And It's Just Like That

Ikea: Malm

2008-04-02T16:32:00.004-04:00

"Hey, can I use the drill on these?"
"Huh? Oh, no. NO, no, no, no, no. Do you have a little wrench?"
"A wrench?"
"Yeah, mine came with a little wrench. Does it have a groove on the side?"
"A what?"
"A groo--just let me look at it. Oh, this has a screw head."
"I know it has a screw head, I'm not a fucking idiot."
"How many of them do you have?"
"Like a million."
"Yeah, you can use the drill, but I don't have the cordless one, and the torque--"
"Christ almighty, I'll just USE the SCREWDRIVER."

"Do you want the mattress higher or lower?"
"I don't understand the question."

"Hey, can you grab me the crescent wrench while you're down there?"
"Do you mean an adjustable wrench?"
"I mean a CRESCENT wrench."
"It's still in the truck. I'll have to go out and get it."
"You only have one? You have like, 5 toolboxes."
"Well, I don't use the crescent wrench very much, because I have a wrench set that--"
"Oh my God, please stop talking to me!"

Dropping Some Knowledge

2007-08-21T14:46:00.000-04:00

NEVER ASK QUESTIONS. Because if you don't ask, you won't get answers--and you can avoid exchanges like the one below, where I was asking my boyfriend why employers check credit scores:

boy: A bad credit score means you have poor character.

me: why?
what has caused that shitf?
shift?

Sent at 2:32 PM on Tuesday

boy: Because, they can? And some Smart People sat down and did a Study which showed that people with poor credit scores make worse employees. I mean, it's the same reason they run a criminal background check. It's a indicator of how you'll perform as an employee. If you have poor credit, it means you're lazy and shiftless. In the cases where that's not accurate, oh well...it falls in the noise. If you fire 10 people because they have bad credit, and eight or nine would have been bad employees, avoiding those problems is more than worth (at least in actuarial terms) what you would have gained from the one or two good employees.

me: hmm
gay

boy: It's all about the numbers in a more and more purely capitalistic society. "How can the corporation make the most money for the stockholders?"
It comes down to money.
And science.

me: ahhh
gay

Sent at 2:37 PM on Tuesday

boy: Let's say you have 1000 employees, and you run a credit check on them. And let's say that scientific studies show that employees with a FICO score lower than 600 are 5x more likely to steal, take more sick days, and are generally less productive. Let's say that you can quatitate that to mean that each employee with a FICO score less than 600 costs the company $10000/year more than an employee with a FICO score greater than 600. Then, you find that 50 of your employees have a FICO score under that. A consultant comes in and says, "well, it's going to cost you $25000 to replace these employees."
Of course you do it.

me: Oh, I get it.
So what you're saying is
it's gay

boy: Now, if this theory that a lower FICO score makes you a worse employee becomes conventional wisdom in management circles (as it has), you don't have a choice. Because, especially if you're a publicly traded company, your stockholders will accuse you of not maximizing profit, which is a federal crime.

Sent at 2:42 PM on Tuesday

boy: So, you develop HR policies based on these management consultants, studies and conventional wisdom which say, "we run a criminal background check and credit report on all new hires. Any new hires that have a FICO of less than 600 are to be immediately terminated for cause."
And that gets put down in an HR manual...
And it becomes inviolate.

me: wow.
zzzzzzzzz

boy: That's how your credit score becomes an indicator of your employement prospects, especially in a competitive market.

me: Yeah...

Bitten by Inexpensive Fashion

2007-07-10T20:03:00.000-04:00

Much has been written about Sarah Jessica Parker's inexpensive clothing line, Bitten. Found exclusively at Steve and Barry's, the line features laid-back clothing that purportedly looks good on all body types. While some people have gotten behind the line's ethos of real clothes for real women (Bitten's sizes range from 2-22) many reviews have been catty at best. Many fashion writers are dismissing the line as a publicity stunt aimed at people who live in the flyover states who still order Cosmos when they're out with the girls.

What I haven't seen is a review from someone who has actually worn the clothes. So while this is not complete in any way, I'm taking this opportunity to do my own review of Bitten's wearability.

I'm always on the lookout for a good pair of jeans. Like a comfortable bra, this is a never ending quest. I was in love with my Gap Long & Lean jeans. I would basically buy a new pair anytime I had extra money (they are about $60). Then they started falling apart. After about a year, as with all Gap pants, they started unraveling, leaving unsightly holes everywhere.

After my Gap jeans were left in tatters, I got a pair of Old Navy Low Rise Boot Cut jeans. They were only about $25 and had a slim, flattering cut. My only problem with them is that the stretch that makes them so comfortable causes them to sag within a few hours of putting them on. Either I wear a belt or I'm stuck tugging at them all day.

This is why, when I saw that the Bitten Jeans were only $15, I headed straight over to Steve & Barry's. I tried on the Boot Cut jeans and found them to be almost identical to the Old Navy pair I owned in cut and fit. The only difference is these have a darker rinse, which dresses them up a bit. Unfortunately, another similarity is the stretch. These are even worse than the Old Navy jeans in terms of falling straight off of me. When you have a pair of jeans like that sag, you go from cute to dumpy real fast.

Another fashion staple for me during the summer is flip-flops. I wear these way more than I should, and have the tan lines and dirty feet to prove it. New York is dirty and I was tired of scrubbing the black grime off of my feet before bed. I decided that switching to a black flat would be a cute way to ditch the flops. The problem with flats though, is that when you do a lot of walking in them, they start to smell. Bad. So I didn't want to spend a lot of money on something that I would probably have to burn at the end of the summer. Enter SJP.
I got these comfy little guys for $10 and I wear them almost daily.

My next excursion was right before my family reunion in Tennessee. I generally wear jeans in summer and haven't owned a pair of shorts in years. However, it was Nashville in June and I had become obsessed with the short-shorts and wedge heel look. I figured Bitten would be a cheap way to test it out.

I bought the trouser shorts ($10), but decided to forgo the boob-belt option (pictured above left on the "real girl" [bullshit] model).
The problem with these isn't the problem I thought I'd have. Instead of them riding up, they fall down just like the jeans. The shorts are deceptively not stretchy, but that doesn't keep them from practically ending up around my knees at any given moment. Adding a cute belt wouldn't help either, as these shorts are not equipped with belt loops.

I paired them with this fantastic pair of blue, peep-toed wedges for $10, which my boyfriend dubbed my "stripper shoes."

The fact is, he's just uncomfortable because I tower over him when I wear them. He says I'm passive-aggressively trying to be superior to him, which I totally am. So does admitting this fact bump it from passive-aggressive to actively aggressive?

Anyway...

The point is, These shoes + the falling down shorts + drinking on an empty stomach = Kona falling on her ass. A lot.

The Verdict:
For the price, you cannot beat this clothing line. The items are cute and inexpensive enough that if they fall apart, it really will not matter. The only problem is the sizing. The shoes run small (I bought both pairs in a size above what I usually wear) and the pants/shorts either run big or stretch way too much. When I went back to buy the shorts, I tried on the jeans in a smaller size. They were a little tight and had they been the first pair I tried on, there was no way I would have gotten them (hello, muffin top). However, based on my experience with the pair of jeans that fit me well in the dressing room, my guess is that the too-small pair would end up looking normal on me.

If you have a Steve and Barry's in your mall, I highly recommend checking this line out and if it doesn't work out for you, you're basically out the price of a couple of drinks or a dinner at a mid-priced chain restaurant. You've wasted your money on much worse.

Random Conversations with Family Members #8

2007-06-22T13:06:00.000-04:00

Kali: So, you and your boyfriend have to sleep in dad and Holly's bed with four dogs. Is that going to be awkward for you guys?
Me: What? Why would we do that? We're going to sleep on the air mattress.
Kali: Nope. They took it with them.
Me: Dammit.
Kali: Yeah. That's where dad and Holly do the nasty.
Me: Ack!
Kali: Hahahahahahaha. I hope they changed the sheets!
Me: Why? Just...why?
Kali: Hahahahahahhaa. Sorry. I'm a little drunk right now.
Me: It's not even 1:00.
Kali: Yeah, I don't really have a job.

I scream, you scream, we all scream for cleverly diguised terrorism

2007-06-20T16:02:00.000-04:00

"Honey, what the fuck is this?"

I was digging through my boyfriend's closet trying to find things to throw away. We were moving in together and I thought it was important to get rid of as much of his crap as possible so I can keep as much of my crap as possible.

"It's a bug-out bag."

"A What? Nevermind. I don't want to know."

Of course, he wouldn't be him if he didn't explain to me that the black backpack I was holding that contained an old leather jacket, a new pair of Payless sneakers, a bag of rice, some tea bags and a few glowsticks was on hand in case the shit went down and he had to get the hell out of dodge. In his heart, he's kind of a survivalist, and on his surface, he's completely paranoid. Since moving in together, we've had multiple conversations about weather and terrorism-related emergency plans. For him, a bomb in lower Manhattan or a class 5 hurricane are very real threats that need to be planned for accordingly.

To his credit, when we have these conversations, at some point he'll look at me sheepishly and ask, "do you think I'm crazy?" I always assure him that I don't and tell him that I'll go along with whatever plan he thinks is best. The way I see it, if he wants to buy a propane-powered generator, it's no skin off my teeth.

What I won't tell him, however, is how I may have stumbled onto the greatest, most insidious terrorism plot we've been faced with yet: ice cream.

My first job when I moved to the city two years ago put me in Times Square for about 8 hours a day, six days a week. While that may sound horrible (it was), there were a few perks, namely, free shit.

Whether it was a middle-aged dude with a rocket pack full of Starbucks coffee, a wannabe model with packs of gum or Scientologists with granola bars, Times Square is full of underemployed folks just itching to give you free samples of crap you don't want or need until it's free. To this day, I have a cupboard full of various Tetley teas because my roommate at the time shoved about a dozen canisters in his backpack and brought them home, never to be consumed.

The point is, nothing will get a power-walking New Yorker to stop dead in his tracks faster than free shit. It is our city's greatest weakness, and I fear, our future downfall.

Case in point: Yesterday, I'm walking around the financial district, kind of in search of lunch, but mostly killing time so I didn't have to be in the office. As I passed the dozens of striped umbrellas that housed the standard fare of hot dogs, pretzels, gyros and unidentified meat on a stick, I saw one that looked delightfully out of place. It was a bright orange umbrella--attached to an ice cream cooler. Even better, there didn't appear to be any money changing hands. Immediately, I lined up. Several middle-aged office workers followed my lead, a few of whom had no idea what the line was for, but figured it must be for something good.

As I was standing there, I was struck by the fact that neither the umbrella nor the comely young men scooping out the ice cream had any signage. In fact, there was no indication at all as to who these men were or why they were giving us ice cream. They were scooping it out and we were eating it. That's it. There were no Deal or No Deal-like models trying to get us to sign up for a credit card, open a checking account, or even visit a new ice cream store that was opening up. It was just two guys giving away free ice cream without explanation or expectation.

I started nervously looking around, suddenly overcome with the feeling that I was a cow in a chute going towards the slaughterhouse. Shit. Wasn't "don't take candy from strangers" one of the first rules you learned as a kid? Yet here I was, 26-years-old and standing in line to take a frozen treat from completely random men. Sure, it looks like harmless ice cream, but it could be laced with strychnine or a time-released drug that will turn me into a flesh-eater within 24-hours. As bad ass as that would be, it's not really the way I want to go out (at least not yet).

Then I started thinking, if I were a terrorist, this is exactly what I would do. I would set up posts all over the city and give away free food laced with something time-delayed, allowing me to kill or maim as many people as possible, while still giving me time to make a clean getaway. Airports and monuments have security, but no one's going to argue with a dude giving away free ice cream. It's just not done.

I started to get a little panicky. Is standing in this line going to make me a part of history? Like, the bad part? I see something, should I say something, like the subway ads tell me to? Should I raise the question to one of my line compatriots? Should I just run? Should I take a picture so I can give it to Good Morning America and cry with Diane after all of these people become cannibals?

"Who wants a chocolate cone?"

"I do."

Let me tell you, it was good. Although, not as good as the orange sorbet I went back for today.

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night...

2007-05-13T00:59:00.000-04:00

My wedding song.

Related:

Where are they now? The Daily Show edition

2007-05-08T20:57:00.000-04:00

I went to a taping of The Daily Show back in March (It was, of course, awesome) and it got me thinking: What the hell ever happened to Vance DeGeneres? Seriously. Where the crap did that guy go? He was awesome.

Cut to a dark club in New Orleans about two weeks ago. The boy took me to Jazz Fest and we were at a Cowboy Mouth show (they had that one song, that one year, about that girl). I was standing there just looking at the band, who I knew nothing about. The boy is going all crazy because they're his favorite band in the world and he's seen them roughly 100 million times. I tried to pay attention to the show (which was actually quite good) but I kept on staring at the rhythm guitarist. He looked so oddly familiar. I just couldn't place it though.

Me: Honey, who's the guitar player?
Boy: Uh, I don't know. Some heroin-addict Keith Richards wannabe.
Me: He looks familiar...
Boy: Woooooooooooooooo!

Now this was starting to bug me. Luckily, Fred, the lead singer, is a chatty sort. Actually, I shouldn't say "luckily." The dude wouldn't stop talking. He kept on telling us that we weren't loud enough, or we weren't dancing enough, or whatever. It was pissing me off--I mean, seriously. Dude. I'm paying you fucking money. You're putting on a show for me. Now stop telling me what to do and play your damn songs so I can go home. Fuck.

Anyway...

During one of his monologues, Fred referred to "Vance's" new guitar.

Holy Shit.

The heroin-addict Keith Richards wannabe is VANCE FREAKING DEGENERES!

It blew my mind. He went from a Daily Show correspondent to a guitarist for a New Orleans rock/punk-type band. It was the greatest discovery ever made. So for those of you who have been mourning for Vance, you can stop. I found him (and I totally don't think he's on the horse, so don't worry).

U-S-A! U-S-A!

2007-04-18T15:34:00.000-04:00

Did you know that America owns space? Because according to the last page of the new passports, we totally do.

Suck it, Canada.

hokies

2007-04-18T12:37:00.000-04:00

Click To Play

Nothing funny about the last couple of days. Our favorite g15 gives his thoughts. All of our hearts go out to everyone affected. Love goes out to Catelyn at Tech. We'll be back next Wednesday with a new episode of the funny.

g14productions

Scientology is a Cult

2007-04-17T12:06:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. But it bears repeating. Especially after this bullshit.

Way to win the award for Fastest Opportunistic Vultures to Land after a Tragedy. Assholes.

Play me a song...

2007-04-12T09:58:00.000-04:00

So I was knocked out on Benedryl last night (something to which I am becoming deliciously addicted to) when I hear the Ba-Ching! of doom indicating that I have a new text message. I rubbed my inexplicably puffy eyes (seriously. I've developed some sort of weird skin condition and my eyelids have been swollen since Monday) and look at the cable box. 2:45. Shit. I grab my phone and it's the boy. He's text-messaged me to let me know that Kurt Vonnegut has died. I assume he thought I needed to know this at 2:30 in the morning because before he discovered the Television Without Pity book, my copy of Breakfast of Champions was his preferred bathroom reading when he was at my apartment.

So after I called him and ascertained that indeed, that was all he needed to tell me and nothing else bad was going on, I tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn't. Not even the siren song of Benedryl could lull me into a slumber. Then I realized I had a Billy Joel song stuck in my head. I didn't know how Vonnegut died, but maybe my subconscious thought it was a "heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack," because I had "Moving Out" playing on a continuous loop in my brain. So naturally my thoughts turned to Billy Joel. Or more specifically, the ghost of Billy Joel.

Now, I'm aware that Billy Joel isn't dead. However, I don't think this precludes Billy Joel's ghost from knocking about. And what if he did? What if Billy Joel's ghost visited you and hung out and gave you advice and stuff?

It would be amazing.

You'd have Billy Joel, at his piano, kind of floating over your left shoulder and just hanging out with you as you went about your business. He would play songs for you as you walked down the street, but if you were tired of hearing "New York Minute" for the frillionth time, he would be totally cool with you busting out your Ipod while he just tinkered quietly with some new material.

But the ghost of Billy Joel is so much more than a soundtrack. He'd give you advice as well. And since he's at his piano anyway and always trying to add to his canon, he'll sing your advice to you.

"Woahh, woahh, ooooh, girl. Dontcha go givin' that guy your number. He looks like he'll eat all of your food and then ask to borrow your metrocard and never return it-it-it-it-it-it. Oh, yeah!" Totally helpful, right?

Sure, except there's a downside to ghost of Billy Joel. He'll hang out with you and give you advice, but all of his advice somehow always ends with you crashing your car into a tree on Long Island. That's why, at roughly 3 am. I made the decision to hold out for the ghost of Elton John.

I'm totally famous, y'all!

2007-04-11T16:09:00.000-04:00

Okay, not at all. But still, a girl can dream, right?

It's funny how I don't talk about the stuff I've been doing for g14 because I'm crazy self-conscious and David loves putting me in uncomfortable situations and making me embarrass myself all over the internets.

However, when he told me that g14 had been featured on blip TV, I was excited for them. They spotlighted The 80s Son video as well as Stone & McGregor, in which I play Miss (don't call me crazy) Parker. So here you go. G14 is featured about two thirds of the way in and there's a 3-second clip of me with the camera practically up my nose on a website that isn't run by my friends.

Click To Play

Dina Kaplan, a co-founder and Chief Operating Officer of blip.tv, reviews cool picks of the week the The Ointment, Sweaty Robot, and g14 Productions. (3 minutes).

