I feel like an asshole anyway. And you should, too, oh moley ones, until you get someone to examine your moles. In fact, you're really supposed to have a dermatologist look at all your moles once a year, ye with many moles. So go do it already.
Oppressor of Moles,
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
CHECK YOUR MOLES!
Hi there. Yes, please go ahead and post my letter. I'm all for spreading the word about this. Before she was diagnosed, my wife had no idea there was a skin cancer that could kill you - she only knew about basal and squamous skin cancers. The occurrence of melanoma has more than doubled in the last 30 years, and it's the fastest growing cancer (um, that is in terms of how often it occurs - you're a writer, you can fix that so it makes sense) in young women.
Her mole was largish and it was on her back, so it was hard for her to keep track of. It was about the size of a pencil eraser. Before it was removed it changed color, size, shape and texture, which are the things you want to note about your moles. I think she waited about three months, and then there was some drama with the doctors office that kept her from getting an appointment for another month and half. After they removed the mole and found melanoma they did a wide excision around where the mole was and a lymph node biopsy and found that it had already started to spread. She did interferon for about 7 months (not fun) but the cancer continued to grow. So they did biochemotherapy, but it was ineffective and she died a little less than two months later. It was about 10 months after she was diagnosed.
There are a bunch of good links to melanoma info here. My wife was an editor at Looksmart and she did this category. (Also, note that although melanoma.com does have helpful info, the site is owned by the company that makes the most common treatment for melanoma, which creeps me out a little. Use your best judgment.)
Let me know if there's anything else you would like to know. You're welcome to use any of this info, and you can use both our names too, if you want. Thanks and good luck with your biopsy results.
HUMP DAY, BUMP DAY
Not to be a complete loonball, but the thing about the mole changing freaked my shit out. My 25 year old wife died of melanoma last year. She had a mole on her back that changed that she took a long time to get looked at because she didn't have insurance. Please please please see a doctor. It's probably nothing, I promise.
I had that mole removed last week, actually, which is why it was on my mind. I get my biopsy results in a few days. What happened to your poor wife? Maybe I should post it on my blog, so people will take a look at their moles and see if anything looks weird. My doctor recommended that I have a dermatologist look at my moles, which is why I noticed when the one on my back started looking a little bit larger than it used to.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Monday is overcast skies and smudgy eyeglasses and lower back pain. Spiders lower themselves down on threads, hanging an inch in front of your face, and buses barrel by in the rain outside.
On Monday, nostalgia hangs in the air, and long naps are necessary. They'll tell you it's crucial to put it out of your mind and move forward, but you won't be able to do it, not as quickly as they might like. You can't really do that on any day, though. Maybe Saturday.
On Monday, you look busy but you're thinking about Niagara Falls and the oatmeal they served at camp, and frightening summer thunderstorms when the wind turned all the leaves upside down and made the tallest trees sway frantically, then the big rain drops would come as you were hauling the clothes off the line, hoping you didn't get struck by lightning. On Monday, you're occupied and professional, but inside there's the dog you loved that got hit by a car, the birthday party days before it happened, when you made cookies with that friend of yours, the one whose parents seemed really bossy, who always had stuff stuck between her teeth, before that, dinner at your favorite Chinese restaurant, making doll clothes, forts in the empty lot behind the apartment building in Melbourne. There was Nicholas, the purest, most naturally gay boy in the world, who kissed all the girl's hands and sang along with ABBA each day at lunchtime like the girls in the class. There was the hot sauna created by your arms on the round plastic table, afraid to lift your head and show how upset you were about whatever it was. Did other people do that, or was it only you? Little orange chairs and long division and yellow corduroy pants and little cartons of milk and raisins in tiny tupperware containers and the big girl who used to shove you on the playground. In sixth grade she admitted she was jealous of you and that she had tried to commit suicide once. You couldn't have been the only one with your head down, crying. You put ten Flintstones vitamins in your pocket every morning, to eat at school. Maybe your liver is damaged from that. Maybe that was a big mistake. What year did you do that? Why does it all blend together? Should you try to straighten it all out? When will you ever have time?
It's easy to second-guess on Monday, easy to throw away bad drafts, decide against it, do something else instead. It's hard to stick to your original plan on Monday, because you're tired and maybe Tuesday won't be quite the whore it was last week.
