I’m only a part-time employee, but still.
Here’s what happened on Friday afternoon: I was waiting on the subway platform, and a wannabe rapper was freestyling a few trash cans down. For a while he maintained a decent flow, then he got stuck. He couldn’t come up with a verse to rhyme with “I’m unemployed right now. . .” I sympathized with him because I’m currently taking a poetry class and sometimes you just can’t match your inspired initial thought with a worthy follow-up thought.
Other things that rhyme with now: Mao. Sow. Dow. “And how!” Chow. Kung Pao. Rapping is not so hard.
My cousin Alice Proujansky’s beautiful photos were published in the New York Times today. She interviewed adorable, newborn, Native American babies. . . with her camera, which they slobbered all over, in a cute way.
My artist friend Erin Crowe used to paint portraits of Alan Greenspan. Turns out that wealthy art collectors are fickle. I wish someone would pay top dollar for my flash fiction about Ben Bernanke.
This blind man can see without computing what he sees. If you’re not aware that you see, do you really see? It’s like when I eat trees alone in the woods, do the trees really make me fat?
Novelist Zach Galifianakis exploits comedian John Wray’s fame in his neverending quest to earn the love of binary code fanatics.
Wait, I have other links.
No, I don’t. I thought I did. Reviewing my bookmarks, I only came up with this (ponies singing show tunes). I really don’t care about the Internet anymore. When I try to freestyle a poem about the Internet, it goes like this: “I look at websites. . . . . . .”
I want to write about the hand I saw in the subway car, how I was sitting in the corner of the train and the five fingers crept around the mirrored surface of the car in an odd, backward way. I remember that the nails were wide and the fingers themselves were thick and sturdy and pale brown. The fingertips were almost near enough to touch my hair, which was still wet from an evening shower. I was drinking white wine out of a travel mug because I was on my way to my bereavement group at the university. I used to drink wine at a neighborhood bar before bereavement group, but lately I have started commuting with wine so I’ll be ready to talk about my dead relative the moment I arrive on campus.
When I boarded the train that evening with my mug of wine I had a feeling that I smelled like an actual wino, perhaps a homeless woman. I had done nothing to convince the other people on the train that I was not a homeless woman because I was sitting very still and sad in the corner and probably appeared spaced out to them. There was also a half-smoked cigarette in the pocket of my coat, which can tend to smell worse than any other thing, even if the cigarette is only five minutes stale.
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In which I try to wear at least two items of Old Navy clothing per day.
Our New York apartment came with some IKEA shelving, a floor that had been treated with pomade, and a scented toilet paper roll holder. For a while I just thought my butt smelled really good, then I changed the roll and realized I’d been wiping from a Yankee Candle.
From CNN’s Political Ticker:
“I’ve got to give you some straight talk. Let me give you the state of the race today,” McCain told the crowd. “We have 17 days to go. We’re 6 points down. The national media has written us off…. But my friends in all this planning they forgot to let you decide. My friends, we’ve got them just where we want them.”
The line has become a familiar one – and drew a now-familiar reaction from the strongly-Republican crowd, which began booing and chanting “Liberal media!” One woman threw a pack of gum at CNN Correspondent Ed Henry.
I expected hard candy. Some crazy lady in the back flicking Necco Wafers at the sound guy. Not gum. Gum is so effete. Unless we’re talking about Chiclets. That’s all I’m going to say about this.
Last night Letterman described McCain as a “screech owl.”
It’s not exactly the blogging Olympics over here, but things happen occasionally.
I just discovered that the 10,000 Maniacs song “Because the Night” is actually a Patti Smith song. Thank you, VH1 Classics.
I felt pity for our neighborhood derelict who huffs paint in the sun all day wearing a black hooded parka. I almost gave him some food from my grocery bag when I walked by him today for the umpteenth time but I wasn’t feeling generous enough to give him ALL my deli ham and I doubted that he’d want just a handful of wet meat from the pack, so I skipped the charity and went home to make myself a sandwich.
Crossing the town hall square, I think I inadvertently stepped into the photos of at least five Japanese tourists. They must have just climbed off a luxury tour bus en masse. Made me wonder how many photo albums in Japan have featured my angelic visage over the years. Which made me remember my friend Yoshi in England in 1991 and how his mom fed me chocolate-dipped strawberries when I went over to his house for tea. I told you stuff has been happening here.
I lost my wireless connection for two days. Then I discovered the “Wireless On/Off” switch on the side of my borrowed laptop.
Met an Irish man last night who wants to study with Deepak Chopra and psycho-analyze people in bars for a living. This, of course, is right up my alley.
Ran out of novels last week so I’ve been borrowing mass market paperbacks from the English pub’s library. Yesterday I read The Exorcist and today I started The Once and Future King about the young King Arthur. Which would be great except that Disney already told me the whole story.
The girls of Billabong are surfing this weekend in nearby Guincho. I told my older brother and he said “Glad to know the sexualized surfing lifestyle advertising juggernaut that has so successfully sold clothes, sunglasses, and apathy to everyone at Virginia Beach under 25 is now rolling internationally.” We’re just psyched to see hot American babes. It’s so hard being the only one in town. They expect me to wear jean shorts and to order cheeseburgers and to know all the words to Rihanna’s “Umbrella” and to be familiar with all the characters in the Dukes of Hazzard. Oh, and to be hot.
A fresh bagel, hurled by a bagel-boy, hitting the side of a car filled with college chicks. Thwap!
I’ve put off doing this long enough. I now give you the various search terms that people have put into Google to find my website. These are all legit — straight from my stats page.
“do grown men use baby wipes”
“meth addict dating”
“why are men afraid to have a baby?”
“wife arm wrestling”
“long pinky nail Mexican man”
“how to shave wistar”**
“she tasted like pumpkin pie”
“my little brother is afraid of babies”
“people giving birth in a hot tub”
“i can has bukkit”
“nova scotia rug hooking blogs”
“she tickled my scrotum”
“my puppy swallowed a bolt”
“untraceable way to kill a maple tree”
“fake nail in food”
“show me a walmart shopping list”
I have never been so proud of my blog as I am today.
*This one has been appearing on my stats page from day 1, and it frightens me.
**I assume this Googler is interested in shaving the Wistar rat and not my hairy legs, but you can never be sure.
Therefore I can admit that I am psyched about seeing 10,000 BC tonight at the cinemaplex near Taco Bell. From the moment I glimpsed a preview for this film about prehistoric mammoth hunters, I knew I had to see it in the theater. I feel like all the decades of improvements in film technology, CGI, and digital post-production have been building up to tonight’s realistic depiction of a saber-toothed tiger eating somebody in a loincloth. I also spent many hours reading the Clan of the Cave Bear series when I was a kid, particularly the sex scenes. I just have a thing for prehistory and I am too lazy to be an archaeologist. I like movies and books to do the work of my imagination. Full review to come!