One afternoon Jenny and I were listening to Hot 97 and a dj [maybe it was Miss Information] came on and said, "Tupac lives. That's right Tupac lives." Immediately we both extended our arms to our phones to reach out to the community - "for three nights only!" continued Miss Information. She then went on to advertise a comedy impersonator in a Times Square theater.
So until Tupac just comes back into the public eye and admits he's alive, we'll have but this audio proof to look to:
Wednesday, December 31
Tuesday, December 30
Jumper For Joy!
My ex-fiancé Owen is coming to visit from San José and stay with me for a week. In celebration, I'm wearing the jumper he got me for my birthday, even though it makes me look like I'm retaining yogurt.
Saturday, December 27
New Jacket: The 1480's Are Back!
I like this jacket, but the buttons are missing and it makes me look like Christopher Columbus, especially with my hair style. 
Friday, December 26
I Want Your Heart; I Want To Eat Your Children.
After my computer broke, I would go to the library to check my Facebook and Brooklynvegan.com. Although the content was something I mainly enjoyed in my formative years, I looked up a site of Mike Tyson quotes one afternoon while sitting quietly in the library. As I read Mike Tyson's bouts of self expression, I lost control of myself and gave loud, hearty laughs, painting me as a schizophrenic to those around me studying and creating profiles on BlackPlanet.
This was all before my awareness of YouTube. And although the quotes I was reading were uncomfortably funny, it was like awakening the child inside of me to really hear his voice read these famed Tysonisms. Enjoy!
This was all before my awareness of YouTube. And although the quotes I was reading were uncomfortably funny, it was like awakening the child inside of me to really hear his voice read these famed Tysonisms. Enjoy!
Thursday, December 25
So Tonight Thank God It's Them Instead Of You
Everyone [not from my high school] is txting me, Merry Christmas! and it's much less offensive than when I was getting those Thanksgiving mass txts. Jenny's mom txted me a season's greetings, which has been the cutest mass txt so far.
Still, it's been highly inconvenient to find food these past 20 hours. At 6pm last night, everywhere we called was closed. All of the continental places wouldn't pick up, and the Lebanese restaurant was take-out only and couldn't promise a completed order until 9pm. Thankfully India's Grill was open, but it had a sign that read, "We're sorry but we will be closed tomorrow!" with a doodle of a Christmas tree. I would start shouting, Don't Jews Run This Town? but it's also the fifth day of Hanukkah.
We want to have Christmas brunch, which seems like a reasonable request, but again everywhere's closed. I was Christmas-videochatting with Colby, and my dad came in and announced, "We're going to IHOP!"
"Why?"
"Well, we can't go to Norm's."
At this point a normal secular family would've opted to prepare a morning meal together and eat it in front of the basketball game, but Mia's been in Lewistown, PA for the past six days and after day 3 we stopped doing dishes.
"Where are you having Christmas dinner?" Colby asked.
"We had Indian last night."
"You already had it? And you already opened presents?"
"Yup."
"Well tell your dad and brother I say Merry Christmas, or, er. I don't know if I should say Happy Holidays instead."
So we're going to cruise the neighborhood looking for eggs florentine, and if our luck is out, we'll be at IHOP. While I'm gone, you should check out one of my other blogs and download the second Secret Agency sampler. It's fitting; it has a Christmas song.
Still, it's been highly inconvenient to find food these past 20 hours. At 6pm last night, everywhere we called was closed. All of the continental places wouldn't pick up, and the Lebanese restaurant was take-out only and couldn't promise a completed order until 9pm. Thankfully India's Grill was open, but it had a sign that read, "We're sorry but we will be closed tomorrow!" with a doodle of a Christmas tree. I would start shouting, Don't Jews Run This Town? but it's also the fifth day of Hanukkah.
We want to have Christmas brunch, which seems like a reasonable request, but again everywhere's closed. I was Christmas-videochatting with Colby, and my dad came in and announced, "We're going to IHOP!"
"Why?"
"Well, we can't go to Norm's."
At this point a normal secular family would've opted to prepare a morning meal together and eat it in front of the basketball game, but Mia's been in Lewistown, PA for the past six days and after day 3 we stopped doing dishes.
"Where are you having Christmas dinner?" Colby asked.
"We had Indian last night."
"You already had it? And you already opened presents?"
"Yup."
"Well tell your dad and brother I say Merry Christmas, or, er. I don't know if I should say Happy Holidays instead."
So we're going to cruise the neighborhood looking for eggs florentine, and if our luck is out, we'll be at IHOP. While I'm gone, you should check out one of my other blogs and download the second Secret Agency sampler. It's fitting; it has a Christmas song.
Monday, December 22
Friday, December 19
Thursday, December 18
With Friends Like Me
My buddy list is funny because I've kept the same screen name since middle school [veela7, an obscure Harry Potter reference] and have never cleared away the contact information for buddies with whom I have not kept contact.
Once I started using Mac computers and iChat, I delighted in my ability to rename the people on my buddy list. With the very last shreds of memory as to who these people were to me, I altered their screen names as they logged on to AIM, and the results were pretty fucking mean.