Sunday, April 13, 2003
SATURDAY IN THE PARK
Ya know, it's Saturday. You can't get yourself together enough to write Saturday?? Bunny, you let us all down, especially yourself. And don't try to blame it all on Saturday, the bitch is beaten enough by all other forms of lowlifes. Silly me, I thought you were better than that. Had more backbone, more ambition. And you wonder why you have not ambition? I'll tell you why, no follow-through, you are just a gen-x slacker like so many of your generation, just a lazy, self-centered, egotistical BUM!! Oooh, I'm writing a novel, big fucking deal. I'm raising a 13 year old son alone. Who has it rougher? You live alone, no responsibilities except rent, utilities, phone, computer bills, really nothing of any conquense, and you probably wonder why and cry yourself to sleep 3 or 4 nights a week, wondering why you were a losing on the blog contest. Clue coming - cause you are a lazy, self-centered, selfish bunny!!! Thanks be to God we don't have you in charge of Easter.
Being unencumbered by 13-year-olds, I went to the Huntington Library and Gardens on Saturday, and strolled along the grounds, pretending I was a railroad baron and oppressor of the common man. You see, like so many of my generation, I am just a lazy, self-centered, egotistical bum. Therefore, on weekends, instead of doing the vital and important work of posting to this blog, I choose to lollygag about, using my powers of imagination to put myself in the fine Italian leather shoes of a man far more industrious and forward-thinking than I.
I live alone, no responsibilities except rent, utilities, phone, computer bills, health insurance, magazine subscriptions, the occasional muffin, and one or two frivolous purchases of highly impractical shoes, the kinds worn to parties one hardly ever goes to, parties which, when they do occur, are populated by lazy, self-centered egotistical bums like myself, bums who are inevitably wearing silly, impractical shoes like the ones on which I waste my disposable income occasionally, the sorts of shoes which can't be worn scrubbing the toilet or, say, laundering a 13-year-old's soiled soccer jersey. I don't think I need to mention the sick fact that most of those in attendance at such parties spend more on getting their hair cut and colored than the average single mom spends on a week's worth of groceries! But you see, one is forced to cling to such sad little things as perky, sophisticated hairdos and sassy, despicably whimsical shoes when one lacks backbone, ambition, and follow-through. One is forced to childishly tromp about in foolish shoes, prattling on about one's novel, what a big fucking deal it is, as one sucks down countless Cosmopolitans, dips pointless corn chips into bowls of that savory mango salsa that only impish urban dolts could fritter away their time whipping up, as if they had not a care in the world. But oh, what could be further from the truth?! All of it, smoke and mirrors! A world of illusion! Such lazy ne'er-do-wells might look happy on the outside, but their sugary smiles and playful frocks hide a deeply melancholy interior, a desolate world of self-doubt and longing! You might spot them throwing back pretty drinks and laughing heartily, but you can be sure that each night, when the guests are long gone and the mango salsa bowl lies forlornly in the sink, those devil-may-care generation X-ers are face down on their beautifully appointed queen-sized beds, weeping over their misspent youth, or the fact that the retiling in the bathroom didn't quite give the place that festive, Southwestern feel they were going for, or the fact that they lost the "Sexiest Blogger" contest so many months ago.
Luckily, none of these broken young men and women are in charge of Easter.
Friday, April 11, 2003
rabbit: I don't know. I have a lot of work here...
friday: Shepherd's pie! NO, no, no. Double-double with cheese?! Arnold Palmer, baby!
rabbit: Please, I have to...
friday: Let's go! I love three martini lunch, but never had. Where can we get? Steaks and martinis? What a suggestion! Definitely! Nutrageous! Then, let's dye your hair purple. You promised! "Talk to Her"? Pedicure! Also purple! Wait - "Head of State"! Load the bong, lover!
rabbit: I can't -
friday: It's up to you, now, turn on your bright lights!" We gotta get that CD! The Yeah Yeah Yeahs! Flowers! Tall black boots! Maybe lace-up. Caramel frapuccinos! Triple shot. Hot damn, I'm a country man! What time is it? Awww, shucks! Hey now, Raiders gettin' down and with our pride: Jump back! Show 'em where it's at. 'Cause when it comes to winning...
rabbit: Please stop this -
friday: Let's go, baby! Out the door! Thank you, India!