Random Conversations with Family Members #7

2007-04-05T09:57:00.000-04:00

A phone conversation with my dad...

Dad: Hey, have you talked to your brother or [older] sister lately?
Me: No, not recently.
Dad: Yeah, me neither. Somebody should probably call them so they know they're still part of the family and everything.
Me: Probably.
Dad: I've got your sister here. I've also got your mother. Does anyone want to talk to Kona? Ha. Nobody gives a shit about you.
Me: Fair enough.
Dad: Alright, I'll see you on Friday.

Cufflinks!

2007-03-23T11:48:00.000-04:00

I distinctly remember sitting around the house for years, watching TV and never being able to answer what I thought was a simple question: why are local commercials so god-awful? It didn't seem so difficult. You write a commercial, it's good, so it gets produced. The end. Right?

Not even close.

It wasn't until I graduated college and actually got a job writing local commercials that I realized that they were inherently bad--it's the nature of the medium. Business owners do not trust you. They know what they want, and what they want is for their neighbors to say "Oh, I saw your baby on TV. She is adorable!" You can try to steer them in a different direction, you can cajole, you can tell them outright that they are wasting their money if they put what they want on the air. 99 times out of 100, they will not listen to you.

Invariably, customers will choose to have all of their employees out in front of the store saying, "come visit us today!" in unison. Never mind that you can never understand what the hell people are saying in unison, they want their employees in the spot, dammit! They also want their daughter with the speech impediment to list every single thing they have in their inventory in thirty seconds. It'll be amazing.

After a while, you die inside and you give up. You forget how to write anything that doesn't include the phrase "for all your ________ needs." This is why local commercials suck. This is why local commercials will always suck. It's a depressing fact, but a fact nonetheless.

It's been nearly two years since I've written a commercial, but there's still a small part of me that hurts every time I see a bad one--because I know what the people went through who made it. So when I went to the UCB Theater earlier this week and saw the video below, my first thought was "FUCK YOU."

Not fucking funny. Except, totally funny. Damn you, Krohmpf.

The 80s Son

2007-03-21T12:32:00.000-04:00

This is the best/most disturbing thing I've seen in a long time. Thank you, g14.

Another site for me not to update

2007-03-21T09:42:00.000-04:00

Part of the reason that I've had such a difficult time updating this site is because I can't write. The other part is that I spend too much letting celebrity news chew holes in my brain like syphilis. So, as part of my therapy, I present to you, The Hollywood Flash. It's basically a place where I can get all of this stuff out of my head; It's taking up too much room and I'd really like to be able to remember how to do long division.

Crying, sometimes over you, sometimes not.

2007-03-16T12:24:00.000-04:00

As I was shoved up against a man's knees and breathing in a mixture of sweat and stale urine on the 1 train last week, I noticed something that should have been more unusual: the woman standing next to me was crying. Our eyes accidentally met in that awkward shared-commute kind of way, and I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment, as you might think, but one of resignation. It was a look that said, "Yeah. I'm on a subway, it's rush hour, and I'm crying. What're you gonna do?" I liked that look because it was a look I understood.

For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.

I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.

I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.

I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.

Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.

When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.

As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"

But what about THE CHILDREN???

2007-02-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

She shaved her head, she got tattoos, she went to rehab three times in three days. To say Britney Spears has had a rough week would be an understatement. Girlfriend has had a rough couple of years. I was sitting at my desk this morning, watching the video of her bashing in a car with an umbrella and thinking that the widely-held belief that marrying K-Fed signaled rock bottom seems so...quaint now.

We didn't like Kevin Federline from the beginning. From his stringy hair to his insistence on wearing manpris for every occasion, to his weasly little eyes, we did not want him near our Britney. The guy was obviously a freeloader, obviously only after her for her money, and was obviously going to get her pregnant as soon as humanly possible in order to ensure a permanent stake in her fortune. He was the skeevy guy at the club who comes up behind you and starts grinding on your ass before you even see his face.

Throughout their marriage, Britney was seen as the good guy. Sure, she got herself into a bad situation. She's obviously made mistakes, but she's not to blame. She was a CHILD STAR. She can't possibly be held accountable. Through the Red Bull, Marlboros and Cheetos, we stuck by her. We kept thinking it was a phase that she would soon outgrow.

When she filed for divorce last October, we felt vindicated. She finally wised up. She was doing what was best for her and her boys. And then? Paris Hilton.

On the New York City subway system, there are these terrible posters put up by Health and Human Services that offer basic parenting tips like, "Never, ever shake a baby","Don't leave your infant in the bathtub unattended" and "Don't put your baby to sleep in your bed, do a bunch of heroin, nod off and roll on top of your baby, killing him, like Christopher did to Adriana's dog on "The Sopranos." I know no one in L.A. uses their subway system, so perhaps the city could erect billboards that say something along the lines of, "Hey, do you have kids? Do you want to have kids? Are you perhaps passing by a playground or a Toys R Us on the way home from work and run the risk of accidentally making eye-contact with a child? Then stay the fuck away from Paris Hilton. Seriously. Her shit is airborne."

I try to stay away from the pearl-clutching judgment calls as much as possible, but when you have two small sons, you do not need to be running around with Paris Hilton, flashing your lady business to strangers. It is completely unnecessary. Rent some Baby Einstein DVDs and try to undue the damage genetics have already done to your children.

So fast forward to today. After months of Cesarean scar flashing, stripper outfit borrowing, drinking, vomiting, and alleged drug use, Britney has been locked away. The dust is beginning to settle, and who is coming out as the winner? None other than Fed-Ex himself.

Yep, Kevin Federline, king of the cornrows, bad rapping and illegitimate children is looking pretty damn good right now. His threat to have Britney's hair tested for drugs is reportedly a big reason why she shaved her head. The dude is pissed. And who can blame him? He's been vilified in the press sense the moment we learned his name, yet there have been no blind items featuring him snorting coke in a bathroom stall. There have been no pictures of his vomit staining the floor of his SUV. He may be a douchebag, but I doubt he would put his kids at risk like Britney probably has. I mean, seriously.

I picture a day with Britney and her kids starting out like that episode of jackass where Johnny Knoxville pretends to leave his baby on top of the car and then drives off. You know that shit has happened more than once. You know what else I'm sure has happened more than once? Britney coming home with Jayden in her arms, putting down her keys and her bag, and then hanging the baby on the coat rack, followed closely by her nanny who just sighs, shakes her head, and wordlessly gets the little munchkin down, taking the airplane bottle of vodka that Brit has been using as a pacifier out of his mouth.

K-Fed's day with the kids probably involves a lot of propping them up on pillows next to cardboard cutouts of celebrities, and then playing his CD while he lip-syncs and dances in front of his adoring fans. Sure, it's still not an ideal living condition, but when the poor kids have these two parents to choose from, it's really the best they can hope for. Well, second best. I hear Queen Latifah is looking to adopt some American kids and everyone knows that lesbians make the best mommies.

If only the job interview was at a cancer center...

2007-02-21T14:38:00.000-05:00

Many people, when they have a bad week, turn to the sweet, comforting embrace of alcohol to make themselves feel better. While I see nothing objectively wrong with curling up with your good friends Jack and Johnny, I have a thing about not drinking when I'm sad. Because of this character flaw, I usually treat a bad day with a double dose of SVU and VH1 Celebreality programming.

Sometimes, though not nearly as often as one would hope, something better comes along. Perhaps a friend is visiting, or one of your favorite bands is coming to town and you think to yourself, "you know, this week was pretty shitty, but motherfucking Paradise City (The G&R tribute band that is so awesome that Axl Rose's feelings of comparative inadequecy is the real reason for Chinese Democracy's interminable delay) is playing in Jersey, so nothing else matters."

Yesterday, I had an experience that surpassed even hearing "Paradise City" performed by a man who has devoted his life to keeping the flaccid 80s Cock Rock movement alive: I got a phone call from Elizabeth.

Now, this wasn't a typical Elizabeth phone call in that she didn't once mention how I was going to die alone or how nobody could ever love me. Those phone calls are so common they are hardly worth mentioning and definitely not worth writing about. This time she had news.

Apparently, Justin Timberlake is coming to Richmond and a local radio station was giving away tickets, as they do. Since these tickets are a pretty hot commodity, the station, Q94, figured people would do just about anything to get them. They were right. Our friend Rachel shaved her head bald for Justin Timberlake tickets. But that's not the best part. The best part? She had a job interview that afternoon. For a job she really wanted. But wait--that's still not the best part. The BEST best part is that it was a second interview. So these people have definitely met her before and have definitely seen her with hair.

Now if this wouldn't inject some brightness into a dark, miserable week, then you should just fall asleep on some train tracks, because you're already dead inside.

Rachel (far right) and Rachel (third from left)

The only thing left to say is "thank you."

I am a failure

2007-02-14T13:55:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm working on like, 3 different entries right now. One I like but is taking longer than I wanted it to, one that I don't like and have kind of given up on, and one that only exists in my head.

I also have some potentially fun news, but I'm awaiting outside confirmation.

So, basically, I've got nothing. Hence the title.

On an unrelated note, isn't Heroes a great show? I'm in love.

This show is going to be great...when you get killed off. Part 1

2007-01-29T12:53:00.000-05:00

For every tight ensemble cast on television (Friends, Entourage, Arrested Development) you have three that feature a cast that's generally awesome--if it weren't for that one "actor."

You know the one: His acting is so wooden, he could be replaced with a giant log with branches for hands and either nobody would notice, or the show would actually improve. Or you have the woman who is so over-the-top in all of her "acting" choices that just watching the other more talented actors in the cast react to her histrionics would be entertaining, if she weren't so damn annoying.

I love television and those with ensemble casts are my favorite. When I ask myself why, I can only think it's because I hate myself. Every time a casting director gets an ensemble 99% right, the 1% that is so wrong just makes me die inside. Below are my first two entries in the category of
Worst Actor/Actress in an Otherwise Enjoyable Show.

My first nominee: Misha "I'm the only one on this cast who is actually high-school age, yet I look older than the woman playing my mother and sound like I've been on a diet of cigarettes and Quaaludes since the mid-70s" Barton of the soon-to-be-canceled The O.C.

Before she moved to Orange County and started drinking a bunch, she was best known as the girl who vomited everywhere in The Sixth Sense. Over three seasons of The O.C., she drank a lot, whined, wore ugly hats and failed to ever change her facial expressions. She brought every scene she was in to a grinding halt and annoyed the audience (and, I suspect, the cast and crew) so much that she was finally, mercifully killed off at the end of Season three.

The entertainment writers who are attributing The O.C.'s actual death to Marissa Cooper's fictional one say so only because they haven't watched the show since Season one. And who could blame them? Even Barton herself has said that the show couldn't survive without her. But really, what else would she say? When you have so little self-awareness that you would leave the house looking like this, it's a miracle that she can string together a sentence at all.

My second nomination is Elizabeth Rohm, the ex-ADA on the original Law & Order.

She joined the cast before I moved to New York and I almost didn't because of her. Sure, Giuliani cleaned up Times Square, but apparently you can catch a cold that can last several years. Every line she said sounded like the "before" in a NyQuil commercial. I was pretty terrified of the killer cold strain that seemingly infected the streets of New York, until I realized that she was the only one afflicted. Then I realized that it wasn't a cold at all--she just sucks.

Her acting runs the gamut from B to C: Bitchy to Confused, and when the camera rested on her eyes, you could see clear through to the back of her skull.

After inflicting her upon a helpless viewing public for either two or twelve seasons (it's really just a blur of pain and blonde highlights at this point) the writers heard from on high that they could finally get rid of her--and get rid of her they did; saddling her with the best out-of-left-field exit line in the history of television: "Is it because I'm a lesbian?" The confusion and exasperation in Sam Waterston's eyes as he replies, "No" is a vindicating moment for the viewers, as now we know that we have not been alone in our pain.

Those are my first two nominations of many. Still to come: Anorexic leading ladies and a man who is so intense, he makes me feel dirty from the inside out.

Random Conversations with Family Members #6

2006-12-14T09:46:00.000-05:00

Special Christmas Edition

Christmas morning 2005:

Kali: Sweet. Starbucks!
Me: How come I didn't get a Starbucks gift card?
Kali: Hehe, loser.
Mom: Oh, I don't know. I guess I wasn't sure that you have them up there.
Me: Mom. I live in New York City. I'm pretty sure there's a Starbucks in my bathroom.
Mom: Well, I didn't know that. You know, it makes sense though. Every time I see a picture of those Olsen girls in People, they have a Starbucks cup in their hand.

Awkward...

2006-12-01T16:15:00.000-05:00

I didn't write a lot of notes in high school, or very much bad poetry in middle school, but it's always fun to come across what I've saved from that time. The notes are good for nostalgia purposes, and the poetry, while horrible, was never made public, so it doesn't really bother me. There was, however, this one time in elementary school...

This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.

I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.

I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.

One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.

Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.

Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.

We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.

We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.

My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.

I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.

Random Conversations with Family Members #5

2006-11-23T11:51:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving Edition:

Dad: Happy Thanksgiving!
Me: Happy Thanksgiving to you too.
Dad: So, I'm watching the Thanksgiving day parade on TV. Are you down there?
Me: Oh, hell no.
Dad: No?
Me: I cannot emphasize enough the amount of "hell no" involved in that.
Dad: Yeah, I'm watching those girls with the short skirts and I'm thinking, "are you out of your mind?"
Me: Yeah. It's like two degrees here and rainy and awful. They are not having fun.
Dad: So what are you doing today?
Me: Having dinner with friends.
Dad: Oh, that sounds good. I just talked to Andrea and wished her a happy Thanksgiving.
Me: That's nice.
Dad: Yeah, so I've done my kid duty. You can all go to hell now.
Me: ...You're a terrible parent.

Last Comic Riding

2006-11-14T10:24:00.000-05:00

I haven't been sleeping very well lately, so when I got on the train to go to work this morning, I was tired, cranky in general, and pissed specifically at the fact that it's only fucking Tuesday. So when I got on the packed express train at 96th street and I saw a homeless guy pushing his way through the car, I was not pleased.

I was listening to my Ipod, but unlike the Dominican hood rats who insist on turning up the volume of their Now That's a Shitty Excuse for Music: Volume 47 up to "sweet Christ, how can a pair of earbuds at the other end of the car make me feel like Reggaeton lives in my brain?" I could still hear what the bum was saying.

"So, where do you all think you're going? To work? You ain't going to work!"

Fuck. I am not in the mood to hear about the Zionist conspiracies or the perils of sharing a train with a bunch of circumsized people (an actual subway rant from a few weeks ago).

"You ain't going to work. Don't lie to me. I see you here every morning. You just ride back and forth. You ain't goin' nowhere." You're just ridin' the train 'cause you're jealous."

What?

"You're jealous because you pay 18, 19 hundred dollars a month in rent, and your apartment don't go nowhere. I pay two dollars and my apartment goes all over the city."

Wait a second, is he--

"I got everything I need. I got seats, air conditioning, I even got a stove. Third rail, man. That's hot!"

Yep. He sure is. The bum on the train is doing stand up.

"Yeah, I live on the subway. I live on the subway 'cause I'm hidin' from my wife. Oh, you may say that I'm not a man because I ran away from my wife, but you've never met my wife. She is three hundred and eighty-nine pounds, man! She wears size 69 jeans. She unbuttoned her pants for me and nine stomachs fell out. She tells me, 'babe, my stomach hurts.' I say, 'which one? Number 3 or number 9?'"

At this point, we get to the 72nd street station.

"Man, look at all those people out there. They're gonna come in. I bet they won't even knock. They just gonna come in and sit down like they own the place."

After the people from 72nd street get on, he welcomes them into his home and continues his shtick. When this whole thing started, the people on the train reacted the same way I did--which was basically just pretend to ignore him, and dear God, do not make direct eye contact. About halfway to 72nd street, it morphed into about half of us giggling to ourselves, but still trying not to attract attention or look directly at him.

By the time we were approaching the Times Square station, he had most of the car laughing openly and gladly giving him money. As he left us to finish our commutes and fantasize about creative ways in which we can kill our co-workers and still have it look like an accident, he left us with one final request:

"All right, everyone. Be safe out there, and please pick up your papers and your trash when you leave. I got company coming over later."

Random Conversations with Family Members #4

2006-11-06T16:22:00.000-05:00

These are their stories: Chung Chung!

Me: There are a lot of gay people who are moving into my neighborhood, but it's still primarily Dominican.
Kali: The Mexicans and the Dominicans don't get along.
Me: ...okay. Well, there aren't really any Mexicans around here, so we haven't really had a problem.
Kali: They rape each other.
Me: What?
Kali: With forgeign objects.
Me: Uh...
Kali: And it punctures their colon.
Me: I...
Kali: And it leaves splinters.
Me: I have no idea---
Kali: Because it's a plunger.
Me: Ohhh.
Kali: And then they bleed out on the floor three hours later. And it's awkward.
Me: Yeah. I saw that one. That was the prison one, right?
Kali: Yeah. Ashley invited some Mexican guys from her work over to my apartment. But they don't speak English very well, so they haven't found the place yet.
Me: That sucks.
Kali: Yeah. Hey--what if you brought Dominicans down with you. That would be crazy.
Me: Kali, I don't think you want people to get raped with foreign objects in your apartment.
Kali: Yeah, that would be weird.
Me: Yes...weird.
Kali: Ooh! But then I'd get to meet Benson and Stabler!
Me: Yeah, I can't talk about this anymore.

He's got money, the money I deserve.

2006-10-26T13:44:00.000-04:00

What I love most about this Rhett Miller performance of "The New Kid" is the camerawork. It takes me straight back to TV-3 and working the noon show on a Friday that had a musical guest.