Most of my unacquaintances' screen names were changed to their full names with some sort of comment. Some people received an adjective in quotations between their first and last name, the way you would include a nickname when credit your fun coworkers. Except that these nicknames are "crazy" and "oh christ." One girl who was labeled "oh christ" had done a lot of missionary work over summer vacations during high school. I later labeled a second and third girl "oh christ," but at that point I was just being expressive and trying to maintain a level of continuity. For one young lady, who often complained of illness, and whose last name I had forgotten, I wrote her first name and then added: "I just got out of the hospital" w/e her last name is.
Some people have screen names that are worse than mine, so sometimes I'll put their full name and then add, "but his screen name is ThePoetGod" or "whose screen name means Life Sucks So Kill Yourself."
Some people on my buddy list had passed through my life as would an insurance commercial, somehow louder than the television show I was watching and repeated just enough times throughout the half hour so that I can't totally forget. Others had impacted me in a way not dissimilar to painful dental work that I could have survived without, and whatever stress they caused me was probably later taken out on a customer service representative. The former were nicknamed "who?" or had had "like it matters" added to their surname. And the latter buddies received titles like a dentist would, following his full name with DDS. First name, last name, "could have been worse." First name, last name, "or some asshole like that." First name, last name, "is nothing sacred."
For one girl, I filled in her name and then her actual title: "NY Jets Girl Next Door!"
99% of people with whom I have some contact do not get unflattering nicknames, even if we don't regularly speak online, even if you deserve it. My fear of you someday coming over, or somehow seeing what I've titled you on my buddy list when we attempt a file transfer, is so great that I will leave you at your full name.
The 1% getting made fun of and still talking to me are people whose AIM interactions with me are very bothersome. They are not the type to be here, reading this now, but they will IM me from time to time and sexually harass me or ask probing things. In turn they were nicknamed something foreboding, like "eek" or "oh no!!" Through file transfers with them, I'm almost sure that they don't know that I make fun of them, but I still don't want to risk it more often.
I have to get my ya ya's out with my buddy list because I had to stop making fun of people in my phone. One afternoon I hung out with a girl who then realized she couldn't find her phone and asked to use my phone to call herself. She dialed her own number and pressed the green button, and then her nickname appeared on the screen, a slightly hurtful alliteration with her first name. I explained, grinning stupidly, that I had a lot of girls in my phone with the same first name, so they all received negative nicknames; I guess she forgave me because she liked being my friend, but things were probably different after that.
It's easy to see that I can't afford to lose friends here in Los Angeles. It's hard for me to communicate with people out here; often, kids don't know when I'm kidding. They'd sooner respond to a vague compliment than a joke, even if the latter is my sincere way of offering companionship. Should I ever be cunning enough to confuse an Angelino into coming to my apartment to hang out with me, I'll probably just leave my iChat logged out.
Once I started using Mac computers and iChat, I delighted in my ability to rename the people on my buddy list. With the very last shreds of memory as to who these people were to me, I altered their screen names as they logged on to AIM, and the results were pretty fucking mean.
Most of my unacquaintances' screen names were changed to their full names with some sort of comment. Some people received an adjective in quotations between their first and last name, the way you would include a nickname when credit your fun coworkers. Except that these nicknames are "crazy" and "oh christ." One girl who was labeled "oh christ" had done a lot of missionary work over summer vacations during high school. I later labeled a second and third girl "oh christ," but at that point I was just being expressive and trying to maintain a level of continuity. For one young lady, who often complained of illness, and whose last name I had forgotten, I wrote her first name and then added: "I just got out of the hospital" w/e her last name is.
Some people have screen names that are worse than mine, so sometimes I'll put their full name and then add, "but his screen name is ThePoetGod" or "whose screen name means Life Sucks So Kill Yourself."
Some people on my buddy list had passed through my life as would an insurance commercial, somehow louder than the television show I was watching and repeated just enough times throughout the half hour so that I can't totally forget. Others had impacted me in a way not dissimilar to painful dental work that I could have survived without, and whatever stress they caused me was probably later taken out on a customer service representative. The former were nicknamed "who?" or had had "like it matters" added to their surname. And the latter buddies received titles like a dentist would, following his full name with DDS. First name, last name, "could have been worse." First name, last name, "or some asshole like that." First name, last name, "is nothing sacred."
For one girl, I filled in her name and then her actual title: "NY Jets Girl Next Door!"
99% of people with whom I have some contact do not get unflattering nicknames, even if we don't regularly speak online, even if you deserve it. My fear of you someday coming over, or somehow seeing what I've titled you on my buddy list when we attempt a file transfer, is so great that I will leave you at your full name.
The 1% getting made fun of and still talking to me are people whose AIM interactions with me are very bothersome. They are not the type to be here, reading this now, but they will IM me from time to time and sexually harass me or ask probing things. In turn they were nicknamed something foreboding, like "eek" or "oh no!!" Through file transfers with them, I'm almost sure that they don't know that I make fun of them, but I still don't want to risk it more often.
I have to get my ya ya's out with my buddy list because I had to stop making fun of people in my phone. One afternoon I hung out with a girl who then realized she couldn't find her phone and asked to use my phone to call herself. She dialed her own number and pressed the green button, and then her nickname appeared on the screen, a slightly hurtful alliteration with her first name. I explained, grinning stupidly, that I had a lot of girls in my phone with the same first name, so they all received negative nicknames; I guess she forgave me because she liked being my friend, but things were probably different after that.