The two exit, in search of consumable distraction. Fade to white.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
THURSDAY'S CHILD MAKES EXCELLENT MUD PIES
thursday: Where are you going? Don't you have bills to pay? This place is a mess, you're just gonna leave?
rabbit: I have to get some writing done, and it's not going to happen here. I need a change of scenery.
thursday: Are you kidding? You can't leave this place like this. There are clothes on the floor, the bed isn't made, all the towels smell like that cheap hotel room in Truckee.
rabbit: How would you know about that? That was a Tuesday.
thursday: Don't talk to me about that whore Tuesday. You haven't swept in weeks! There are marauding gangs of dustbunnies around here, busting up people's kneecaps with baseball bats!
rabbit: Look, I'm just going around the corner, for some coffee and maybe a muffin.
thursday: Didn't your father have high blood pressure? You think you can run around eating muffins like there's no tomorrow?
rabbit: I don't think...
thursday: Are those your taxes over there? They're done, right? So why don't you mail them?
rabbit: No, I have to...
thursday: What's the deal with that mole on your back? Is it changing, or is it my imagination?
rabbit: What? Look, I can deal with this stuff tomorrow.
thursday: Oh my god. You did not just say that.
rabbit: Oh. Look, I didn't mean...
thursday: You honestly think Friday is gonna deal with this shit? Oh Jesus. I can't believe you'd even say that to my face. That lazy fuck, that clock-watching cupcake, that self-deluded, impatient dreamer...
rabbit: I'm sorry, I just...
thursday: I don't even want to hear it. The guy is on a 24-hour smoke break. He wears flip-flops to work! He's never answered his phone, not even once! He's addicted to Tetris! It's serious!
rabbit: I know, but he doesn't mind taking care of errands...
thursday: Oh sure, he'll sweep the floors, if he can get stoned first! He'll ride in the car with you to the drugstore, and buy a massive gumball that turns his mouth bright blue, and then he'll turn on all the singing hamsters, and smell all the shampoos and then try to make you buy the one that he thinks "has the most killer smell"! He's real helpful that way!
rabbit: Look, I have to get out of here.
thursday: Go ahead. Give all my fun work to Friday. I hate coffee joints, but that's cool. When do you ever think of me, of what I want to do? Never. But I'm used to it. Have your fun.
rabbit: This is much more fun than paying bills, isn't it?
thursday: I have a head for numbers that I never get to use. You'd know that if you paid attention.
rabbit: How can I make it up to you?
thursday: Stop watching "Survivor" and make Thursday night "Balance Your Checkbook" night.
rabbit: Baby, I love you , but there are limits.
thursday: You do not love me! I see the way you are with Saturday! It's like you two never get sick of each other! Late breakfasts, the beach, the park! Even Monday gets the drama of angsty song lyrics and long gazes out the window. Meanwhile, all I get is eye-rolling and deep sighs and slouching off to slurp coffee with the local scumbags!
rabbit: Maybe you expect too much of me.
thursday: We talked about this in counseling! You're not supposed to make passive-aggressive "you" statements about me, telling me what I think! You're supposed to make "I" statements about how you feel!
rabbit: I feel really good about walking out the door right now!
Thursday runs away, crying. Slams door. Rabbit exits, humming. Fade to black.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
WEDNESDAY'S SHAMELESS SHAMBLES
Wednesday is contradictory inspirations, glass teacups, epiphanies punctuated by slow, sinking feelings, dreaming of sad poetry, empty swimming pools, pensive stuffed animals, staring at the screen but not typing, forts made of couch cushions, repeating the same song over and over, imagining new shoes but never shopping, side salads, exit strategies, watering the lawn, wearing your heart on your sleeve only to have someone mistake it for an unsightly stain.
You're a beautiful mess, but you hate messes. You take it all back, make excuses, cover it up, repeat a joke someone told you last week. "I'm not like them, I don't suffer from this or that. I'm on my game, gaining momentum, ahead of the pack. Sure, I'm weak, but at least I admit it. At least I know my own weaknesses." Your dreams paint a different picture, and you lay in bed for hours trying to accommodate for them, square them with reality, only to toss them aside and proceed, heedless of the growling hunger of demons inside you.
What's your new excuse for becoming invisible? What's your new excuse? Not drawing attention to yourself? Not getting in other people's way constantly? "Aren't there more important things to think about? Aren't there better things to worry about?" That depends on what's eating you alive these days.
You insist that no one cares, so when no one cares, it won't bother you. Then you lament that no one cares, but it bugs you when someone does care. You're sure they don't really care. Why should they care? What do they know? They don't know you. They aren't even curious, not really.
It's all wrong. And just as you admit that it's all wrong, just when you've given up on everything, the way to make it right becomes clear.
But then you change your mind: Everything is actually fine just the way it is, because you imagined that other stuff and because you're exhausted and you'd rather think about something else. None of that other stuff was accurate anyway. That wasn't you.