"Okay, camera 2: Zoom in on the guitar, slow zoom out to a medium shot."

"Camera 3: Try to get a medium shot at a cool angle."

Random Conversations with Family Members #3

2006-10-26T12:18:00.000-04:00

Dad: Hello?
Me: Hey
Dad: Oh, hey. Did you get my message?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Okay, so are Christopher Reeves and Kaynu Reeves related?
Me: No, dad. Christopher Reeve and Keanu Reeves are not related. They're two different names.
Dad: See, that's what I thought. Hey Holly, they're not related. It's Christopher Reeve and Kaynu Reeves. Two completely different names. Ha ha. See, I just wanted to call you to prove that Holly's fucked up.
Me: Uh, okay.
Dad: Huh? Oh, Holly says she doesn't believe you. She says that they're related.
Me: Except that they're not. Keanu Reeves is half-Japanese or something.
Dad: Yeah, I knew that. Holly! Keanu Reeves' mother is Japanese or something. they're not even in the same ethnic group! Ha ha, you're weird. Ow, ow. I'm getting punched. Yeah, I think they do still have family in the business.
Me: No they don't, they're not related to anybody.
Dad: Well, they have to be related to someone. They weren't hatched.
Me: Fair enough.
Dad: Holly wants to know if you're positive.
Me: I am 100% sure that these two people with different last names and no connection are not related to each other.
Dad: Holly still doesn't believe you. She wants you to Google it.
Me: I'm not going to Google anything. Google it your damn selves.
Dad: Ha ha, well, that's the only reason I called.
Me: You people are insane. I'll talk to you later.
Dad: Ha ha, bye!

There's a reason it's not called "Project BFF."

2006-10-19T15:46:00.000-04:00

I'm not a Jeffrey fan. I've been quite clear about this over the entire third season of Project Runway. He's mean, arrogant and his boorish "the world owes me something" attitude reminds me of a certain despicable ex-roommate of mine. Most importantly, however, I hated his designs. While he managed to pull out a few inspired ones (most notably his newspaper dress from the trash challenge and his couture dress) I found that most of his clothing looked like it had been made by and for cracktards.

So last night, after a season of nearly being eliminated every other challenge, making a fellow designers' mom cry, and almost being disqualified the day before the Bryant Park show, Jeffrey won the third season of Project Runway.

Since the moment it was announced, the "blogspots" were alight with people denouncing the decision and promising never to watch PR again. They were furious that Jeffrey's "ugly" clothes beat out Uli's effervescent frocks. I agree that Uli's clothes were more aesthetically pleasing, Laura's were phenomenally made, and Michael's a total fox, but, as much as it pains me to say it, I think the judges got it absolutely right this time.

I am a huge Michael supporter and think that he has an amazing amount of potential. I wanted him to win pretty much from the beginning. The muslin dress he made for the tryouts was gorgeous, and I loved his adaptability and willingness to listen to others opinions. However, what Tim said in his latest podcast is absolutely correct: he needs guidance. He flourished when he had Tim asking the right questions, but is not quite mature enough to be off on his own. He will do great things, but right now he really needs to work for a designer--because when he's left to his own devices, he ends up looking like a stylist for a Biggie music video circa 1996.

Uli and Jeffrey's lines were by far the strongest and either of them could have legitimately won. Laura's line, while impeccably constructed, lacked the "wow" factor. It's the same thing that kept Kara Saun from winning Season one. You need more than a superhuman work ethic to win this dog and pony show.

Uli was the dark horse of season 3. She has a preternatural gift for prints, which the judges likened to that of Diane Von Furstenberg on more than one occasion. She does her Uli thing and she does it well--which is why the judges often marginalized her talents. One of the biggest "what were they thinking" moments of the season came during the Everyday Woman challenge when they picked Vincent's horrendous dress over The airy outfit Uli designed for Kayne's mom (God, I hated everything Vincent did--and that dress is even uglier in person). Uli's Fashion Week designs were gorgeous and chic and looked ready to wear; and for the first time, she brought the drama. When the model at right walked down the runway in a "typical Uli dress" and then unbuckled it to reveal the bikini, the audience erupted in applause and I actually gasped. It was stunning. It was also the first time the entire season I thought she had a legitimate chance of winning.

Jeffrey, on the other hand, managed to have an entire line filled with clothes I would never want to wear, but could completely understand. Just living in New York and seeing what's going on in fashion right now, I can tell that he is on the cutting edge. One article I read (I think it was Entertainment Weekly) said that the skinny pant/striped blazer combination looked like something Misha Barton would wear. I absolutely agree. It's not my style, but I understand and respect the design aesthetic. He has a point of view, and whether or not the general public thinks it's pretty, it's undeniably current. Leggings aren't pretty either, but people are insisting on wearing them. All the effin' time.

As for the question of whether or not Jeffrey cheated: in interviews, on his blog and on his podcast, Tim Gunn constantly and consistently extols the integrity of the producers. Keith made great TV, but he broke the rules and got kicked off anyway. If the producers say that Jeffrey didn't break the rules and has to return the wigs in order to stay under budget, then that's good enough for me. Budget/rule snafus aren't unprecedented (again see Kara Saun). The Runway producers fixed the problem in the manner they saw fit and returned the contestants to an even playing field. Tim Gunn trusts the producers and I trust Tim Gunn.

The judges' decision to choose Jeffrey over the other three finalists boils down to this: Project Runway is about being on the cutting edge of fashion, it is not about what can be shoved onto the rack at BCBG's right now. Jeffrey's collection was the most innovative, plain and simple, which is why he won. If it had been about craftsmanship it would have been Laura. If it had been about being the prettiest, it would have been Uli. If it had been about being the most huggable, then Michael would be driving a Saturn Sky roadster into our hearts right now. But it's about fashion. Just because you wouldn't want to have him over for dinner doesn't mean Jeffrey didn't deserve to win.

With that said, I think the lack of a receipt was a blessing in disguise. Because LEATHER BUBBLE SHORTS? Are you KIDDING me? Jubilee Jumbles indeed.

Exposed

2006-10-01T00:18:00.000-04:00

Some people are afraid of public speaking. To them the experience is akin to standing in front of a crowd completely naked. Exposed. And all eyes are on you.

To overcome this fear, the most common piece of advice is to picture your audience naked. Apparently, it doesn't matter so much if they're judging you if you're judging them right back. I don't know. I've never tried this trick, but I am quite skeptical of any relaxation technique that involves me picturing my mother in the nude.

Luckily, I am not called upon to speak in public very often, and when I am, it doesn't frighten me. It's talking. I do it every day. Whether it's in front of one person or a hundred, it's still the same act.

I'm a natually nervous person. Virtually any interaction with people is unsettling. So I talk. Babble, really. The more I talk, I reason, the more my audience will be focused on my words. The more they're focused on my words, the less they're focused on my nervous tics, or my hair, or what I'm wearing, or the fact that I really need to visit my eyebrow lady. The more I talk, the less they focus on me. The more I say, the less exposed I am.

It doesn't work if you just talk, though. You have to have something else; you need a hook. The truly successful talkers have intelligence. They use what they know in an engaging and non-condescending way. They can throw out interesting facts and clever anecdotes. They are the cocktail party talkers. I am not one of these people.

Instead of intelligence, I use humor, and more often, inappropriateness. If I throw out a funny enough one-liner, or an especially colorful curse word (I find that "fucktard" works especially well in this situation. "Fucktard" is a word that naturally draws attention to itself) people will focus on it instead of you.

I don't know if this can be considered a science or an art. Maybe both. Probably neither. Personally, I lean towards art. This is mainly because any time I get going on a talking jag, I have a very clear mental image of me tap dancing. As fast as I can.

Public speaking doesn't scare me. What scares me is public not speaking. If I'm in front of a group of people and I can't talk to cover myself? That's frightening. Of course, this is something I never realized or even thought about until I was wearing a cute dress and standing in uncomfortable shoes in a vinyard while somebody thrust a bouquet into my hands. My little sister was getting married and I was in the wedding.

I've never been a bridesmaid before. I've only been to three or four weddings in my life. I performed my dad's wedding, but my job was to talk. And stand behind a lectern. This time, I have to walk--slowly--which goes against every instinct I have, and I don't get to say a word as people just stare at me. Now, the situation isn't that dire, as there are other people to look at. Namely the bride. If I can just hold it together until she makes it down the aisle, I'll be fine. Nobody will even notice me. Walk slowly, don't trip, hold the bouquet, just stand there. No problem. Until there was a problem.

For various reasons, we are unable to have an actual rehearsal until about an hour before the wedding. The bridesmaids and groomsmen are all dressed and ready to go, and my sister was in her I Love Lucy pajamas so her soon-to-be husband won't see her in her wedding dress too early.

The mood is light as we walk down the aisle and take our places. We're cracking jokes and laughing at how funny my sister looks in her flannel pajamas and veil. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. Replace the actual veil with a bath towel veil and she'll be six years old.

Dad comes down the aisle and practices giving away his youngest child. He gets teary. I laugh. Dad always cries. I always find it amusing. I lean over to one of the bridesmaids,

"Dad's going to lose his shit during the ceremony. He'll cry more than anyone else" I predict.

As dad takes his seat in the front row, I notice that the mothers are getting a little teary as well. This I find unsettling. I'm not a big fan of emotions in general, of people expresisng their feelings. It makes me uncomfortable. And crying? Crying I find fucking terrifying. I don't like it when it happens in front of me. If someone starts crying, I immediately become like a caged animal, trying to find any means of escape. I have contemplated gnawing off my own arm on more than one occasion.

Crying is something I don't even like to do by myself in the privacy of my own home. I don't find it cathartic. Crying just makes me feel dirty and a little bit sick.

And crying in public? Okay, you know how those people who are afraid of public speaking feel naked? For me, public crying is like being naked in front of a crowd. While having sex. With a relative. And people are videotaping it. While everything dirty or embarrassing I've ever done in my life is being shown on a jumbotron behind me. As all of my deepest, innermost shameful thoughts are being broadcast over a loudspeaker. And there's a woman interpreting it into sign language.

There's a definite feeling of exposure.

It's time for the ceremony. Somebody shoves a bouquet into my hands and I take my cute dress and uncomfortable shoes down the aisle as slowly as I possibly can. I take my place up front, acutely aware of all of the people who have been watching me. I take a shaky breath. The music changes and I see my sister walking down the aisle. This is when the problems start.

She looks absolutely stunning in her wedding dress. Dad looks so handsome in his suit, so...fatherly. The groom has such a look of excitement and joy as he welcomes his bride. The family is beaming with pride. This is going to be a beautiful wedding.

And I lose it.

Nobody has even started talking; the guests are still standing. And I cannot keep it together. I do not look beautiful and noble. I am not the proud sister, with a sheen of tears accenting the green in my eyes, fighting valiantly through the emotions. No, I am full-out crying. Sobbing, really. Complete with snot and shoulder shaking. It is taking every ounce of strength I possess to remain quiet. I'm even holding my breath at times to keep everything at bay.

"Holy shit. What am I doing? Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. People are looking. Stop crying. This has got to end soon."

It doesn't.

It doesn't end during the vows, it doesn't end during the ring exchange, it doesn't end during the kiss. It doesn't even end as we are all filing out.

As we're lining up for the reception line, people are patting me on the arm and giving me more tissues. I'm still crying.

Guests are coming down the reception line. They are shaking hands. I alternate between crying and sniffling pathetically. When people get to me, they talk about my crying. I stop crying. I try to laugh. I start crying again. This continues until we're ready to leave the vinyard and go to the reception. I don't think I've ever cried for this long in my life. I want to crawl under the covers and hide.

We get to the reception. Adonilia is there. This is the first time I've seen her since she abandoned me to move back to Virginia.

"Everybody's talking about how you cried," she says. "Shut the fuck up. They are not," I say as I pour my first of many drinks. "Okay," she replies, "except...they are."

I hate her.

I was hoping that the change of venue would help everybody forget about what I had done. It did not. All afternoon, family, friends, aquaintences and strangers come up to me to talk about my crying. I'm beginning to wish I had just gone up there and shit myself instead. It would have been just as humiliating, but people would have been too uncomfortable to come up to me and talk about it afterwards.

I am basically living my worst nightmare. I have progressed from wanting to hide out in bed to wanting to walk blindfolded onto a busy highway.

Then it's time for the toasts. The best man and the maid of honor give lovely, brief toasts. Then my dad decides he wants to say a few words. He finishes and calls on my brother to say something. None of this is planned. He gives a nice speech anyway, and dad calls on my older sister, who says a few terrified words. Then he tells me to say something. Once again, everybody is looking at me. I can see the pity in their eyes.

"Oh, the poor crying girl has to make a speech. Bless her heart, I hope she can say something."

I take a deep breath. My speech is about as long as everybody else's put together. It is touching and funny. People are laughing. I start talking faster and faster, my hands flying. I'm picking imaginary clothes out of the air. I am covering myself. For the first time all day, I do not feel exposed.

You're on Notice!

2006-09-29T10:22:00.000-04:00

It's your time to shine!

2006-09-28T12:35:00.000-04:00

I hate buying certain things. Every time I go to buy socks, underwear or deoderant I get pissed off. It's not so much the act of buying these things that bothers me, as it is the idea that I actually have to pay money for them. I really don't think I should have to pay more than a dollar for any of these products. I also think they should ideally come in bins which I can just shove my hand into and come out with a sock/underwear/deoderant supply for the next year.

Every time I go into Duane Reade and see some stupid stick of Secret with a $5.50 price tag, my vision blurs and I'm filled with rage. Unless it's a dire emergency, I cannot do it. I cannot perform the act of giving a surly drugstore employee an Abraham Lincoln and change so I can shove my baby-fresh PH-balanced purchase in my medicine cabinet and start my morning smelling like an infant in a clean diaper. Which leads me to do my shopping at the 99 cent store.

I love the 99 cent store with an almost sexual passion. I love the randomness of the Jesus figurines next to dinner plates next to toothpaste. It's a perfect storm of discounted crap and I adore it.

So after I tried to put on deoderant the other day and realized that I was doing nothing more than scraping plastic against my armpits, (which, blood? Does not keep you fresh) I knew it was time to make a trip to my favorite store.

Now the thing with buying deoderant at this particular store, is that they generally only have two kinds. Avon and Tussy. I had previously had a negative experience with Tussy. Turns out, buying deoderant because the name makes you giggle isn't the best idea, as you will end up wearing a scent that actually smells like sweaty armpits. I put it on and immediately felt and smelled like I had just run a 5k. It was the antithesis of deoderant. It was oderant.

So I went to the store intending to try the Avon, which I had avoided up to this point because of it's creepy ball applicator. At this point, I figured the creepy ball was preferable to smelling like a gym bag. I'm trying to decide between powder fresh and original when I spot something pink out of the corner of my eye.

"Well hello, Ladies Choice. How are you today?"

A lone stick of invisible solid had infiltrated my beloved store. I was excited. I checked around me to make sure no one else had their eye on my treasure. Relieved to see all of the other customers perusing the Goya beans and screwdrivers, I snatched it up.
I get home and get ready for the inaugural application of the deoderant I chose because I'm a lady. This is when I notice something important. It had sparkles. It said so right on the label. My deoderant has fucking glitter in it.

I was flabbergasted. I could only imagine the thought process. "Girls. Pink. Smell. Pretty. Flowers. Unicorns. Timberlake. Boobs. Stars. Sparkle! That's it. Fucking glitter! IN! THE! DEODERANT!"

Who needs this? Who is the person who is sitting at home, feeling badly about themselves because their armpits just aren't...shiny enough? Is this an actual demographic? Are there support groups? More importantly, did Ladies Choice advertise this innovation?

INT. LIVING ROOM. TEENAGE GIRL SITS FORLORNLY ON A COUCH. MOTHER ENTERS THE ROOM AND JOINS HER.

VO: The teenage years are difficult for everybody. Changing bodies and hormones can be especially tough on teenage girls.
MOTHER: Hey sweetie, is something bothering you?
DAUGHTER: No mom, everything's fine.
MOTHER: Come on, you know you can tell me anything.
DAUGHTER: It's nothing...It's just that--
MOTHER: I think I know what this is about. And don't worry, I had the same problems when I was your age.
DAUGHTER: Really?
MOTHER: Yes. It's your armpits, right? They just don't feel...pretty enough?
DAUGHTER: Yeah! How did you know?
MOTHER: Hey, I was a teenager once too, you know. All women have this problem. Of course, I wasn't as lucky as you are; I had to suffer in silence.
DAUGHTER: Lucky? How?
MOTHER: Well, you have Ladies Choice deoderant and anti-perspirent.
DAUGHTER: But I've been using deoderant for years and I still don't feel pretty enough.
MOTHER: Yes, but you've never used Ladies Choice. It has sparkles.
DAUGHTER: Sparkles?
MOTHER: Sparkles. Built right in.
DAUGHTER: Wow! I'm going to try it right now!

CUT TO MOTHER WAITING OUTSIDE OF THE BATHROOM. DAUGHTER COMES OUT.

DAUGHTER: I feel so pretty. Thanks Mom!
MOM: Don't thank me, thank Ladies Choice.
MOM AND DAUGHTER: (To camera) Thanks Ladies Choice!
VO: Ladies Choice deoderant. It's your time to shine!

An open letter to the first three season premieres:

2006-09-26T15:16:00.000-04:00

Dear anyone ever associated with The Office. I'm talking cast, writers, electricians, craft services folk, whomever:

Marry me.