It's easy to see that I can't afford to lose friends here in Los Angeles. It's hard for me to communicate with people out here; often, kids don't know when I'm kidding. They'd sooner respond to a vague compliment than a joke, even if the latter is my sincere way of offering companionship. Should I ever be cunning enough to confuse an Angelino into coming to my apartment to hang out with me, I'll probably just leave my iChat logged out.
Horoscope From August
Scorpio
Before they're taken off the market, buy Sparks every time you resort to deli drinks. Soon you'll have to return to the efforts of scoring coke.
Most Compatible: with Scorpio
Lucky Show: Aesop Rock @ Toad's Place
Before they're taken off the market, buy Sparks every time you resort to deli drinks. Soon you'll have to return to the efforts of scoring coke.
Most Compatible: with Scorpio
Lucky Show: Aesop Rock @ Toad's Place
Monday, December 15
Sunday, December 14
Don't Record Yourself Popping Pimples And Upload It To The Internet
And don't support people who do.
There isn't enough iro on my hands and feet to make an "ear cyst gusher" or any knowledge of a "bot fly" from PopThat- Zit.com palatable in even the most intimate social situations. Fuck this shit. That shirt is obviously not worth $12.
There isn't enough iro on my hands and feet to make an "ear cyst gusher" or any knowledge of a "bot fly" from PopThat- Zit.com palatable in even the most intimate social situations. Fuck this shit. That shirt is obviously not worth $12.
Saturday, December 13
Girls Behaving Badly
I spent a week in December visiting my friends in New York. I was happy to see them, but my first two days in town were so painfully cold that I was comforted to know that I would be leaving soon.
Walking down 2nd Ave in the cheek-burning weather, I winced into the street to see a tow truck zipping past with a yellow, checkered taxi SUV attached to it. The hood of the cab had been crumpled in a U-shape, giving a sense of how fast it had been going and raising a question of where the front-right tire went.
For all the death-defying experiences I've had in cabs, I only once considered that they could crash. It was at the height of my New York-based anxiety, right before I moved to Los Angeles. I hailed the first taxi that I believed would accept credit cards, and asked the driver to take me from midtown to Houston.
As he pulled away from the curb, he instantly began driving as if he was stuck in cruise control at 60mph, and that to slow down would bring us a Sandra Bullock-related death. He instantly began making road enemies, with a strong desire to spite them at every opportunity. There was an older, gray Toyota that had somehow angered the cab driver, so he began tail-gaiting it and honking at it and attempting to somehow cut it off from behind. I was leaning back in my seat and my right hand was clutching the armrest - a part of cars I hardly ever note.
"Forget about it," I stated out loud. "He's not worth it."
I don't know if the cab driver heard me or thought I was on the phone, but he seemed to relax a bit after that.
Yesterday I hailed a cab outside of Jenny's apartment and we both got in it. I had two large bags, as I was on my way to JFK, and she had one large bag, and she was headed toward a portfolio-building fashion shoot. I ordered to be dropped off at Grand Central, where I could pick up a bus to JFK for $13, after which Jenny would continue on with the driver to Brooklyn. The cab stopped because of a red light at a three-way intersection, and as the cab stood perpendicular to Grand Central, I decided it was time to pay my portion of the fare and jump out.
I stood outside of the taxi with the door open, one of my bags leaning against my leg as I pulled my other bag out of the back seat. The light turned green at that moment, and the driver of the car behind the cab immediately pounded her elbow into her horn. I closed the car door and stepped back and the cab wasn't even next to drive because of the early-morning congestion and the woman didn't stop holding her horn down. Her noise pollution was so offensive that I did the thing I always do when I'm in New York, which is hold up my middle finger and then yell, "Do you see this? Do you see this?"
I picked up my two bags and trudged to the sidewalk, and then an ugly voice based in the worst area of New Jersey replied, "Fuck you, ya bitch! Get the fuck out of here!" I think it was then followed by a spitting noise, but I may have imagined that.
Stupidly, she drove her car a few feet and hung a left into heavy traffic and then became stuck in the crosswalk that I needed to use to walk to Grand Central. It was as though God Himself delivered the chance for me to stand close to her car window and employ the hand motion and facial expression-equivalents to chanting, "Ooga Booga, Ooga Booga," near her face. In turn, I won the fight.
Horoscope for Virgo:
Temporarily stop shaving your body hair. You need all the warmth you can get.
Walking down 2nd Ave in the cheek-burning weather, I winced into the street to see a tow truck zipping past with a yellow, checkered taxi SUV attached to it. The hood of the cab had been crumpled in a U-shape, giving a sense of how fast it had been going and raising a question of where the front-right tire went.
For all the death-defying experiences I've had in cabs, I only once considered that they could crash. It was at the height of my New York-based anxiety, right before I moved to Los Angeles. I hailed the first taxi that I believed would accept credit cards, and asked the driver to take me from midtown to Houston.
As he pulled away from the curb, he instantly began driving as if he was stuck in cruise control at 60mph, and that to slow down would bring us a Sandra Bullock-related death. He instantly began making road enemies, with a strong desire to spite them at every opportunity. There was an older, gray Toyota that had somehow angered the cab driver, so he began tail-gaiting it and honking at it and attempting to somehow cut it off from behind. I was leaning back in my seat and my right hand was clutching the armrest - a part of cars I hardly ever note.
"Forget about it," I stated out loud. "He's not worth it."