Disowning yourself, distracting yourself, putting yourself to sleep. Making resolutions and then picking up a magazine. Ushering in a new era, then doing things exactly the same way you've always done them.
On Wednesday, there's some hope that you might break this cycle. But not much.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
TUESDAY, YOU WHORE!
Let's just admit it: Tuesday is a whore. Monday? Sometimes good, sometimes bad. But Tuesday is dust and dribbled milk and spider webs and dry skin patches and birds flying into windows like they're risking their lives to tell you something. Tuesday is procrastination and lukewarm coffee and vacuum cleaners with no sucking action so they can't pull dog hair or potato chip crumbs out of the rug. Tuesday is exhaust and complainy emails that are actually thinly veiled cries for help and unsavory leftovers stinking up the fridge and lists of phone calls you need to make, but don't want to. Tuesday is gray hairs and dry contact lenses and cigarette butts and botched bikini waxes. Tuesdays are spent dragging out the recycling and dreaming of getting in the car - not your car, your car sucks, some other car that's better - and driving to Arches National Park. You'll stop to buy gas in Victorville, and you'll also get unnecessary snacks, like green Powerade and some berry-flavored Nerds. The car you're driving has a really good stereo that holds multiple CDs, and it's clear and dry all the way there, with no traffic. After Arches, you keep driving. Maybe through Kansas sunflowers, or Texas tumbleweeds. Arkansas is gray and scrubby, but there are Stuckey's rest stops there - that's something to look forward to. North Carolina isn't green yet, but by the time you get there, it might be.
But Tuesday is a whore. So just when you get to North Carolina in your mind, instead of hearing the sweet strains of James Taylor's song, it occurs to you that you're not going to get in the car and drive, you have crap to do, and then you can almost hear Roy Williams saying, "I could give a shit about North Carolina right now."
But you do care about North Carolina - not UNC, but the state where daffodils are currently in bloom.
Tuesday is a whore, so you feel bad about the fact that there are daffodils 3,000 miles away that you can't see. It's Tuesday, so last night you dreamt that you were in a tall building outside of Baghdad, and those orange vehicles they had in Bespin City were flying by and the blast from the jets was making the building lean way over, so that you had to cling to the furniture to keep from falling out the window. When the building straightened, you could watch the vehicles patrolling the skies over Baghdad.
Tuesday is a fucking whore. Look at this website. What the fuck happened? Right column, gone, poof! Without a trace. What can you even do about something like that? The template is the same. It's Tuesday's fault. Whore.
Sure, you still have Bjork. You could shop for cheap sundresses. Dye your hair. Sweep the floor. Read something, for Christsakes. Finish watching "All About Eve." Blow off work. See if you can walk for 2 hours, just walk out the door and keep walking, see if that shakes off Tuesday's dirty road whore effect. Distract yourself as opposed to doing something worthwhile or helpful. Inward focus, always. Make yourself happy, fuck the world.
Tuesday's not a whore! You're just projecting.
Friday, April 04, 2003
STUPID SEARCH OF THE WEEK
This week's stupid search is on: hot shit.
"Then we are beset by sewer insects. The most savage of them looks like a tiny cheeseburger with stick-man arms that hold cleavers."
"I think I'm so fucking funny."
"Barbie makes a great french tickler."
"I am: artistic. a poet. pierced & inked. a soulquarian. practically a virgin again (yea, its been awhile). thick in the thighs. an aspiring actress and screenwriter. a muse. a digitaldiva."
Thursday, April 03, 2003
DREAM A LITTLE DREAMSCAPE OF ME
What was your Madonna article about? It was lazy. Shallow. And you got paid for it. Why don't you write about the war. About Jessica Lynch, or the Fedayeen or Iraqi women and children, Wolfowitz, military strategy. You wrote about Madonna. Aren't you tired of being so damn cutesy? You live in a dreamscape.
My Madonna article is about Madonna. I don't know about you, but when I want to read serious articles about the war, I don't generally linger in the Arts and Entertainment section. And when I want to avoid cutesy shit, I steer clear of websites with names like "the rabbit blog" or "puppies galore" or "froggy's blog" or "ham sandwich fantastico."
You see, I'm not a political reporter or a war correspondent or a war blogger. I write about pop culture.
But you're in luck! Plenty of excellent writers out there are writing about Jessica Lynch, the Fedayeen, Iraqi women and children, Wolfowitz, Rumsfeld, Daschle, US military strategy, Iraqi military strategy. Hell, even Gary Hart has a blog. If you're looking for serious coverage of the war, maybe you should be reading their stuff instead.