Love,
Kona
__________________________________________

Dear Marc Cherry,

You were kind of an absentee daddy on your show last season as the ratings and Emmy nominations (or lack thereof) showed us. So I understand that you're a little rusty; here's my suggestion: Netflix the first two seasons and watch them. Realize that Marcia Cross is only playing one character. Her name is Bree. Please write accordingly. Yes, she is an amazing actress who can play any number of roles. That doesn't mean that she should be playing all of those roles on your show. Rein it in, big guy.

Love,
Kona
________________________________________

Dear Shonda Rhimes,

I firmly believe that you spend every Sunday eating croissants at the Chateau Marmont with Zach Braff and fighting over who can pick the heartfelt indie song that will best represent the inner turmoil and perpetual late-twenties ennui with which you insist on saddling all of your characters. "You got your Shins in my Joseph Arthur!" "You got your Joseph Arthur in my Shins!"

"But Meredith is scary and damaged!" I KNOW! Now I'm not one to endorse Fergie Ferg, but once, just once, I would not be adverse to seeing Meredith busting a move to "London Bridge--" If I didn't think her hips would immediately shatter and turn to dust.

Speaking of which, I was watching an old episode of House the other night, and they put this fat suit on a 10-year-old. It looked great; it had realistic-looking freckles and everything. I also watch CSI a lot and am often impressed/grossed out by the realism they are able to give their corpses. Your show has money; can't you do something about Ellen Pompeo?

Love,
Kona

Edit: In its neverending editing wisdom, Blogger is refusing to upload any picture of Ellen Pompeo. I tried a few different pictures several different ways, and none of them took. Blogger does not want to subject you to that unless you want to. Tell Blogger "thank you."

Blogger: The best editor I could hope for

2006-09-26T10:47:00.000-04:00

So I was writing a post yesterday about my love of Fall and the season premieres of The Office, Desperate Housewives and Greys' Anatomy. The post ended up being a little on the long and bloated side and at one point trailed off into a conversation I had with someone about Pumpkin Spice Frappucinos. I read it over, wasn't thrilled with it, but thought it had some good points. I was posting the accompanying pictures when Blogger decided to eat the entire post.

Shit.

I spent the next five minutes trying to make the post come back, which of course it didn't. I cursed myself for not saving a copy like I usually do. I debated whether or not I was going to rewrite it. Then I understood.

Blogger knew.

Blogger thought my post kind of sucked and said, as it picked its teeth, "I wasn't really feeling it."

Fair enough. Thank you for keeping my shit together, Blogger.

Next post: the severely truncated version of my season premiere post.

Ronald John Hemenway

2006-09-11T09:20:00.000-04:00

Five years later, and we've gone on with our lives. We go to school, we go to work, we vote for the next American Idol. We are rarely faced with reminders of that morning, five years ago. For some people, though, the pain of that day is still fresh. It is something that they live with; it is a part of them.

On September 11, 2001, Ronald Hemenway, 37, went to work. He had a successful career as an electronics technician first class in the Navy, where he was known among his shipmates as being intelligent, mature, and having a great sense of humor. He would always joke around with his friends on the ship about being so hairy he needed to shave three times a day. His career in the Navy ultimately sent him from his home in Kansas City to the Pentagon.

An avid horse enthusiast, Hemenway bred horses before joining the Navy and still kept two at his parent's home in Kansas. Right before the attack on the Pentagon, Hemenway and his wife Marinella had been looking at property in Virginia in order to make a home for their horses and two children, Stefan and Desiree, who were only toddlers.

Stefan and Desiree are both in school now, starting the process of growing up. While their memories of their father may be dim, projects like 2,996 are keeping not only his memory alive, but the memories of all of the people who died on September 11, 2001. It's five years later. We've moved on, but we have not forgotten.

Okay. So if Suri turns out to be a puppet, MK overdoses on "anorexia," Leinart says he's not the dad, and Nicky gets knocked up by that elf, I'm good

2006-09-01T10:31:00.000-04:00

I'm not going to try to do one of those, "I know I should write more, but I haven't been because of xyz and I promise I'll do better" posts, even though...yeah. Anyway, we're going to talk about when obsessions become tangible.

I love celebrity gossip. I know it's not important, that there are events in this world that usurp whether or not Suri Cruise a) exists, or b) was birthed by a glassy-eyed runaway deep inside the bowels of the celebrity center.* From what I understand, there's a war or two happening somewhere...over there, and the Silver Fox keeps on talking about some sort of water-damage in New Orleans. I don't know much about it, but he seems really worked up about it every night on CNN.

None of this, however, changes the fact that ohmygoddidyouhearjessicaisdatingjohnmayer? She has a creepy father, ditched her sweet, understanding husband, turned orange, and is dating a dude with fish lips--while her ex is dating a hot lady who regularly appears in Maxim. Delicious.

So when I heard about Fafarazzi, which is basically fantasy football for celebrities, I, of course, became immediately obsessed. Knowing nothing about fantasy sports, I of course, screwed up my first round draft picks and missed out on the sacred tabloid cows of Paris, Jessica and Lindsay. Little fake Cruise, however, has proven to be quite the boon. After an ill-advised and sentimental draft of Pete Wentz, I dropped him, along with Owen Wilson and others and shook up my roster last night. I'm currently third in my league, but only one point separates me from second.

I'm betting on some more Couric news leading up to her putting on her serious face and talking about explosions and stuff, John Mayer's side of the story/fan-saving denial, and I'm really hoping that the Go Fug Yourself girls are right about the less-skanky Hilton girl.

Obsession is bad enough, but when you're actively rooting for Maggie Gyllenhaal to be pregnant with her brother's kid just because the points that would garner would be phenomenal, your mental state is probably less than desirable. But seriously, Scarlett. Where's the sex tape?

*Seriously. There is no third option. It's one of the two.

If you know the words, feel free to sing along.

2006-08-10T10:29:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the kind of day that we all have. You know, the kind of day where you get off the train and you think, ow, my toe hurts. Which is weird, because you've been walking around all day, and it didn't hurt before, but now, after you've been sitting for a half an hour, it suddenly feels all stabby. But you move on.

You're walking around; it's after 10 pm and you haven't had dinner. You just got off of work and you decide you should probably get food before you get on the next train to go home. So you're walking around, and one of your heels has worn down so that the nail attaching the heel to the bottom of the shoe is exposed. So you're making a very uneven and annoying click CLACK sound as you walk. Click CLACK, click CLACK, click CLACK. You are way too fucking tired to deal with this. So you try to walk lighter on your left foot, which has the worn down shoe. Problem is, that makes you put more weight on your right foot, which has the stabby nail. So you start doing this weird kind of limp that makes you look like you were born without knees, and the crazy part? Is that there's a guy walking toward you who is doing the exact same walk you're doing--except it just looks like his balls hurt. Then you worry that it looks like your balls hurt, which of course, brings up the concern of whether or not it looks like you have balls that could be hurting. It's a very awkward situation.

So you're looking for food, but nothing looks appealing at all. Except a pretzel. Pretzels are simple; it's hard to go wrong. So you turn toward the pretzel place, and in the same motion turn away from it, because there's a crackhead in front asking for change and you cannot DEAL with a crackhead right now because you were born WITHOUT KNEES.

So instead, you get some frozen yogurt, which you quickly get bored with, so you throw the rest of it away. The train comes, and as you're sitting down, some 40-year-old straw hat-wearing, LaFours-looking motherfucker with a Mick Jagger pout that makes you want to slap his mouth with your book gets onto the train and sits next to you. And then, the existence of God is confirmed because as he's bending over to sit down, his stupid fucking hat falls onto the festering subway floor. And instead of just snickering to yourself like you normally would, you openly start to giggle and you sit on the train for the rest of the ride with a goofy-ass grin on your face.

So then you're home. You take off the heels that you've been wearing for the past 16 or so hours and see that the last two toes on your right foot are covered in blood. You feel kind of hardcore, but mostly just tired and annoyed.

But then, your annoyance is tempered by happiness as you realize that today is Wednesday, which means that Project Runway has made a cozy little home for itself on your Tivo, just waiting for you to bask in its glory. As you settle in bed, listening Heidi Klum's comforting and familiar lack of "R's," everything seems like it's going to be okay. Then Michael comes on. Dear, sweet, hot (neck tattoo!) if not for the fucked up grill, Michael. He's doing his first interview of the episode, in which he says, "I'm not trying to be 'Captain Save-a-Ho.'" And with that, an inner peace washes over you and you don't care that you've been home for less than an hour and you have to get up in six. You've got 35 more minutes of Captain (Not)Save-a-Ho.

That's just the kind of day it was.

They're all naked? I...need a bloody mary: Surviving comedy (barely)

2006-08-08T08:44:00.000-04:00

Maybe you've just finished reading Hatchet for school, or Netflix'd Alive, or perhaps, despite being the type of person who openly mocks reality shows, you're chilling out in front of your television on a Thursday night watching Jeff Probst smarm his way through another episode of Survivor. Inevitably, you ask yourself the question, "what would I do?" "How would I survive?" Most people are confident that their primal skills will kick in and they will be naturally adept at spear fishing. They will know which berries are poisonous and which are simply delicious. They dream of fashioning clothing out of foliage and animal skins, of killing with their bare hands. I hold no such delusions; being raised a vegetarian, I am, in a word, fucked.

Luckily, living in New York doesn't present many opportunities for me to die a slow, painful death due to my lack of survival skills. I may have no sense of direction, but I can find my way around a grid, and I am never more than thirty feet away from a bagel. The Jews may start all the wars in the world, but they do make a delightful breakfast food.

Perhaps I ensconced myself a little too much in my plastic bubble of urban safety, rocked myself to sleep one too many times to the refrain of, "it'll never happen to me," because last weekend, I found myself face-to-face with humanity at its most basic: inside the UCB theater for the Del Close marathon.

Once a year, for $20, you get seventy-four straight hours filled with Improv comedy. Seems like a good deal, if you're into that sort of thing. I am into that sort of thing, so the prospect of this was very exciting. Sure, there were going to be a lot of troupes I had never heard of, but there would also be people from Saturday Night Live, Best Week Ever, and my personal heroes, The Upright Citizens Brigade. Three days, nearly 150 shows, one wristband, and you could come and go as you pleased--in theory, at least.

So here's the first thing I learned: My friends and I aren't the only people in New York who think this would be fun. When I arrive, slightly tipsy from an elongated happy hour, at 10 pm on Friday night, there is a huge line to get in. I find Charlie, and we wait in line for Dave and Laura. It takes over an hour to get in, and I miss the first two shows that I had wanted to see. That's when I realize this shit is serious.

Sure, they say you can come and go as you please, but if you want to see specific shows, you'd better keep your ass in that chair, because once you leave, it can be hours before you get back in. I stayed until about 3 in the morning the first night, and went home knowing that I would need to come correct the next day.

I arrived at 4:30 in the afternoon, armed with gatorade and a box of cheese crackers. Unlike the night before, I was dressed in comfortable clothes and had plenty of cash. I got in line, and shortly after Charlie met me, he made a run for fruit and protein shakes. I was fortified and ready. I was staying through the entire night.

There's not much I can really say about the next 16 or so hours. Over a week later, I'm still trying to make sense of it myself. After a Friday night that included Horatio Sanz in a Dr. Phil costume consisting of a plastic breast on the top of his head for a bald cap and a piece of electrical tape serving as his mustache, and a group called "Emanciprov" that featured Matt Walsh as a bullwhip-wielding slave driver, I thought I was reasonably prepared. I was reasonably wrong.

It was the type of evening in which two guys did a thirty-minute comedy show as Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.

It was the type of evening that had beer chugging and banana eating contests between the performers and various audience members.

It was the type of evening in which a dude dressed as Flipper attacked people.

It was the type of evening that featured a comedic wrestling show, that ended with one of the members taking off his clothes and running around the stage with birthday cake on his ass.

It was the type of evening in which I found myself on stage, slow dancing with a stranger to Benny and the Jets at 3:30 in the morning.

It was the type of evening that dissolved into chaos, prompting a very tired Doug Benson to leave the stage in the middle of a performance, saying "this is stupid" and hang out with his tiny Asian girlfriend in the row behind us.

The thing about the Del Close marathon is, once you're in, all vestiges of polite society leave. The effect of a black, windowless theater and a non-stop assault of comedy causes everybody who shares the space to become immediately feral. Survival instincts kick in and you start looking around, figuring out who you can get away with killing. At 8 am, you giggle because there are four guys over there drinking beers, shirtless. Then one stands up and you realize they are completely naked. And nobody says a word as they help themselves to the donuts that one of the troupes thoughtfully provided.

At the end of the marathon, once your friends have all left you, and it's been over thirty hours since you've slept, you may find yourself having a short conversation with Ian Roberts in the middle of one of his shows about how you don't like talking about being a vegetarian. "Good, so you know it's wrong then." he says to you. And you do know. Because even in New York theater, the time may come when you need to kill to survive.

Random Conversations with Family Members #2

2006-07-21T10:31:00.000-04:00

This conversation happened roughly 4 years ago, but it is still my absolute favorite conversation I've ever had with my father.

Discussing the possibility of my younger sister moving in with her boyfriend:

Me: Dad, she should get her own place. They're too young and they both need to have the college experience.
Dad: Nah, it'll be fine. They'll be over at each other's places all the time anyway, this way they save on electricity.
Me: What? What does that even mean?
Dad: Besides, she's 18; she can do what she wants.
Me: She's 17.
Dad: Same difference.

10-Second Movie Reviews #3

2006-07-11T12:05:00.000-04:00

Well this is a special day at It's Just Like That. Because today, our guest reviewer is writer/director/actor Miranda July. She's here to talk about her film, Me and You and Everyone We Know.

Miranda July: Hey guys. It's me, Miranda July, or you can call me by my alternate name, "Poor man's Maggie Gyllenhaal." Man, it is tough in Hollywood for someone as quirky as I. There just aren't a lot of meaty roles that I can really dive into, you know? I want to pee on myself, too!

So I bucked the system and wrote and directed my own movie. And since it's Independent I can make the characters as quirky! as! I! want! It doesn't even have to make sense! As long as the characters are damaged, critics will love me!

Independent film: Quirky is the new good.

My Year of Living Dangerously (relatively speaking, that is)

2006-07-05T12:35:00.000-04:00

Those of you who don’t have the events of my life plotted out on your calendars (quick! When’s my birthday?) may not be aware that I recently celebrated a big anniversary. Now this anniversary isn’t of the 12-step (I already don’t do drugs) or boy-related variety (dying alone). No, July 1st was the one-year anniversary of me saying, “Dude. Fuck this” and moving to New York. Actually, the “Dude. Fuck this” happened more around June 23rd, but the move itself was a year ago Saturday.

Now, I could write about how much I’ve changed and grown as a person in this year, but I’m not really sure that I have. I’m pretty much the same old Kona. Except that I drink both coffee and beer now, two things that I never did before I moved here. So there’s that. Since I’ve got nothing insightful to say about my experience thus far, but do believe that this is a noteworthy occasion, I present to you:

My Year of Living in New York: by the numbers

Number of times I’ve moved
4

Number of buroughs in which I’ve lived
3

Number of roommates I’ve had
4 (plus the family I rented a room from the first month I was here.)

Number of roommates I’ve wished would fall into an open manhole
3

Number of jobs I’ve had
5

Number of jobs I currently have
2

Number of nights illegal fireworks have made me feel like I live in Fallujah
8

Number of times I've stepped around someone in a subway station who very well could have been dead
1

Number of delis/bagel carts that have been my deli/bagel cart
7

Number of delis/bagel carts that I had to stop going to because the deli/bagel cart guy creeped me out
3

Number of times I have cooked something more involved than grilled cheese and soup
4

Approximate number of miles I’ve driven
800

Approximate number of hours I’ve spent on public transportation
500

% increase in the number of times I’ve been referred to as “mami”
100

Number of concerts I’ve been to
4

Number of Rhett Miller concerts I’ve been to
2

Number of bizarre lies/rumors about me that make me seem a lot more interesting than I actually am.
4

Number of those rumors that ended up on television
1

Number of those rumors I helped start
1

Number of stalkers
1

Number of guys with whom I’ve drunkenly made out in the middle of a bar
5

Number of guys with whom I’ve drunkenly made out in the middle of a bar whose name I actually remember
4

Number of guys with whom I’ve drunkenly made out in the middle of a bar while I was supposed to be dating someone else
2

Number of guys with whom I’ve drunkenly made out in the middle of a bar while I was supposed to be dating someone else who also made out with Adonilia.
1

Number of times I climbed onto my windowsill to hang curtains above an open window with a five-story drop.
6

Number of times I was convinced I would fall backwards and die, leaving Buckley to feast on my oozing brain for days or weeks, depending on how long it would take for people to find me because people don’t know where I live now
3

Number of people who have my new address
1

Number of people who have my new address who live within an eight hour drive, are related to me or could be considered any sort of emergency contact
0

Living dangerously, indeed.

Random Style Tip of the Day #1

2006-06-23T09:23:00.000-04:00

Dear guy on the subway platform at Penn Station last night,

Yes, I know it's hot. It doesn't matter. No, it's not okay even if you do live in Bushwick.

If you are a guy and

a. Your name is not John Belushi

or

b. You are not an actual samurai

You cannot get away with wearing a bun on the top of your head. Don't try. Sure, looking at it doesn't make me happy, but you're really only hurting yourself. And the possibility of you ever seeing a real-live naked girl. Without a window separating the two of you.

Seriously. This hurts you more than it hurts me,
Kona

Suck it, Soccer. F you, Futbol.