I don't know if the cab driver heard me or thought I was on the phone, but he seemed to relax a bit after that.
Yesterday I hailed a cab outside of Jenny's apartment and we both got in it. I had two large bags, as I was on my way to JFK, and she had one large bag, and she was headed toward a portfolio-building fashion shoot. I ordered to be dropped off at Grand Central, where I could pick up a bus to JFK for $13, after which Jenny would continue on with the driver to Brooklyn. The cab stopped because of a red light at a three-way intersection, and as the cab stood perpendicular to Grand Central, I decided it was time to pay my portion of the fare and jump out.
I stood outside of the taxi with the door open, one of my bags leaning against my leg as I pulled my other bag out of the back seat. The light turned green at that moment, and the driver of the car behind the cab immediately pounded her elbow into her horn. I closed the car door and stepped back and the cab wasn't even next to drive because of the early-morning congestion and the woman didn't stop holding her horn down. Her noise pollution was so offensive that I did the thing I always do when I'm in New York, which is hold up my middle finger and then yell, "Do you see this? Do you see this?"
I picked up my two bags and trudged to the sidewalk, and then an ugly voice based in the worst area of New Jersey replied, "Fuck you, ya bitch! Get the fuck out of here!" I think it was then followed by a spitting noise, but I may have imagined that.
Stupidly, she drove her car a few feet and hung a left into heavy traffic and then became stuck in the crosswalk that I needed to use to walk to Grand Central. It was as though God Himself delivered the chance for me to stand close to her car window and employ the hand motion and facial expression-equivalents to chanting, "Ooga Booga, Ooga Booga," near her face. In turn, I won the fight.
Horoscope for Virgo:
Temporarily stop shaving your body hair. You need all the warmth you can get.
Friday, December 12
Friday, December 5
Thursday, December 4
Los Angeles Wildfires
"What happened? There's a body shop on fire?" It was 8 am and Terry was hovered over his computer while filling out paperwork with his right hand. The television was on and the news was showing the aerial shot of firemen in a street, and Terry had taken a distracted interest in the story because the words WEST HOLLYWOOD were at the bottom of the screen.
The original stereotypes about Los Angeles, the ones established prior to current popular television shows that misrepresent the city, are largely untrue. However, the cheesey-breasted, fedora-pinching monsters of your poor imagination do exist in one place: the Sunset Strip.
Everywhere on the brightly lit, bar portion of Sunset Blvd is the worst place I've ever been. When I went to the Wild West-themed bar with a mechanical bull and slipped into the bathroom to relieve myself of the setting and other things, I found that all four bathroom stalls were home to women either sleeping or vomiting. When I went to a show at the Viper Room, I needed to be more cautious of watching after my drink than I'd been anywhere else in my life. When I ate at Mel's Diner on a Wednesday night, a drunk woman, who was accompanied by her two drunk friends after they had all failed at a bar and were at present all failing to notice that their eye makeup was streaked down their cheeks, sarcastically yelled, "Wasn't the election YESTERDAY?" as No-On-8 protesters passed the diner's windows. The only place I like on Sunset Blvd is a strip club.
The Body Shop is an expensive strip club that was made famous when celebrities started going there 30 years ago, which caused it to be mentioned in a Motley Crue song and featured in the movie Striptease with Demi Moore. After that it became a fake mobster hang out, but I always liked it because of how stupid it looks.
There is a rectangular lighted sign to the right of the entrance, which has an animated girl on it. Although from a distance it appears as though she is balancing two basketballs on her shoulders, in the image she's actually covering the lewdest part of her miraculously large breasts.
The stupid feature that made me fall in love with the Body Shop is its sign that faces Sunset Blvd's traffic. In large white letters, it reads, "18 Years Ok!!!"
I couldn't find any pictures of the interior online, and I'll never get to because it burned down this morning at 6:45am. Everyone who hears about it suspects insurance-based foul play.
The following are excerpts from the Body Shop's now obsolete website:
Truth:
Most dancers will lie and say they are single and exchange phone numbers with you. IF they call... its because they want more of your money.
FACTS:
Strip clubs are NOT whore houses.
All strip clubs have a few dancers who are nasty.
Many dancers are not drug addicts or alcoholics. Some are.
Most dancers will NOT go home with you or take money for sex. Some will.
ALL businesses have employees that behave the same way, only its not so
obvious or public (poor Bill got caught in the act)!
Some Strip Clubs are classy. Some are sleezy.
Many dancers are more intelligent than wives and girlfriends!
The original stereotypes about Los Angeles, the ones established prior to current popular television shows that misrepresent the city, are largely untrue. However, the cheesey-breasted, fedora-pinching monsters of your poor imagination do exist in one place: the Sunset Strip.
Everywhere on the brightly lit, bar portion of Sunset Blvd is the worst place I've ever been. When I went to the Wild West-themed bar with a mechanical bull and slipped into the bathroom to relieve myself of the setting and other things, I found that all four bathroom stalls were home to women either sleeping or vomiting. When I went to a show at the Viper Room, I needed to be more cautious of watching after my drink than I'd been anywhere else in my life. When I ate at Mel's Diner on a Wednesday night, a drunk woman, who was accompanied by her two drunk friends after they had all failed at a bar and were at present all failing to notice that their eye makeup was streaked down their cheeks, sarcastically yelled, "Wasn't the election YESTERDAY?" as No-On-8 protesters passed the diner's windows. The only place I like on Sunset Blvd is a strip club.