But thank you for writing. Please write back soon! We need your bile around here.
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
ONCE UPON A LOOKIN' FOR MADONNA TIME
I found the video! Thanks for the help from all the friendly animals of the forest. I'd also like to thank: Tropical Hibiscus Tea, Scotties with Soothing Aloe, the Los Angeles sunshine, and a very special pillow - you know who you are! We've come a long, long way together, through the hard times, and the good! I have to celebrate you baby, I have to praise you like I should!
Today is a day to watch Sesame Street and eat big bowls of cereal. It's for work, baby, it's all for work. Don't you just want to kick me?
Uh oh. My very special pillow is sighing heavily. Oh! Now she's staring at the wall. That isn't good. She's rolling her eyes! Whoa, now she's pacing around the house, picking up my snotty tissues! This looks bad.
special pillow: You know what? I'm fucking sick of your shit. You always do this, you let everything slide for two days straight, and I have to live in the midst of your filth. Is that fair?
rabbit: Come on, baby. Don't give me shit! I'm just starting to feel a little better.
special pillow: Well, you look like hell warmed over! When was the last time you showered?
rabbit: Yesterday! Remember, when I thought I might go get lunch, and then I changed my mind?
special pillow: You're disgusting. You're antisocial, and you smell. You can hardly pick up the fucking phone anymore without getting exhausted.
rabbit: I talked to Larry Kauerman for like, an hour yesterday!
special pillow: Prattling on about Madonna to the Yes Man doesn't count!
rabbit: Come on, guy! I'm doing my job!
special pillow: That's your excuse for being stinky and unkempt! Why don't you go for a run, buy some fucking clothes, get a pedicure?
rabbit: I'll do all that stuff once I catch up with some of my deadlines.
special pillow: No, you won't! You'll sit on the couch watching the Final Four and stuffing pizza in your face!
rabbit: Mmm. Pizza. The Final Four. Come on Golden Eagles!
special pillow: You've lost your edge, buddy. You're just a working stiff now - except you don't even shower or leave the house! You're the worst of both worlds - ugly as an unemployed loser, and dull as a salary man!
rabbit: Dude, I'm still edgy. Look at me! I'm listening to a song by Interpol that I downloaded from the World Wide Web!
special pillow: You're gross! You make my slip crawl!
rabbit: Don't say that!
special pillow: I'm sorry, it's over! I feel nothing for you! I want to feel alive again! I want to spend my days, neatly tucked among a delightful assortment of throw pillows, longing for my own true love to come home and disrobe...
rabbit: Oh, you really idealize love! You always have. It's so unrealistic!
special pillow: Yeah, well, anything's better than this! Getting shoved unceremoniously into some corner of the couch, propping up your sweaty, flabby back...
rabbit: Come on! Back fat is the new black!
special pillow: ...while you type out some pointless piece about "Elimidate"...
rabbit: Hey, I haven't covered "Elimidate" yet...
special pillow: That's it! I'm gone!
rabbit: Wait - you can't....
special pillow: Have a nice life, you fucking shut-in! I'll send someone over to pick up my things later!
rabbit: Um, what things?
Door slam. Exit special pillow. Rabbit waits. Listens. Finally satisfied that special pillow is gone, clicks on TiVo. We hear soft strains of "Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?" Fade to black.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
TOM KA GAI SOUP FOR THE SOUL
My joyful hope turns to pain as no one heeds the call of the rabbit. I've downloaded 3 applications, searched, downloaded stuff in the wrong format, searched some more, all with no progress. This is the kind of thing it's tough to do when you're on deadline and should actually be writing instead.
But there are still plenty of reasons to be happy. Yes, I have a shitty cold, but I also have those tissues with the aloe in them, and a big container of Tom Ka Gai soup, which is the best possible cold remedy. Plus, I have ginger ale on ice, carrot juice, Day Tripper Cough 'n' Cold Medicine, and several large navel oranges. But best of all, I work at home, where no one can see my sore nose and sallow complexion.
I'm also thankful that I finally got off my ass and downloaded Limewire, so that now I can waste my time downloading Thumbalina and The Frog Prince and every other ridiculous kid's album I memorized when I was seven.
More and better, coming up soon.
HELP THE RABBIT!
I wanna get my hands on a bootleg of that Madonna video. Does anyone out there have any ideas, clues, or leads about where to find it? It's called "American Life" and it was supposed to premiere on VH-1 this week, but they pulled it. It did premiere in Germany, though. Last night.
I wait in joyful hope!