2006-06-16T09:43:00.000-04:00

I'm on the 2 train to Penn Station yesterday, on my way to the airport. We get to 14th street and the train stops--but the doors don't open. I sit for a minute, reading and trying to avoid the, "aw man, can you belive this?" eye contact of my fellow commuters. All the sudden we hear the conductor, not directing this to us, but saying, "Yeah, somebody shot at the train. The police are coming down to investigate."

First the stabbings, now this? Is this because of the World Cup? Is this our answer to Soccer hooligans?

Phase two in my celebration of Lauren's unplanned pregnancy.

2006-06-13T13:06:00.000-04:00

Phase two in my celebration of Lauren's unplanned pregnancy.
Originally uploaded by kona99.

After Lauren found out she was pregnant, she demanded a refund from Planned Parenthood for the morning after pill. The doctor laughed. I decided to help her out.

(Click to enlarge and bask in the glow of how lucky you are to know me)

The Morning After, and It's a Whole New World

2006-06-04T10:57:00.000-04:00

We were all cool in our own way, but she was the coolest. We all listened to the same kind of music, but she, more than anyone, influenced us. We all had friends in different social circles, but she was the one who glided from group to group with the most ease.

I don't remember specifically when we met; whether it was seventh or eighth grade, whether it was in gym or pre-algebra, or when we really started being friends. I just know that there was this group of girls who had been friends for a while and who I always thought was very cool. One day, for some unknown reason, they decided to let me be a part of it. Clichés become clichés for a reason: they are often true. So when I say that becoming friends with these girls changed my life, it is both clichéd and unequivocally true.

Most of my childhood was spent moving from school to school. On top of perpetually being the new kid, I was left by myself a lot from a very young age, leaving me with almost a crippling shyness, something that was exacerbated by the fact that not spending a lot of time with kids my own age made it difficult for me to relate to them. I was insecure and making new friends was challenging for me. I was a follower and all of my actions were influenced by whoever I was hanging around. As it happened, when these girls made me their friend, I had a best friend who I idolized. I followed her everywhere, and usually where we ended up was in trouble. I did a lot of things then, that had I been seventeen at the time, would have been completely normal--if not expected. But I wasn't seventeen, I was thirteen, and the path I was on was not a good one.

But these girls were different. They got good grades and they didn't skip school. When they wanted to rebel, they dyed their hair with Kool-Aid and pierced their ears with safety pins. It was controlled danger--and it was comforting. After a while, I stopped hanging out with the friends I had before, and became a full member of this new group.

She was the ringleader. She was the most outspoken, and even though she was kind of a new kid, we looked to her to guide us. She lived in the center of town and her house was a magical place to me. Going there was like stepping into a TV show. Her family welcomed us, and in high school, her home became our meeting place; her family became our second family. We could go there when things got complicated at our own homes or when we just wanted some pasta--'cause her dad could make some pasta. Growing up with a single mother made me appreciate the normalcy of it all. The bickering, the yelling, the family dinners. It was so different from my own house, and I loved it.

Watching MTV and talking on the phone were two of those "teenage" activities that I very rarely did. When we became friends though, she would call me after school (she had her own phone line, which was the coolest thing ever) and we'd sit in our respective houses watching MTV and talking for hours about what we were watching. She knew how to fold notes in a complicated fashion. We all made up aliases and the Can You Be Miss America quiz. She and the other girls made me feel normal. I could relate to people more.

We traded clothes; we were obsessed with the color silver and girl bands. We listened to L7 and Hole and tried to be different from everyone else in their Guess jeans and Champion t-shirts. We wanted to be misfits. We were called skaters and bangers, neither of which was exactly accurate. When a guy in our grade said to us, "You guys are freaks...and you're not even the cool kind!" We felt like we had won.

In high school we developed more independent interests. A few of us got into sports, I got into theater, and she wanted to start a band. Our group of friends expanded. We became friends with a lot of guys and sometimes these guys became our boyfriends. But she was still the common thread between us all. She had the plan. I would call her on the weekends to see what was going on and she would tell me immediately because she had already talked to everyone else and mapped out our evening.

We didn't talk about the future very often. She and I only had vague ideas of how we wanted our lives to turn out. I'm not sure if either of us had any specific goals other than just kicking ass in general. When we would have discussions about marriage and babies, as teenage girls invariably do, I would talk about what I wanted to name my kids (two girls, three to four years apart) and she would talk about how she never wanted to have kids. Over the years, my baby names changed, but her insistence that she wanted to remain childless didn't.

I was dismayed by her adamancy for a couple of reasons. From my father, I have inherited the belief that everybody should be married and have babies all the time. This man has had four wives and five kids. He's clearly a fan of both. Although I do have kind of a "babies, yay!" point of view, I'm not one of those people who thinks that a woman cannot be truly happy unless she has children. When she said she didn't want them, I didn't think it was something about which she would eventually change her mind. And while I respected her decision, I considered it to be a major loss because I always knew that she would make an amazing mother. there are so many shitty parents out there that we need someone like her out there raising a kid or two, just to balance things out a little bit.

One of the biggest mistakes a parent can make is forgetting what it's like to be a kid. It's a delicate balance between friend and authoritarian, but I've always had faith that it would be a balance that she could successfully strike. She'd be the cool mom and a whole new generation of kids would escape to her house. The fact that this wouldn't happen, that my kids wouldn't know her kids saddened me.

But then, a few days ago, all of that changed. She found out she was having a baby. It was accidental, and she was understandably terrified, but the word on the street was that she was also excited. And so was I.

Once again, she was leading the way for all of us in another stage in our lives. Whenever I take that step, her mistakes and successes will be there to guide me; a fact that I find amazingly comforting. None of us expected this to happen at all, and if it did, she certainly wouldn't be the first. But now that she is, it feels like this is how it was always supposed to be.

The next eight months are going to be terrifying. Preparations will be made, plans will be changed, and she will somehow ready herself for her entire life to be turned upside down. In about eight months, there will be a baby. This baby will have no idea how important his mom has been to so many people, how much she has influenced us and changed our lives. He will have no idea how lucky he is to have my friend, Lauren Patricia, as a mother, but he'll be lucky enough to find out.

Think airport security is a pain in the ass? Guess what: It's your fault.

2006-06-01T11:50:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of things in life that straight-up suck but are unavoidable and actually good for you, like taking out the trash. Or going to the dentist. Or getting out of bed in the morning. You know that cavity won’t fill itself, that your apartment will start to smell like an open sore, and that you need to get up and go to work so you can afford that filling and the apartment that won’t have the same stench as the scene in Gone With the Wind with the dead and wounded soldiers lying out in the Atlanta sun, because you’re enough of an adult to take out the trash in a reasonable time frame.

You know these things are necessary, so you do them—but you don’t look forward to doing them. Airport security is in this same category. Bad men got into planes and did bad things, so we need to go through a bit more red tape to get to Florida. Most people understand this and are grateful that security has been tightened and that it is more difficult to get on a plane. What’s a little inconvenience when it makes us safer?

At least, that was the feeling in the year or so following September 11th. National Guardsmen were hanging out with guns, security lines were longer, and old ladies were being searched in ways they probably hadn’t experienced since they snuck away from the dance with their beaus after a long evening of sarsaparillas and the Lindy Hop.

We took the delays in stride and just got to the airport a little earlier. A year passed. Then two. Then three, and there were no more plane-related catastrophes. So we started to slip back into our old habits. And we became impatient. Airport security once again went from our protectors to our enemies. Instead of people who were just doing their job, TSA employees became incompetent yokels hell-bent on making us late for our flight. They were unhappy with their station in life, so they decided to take it out on us. One of my jobs is doing market research in Newark Airport. In this capacity, I go through security sometimes eight times a week. And here’s what I’ve learned: It’s not them, it’s you.

It used to be that anyone could get through security and go right up to the gate. Airports were filled with the intimacy of tearful hellos and family members and loved ones waving goodbye until they saw the plane taxi down the runway. Now, in order to get through security, you have to either have a boarding pass or a TSA badge. With fewer people going through security, it would stand to reason that the lines would move faster, or at least at the same rate at which they moved before, but they don’t. Every day I see security lines that snake around the terminal in such a way that it begins to look and feel more like a figure-eight that is just feeding on itself with no end in sight.

Part of the reason for the wait is simple physics. You have 200 people going through two metal detectors and it’s going to take some time. That’s just a fact. Everyone could be going through naked and the security person still has to wait for that little green light to come on before you can be waved forward. It’s a slow process no matter what, so why do you insist on exacerbating the situation?

Don’t look around, because I am talking to you specifically. Why? Because you’re not John Cusack and you’re not Ross Gellar. You didn’t rush to the airport in a fit of romantic pique. There was no thunderstorm that caused a downed power line, leaving your cab stuck in a horrendous traffic jam this close to the airport. You did not then throw money at the cab driver and take off running through the stopped cars with only your copy of Rolling Stone to shield you from the downpour. You did not arrive at the airport dripping wet, maxing out your credit card to buy a first-class ticket on your true love’s flight because that was all they had left and, as we all know, you have to have a boarding pass to get past security and profess your love for her. None of this happened because you’re going to Phoenix to visit your brother. You’ve been planning this trip for months.

So, you’ve known that you were going to fly on an airplane for a while. You know that part of the deal is going through the security line. So what’s the deal with the studded belt and the dog collar, huh? You really needed to wear that today, Sid Vicious? And hey, Dippity Do-Rag. I understand that your Timberlands are going to be integral to navigating the frozen tundra of Atlanta in July, but they are fucking huge. They are not going to let you through with those on. Seriously. Don’t try. It will not happen. And to the guy in the Hard Rock Orlando sweatshirt? Okay, you’re a smoker. You rock hard, I get it. Oops, you left your lighter in your pocket. No big deal. It’s an understandable oversight. But the Swiss Army Knife on your keychain? Are you fucking kidding me with this? Is it your first day here? And by “here,” I mean, “on this planet,” because come ON, dude. That shit will not fly. And I mean that quite literally. Leave the weapons at home with your children, where they belong.

Because I love/hate all of you, I’m going to give you some tips on getting through the security line in a reasonable fashion.

1. Take off your shoes.
I don’t care what kind of shoes they are. If you are at an airport with the word “International” in the name, do not wear them. I know that the sign says that they “suggest” you remove your shoes, but if you don’t you will automatically be searched. So wear something that you can slip on and off easily. In other words, wear the flip flops, pack the knee-high lace-up Doc Martins.

2. Try not to wear a coat or blazer, and definitely do not wear both.
You will have to remove them and it’s going to be a pain in the ass and take up a lot of time.

3. Don’t pack a laptop in your carryon luggage.
I know that you’re really trying to beat your high score in FreeCell, but it’s not worth it. You’ll have to take the laptop out, put it in a separate bin and put it back in your bag. Unless you practice this a lot, it’s going to be awkward and time-consuming. If you must bring it, when they tell you to take it out of the bag, that does not mean take it out of your rolling briefcase but keep it in the protective cover. Dumbass.

4. Empty out your pockets before you leave the house.
You’re not driving anywhere on the airplane and vending machines take dollar bills, so you don’t need $15.64 in change.

5. Don’t wear a belt.
It’s going to set off the alarm. Try wearing pants that fit instead.

Basically, what it boils down to is realizing that you are, in fact, heading to the airport. Simplify what you have with you, and if your wait isn’t shortened, you will at least have the pleasure of looking down on the unprepared fools with seventeen necklaces and knee-high boots.

And how was your Memorial Day?

2006-05-30T14:59:00.000-04:00

A three-day weekend with beautiful weather. What more could you ask for?

Last night I was up a lot later than usual. When I went to sleep, I dreamt that it was the next season of American Idol. Katherine McPhee was back and in the final two again--against me. I was blonde and had to choose my three songs because we were just about to go on the air. I was being rushed around and thrown into hair and makeup, all the time thinking, "what are these jackasses thinking? I can't sing!" I was very dissapointed in the American public for voting for me.

Part of the reason I was up so late is because earlier that day I took a shower, laid out my clothes and blacked out for about five hours. During my slight coma, my subconscious wrote and acted out an entire 22-minute episode of Malcom in the Middle. I remember thinking it was weird because the parents each only had one line and it was the series finale. When I woke up, I realized that what was weird was the fact that I don't watch Malcom in the Middle.

In conclusion, on Memorial Day, my brain tried to eat itself.

New Jersey---Where even the graffiti is depressing

2006-05-22T17:47:00.000-04:00

I was on the AirTrain at Newark airport today and we passed over a regular train track where a cargo train (is that the right term? Is that even a thing at all?) was passing by. Naturally the train was covered in graffiti. On two cars in a row, in different handwriting it said:

"I am trying to keep myself
but my self keeps slipping away."

"Lost in life"

I had to break into my emergency stash of Valium and airplane bottles of Jack Daniels to even make it through the rest of the trip.

Go big or go home, that's what I always say.

2006-05-21T10:52:00.000-04:00

Me: Ahhhhhhh! I HATE you! I'm going to punch you in your...
Adonilia:...
Me:...
Adonilia: Am I supposed to just fill in the blank?
Me: No. 'Cause here's what I'm going to do.
Adonilia: Okay...
Me: So you know how we're going to move, right?
Adonilia: Right...
Me: Well, there will be moving expenses and everything, but ideally we're not going to move into a place that is too much more expensive, so I'll have some extra money and I'll start a savings. Now, I know some pretty shady people.
Adonilia: You do?
Me: Oh yeah. I could get any manner of things in a very short period of time. So I'll use these people to procure some sort of...heavy narcotic; something that will...you know, let's just come out with it. Roofies. I'm going to get some roofies.
Adonilia: Are roofies narcotics?
Me: I would assume so.
Adonilia: Hmm.
Me: Basically I'm going to put some roofies in your drink and knock you out for about a day. I'm going to rent a car--
Adonilia: Wait. Don't you need me to rent the car, since your drivers license says that you live in The Bronx, and the rental car companies charge twice as much?
Me: I'll rent it in Jersey.
Adonilia: Oh, okay.
Me: ANYWAY, so I'm going to rent a car, find someone to take care of the dog--wait. Actually, the dog will come with us. She loves car rides. Then we're going to take a roadtrip, Transamerica style.
Adonilia: Wait. Am I getting a sex change?
Me: Exactly.
Adonilia: What about when I wake up? Are you going to keep on drugging me?
Me: Yeah. It'll be a pretty constant thing. Basically, you're going to go to bed one night and wake up about a week later in California. With a wang. But more importantly, you'll have nuts.
Adonila: Which you will then punch me in.
Me: Indeed.

You can call me Mary Poppins. Or asshole. Really, either one would be appropriate.

2006-05-16T21:56:00.000-04:00

You know that you have truly become a ridiculous individual and your life has reached a brand-new level of asinineness when this is your purse...

...This is everything that is in your purse...

...and you are making up words like "asinineness."

I know this city is killing me

2006-05-16T20:39:00.001-04:00

I come from a very healthy family. We're fortunate in that no one in my immediate family has ever suffered from an illness more major than the flu. People in my extended family tend to live to old age and then just...die. Sure, we have our accidents; my dad's car crash, my mom's various horse mishaps and my sister and I just being stupid and falling down, but all in all, we've pretty much got our shit together, healthwise.

Growing up in a family like this hasn't made me feel invincible, exactly. I'm still terrified that one of us will get into a terrible car accident and die. There was a year in college that I was convinced, for no particular reason, that I had cancer. Then there was the time after college when the doctor actually made me legitimately afraid that I had cancer. I know that I am fallible--at least as far as the major things are concerned. It's the minor things, the afflictions of the "common people" that I strongly believe shouldn't be able to touch me.

There was an incident in college where I went out to dinner with a friend and a bunch of his friends whom I had never met. It was a hoppin' friday night in Harrisonburg, so the restaurant was busy. When faced with a crowded restaurant and a choice of smoking or non-smoking sections, I always choose first available. Nobody's going to be smoking at my table, so it doesn't matter to me in the least, and generally, my friends agree.

Except this particular evening, I was not with friends, I was with strangers. Who soon turned into enemies. When I went to ask for first available, one of the girls told the hostess that we needed non-smoking. When I asked why, she explained that one of the guys had asthma, to which I responded, "Why should I have to wait 45 minutes just because that dude's too lazy to breathe right?"

I don't make the best first impressions.

I was, of course, kidding when I called the guy's lungs lazy, but I would be lying if I didn't reveal three things:

1. I was kind of annoyed that we would have to wait.
2. There is a part of me, a part not governed by science or reason, that kind of believes that exposing his lungs to smoke would make them stronger.
3. That I'm kind of better at life than him.

With good health comes a certain amount of arrogance. Being arrogant about something so fragile, something so often out of your control, is a dangerous thing because it can come back to bite you in the ass. I used to have a roommate who was flat-out allergic to everything. Our fridge was filled with anti-allergy pills, liquids, sprays and Lactaid. And I knew that every time I opened the fridge, laughed to myself and called her a loser, that I was tempting fate. But that didn't stop me. I could go roll around in a field of wild flowers while drinking a big glass of milk and eating a grilled cheese, and she couldn't. Therefore, I was awesome and she was not. She wore glasses when she drove, too. I mean, come on, she couldn't even see right! The question of who rocked the hardest was quickly asked and answered. I took a vision test that year and found out that I was 20/15. Nobody could touch me.

When I moved to New York, I started getting sick more often than usual. At first I chalked it up to stress and not taking care of myself and moved on. Then I read this article and found out that New York was trying to kill me--well, not me, exactly, just losers with allergies. I didn't have allergies, so this article clearly was not about me.

Then, recently, I was at work. I had to update one of our databases using a medical book with very small type. I worked for a while and then realized I was squinting. Me! Squinting! Like a common middle-aged housewife trying to read her grocery list in the supermarket. After working on this for the entire day, I had a hell of a headache. It didn't go away until the next afternoon. I started to worry. Did I need reading glasses? My dad didn't need them until he was 40. I'm only 25. Is this the first crack in my shield of genetic superiority?