The Body Shop is an expensive strip club that was made famous when celebrities started going there 30 years ago, which caused it to be mentioned in a Motley Crue song and featured in the movie Striptease with Demi Moore. After that it became a fake mobster hang out, but I always liked it because of how stupid it looks.
There is a rectangular lighted sign to the right of the entrance, which has an animated girl on it. Although from a distance it appears as though she is balancing two basketballs on her shoulders, in the image she's actually covering the lewdest part of her miraculously large breasts.The stupid feature that made me fall in love with the Body Shop is its sign that faces Sunset Blvd's traffic. In large white letters, it reads, "18 Years Ok!!!"
I couldn't find any pictures of the interior online, and I'll never get to because it burned down this morning at 6:45am. Everyone who hears about it suspects insurance-based foul play.The following are excerpts from the Body Shop's now obsolete website:
Truth:
Most dancers will lie and say they are single and exchange phone numbers with you. IF they call... its because they want more of your money.
FACTS:
Strip clubs are NOT whore houses.
All strip clubs have a few dancers who are nasty.
Many dancers are not drug addicts or alcoholics. Some are.
Most dancers will NOT go home with you or take money for sex. Some will.
ALL businesses have employees that behave the same way, only its not so
obvious or public (poor Bill got caught in the act)!
Some Strip Clubs are classy. Some are sleezy.
Many dancers are more intelligent than wives and girlfriends!
Top 5 Funniest Parts of the Trailer for Gran Torino
I saw three major motion pictures last month: Synecdoche, New York, JCVD, and Slumdog Millionaire. During each preview session, the trailer for Gran Torino was played, and every time I watched it I'd cackle and hoot.
In New York everyone asks, "Is that movie really worth the $12.50?" but in Los Angeles, going to the movies costs $14.50, with a $2 surcharge if you buy your tickets online or go to the movies on the weekend. They make it up to me by serving alcohol in the theater, sometimes with waitress service at my seat.
So I'm going to save you the sixteen dollars and show you the trailer you've been missing by pirating movies. If you are sometimes unsure of when to laugh at previews, I've listed my favorite parts of Gran Torino below.
Top 5 Funniest Parts of the Trailer for Gran Torino
5. "We've got beer, too." "I might as well..."
4. "What was it like to kill a man?" "You don't wanna know."
3. "What the hell these Chinese have to move into this neighborhood for?"
2. "Thao and Sue are never gonna find peace in this world..."
1. "Why are you bringing me all this garbage anyway?"
In New York everyone asks, "Is that movie really worth the $12.50?" but in Los Angeles, going to the movies costs $14.50, with a $2 surcharge if you buy your tickets online or go to the movies on the weekend. They make it up to me by serving alcohol in the theater, sometimes with waitress service at my seat.
So I'm going to save you the sixteen dollars and show you the trailer you've been missing by pirating movies. If you are sometimes unsure of when to laugh at previews, I've listed my favorite parts of Gran Torino below.
Top 5 Funniest Parts of the Trailer for Gran Torino
5. "We've got beer, too." "I might as well..."
4. "What was it like to kill a man?" "You don't wanna know."
3. "What the hell these Chinese have to move into this neighborhood for?"
2. "Thao and Sue are never gonna find peace in this world..."
1. "Why are you bringing me all this garbage anyway?"
Wednesday, December 3
Tuesday, December 2
Bombay
The black cat jumped into Atiya's lap and began to strut back and forth, kneading Atiya's thighs to make them more tender.
"This cat is so sexy!" Atiya exclaimed, as the cat stepped on her right leg with all four paws and then turned around, the cat's tail whipping her nose, the cats asshole probably grazing her shoulder, and then stepping back over to Atiya's left leg.
Atiya had met the cat before when we lived on Long Island. The cat was very skinny then and would stretch her torso out a lot. At some point we got a little high, and as the cat sauntered around Atiya, Atiya whispered, "I want to see your skeleton."
But now she was in Los Angeles, reunited with the cat after two or three years, and the cat quickly warmed up to her. I had watched a television special on the intelligence of orangutans, as they utilized sign language and successfully played memory games. Near the end of the special, the star orangutan, Thaddeus, was reunited with Sally, the lady orangutan he had known in his formative years but had not seen in over half of his lifespan.
"Will Thaddeus remember Sally?" the scientist said in a voice over, as Thaddeus was ushered into a large habitat-cage where Sally was chewing on something and waiting. The two squinted at each other, unable to believe their orangutan eyes, and then ran at each other and leaped into each other's arms. The orangutans were crying, the scientists began crying, I was alone and became a little visibly emotional as well. Unfortunately, I do not think that that was what the cat was going through when Atiya entered our apartment.
When we first got the all-black cat, we couldn't pick a name for her. My dad wanted Blackey, I wanted Blackula, but my dad's girlfriend, Mia, nixed both of those names and, citing the cat's loving friendliness toward all of us, decided that the cat should be named Family Pet.
Family Pet showed a penchant for constant affection, and would get it any weird way she could. Sometimes she would on top of the refrigerator and wait for one of us [we're a pretty tall family] to pass by. From there, she would jump to our shoulders and get comfortable on them, and we'd walk around slowly and slightly hunched over, not unlike a professional wrestler showing off his namesake boa constrictor.
