Play me a song...

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.

But what about THE CHILDREN???

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.

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

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.

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




"You sir, are the greatest magician EVER!"