Last weekend, I came down with a cold. I could feel it coming on. My eyes were watery, my nose started running, I knew it would be only a matter of time before I got a sore throat and a headache. Except none of that happened. For the past four days I've only had sneezing, runny nose and itchy, watery eyes. JUST LIKE ONE OF THOSE STUPID PEOPLE IN AN ALLERGY COMMERCIAL.

Am I this old? Have I reached the age where my body slowly just stops working? Because, no. I can't handle that right now. I've always joked about being old and boring, like how I barely partied in high school because I was too busy working all the time, paying bills and listening to Rod Stewart. Or my senior year in college where I was in bed by 8 or 9 so I could wake up at 3:45 in the morning and go work with Drinky McWhorepants and The Surly Asian. Yeah, Kona's so sleepy, ha ha. Deep down, I was still better than all of you.

But now I'm not. And I hate that. That's all I had going for me, and it's gone; replaced by a big box of Benadryl and plans for a new vision test. What am I going to do now? Learn a skill? Develop a talent? It's a little too fricking late for that. I don't really see myself becoming a master juggler anytime soon or developing "goals" or "dreams" or any of those other things that used to be beneath me. Oh sure, maybe I have "issues" and I should "talk to someone" and work on my "rage." But that sounds an awful lot like therapy. And therapy is for suckers.

Hey Johnny Damon!: Fun with beer, cops, mothers, celebrity look-alikes and awkward crushes

2006-05-10T12:09:00.000-04:00

ed. note: in the following story, the part of Adonilia is being played by my roommate, who has previously been named Beast and E.

Last night, Adonilia and I decided to take advantage of the fact that we live three subway stops away from Yankee stadium and go to a game. Mainly, we drank. We went to a bar and had a few drinks before we got to the stadium where they charge astronomical prices. By the time we left the bar to go to the game, I was already kind of stumbling a little bit. The night pretty much went downhill from there.

On the way to take our seats, Adonilia and I got food and $7.75 Bud Lights. Our hands were full and I didn’t have the foresight to take out my ticket so I could figure out where our seats were. Luckily, there were two police officers stationed at the entrance of our section.

Me: Dude. I have no idea where are seats are. I’m kind of scared.
Adonilia: Yeah, I don’t know either.
Officer: What are your seat numbers?
Me: Uh, I don’t have my ticket out
Adonilia: Mine’s in my pocket (she cocks her hip towards him. The cop just looks at me like, “does she really want me to stick her hand in her pocket?”)
Me: God Adonilia, stop trying to get some anywhere you can!
Officer: (chuckling, he takes out the ticket) Uh, you guys are in row L. It’s right up there.
Me: Thanks officer. I’m sorry that my roommate is such a whore.

We found our seats, which were located in, I believe, Denver. All I know is that the air was quite thin. Now, I have a tendency to get quite belligerent at sporting events. Big surprise. What generally gets me in trouble is the fact that I don’t limit my rage-fuelled rants to the opposing team. If my team is doing badly, I’ll yell at them just as much. Because how else are they going to learn? Of course, since I know very little about baseball, it’s hard to tailor my curses toward the actual player, causing me to fall back on disparaging their mothers. I don’t remember a lot of what I yelled last night, but this is some of what I do recall with a reasonable degree of accuracy. You can pretty much just assume that when I wasn’t yelling the following things, I was yelling some variation of “Your mother’s a whore.”

“Hey Johnny Damon! Steinbrenner made you get a haircut for a reason, why don’t you do something with your life? Like HIT the goddamn BALL!”

“Ooh, way to go, Yankees. Thanks for getting that guy out. I’m so glad you could take some time off from PAINTING your TOENAILS to actually play some fucking BASEBALL!”

Boston had a batter up who was taking forever. He kept on alternating between balls and strikes before he finally got a hit like, three days later.

Adonilia: God. This guy is taking forever. Shit or get off the pot!
Me: Yeah. Come ON!
Adonilia: I have a nine-year-old child. Not because I have a nine-year-old child at home--
Me: But because since this guy has been up at bat, you’ve met someone, fallen in love, gotten pregnant, given birth, and your child has aged nine years?
Adonilia: Exactly.

Adonilia and I leave after Johnny Damon is out for the second time. I’m still yelling as she’s ushering me out of our row.
Me: Hey Johnny Damon! You. Me. Parking lot!
Adonilia: Kona, you’re not going to beat up Johnny Damon in the parking lot.
Me: I KNOW. I’m going to STAB Johnny Damon in the parking lot!

After Adonilia dragged me out of the stadium, we decided to continue to drink at the bar across the street, as they were still running their 3 for $10 beer special.

Drunk Guy: Hey, what’s your name?
Me: Kona
Drunk Guy: What’s your friend’s name?
Me: Adonilia
Drunk Guy. Cool. So are you girls Dominican?
Me: …
Adonilia: What?
Me: Uh, no. We’re not Dominican.
Drunk Guy: Oh, so what are you doing here?
Me: We just got back from the game.
Drunk Guy: Hey, me too. You’re very pretty ladies.
Me: Uh, thanks.

Drunk guy #2: Hey, you look like the sister of what’s-her-face.
Me: Oh, “what’s-her-face!” I love her!
Drunk guy #2: Yeah, you know who I’m talking about!
Me: No. I have no idea.
Drunk guy #2: Uh…the singer…from that show.
Me: Jessica Simpson? You think I look like Ashlee Simpson? That’s hilarious.
Drunk guy #2: Yeah! You totally remind me of her!
Me: I don’t think this guy has seen her since she dyed her hair back to blonde and got the nose job.
Adonilia: …yeah. I hate the entire Simpson family. Is Nick Lachey’s new CD out yet? Because I’m going to get it. I’m going to physically go to the store and purchase it because I want to support the Nick Lachey cause. I’m on Team Lachey.
Me: Oh, totally.
Adonilia: Yeah, I kind of love him, but I’m still not actually attracted to him in any way.
Me: I always have been a little bit.
Adonilia: But you have that weird thing for frat boys.
Me: …yeah.
Adonilia: Whereas I have a thing for Scott Weiland-type heroin addict guys.
Me: Is it completely wrong that I kind of like Emo boys?
Adonilia: No, they’re adorable.
Me: I kind of have a little thing for Pete Wentz.
Adonilia: Who?
Me: You know, from Fall Out Boy? The one who had the pictures of his wiener all over the internet because he sent them to a girl he liked and she posted them, and then he went on his website and wrote about how embarrassed he was and how he felt like a total tool, and then when the band went on TRL a few days later, he wore a t-shirt that said “Team Naked Pictures?”
Adonilia: Uh, okay. You know, I’m beginning to think that we really don’t look at the same internet.

At some point, the game ended, with the Yankees getting their asses handed to them 14-3, and we took our non-Dominican, Celebrity-sister lookin’ asses home. Thanks a lot, Big Unit. Nice pitching. Your mother’s a whore.

"Oh, he from Brooklyn? Yeah, that's where all the crazy people are from," or, how I spent my Sunday afternoon.

2006-05-08T22:57:00.000-04:00

"Hey David Blaine--Do that trick where you levitate."

"You sir, are the greatest magician EVER!"

Here comes the bride, all dressed in...FURY.

2006-05-05T14:32:00.000-04:00

There are certain events in life, that despite their inevitability are still shocking when they actually happen. You've planned for the possibility, deep down you know it's coming, yet when Arrested Development gets canceled or Britney gets knocked up with the spawn of Cletus again, it's still unsettling.

Which is why, when my sister called me yesterday and said that Joel asked her to marry him, I screamed, "HOLY SHIT!" in the middle of a crowded bus. Sure, it's better than yelling "Fire!" in a crowded movie theater, but probably still pretty distressing for the other riders.

If you look at the announcement objectively, it makes perfect sense. You've got two people in their early twenties who have been dating for nearly six years. They've lived together for four, had a dog for about three, and bought a condo six months ago. They're stable, in love and the families get along. Of course they're getting married. Why wouldn't they? It's the next step. But the thing is, it's Kali and Joel...and it's Kali.

Kali is one of those people who just kind of goes through life and never makes any sense. Ever. She's generally the drunkest and/or angriest person in the room--and that includes times when I'm in the room with her. And I know from anger.

While blinding rage is the personality trait that Kali and I share the most, it is indicative of a larger family trait. The Gallagher girls are nice people. Really, we are. We can even be downright nurturing at times. But we're not exactly the easiest people to get along with. While it manifests itself in different ways in the different sisters, what it comes down to is that if we perceive weakness, we will run roughshod all over you. These episodes can be intense, but brief, and dealing with us takes a great deal of patience and understanding. And Joel, God bless him, has patience that makes even saints feel inadequate.

He has the tremendous ability to just sit there, blissfully letting everything just wash right over him, chuckling occasionally to himself and burning DVDs. Because that, I'm convinced, is how Joel handles the stress of dealing with Kali on a daily basis. He will manically burn any DVD you put near him, a practice that has caused him to amass a DVD collection numbering in the hundreds, only half of which he's ever actually watched. But it's his happy place--the one place in his life where he has control over something.

Because Kali? Can't be controlled. Her most common response to any question is, "I do what I want." She constantly jokes about how Joel is totally gay and probably has AIDS. Every phone conversation I've had with her starts like this:

me: Hey, what's up?
Kali: What do you want, fucker?
me: Uh, nothing. I was just calling.
Kali: Oh. Your mother's a whore.
me: Oh.

And ends with her saying, "Okay, I'm done talking to you right now." and hanging up on me.

She's not a very sentimental person. When Joel calls her cell phone, the name that pops up on the screen is not Honey, or Pumpkin, or even, you know, Joel. It's Fatty, which is how she refers to him most of the time.

Despite all this, after nearly six years, their relationship is still the one to which I constantly aspire. It is based on love, respect and compromise. When they have a problem in their relationship, like they did when they were first adjusting to living together, they work it out. When Kali was mad that she had to work all the time and Joel just stayed at the apartment playing video games with his friends and making a mess, she would call me so she could come over and hang out and not have to deal with it. Then the calls stopped. When I asked her why, she said, "Oh. I talked to Joel about it. I told him what was bothering me and he said he'd try to make it better. We're going to the movies tonight." I was dumbfounded. She had a problem, and instead of letting it fester and blowing up at him, they had a conversation and worked it out. Who does that? They do. Over and over again. In short, it is the most mature relationship I have ever seen. The most confusing thing about the two of them is that together, they make sense.

Because of this bizarre and touching relationship, I'm getting a brother who not only puts up with Kali, but with the rest of us as well. He'll do favors for my dad, fix my mom's computer, and on my birthday, when I drink too much and generally act in a very unbecoming fashion, he'll make sure I actually make it home. He'll also take a picture of me passed out on his shoulder on the train so he can make fun of me later. Welcome to the family.

So to Kali and Joel: Congratulations, mazel tov and good luck. Just please, no babies yet. Because even though the relationship is solid, when I think of Kali with a baby all I can picture is her holding it all confused and uncomfortable. "Ahh, baby is so loud. Stop crying baby. Shut up! Joel, make it stop crapping everywhere ALL the TIME! God!"

How Kona got her groove back without marrying a much younger man and finding out like, ten years later that he's gay, which, come on. Ten years?

2006-05-02T10:17:00.000-04:00

I've been in a little bit of a musical rut lately (for almost a year.) My music rotation has been a largely uninterrupted sequence of Old 97s, Rhett Miller, Jason Mraz, Liz Phair, Real Johnny Cash and fake Johnny Cash. My Ipod provides a soundtrack for my day, a beat to walk to. And lately, my beat has been a little...guitar driven.

Maybe it's because music is escape. I live in the ghetto, and as E says, "not the quaint ghetto. The ghetto with broken glass, chicken bones and hypodermic needles littering the sidewalks." So I listen to music that reminds me of calmer places, like Texas, or Virginia, or prison. It's just easier to deal with dogs shitting in the middle of the sidewalk when you're listening to music with lines that talk about a fever being "hotter than a pepper sprout."

Moreso than escapism, I've been hit with a simple lack of good hip-hop. From November '03 to August of '05, we saw the release of The Black Album, the subsequent brilliant mash-up, Kanye West's debut, Talib Kweli's second album, Mos Def's second album, John Legend's debut, a Kanye-produced Common album, and Kanye's follow-up. Even Eminem's fourth studio album provided a few good songs and an eerily prescient music video. But since last summer? Nothing. Sure, I've been told that I need to buy The Minstrel Show, but I still haven't been able to get really excited about anything that's been released. Until Robert DeNiro made me get excited again.

April 25th marked the beginning of the fifth Tribeca Film Festival, Robert DeNiro's ploy to make me thrilled to pay $13 to see a movie at the Regal by my office. Every year, Tribeca has a three-day series called the Tribeca Drive-In. These are free outdoor movies shown at the World Financial Center Plaza. On Saturday, I went to the premiere of Word.Life (AKA The Hip-Hop Project.) The Hip-Hop Project is a documentary about a New York City program called Art Start. The film spans three years and follows a group of inner-city teenagers as they make a hip-hop album. The process is more than just writing rhymes. They put this album together from the beginning. They help secure funding and studio space as well as produce, write and perform all of the tracks. The film itself is amazing and is a must-see even for people who hate hip-hop. At points in the screening, the audience was cheering, yelling and crying; we all got sucked into the drama of these kids' daily lives.

While the film reminded me about what I love about hip-hop (the emotion, the pain, the roots in poetry) we had the extra bonus of a Hip-Hop Project performance before the film started. The energy and the raw passion that they showed is so rare in a lot of music today. They had everyone on their feet and as corny as it sounds, they left more than a few people inspired. I went online and ordered their CD, the proceeds of which go back to the Art Start program, the purpose of which is to "value and nurture the voices, hearts and minds of under-served children and teenagers and help them transform their lives through the creative process."

I'm looking forward to getting the CD and walking to a brand-new beat.

Ooh, Booker is going to hate me

2006-04-25T15:14:00.000-04:00

So not only do I stalk people over the internet, but I stalk them in person as well--and put it on the internet. It's official: I'm a Gawker Stalker (last item.)

Also, suck it, Clooney.

Jesus died for our sins...but he came back for the chocolate

2006-04-18T13:31:00.000-04:00

Tradition is important. It keeps families and societies together, and creates warm memories for generations. Easter is a holiday rife with family tradition. Some families gather all of the relatives for a morning at church followed by a home cooked meal filled with ham and things in casserole dishes that involve marshmallows. Some families have Easter egg hunts in the backyard, while others prefer to roll their eggs on the front lawn of the White House with their two mommies.

I didn’t spend my Easter doing any of these activities. In fact, I didn’t do anything Easter-related on Sunday. Even my Jewish boss had a big dinner to go to. I spent the day shopping. Besides, on my calendar, Monday is the actual holiday; Monday is the day the Easter candy goes half price. More specifically, it is the day the Cadbury Crème Eggs go half price.

To me, that is Easter: a hollow chocolate shell filled with sugary goo dyed to resemble the unfertilized beginnings of a farm animal.

Easter candy started showing up in the city around mid-February. I found my first egg of the season in a Duane Reade on the Upper West Side. My discovery, coupled with the roughly 120 grams of sugar, lulled me into a false sense of security and complacency. Even as the months went on and I didn’t see any more eggs, I didn’t panic. Even when the lack of eggs seemed to be a citywide epidemic, I maintained my faith--until yesterday.

I hit three different Duane Reades yesterday after work, including, I think, the original one, each time heading straight for the discounted candy. I found jellybeans, chocolate bunnies, jellybeans, white chocolate bunnies, jellybeans, but no Crème Eggs. They had Snickers eggs, but do you know what those are? Not the fucking same, that’s what.

Three Duane Reades, three times I walked away empty-handed. The city of New York is clearly trying to oppress me. But I’ve got 238 more Duane Reades and I haven’t even started on the Rite Aides. You may have won this round, but this is not over, New York, because I’m going to start a new Easter tradition...of kicking your ass! And this time, I've got Jesus on my side.

Even Will and Jada know where to draw the line.

2006-04-15T23:41:00.000-04:00

I don't care if you're in love. I don't care if you think you're pretty. Couples should not wear matching jeans with the same squiggle thing on the back pockets. Even if you are from Japan.

I make big days extra-special

2006-04-13T10:35:00.000-04:00

Cake is hilarious!
Originally uploaded by kona99.

I’ve mentioned it in passing, but last weekend was a pretty big weekend. My dad, the eternal optimist, got married for the fourth time. Sometime in February, when the family was visiting me in New York, we were at a bar and somebody had the bright idea of having me perform the ceremony. Everything sounds like a good idea when you’re listening to Merle Haggard on the jukebox and working on your third pitcher of Coors Light.

I had two months to prepare for the big day, so what did I do? I went on the internet two days before the wedding and downloaded some stuff which I glanced over and printed out. I actually read it for the first time while standing in the church during the rehearsal. A lot of it was really lame, so I decided I needed to do some editing. So I put the papers in my purse and didn’t look at them again that day.

The next morning, we had to pick the hippy contingent up from the airport, so I decided to start editing. I continued to edit and rewrite as we got to Dad and Holly’s to carpool to the church. I edited some more on in the car on the way to the church. I read over the entire thing and made the final changes as I was waiting for Holly to come down the aisle. I was starting to realize that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

I took a deep breath and glanced up, trying to find someone to look at to help steady my nerves. In the back of the church, was my 81-year-old grandfather whom I hadn’t seen since my grandmother’s funeral nearly five years ago. He was pretty far away, but I could see that he was getting a little teary. Because he was laughing. At me. I looked to the left, and saw my sister and mother laughing and pointing at me as well. Before the whole Carrie-ness of the situation was fully able to sink in, it was time for everybody to take their seats.