Some nights the cat would come into my room and get on my lap and begin purring. Then she'd start digging her nails into my thighs, lightly and rhythmically corresponding with her purring. The whole thing did seem kind of sexual, and I would find myself questioning if I was a zoophiliac.
One day Mia brought home the confusing Russian novel, The Master and Margarita.
"Look!" she laughed, holding the book up to the cat, "It's Family Pet!"
The cover of the paperback displayed a shiney black sitting upright, not unlike a well-trained pubescent, the cat's back to the viewer. Looking over its shoulder, the cat's eyes were excited and gold, and the cat's tongue, split down the center like a serpent's, was slithering out of its mouth and reaching toward the book's binding.
I imagined Margarita to be the shiny black cat, harboring the soul of a once-luscious woman. Purring her filthy deceit into the ears of the ship captain/lord of the manor, she would drive the man to commit clean murders of those who had transgressed her in her former life. The novel would end, presumably, when he left more of his estate to her than to his hard-working, motherless children.
Unfortunately Margarita isn't the cat, but apparently a woman-turned-witch, carrying on an affair with a writer and often making deals with Satan. The cat on the cover is actually named Behemoth, and is in turn quite large. And like every Russian, Behemoth enjoys vodka, chess, and shooting guns [at the literary elite]. The former does sort of sound like Family Pet, but sadly, the latter does not.
Within the past few weeks I've learned that Family Pet is a purebred Bombay. She had been bred to perform in cat shows but, because of three whispy white spots on her stomach and chest, she and her mother were put up for adoption.
Bombays, a breed that gained popularity in the American South in the late 1940s, were made to resemble small black panthers with pretty yellow eyes. In their genetic makeup is a personality trait of desperate neediness, which breeders have translated to, "good with children." No matter who had adopted her from the North Shore Animal Leauge, Family Pet would have had no choice but to instantly have become one-of-the-family.
"This cat is so sexy!" Atiya exclaimed, as the cat stepped on her right leg with all four paws and then turned around, the cat's tail whipping her nose, the cats asshole probably grazing her shoulder, and then stepping back over to Atiya's left leg.
Atiya had met the cat before when we lived on Long Island. The cat was very skinny then and would stretch her torso out a lot. At some point we got a little high, and as the cat sauntered around Atiya, Atiya whispered, "I want to see your skeleton."
But now she was in Los Angeles, reunited with the cat after two or three years, and the cat quickly warmed up to her. I had watched a television special on the intelligence of orangutans, as they utilized sign language and successfully played memory games. Near the end of the special, the star orangutan, Thaddeus, was reunited with Sally, the lady orangutan he had known in his formative years but had not seen in over half of his lifespan.
"Will Thaddeus remember Sally?" the scientist said in a voice over, as Thaddeus was ushered into a large habitat-cage where Sally was chewing on something and waiting. The two squinted at each other, unable to believe their orangutan eyes, and then ran at each other and leaped into each other's arms. The orangutans were crying, the scientists began crying, I was alone and became a little visibly emotional as well. Unfortunately, I do not think that that was what the cat was going through when Atiya entered our apartment.
When we first got the all-black cat, we couldn't pick a name for her. My dad wanted Blackey, I wanted Blackula, but my dad's girlfriend, Mia, nixed both of those names and, citing the cat's loving friendliness toward all of us, decided that the cat should be named Family Pet.Family Pet showed a penchant for constant affection, and would get it any weird way she could. Sometimes she would on top of the refrigerator and wait for one of us [we're a pretty tall family] to pass by. From there, she would jump to our shoulders and get comfortable on them, and we'd walk around slowly and slightly hunched over, not unlike a professional wrestler showing off his namesake boa constrictor.
Some nights the cat would come into my room and get on my lap and begin purring. Then she'd start digging her nails into my thighs, lightly and rhythmically corresponding with her purring. The whole thing did seem kind of sexual, and I would find myself questioning if I was a zoophiliac.
One day Mia brought home the confusing Russian novel, The Master and Margarita.
"Look!" she laughed, holding the book up to the cat, "It's Family Pet!" The cover of the paperback displayed a shiney black sitting upright, not unlike a well-trained pubescent, the cat's back to the viewer. Looking over its shoulder, the cat's eyes were excited and gold, and the cat's tongue, split down the center like a serpent's, was slithering out of its mouth and reaching toward the book's binding.
I imagined Margarita to be the shiny black cat, harboring the soul of a once-luscious woman. Purring her filthy deceit into the ears of the ship captain/lord of the manor, she would drive the man to commit clean murders of those who had transgressed her in her former life. The novel would end, presumably, when he left more of his estate to her than to his hard-working, motherless children.
Unfortunately Margarita isn't the cat, but apparently a woman-turned-witch, carrying on an affair with a writer and often making deals with Satan. The cat on the cover is actually named Behemoth, and is in turn quite large. And like every Russian, Behemoth enjoys vodka, chess, and shooting guns [at the literary elite]. The former does sort of sound like Family Pet, but sadly, the latter does not.
Within the past few weeks I've learned that Family Pet is a purebred Bombay. She had been bred to perform in cat shows but, because of three whispy white spots on her stomach and chest, she and her mother were put up for adoption.