I started the ceremony, still terrified because I’ve only been to like, three weddings in my life, so I really didn’t even know how this was supposed to go. I just kept on blah-blahing about whatever and managed to get through it pretty well. The one biggish hitch came during the exchange of the rings. I said what dad was supposed to say, but I guess I didn’t break it up enough, because he had trouble remembering what he was supposed to repeat, leading to the vow of, “and I promise…to…love you, whatever.”

Finally, the rings are exchanged, the very long, uncomfortable kiss was given, the music came up, and the wedding party left, leaving me standing up there with everybody staring at me. I looked over at David, the piano player, hoping for some kind of a cue. Nothing. I looked at the back of the church and saw Holly gesturing to me, like, “come on, get these people out of here.” But they just sat there, looking at me. So, with the class and grace that I am renowned for, I looked around, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”

The only difference is you have integrity, I don't.

2006-04-11T23:36:00.000-04:00

Okay, so let's just go ahead and get this out of the way: I am not a repressed homosexual--but I may as well be. What I mean is, you know how people say that homophobes only go after gay people because they are full of fear and self-loathing because they themselves are gay? Well, I'm like that--except with privacy; not so much with the gay.

I've always been secretive. Ever since I can remember, I've kept things to myself. I don't like people knowing things about me. If I thought about it hard enough, I could probably pinpoint the reason behind this, but I'm not interested in any of that touchy-feely Dr. Phil/Oprah "Remember your spirit-"type claptrap. Besides, the why isn't what's important. The point is, I compartmentalize. I have separate groups of friends with whom I have different roles. Sometimes I'm the shy one, or the loud one, or the drunk, or the prude. Regardless, I have a tendency to be kind of squirrelly.

I've kept entire relationships secret for ridiculous amounts of time for no particular reason, other than the fact that I didn't feel like talking about it (Hi Harrisonburg guy!) So basically, you get it. I like to keep things close to the vest. Privacy is one of the most important things to me. My privacy, that is, not yours.

Like the guy who calls everybody else a fag and is secretly sneaking peeks in the locker room, I tell you to stop asking me questions while trying to learn everything about you. I want to know who you're dating, who you used to date, what your job is like, who your favorite band is, the last book you read, everything. No matter how seemingly pointless. And sure, most of this is pretty innocuous, and I could probably find out most, if not all, of this information by talking to you. But if I do, then you'll know that I know these things; you'll know that I care, and I don't wnat you to know that about me.

So I'm an e-stalker. Instead of actually talking to people, I look them up on the internet. I learn little things from your messageboard posts or your blogs. I learn these things and I keep them to myself. I'm J. Edgar Hoover-ing your life, one Google search at a time.

And then there was MySpace. MySpace is something I've been struggling to understand ever since the more photographed of the Digico guys introduced it to me all, "Rivers Cuomo has his Harvard admission essays up there." MySpace simultaneously repulsed and tantalized me. MySpace pages were like blogs, but unbelievably, they had even less of an actual purpose. Some of these people didn't say anything at all. They were just kind of...there, all posting pictures of themselves in their underwear. It was basically an entire community of e-whores and stalkers; a virtual Disneyland for the self-obsessed. It was right up my alley. Unfortunately, no one I actually knew was on MySpace and Rivers' academic exploits could only hold my interest for so long.

I stayed away for a couple of years, as it's popularity continued to grow. Any time someone would talk about MySpace, I would feel kind of old, and sad, and a little bit nauseous. Then I randomly went on a few months ago and made an amazing discovery--suddenly everyone I know is on this thing. Hell, their companies have MySpace pages now.

I eagerly caught up with people I haven't seen since high school, kept tabs on guys I dated, visited the pages of friends of friends I will never meet, all without their knowledge and without telling them anything about myself--just the way I like it.

But after a while, I started to feel kind of skeevy, which surprised me, as my threshold for self-skeeviness is extremely high. I started to look at MySpace in a different light. Instead of just crouching outside in the proverbial bushes, spying on these people, what if I actually talked to them? What if I used this as a tool to keep in touch with those friends I keep on meaning to call but never do? It's the lazy man's way of giving a shit!

So here it is: The just created holy-shit-I-honestly-thought-I'd-jump-on-the-"become-a-cokehead-"
bandwagon-before-I'd-jump-on-the-MySpace-bandwagon MySpace page. Feel free to mock me. I'd do the same to you--and for some of you I already have.

Shut up, April snow

2006-04-05T14:37:00.000-04:00

Sure, there was no accumulation and it turned into rain and now it's sunny, but the fact remains that it is APRIL. There is no snow in April. April showers, dammit. Showers!

Also, happy 25th birthday to Elizabeth. I blame her for this.

I wrote this on the train on my way to work this morning.

2006-04-04T13:11:00.000-04:00

Shit that has pissed me off before 9am.

1.I’m sick. I’ve been fighting off a cold since the end of last week and I was winning—and then Jim T. Zombie had his graduation show for his UCB Impov class on Sunday. Long story short, I drank for roughly the entire day and fell in love with a bartender. By Monday morning, the cold pretty much had me where it wanted me. I had a terrible night’s sleep last night because the snot running down my face kept on waking me up.

2. Buckley decided she didn’t feel like pooping this morning. She just wasn’t into it. One thing she will be in to? Taking a dump on my bedroom floor while I’m at work.

3. Hey—remember like, two days ago when it was sunny and about 75 degrees? I wish I could. Unfortunately the wind has blown into my eye sockets with such force that it has stabbed holes throughout my brain, leaving me with no short-term memory or capacity for love.

4. There was a man in front of the train station talking to another guy while wearing a large horse blanket/poncho accessorized by a pair of blue sweatpants on his head. I looked at this guy and could immediately tell that he wasn’t wearing pants on his head because he is homeless and/or crazy, but because he’s an asshole.

5. The fat people sitting on either side of me right now on the train. They’re both taking up about 1 ¼ seats, leaving me in the precarious position of perching on the very edge of the seat, leaning forward and praying that the next sharp turn or sudden stop doesn’t send me careening head-first off of the seat into the metal pole directly in front of me. Because then I’ll be that girl—the girl who’s bleeding all over the train and holding up the morning commute. I hate that girl.

6. You know, when you’re a dog, it’s difficult to focus on things like pooping outside when you’re busy eating the chicken bones scattered throughout your entire neighborhood. Buckley’s daily diet can be expressed most accurately via pie chart:

7. The girl sitting across from me wearing “skinny” jeans. These are stretch jeans with severely tapered legs—basically denim leggings. I hate the fact that all the shit I wore in the fifth grade is high fashion now. Shut up skinny jeans and shut up, girl wearing skinny jeans. You have like, three cold sores. You’re not better than me.

It’s 9:03. I just have to make it to work. If I get to my building and the guy gives me too much milk in my coffee I’m going to dump it on an old lady’s head. Not because I don’t like old ladies, or because I think that would make the guy think next time, but because they’re usually shorter than I am, creating the best coffee-to-head ratio.

Feel free to hate me...

2006-03-30T15:41:00.000-05:00

...because this is where I'm going to be on April 13th.

Rhett Miller & The Believers
Nicolai Dunger
WEBSTER HALL
doors:
7:00
18+

Because a revolution without dancing is not a revolution worth having.

2006-03-30T13:46:00.000-05:00

Okay guys. We need to talk. I'm not telling you how to live your life here because, seriously. It's not like I have my shit together in any way. So let's not take what I'm about to tell you as a demand, but more of a favor to me. Except that you must do it. Immediately. Yesterday, if possible.

And the thing that I am asking you to do? Go see V for Vendetta. Right now. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Unfortunately for us all, my vocabulary isn't nearly big enough to adequately encompass the awesomeness that is this movie. Not since Matrix: Revolutions have I had such a good time in a theater--not that the two even compare. If watching the second Matrix was like getting flowers delivered to your house, watching Vendetta was like getting a delivery of puppies laying on a bed of cotton candy and pooping sunshine.

I don't even want to say too much about what happens in the movie because I don't want to infringe on the unparalled enjoyment that you will experience by going into this with fresh eyes. All I will say is this: For the first 45 minutes or so, Beast, Blaze and I watched the movie and enjoyed it. It was pretty good. Natalie Portman is lovely, shit blew up, everything was pretty cool.

Now, everybody knows that Natalie Portman gets her head shaved in this movie. This is important because this is pretty much the point where the movie goes pear-shaped. Things flat-out just stop making sense. After a few minutes of this I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head and see Beast shaking from laughing so hard and trying to contain it. Suprisingly, up to this point, I had shown remarkable self-control; but seeing her cracking up sent me over the edge, and within minutes, I had tears streaming down my face.

There were many things that struck us as funny--the dialogue and storyline being pretty close to the top. What really killed me though, is that for the last hour of the movie, everytime I saw this guy, all I could think of was this guy. Now that would be a movie worth seeing.

The time on the clock when we realized it's so late...

2006-03-29T15:17:00.000-05:00

Just when I was feeling awkward about sharing my secret Dashboard Confessional shame, Susan sends me this. And suddenly, talking about a song doesn't seem nearly as bad because she has the video! And this is why Susan rules.

Lou Bega---Yes, Lou Bega. Or reason #849 why I'm going to die alone.

2006-03-27T20:10:00.001-05:00

I have a brand new job that I'm completely digging and a really nice apartment--by New York standards anyway. The trade off though is that I have a retarded commute. I live in the boonies of New York City, otherwise known as the Bronx. My office, on the other hand, is on the very bottom tip of Manhattan. Meaning that I start from halfway up in The Bronx, and travel down through the entire island of Manhattan to get to work. I leave the house around 7:30 and get to my office around 9. What keeps me from killing people is my Ipod. I listen to music from the time I leave my house to the time I arrive in my office. At which point I unplug my headphones and plug my computer speakers in so I can listen the entire time at work. When I leave, I plug the headphones back in and listen until I get home. When I get home, the Ipod stays in my purse, but if I'm on the computer, like I am now, I've got Itunes going. The point is, I've been thinking about music a lot lately.

I had the Ipod on shuffle the other day on the train, and "Hands Down" came on (I know...shut up.) The first thing that came into my mind when this song started playing was sitting in the Herald Square subway station at around 1 in the morning after the Rockafeller tree lighting. The boy I was seeing and I were sitting on the bench. He was getting ready to go down to Brooklyn and I was getting ready to go up to The Bronx. It was that typical stalling because we didn't want to go home yet thing, but we had to work in the morning and blah, blah, blah. He got this really serious look on his face and started to recite the lyrics to this song in this ridiculous faux-heartfelt way and the abject lameness of the song combined with his undeniable dorkiness just cracked me up.

So I'm listening to this song and remembering that night, and I got to thinking about all of the other songs that for one reason or another remind me of boys that I dated. So I made a list. Then I looked at it and came that much closer to really understanding why none of these relationships worked out. Because...Lou Bega. Seriously.

1. Far Behind--Candlebox
2. Smooth--Santana f/Rob Thomas
3.Barracuda--Heart
4. Can't Take My Eyes off of You--Frankie Valli
5. Everything to Me--Liz Phair
6. Come Together--The Beatles
7. La Vida Loca--Ricky Martin
8. Wonderful Place--N.E.R.D
9. Mother Mother--Tracy Bonham
10. Hands Down--Dashboard Confessional
11. Johnny Feelgood--Liz Phair
12. I Got a Girl--Lou Bega
13. Any Fall Out Boy song

I don't know who I'm kidding. I should really just buy like, ten cats right now and call it a day.

"Whether you cheer for Tucker, or you wish he’d get syphillis and die, it doesn’t really matter."

2006-03-26T22:12:00.000-05:00

Internet writer Tucker Max is being sued. The case basically has no merits and is the action of a sue-happy blueberry heir who threw a shitty new year's party and got his feelings hurt when people called him out on it. The reason I bring it up is that if this case actually goes to trial, it has implications on internet free speech. Read more about it on his website here.

No, FCUK you

2006-03-24T14:39:00.000-05:00

Every season brings a new annoying clothing trend. Like this. Or this. And some of them refuse to die. Like this. And while I'm sporting a whole new crop of forehead wrinkles from furrowing my brow in disgust after being optically assaulted on a daily basis just by living in this city, these trends really aren't any more than a minor annoyance. Besides, they actually serve a vital purpose—they allow me to spot hipster-fucks from 50 yards out so I can easily avoid them. The furry boots tell me who to hate, and for that, I thank them.

There is one trend, however, by which I cannot abide. FCUK shirts. My hatred is so intense, in fact, that it has transcended the mere shirt and now includes the entire company, French Connection. I first saw these visual affronts three years ago when I was in Ireland. I saw a ton of women and even some men wearing t-shirts that said, "FCUK you" and "Born to FCUK." At the time, my reaction was something like, "Whaa—oh. Huh." And that's about it. After I returned to the states, I never saw them again. They were completely erased from my mind until a few months ago, when they started popping up constantly.

It took me a while to put my finger on what bothered me so much about this particular trend, especially since, on the surface; it is about 100x less annoying and prevalent than a lot of others. Then it hit me. What pisses me off so much is that they take two things that I hold very dearly: cursing and puns, and bastardize them. And then, on top of that, it's just so...stale. I look at those shirts and it's like, "yeah, ha ha guys. It's like "fuck," but it's not. Good one. Jackass." Because the thing is, it was funny when The Dixie Chicks did it--back in 2003. Now? The joke's pretty much run its course.

But not only will French Connection not let the TOTALLY RACY AND NAUGHTY t-shirts die, they continue their assault against "the man" with their new TOTALLY RACY AND NAUGHTY commercial which features—get this—two girls fighting and like, TOTALLY MAKING OUT, Y'ALL! We're so cutting edge! Except for when Britney, Madonna and Christina all made out at the VMA's—in 2003. And when Madonna was in Britney's "Me Against the Music" video and there was fighting and almost making out—in 2003.

In the era of teen orgies in primetime, French Connection's entire image just comes off as desperate and needy—like a celebrity's "accidentally" leaked sex tape or anything involving Lindsay Lohan. What French Connection really needs to realize is that what may have been totally awesome in 2003 is just kind of sad now.

10-Second Movie Review #2

2006-03-23T10:24:00.000-05:00

So I decided to follow up yesterday's pretty offensive post with one that is patently offensive and just wrong in so many ways.

Today, Blaze takes on the Spike Lee-produced CSA: Confederate States of America.

Blaze: I wish slavery did still exist so Spike Lee wouldn't have been able to make this movie.

I wanted to sleep, the roommates wanted to talk.

2006-03-22T20:22:00.000-05:00

Shooter: Buckley's about as cute and doe-eyed as a dog can get and I still don't want to fuck her.

----------

Shooter: You know, I've never had sex through a sheet, but I'm going to.

Beast: Hell, I've had sex through a sheet.

Me: Beast is very good to the trick-or-treaters.

----------

Shooter: ...it's about magical Jew semen.

Beast: I want a shirt that says "magical Jew semen."

Shooter: I can give you a shirt that has magical Jew semen...on...it.

The Friction in your Jeans

2006-03-16T16:08:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's a little old, but I can't help it. This just makes me so happy every time I see it.

10-Second Movie Review #1

2006-03-15T18:16:00.000-05:00

Today, Dad is the featured reviewer. He tackles the Ryan Reynolds vehicle, Waiting:

Dad: It's made by a bunch of, I think, gay guys. There's a lot of male...I don't know. A lot of dicks. I didn't like it.

Are you feelin’ it? A honky’s guide to hip-hop

2006-03-15T17:45:00.000-05:00

I am pretty much the whitest white girl imaginable. My German-Irish heritage made sure that I was born with white-blonde hair, big blue eyes, and pink skin that gets angry in the sun. In short, I was Hitler’s wet dream. All heil me.

As the years went on, my hair turned from blonde to dark brown and my eyes turned from blue to green. No longer an Aryan princess, I still have plenty of white-girl in me. I have no inherent sense of rhythm, I am utterly unable to use slang unironically, and I am unabashedly in love with early Rod Stewart. If Reason to Believe comes on the radio, it’s all over. There will be no talking, but there will be three and a half minutes of off-key singing and frantic emoting with my hands. I feel you, Rod Steward. I feel you. Same goes for Elton John and Billy Joel. These men transcend music, to the point where I shouldn’t even call them men. They are Gods.

My high school friends reacted to my bizarre taste in music by dropping subtle hints like leaving brochures for retirement homes and coupons for Polident in my car. They were at white as I (the suburbs of Northern Virginia didn’t have many people whose skin color could be described by a coffee drink. [At least, not in high school. They were pretty much in the kitchens.]) yet they just didn’t get it. How could they not see the utter brilliance of Crocodile Rock?

I’m a white girl on the surface; I’m a white girl in my bones. And for a long time, that was my reference point for reality. It was my identity. But recently, I’ve began listening to my soul. And what my soul told me, is that I’m a sistah. Just like Rod Stewart spoke to me in my adolescence, Jay-Z speaks to me now. I know what it’s like to be a hustler. To be a thug. Common told me what it’s like on The Corner. Kanye West made me want to drop out of college, despite the fact that I had graduated over a year prior. Talib Kweli convinced me that “the pigs killed B.I.G and Pac too. And if they didn’t, then they know who did.” That is some heavy shit right there. It’s a burden, all of this understanding and knowledge. It’s a weight I am happy to bear.