Bombays, a breed that gained popularity in the American South in the late 1940s, were made to resemble small black panthers with pretty yellow eyes. In their genetic makeup is a personality trait of desperate neediness, which breeders have translated to, "good with children." No matter who had adopted her from the North Shore Animal Leauge, Family Pet would have had no choice but to instantly have become one-of-the-family.
Monday, December 1
Breaking Your Arm - With Style!
Jenny plunged about 5 feet and used her arm to break her fall, which in turn broke her arm. She was prescribed codine, which she said didn't really help, but when she'd call me, it would sound like I was talking to James Brown.
Taking it up a notch, the doctors gave her morphine. One night she called me around 2 am PST [making it 5 am EST] to tell me about the bugs.
In our second semester of junior year and first semester of senior year, Jenny had a hamster named Boss. When she first brought Boss home, she couldn't stop taking cell phone pictures of her and playing the Kelis song, "I'm Bossy." In her cage, Boss would run on her exercise wheel all night long, but we'd consider the sound soothing and adorable. However, by the beginning of senior year, Boss had gained a lot of weight and become crotchety. She'd bite people's fingers and they'd bleed a little, and then I'd get my cell phone and take a picture of it.
Jenny took Boss home with her during winter break. Boss had developed some sort of illness named after a human disease [hamster AIDS or hamster colon cancer] and it caused her to get little red welts on her hamster face. Jenny came home from work one day and her apartment was crawling with fruit flies. She went into her room and discovered that bugs had, at an earlier date, laid eggs in Boss' scabs and that now baby bugs had hatched out and moved onto her walls. Boss gave up soon after that and was buried facing Mecca.
I referred to the incident as, "the time Bossy got infested," and it made Jenny get really mad at me. Boss was her little, sickly baby, whose PetCo inbreeding was more at fault for her unfortunate life than any lack of parenting on Jenny's end.
"Jenny, you're not infested!" I told her on the phone, referring to Bossy, but she didn't seem to notice because of the morphine.
"No! Listen, listen. Okay. So I found this bag of clothes on the street" - Jenny finds really good clothes on the street - "and they were cool, y'know? Like kind of worn, a lot of denim. They're cool. So I bring them home and do you know what I found in the bag?"
What?
"An avocado!" she giggled. "And part of a pretzel!" I could picture her laughing and scratching herself and it made me really want to try morphine.
"Jenny, bed bugs don't eat avocados!"
"But I feel them on me. I'm so itchy." She began to whisper:"And you know how I know it's them?"
How?
"Because I'm scratching but there isn't any red marks."
Is that a thing?
"Now my mom's gonna make me throw out all my stuff. I'm so depressed!"
"You don't have bed bugs. The morphine's making you itchy! If those clothes you found had bed bugs, there would have been a sign like: DO NOT TAKE THESE! THEY HAVE BED BUGS! Like with mattresses."
"But what if someone did it on purpose to be evil?"
"Honestly, those clothes probably belonged to somebody who's dead. Maybe his ghost is making you itchy."
Jenny had a cast put on today and txted me a picture.
She opted for a black cast, which I think is really smart because it's comparatively sleek and blocks all the assholes we know from writing, "GR8 JOB" and "I said On The Rocks for AFTER we went skiing."
I clicked around and found a company called Broken Beauties, which sells fashion for the comfort and healing of broken bones. You can order walkers in hot pink, spruce, or sapphire that come with fabric covers made from Hawaiian shirts. There are Crutch Buns, which are velvety covers for the cushion of your crutches, and also Crutch Muffins, which stylishly cover your crutch cushions and the length of your crutch in neutral tones, jungle animal prints, or exciting patterns similar to tapestries you'd find in a world music store.
Aside from the Cast Cuties, which are cast covers for broken toes, the largest selection for communicating personal style is in Cast Covers and Fashion Slings. Broken Beauties can order "Arm Candy" in orchid tie-dye, paisely, pink skulls, or ocelot [which they consider different from cheetah]. The arm slings come in eight prints of floral, four kinds of animal, and two types of optical illusion, plus camo and a skull-and-rose pattern. They totally beat the shit out of the navy blue waterproof slings gimps-of-yore were forced to use to support their injury. There is also a decent sling selection for children, which offers dinosaurs and sporting balls, and a business section with pinstripe, plaid and tweed slings. You can also order Chinatown slings in Gucci or Louis Vuitton.
I finally realized how much middle-aged women like cheetah prints. I thought back to picture frames from beachfront gift shops and jackets designed by Suzanne Somers [for K-Mart?]. Do these ladies wish jungle beasts were not endangered so they could wear the furry spots for real?
Peri just G-chatted me that Jenny plans on having her cast studded with spikes, presumably so she can use it as a late-night weapon, or to make people assume she was crippled in a motorcycling accident. Either way, she already is a Broken Beauty and I'm excited for her to heal.
Taking it up a notch, the doctors gave her morphine. One night she called me around 2 am PST [making it 5 am EST] to tell me about the bugs.
In our second semester of junior year and first semester of senior year, Jenny had a hamster named Boss. When she first brought Boss home, she couldn't stop taking cell phone pictures of her and playing the Kelis song, "I'm Bossy." In her cage, Boss would run on her exercise wheel all night long, but we'd consider the sound soothing and adorable. However, by the beginning of senior year, Boss had gained a lot of weight and become crotchety. She'd bite people's fingers and they'd bleed a little, and then I'd get my cell phone and take a picture of it.