Unfortunately, most of my snowy brothers and sisters don’t agree. Hip-Hop scares them. In their world, it’s all, bitches and Hos, and gats in yo’ ass. Or something. It’s a myth that tons of white people listen to hip-hop. Tons of white people listen to Top 40 music. If TRL tells them that 50 Cent is okay, then they will happily shake their asses to the marble-mouthed stylings of an ex-crack dealer who was shot in the face. To them, 50 is the same as Gwen Stefani or Fall Out Boy. It’s controlled danger, like a Fear Factor stunt with harnesses and safety wires.

I hang out with very few people who actually listen to hip-hop. Most of them are the type of people who said, "Jay-Z's calling Beyonce a bitch!" the first time they heard 99 Problems. So with this in mind, I feel as though it is my duty as a white-girl sistah to take away the fear. I have created a mixtape; A guide, if you will, to the wonderful world of hip-hop. Read the guide, download the songs, and before you know it, you’ll stop averting your eyes and crossing the street whenever hip-hop gets too close.

1. The Boogie Man Song--Mos Def
I have a crazy obsession with Elvis Costello. I know I'm not alone (at least in my mind, I'm not). The first couple of times I heard this song, it confused me. It sounded like something, but I couldn't quite figure out what. Then I realized what it was: This is the best Elvis Costello song that Elvis Costello never wrote. While it's not a typical hip-hop song, it shows that hip-hop artists are capable of doing more and it's a good way to start a novice off, especially someone who is resistant.

2. Bridging the Gap--Nas
It's a family-friendly way to introduce someone to Nas. It has a familiar sound that non-fans can identify with. Plus I have a crush on Nas' dad. Seriously. He's adorable. Screw you for judging me.

3. The New Workout Plan--Kanye West (not the shitty remix)
I forced a friend of mine to listen to this CD right after it came out and subjected him to my insane hip-hop stylings. He was not impressed with me, but he did dig the CD, especially this song. After he heard the line, "All the Mocha Lattes, you got to do Pilates," he couldn't stop laughing and said that this would be the first Hip-Hop CD he would ever buy.

4. Ms. Jackson--Outkast
Fun Southern Rap. It's been around for a while, and it won't freak anyone out.

5. Guns & Roses--Jay-Z feat. Lenny Kravitz
A fun Rock/Rap combo, and true white-people-music-lovers will notice that the guitar underlying the entire song is not Lenny Kravitz, but a song called Arco Arena by Cake.

6. Shoop--Salt N Peppa
We've gotta represent the ladies, and Foxy Brown can suck it. Plus, this is my Karaoke song. I do all three parts. I'm very talented.

7. The Proud--Talib Kweli
It's time to get socially conscious, ya'll. The first time I listened to this song, I was at the gym. I nearly fell off the Stairmaster. I had to listen to it again. It'll get you thinking.

8. Fight the Power--Public Enemy
It stays in the socially-conscious realm and will be familiar to anyone who's seen Do the Right Thing. Flava Flav hasn't always been a reality TV star, kids.

9. The Food—Common feat. Kanye West
It’s a fact. White people love Dave Chappelle. And those who don’t fast forward through the musical performances will recognize this song from season one of Chappelle’s Show.

10. Lodi Dodi--Snoop Dog
By this time, they shouldn't be too scared, so they should be open to a little stereotypical early 90s rap without too much of the bitches and hos. This song, not originally being from the early 90s, has the added bonus of introducing them to Slick Rick.

Seriously. Get this playlist on your I-Pod and pretty soon people will be doing double-takes. “Who’s that—is that Steve? Dude’s got Soul!” You can do it; it’s not hard. Embrace hip-hop and it will embrace you. Don’t be scurred.

Random Conversations with Various Family Members #1

2006-03-11T17:55:00.000-05:00

I was in Northern Virginia recently (but not because I live there, Susan!) and had the following conversation with my younger sister about her boyfriend.

Kali: What's that disease that makes you tired all the time?
Me: Uh, well there's----
Kali: AIDS?
Me: ...I was going to say chronic fatigue syndrome, but sure. I guess AIDS would make you...tired.
Kali: Yeah. Joel sleeps a lot.

I suffered so you don't have to.

2006-03-06T23:19:00.000-05:00

So, originally I was going to blog the Oscars as well as the pre-show on E!, but that started at 5:30 and there was no way I was going to get my act together by then. So, right now, it's 7:34. I'm watching the official ABC preshow and absolutely nothing is happening. Except for a montage, because you can't spell "self-important awards show" without M-O-N-T-A-G-E! We'll use this opportunity to catch up on all that you need to know from the preshow.

1. Ludacris is short. He stood next to Ryan Seacrest and was basically the same height as Seacrest, a member of the Lollipop Guild. Surprisingly, that wasn't a gay joke. This time.

2. In a display of his unyielding power, Seacrest promises that E! will write a $10,000 check to the charity Clothes off our Back. It's the entertainment equivalent of a guy running over a hobo because he has diplomatic immunity. He's Seacrest. He'll do what he wants.

3. Isaac Mizrahi meets Dolly Parton and his head surprisingly does not explode from thinking about all of the ways he can "see how her dress is constructed."

4. Seacrest tries to prove he's straight for the first time tonight by literally going "goo-goo ga-ga" over Keira Knightly. Later, Isaac tells him to stop "throwing himself" at Jessica Alba. The force of the collective eye-roll of every gay man in every bar in Chelsea is enough to register on the Richter scale.

5. Helena Bonham Carter has finally lost it. She's wearing an insane Bouffant that is so big and crazy, even Dolly Parton is like, "Girl, maybe you should tone it down."

Alright, it's seven minutes to show time and I can only hope that what Eric Bana said when asked what he hopes will happen tonight will come true: "I'm looking for a lot of blood to be spilled." My fingers are crossed.

8:01- The opening looks a little like War of the Worlds, if the end of the world features Forrest Gump and John Travolta. Which I think it will.

8:02- This is the first opening to the Oscars that has actually made me laugh. Mel Gibson and a bunch of Mayans getting chased by a grizzly and Jon Stewart and George Clooney in bed together. This may actually turn out to be a good show. We'll see how I feel halfway through hour five.

8:07- A lame Angelina adoption joke. Come on Jon, step it up.

8:09- Why is Keira Knightley sitting next to Jack Nicholson? No! Get away! You're already famous, don't do it! Although, do you kind of get the feeling nowadays that Nicholson doesn't even know where he is? His assistant just tapes those sunglasses to his head, pins his Valium to his coat and points him out the door.

8:12- It's not quite Brokeback to the Future, but the montage of "gay" Hollywood Westerns marks the first Brokeback joke.

8:16- First award of the night for Best Supporting Actor. Presented by an almost-lifelike Nicole Kidman. George Clooney, Matt Dillon, Paul Giamatti, Jake Gyllenhaal, and William Hurt. And the Oscar goes to...George Clooney. No big surprise there. First nomination, first Oscar. Not too bad, Booker. His speech is nice, heartfelt and relatively boring. At least there's no lame Abramoff joke this time.

8:27- Ben Stiller presents Excellence in Visual Effects dressed in a green screen suit--but no green screen. Stiller: "This is Blowing Spielberg’s mind." Spielberg: "No it isn't." Chronicles of Narnia, King Kong, and War of the Worlds. King Kong wins. Sure Peter Jackson doesn't get this award, but I still half expected him to storm the stage anyway. It only seems right

8:30- America's Treasure Reese Witherspoon presents Best Animated Feature. Howl's Moving Castle, Corpse Bride, Wallace & Grommit. Wallace and Grommit takes it. And the guys are wearing clown bowties. And have mini clown bowties for their Oscars. See people? This is why "British" and "Retarded" are often considered synonymous.

8:35- Naomi Watts is introducing Dolly Parton's performance and can barely keep her shit together. Dolly's performing "Travelin' Thru" from Transamerica . Her singing wig is different from her preshow wig. This one makes her look like a Bassett Hound. A Bassett Hound with a liposuction machine permanently parked in her bedroom. Whatever. She's trashy and fantastic. I love her.

8:43- Luke and Owen Wilson are presenting Best Live Action Short. They're both looking a little bloated (halfway down), but I still love them. Anyway, up for the award are Ausreisser, Cashback, The Last Farm, Our Time is Up, and Six Shooter. Surprise! It's a film you haven't seen! Six Shooter takes the award.

8:46- Why? With the animated characters on Awards shows? I'm sure it has nothing to do with Disney-owned ABC. Nothing at all. Up for Best Animated Short: Badgered, The Moon and the Son, The Mysterious Geographic Explorations of Jasper Morello, 9, and One Man Band. The Moon and the Son wins. There's a lot of blah blah, and I always feel so badly for the people who get up here and nobody cares, but it's still so importa----ooh, it's Jennifer Aniston!

8:49 Jennifer Aniston presents Best Costume Design. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Memoirs of a Geisha, Mrs. Henderson Presents, Pride & Prejudice, and Walk the Line. Memoirs of a Geisha wins. See Sony, it wasn't a total loss, you won Best Costume Design. So...there's that. Aw, the people of Japan got a thank you. People of Japan: "Suck it."

8:52- Russell Crowe is so serious that I think he's introducing the montage for the dead folks, but it's the montage for the folks who...played other people? Really?

8:58- Will Ferrell and Steve Carell introduce Best Makeup in crazy makeup of their own. Yay for these guys! Up for the award: Chronicles of Narnia, Cinderella Man, Star Wars Ep. 3. The Oscar goes to The Chronic-What? Cles of Narnia. Also, Steve Carell would make a surprisingly good drag-queen. I did not see that one coming. And the first person gets played off by the music.

9:04- Morgan Freeman introduces Best Supporting Actress and cannot say, "demonstrative." Up for it are Amy Adams, Catherine Keener, Francis McDormand, Rachel Weisz, and Michelle Williams. I'm thinking it'll be newcomer Amy Adams. And I'm wrong. Rachel Weisz gets it and is unfortunately introduced by mentioning her starring roles in The Mummy and The Mummy Returns. I don't remember any of her speech, even as she is giving it. I think I heard "brave" and "giving their lives." And I wish that they had kept the open bar, because zzzzzzzz.

9:10- Lauren Baccall is Candice Bergen in 20 years--or would be if either of the two had aged in the past 20 years. She's talking about Film Noir and appears to be drunk. This would be a perfect time for--another montage!

9:15- Jon Stewart enlists Stephen Colbert for fake attack ads for Best Actress. They're pretty decent, but Felicity doesn't get one.

9:16- Terrence Howard introduces Best Documentary Short. The Death of Kevin Carter, God Sleeps in Rwanda, The Mushroom Club, A Note of Triumph. In tonight's first big shake up, A Note of Triumph snags it. I don't know. I'm just trying to make it interesting.

9:22- Charlize Theron's dress is eating her shoulder. In addition, she is presenting Best Documentary. Darwin's Nightmare, Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, March of the Penguins, Murderball, Street Fight. Surprising absolutely no one, the penguins win it. Also surprising no one after the bowtie display from earlier, the filmmakers bring giant stuffed penguins up on stage. Seriously. Morgan Freeman is offstage looking confused as to whether or not he should be up there. The answer is no. You do not want to be associated with this right now.

9:24- JLo is wearing a bald cap! Actually, her hair just sucks. She introduces the song from Crash. The stage is on fire as the chick sings and I still don't care.

9:33- Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. Sandra looks tired and is rumored to be pregnant. Also? Shut up, Keanu. Best Art Direction: Good Night and Good Luck, Harry Potter, King Kong, Memoirs of a Geisha, Pride & Prejudice. Well look at that. Memoirs got another one. Someone at Sony still has a job!

9:37- Samuel L. Jackson is still cool. Despite his new movie. Which sucked. Hard. Holy crap. It's ANOTHER MONTAGE. This one's about...politics? Doing what's right? I don't know anymore.

9:42- President of the Academy. That is all.

9:45- Salma Hayak's boobs keep getting bigger. She introduces the maestro. Or something.

9:50- Salma Hayak sexily reminds us of the sexy Best Score Nominees. Brokeback Mountain, The Constant Gardener, Memoirs of a Geisha, Munich, Pride and Prejudice. She sexily struts to the podium and sexily tells us that Brokeback Mountain sexily snags their first award of the evening.

9:57- Jake Gyllenhaal introduces ANOTHER MONTAGE about watching movies on the big screen. Poor Jake gets saddled (Heh. Saddled. You know, gay cowboys? No? Okay.) with a stinker of a joke about portable DVD players. He looks like a kid at his parent's dinner party and his mom is all, "Jakey, show everybody the dance you did in the school play! It's so adorable." "Mo-oom. Nooooo."

10:00- Hee! Jon Stewart just made fun of the number of montages.

10:01- Jessica Alba and Eric Bana present Best Sound Mixing. Chronicles of Narnia, King Kong, Memoirs of a Geisha, Walk the Line, War of the Worlds. And the Oscar goes to...King Kong. Who said it performed way below expectations?

10:04- Lilly Tomlin and Meryl Streep. Meryl looks amazing. They're introducing Robert Altman who is receiving the "we know you're awesome and we're sorry for not letting you win an Oscar" Oscar. This is of course followed by a montage.

10:19- Ludacris is making Oscar-winning songs sound dirty. The Three-Six Mafia is performing and have already gotten bleeped. Apparently "witches" are jumping ship, which is not the way it was originally going to be.

10:23- Queen Latifah looks better than she's looked in a while and introduces Best Original Song. The nominees are Crash, Hustle and Flow, Transamerica. Hustle and Flow wins. Holy shit. The Three-Six Mafia just won an Oscar. Take that, Eminem.

10:26- Jon Stewart can't stop giggling. "It just got a little bit easier for a pimp."

10:27- More fake lobbying spots for Sound Editing.

10:28- Jennifer Garner trips and nearly busts her face on the stage. She also looks like she's wearing Will Ferrell's makeup. For Best Sound Editing: King Kong, Memoirs of a Geisha, War of the Worlds. King Kong wins it. Yay! Peter Jackson will work again.

10:31- Clooney gets to be the buzz kill and introduce the dead folks. Who's going to get the most applause? It's everybody's favorite game, "Whose death is the biggest loss?"

10:34- And the winner is...Anne Bancroft. Sorry Chris Penn.

10:38- Will Smith presents Best Foreign Language Film. Don't Tell, Joyeux Noel, Paradise Now, Sophie Scholl, Tsotsi. Tsotsi wins. Lots of stuff about how we're all the same, etc. etc.

10:42- Ziyi Zhang looks delightful and is presenting Best Film Editing. Up for it are, Cinderella Man, The Constant Gardener, Crash, Munich, Walk the Line. Crash wins, which makes sense. Editing ensemble pieces is tough.

10:43- Hillary Swank looks better than she did last year and is presenting Best Actor. Finally, something we care about. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Terrence Howard, Heath Ledger, Joaquin Phoenix, and David Strathairn. I'd like it to be Joaquin, but I think Phil Hoffman is going to get it, which is fine, because he's amazing. Although, David Strathairn could pull an Adrian Brody and take it. Or it could be Phil Hoffman, which everybody expected. He was supposed to bark his acceptance speech but didn't. You suck, Hoffman.

10:56- John Travolta presents Best Cinematography. Batman Begins, Brokeback Mountain, Good Night and Good Luck, Memoirs of a Geisha, The New World are nominated. Memoirs wins, which surprises me. I thought it would either be Brokeback or Good Night. Sony must have done a lot of lobbying.

10:58- Jaime Foxx (the extra "x" is for "x-tra sexy!") presents Best Actress. We've got Dame Judy Dench, Charlize Theron, Felicity Huffman, Keira Knightly and Reese Witherspoon. I think Felicity's going to get it, but I won't be surprised if it goes to Miss 29 million dollars a picture, Reese Witherspoon. And she gets it, which...no. She was good, but Joaquin owned that movie. Yes Reese, we know you grew up in Tennessee. You're from the South. WE GET IT! Also, where is Ryan? He's so subdued, not like the Globes. Dammit the Oscars need more alcohol!

11:09- Dustin Hoffman, who is looking rather wee tonight, is presenting Best Adapted Screenplay. He almost opened the ballot before he read the nominations and gave a shout-out to all of the losers. Anyway, we've got Brokeback Mountain, Capote, The Constant Gardener, A History of Violence, Munich. Brokeback wins again, to no one's surprise. Jesus, I hope this dude doesn't thank his typewriter again.

11:13- Holy crap. Uma looks fierce. She's introducing Best Original Screenplay. Crash, Goodnight and Good Luck, Match Point, The Squid and the Whale, Syriana. Crash wins and I'm sure the boys over at Defamer are puking right about now.

11:20- Tom Hanks, the Jesus of Hollywood is presenting Best Director. We've got Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Crash, Good Night and Good Luck, Munich. Brokeback wins, again, to the surprise of NO ONE. Oh, Ang. Don't open up with, "I wish I knew how to quit you." Not only are Brokeback jokes pretty much over, but it doesn't even fit. Haven't you learned from James Cameron? Come on!

11:23- Jack Nicholson, having dipped into the Valium pinned to his sleeve, is announcing Best Picture. Like it matters, we've got Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Crash, Good Night and Good Luck, Munich. Hmm, who's going to win? Who? HOLY SHIT. IT WAS CRASH. CRASH WON. NOT BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN. Even the Crash folks are like, "Wait, haven't you guys seen Brokeback?" Wow, there was actually an upset. I honestly don't believe it. This is nuts.

11:28. My back hurts and my vision is getting blurry. All in all, Jon Stewart did a great job as host, but really, there's only so much he can do. Lord, the Oscars are boring. Aside from the three seconds of shock after Crash won, everything was pretty predictable. I'm going to start my Globes countdown now. Awards shows need free-flowing alcohol!