Jenny took Boss home with her during winter break. Boss had developed some sort of illness named after a human disease [hamster AIDS or hamster colon cancer] and it caused her to get little red welts on her hamster face. Jenny came home from work one day and her apartment was crawling with fruit flies. She went into her room and discovered that bugs had, at an earlier date, laid eggs in Boss' scabs and that now baby bugs had hatched out and moved onto her walls. Boss gave up soon after that and was buried facing Mecca.
I referred to the incident as, "the time Bossy got infested," and it made Jenny get really mad at me. Boss was her little, sickly baby, whose PetCo inbreeding was more at fault for her unfortunate life than any lack of parenting on Jenny's end.
"Jenny, you're not infested!" I told her on the phone, referring to Bossy, but she didn't seem to notice because of the morphine.
"No! Listen, listen. Okay. So I found this bag of clothes on the street" - Jenny finds really good clothes on the street - "and they were cool, y'know? Like kind of worn, a lot of denim. They're cool. So I bring them home and do you know what I found in the bag?"
What?
"An avocado!" she giggled. "And part of a pretzel!" I could picture her laughing and scratching herself and it made me really want to try morphine.
"Jenny, bed bugs don't eat avocados!"
"But I feel them on me. I'm so itchy." She began to whisper:"And you know how I know it's them?"
How?
"Because I'm scratching but there isn't any red marks."
Is that a thing?
"Now my mom's gonna make me throw out all my stuff. I'm so depressed!"
"You don't have bed bugs. The morphine's making you itchy! If those clothes you found had bed bugs, there would have been a sign like: DO NOT TAKE THESE! THEY HAVE BED BUGS! Like with mattresses."
"But what if someone did it on purpose to be evil?"
"Honestly, those clothes probably belonged to somebody who's dead. Maybe his ghost is making you itchy."
Jenny had a cast put on today and txted me a picture.
She opted for a black cast, which I think is really smart because it's comparatively sleek and blocks all the assholes we know from writing, "GR8 JOB" and "I said On The Rocks for AFTER we went skiing."I clicked around and found a company called Broken Beauties, which sells fashion for the comfort and healing of broken bones. You can order walkers in hot pink, spruce, or sapphire that come with fabric covers made from Hawaiian shirts. There are Crutch Buns, which are velvety covers for the cushion of your crutches, and also Crutch Muffins, which stylishly cover your crutch cushions and the length of your crutch in neutral tones, jungle animal prints, or exciting patterns similar to tapestries you'd find in a world music store.
Aside from the Cast Cuties, which are cast covers for broken toes, the largest selection for communicating personal style is in Cast Covers and Fashion Slings. Broken Beauties can order "Arm Candy" in orchid tie-dye, paisely, pink skulls, or ocelot [which they consider different from cheetah]. The arm slings come in eight prints of floral, four kinds of animal, and two types of optical illusion, plus camo and a skull-and-rose pattern. They totally beat the shit out of the navy blue waterproof slings gimps-of-yore were forced to use to support their injury. There is also a decent sling selection for children, which offers dinosaurs and sporting balls, and a business section with pinstripe, plaid and tweed slings. You can also order Chinatown slings in Gucci or Louis Vuitton.
I finally realized how much middle-aged women like cheetah prints. I thought back to picture frames from beachfront gift shops and jackets designed by Suzanne Somers [for K-Mart?]. Do these ladies wish jungle beasts were not endangered so they could wear the furry spots for real?
Peri just G-chatted me that Jenny plans on having her cast studded with spikes, presumably so she can use it as a late-night weapon, or to make people assume she was crippled in a motorcycling accident. Either way, she already is a Broken Beauty and I'm excited for her to heal.
Sunday, November 30
Saturday, November 29
New Jacket
Last week I went to the flea market at Fairfax high school with friends 
and on the outer rim of a vendor's lot, which was mostly hippie clothing and $6 "I survived" t-shirts, were these blazers made of drug rug material, detailed with wild, wild west images and scenes from a prairie on a clear day. They sent me on a babbling tangent.
"Oh my God," it began, and after a pause I added, "This is so real. I mean, this is on some other shit. This on some real
shit that I've actually never seen before. They basically just took some Ameri- cana and then played up the like, fetishizing of Original American handy crafts, and then somehow figured out the perfect length at which to end the jacket, like they somehow knew that I wanted it like three weeks ago and got to work. This is like the natural progression. This rules so much." I decided to calm down. "I have to walk away now, I have to think about it. But I'll be back."
I walked through the entire flea market, telling vendors that I'd come return to spend all of my money at their booth, when I clearly wouldn't.
When I made my way back to the front of market, where the jackets were, I tried them all on in front of a warped mirror. I finally decided on the black-and-white one with wild horses sewn on it - although the colorful one with a tiger head and lion head on the back and black faux fur on the collar was a close runner-up.
The woman selling them was happy to take my $25. "Oh yes," she smiled at me, "these are very new," and then mentioned a reservation or New Mexico or both.
I told her that I could tell and that I didn't need a bag. I waited until I had left her sight to rip the shoulder pads out.
and on the outer rim of a vendor's lot, which was mostly hippie clothing and $6 "I survived" t-shirts, were these blazers made of drug rug material, detailed with wild, wild west images and scenes from a prairie on a clear day. They sent me on a babbling tangent."Oh my God," it began, and after a pause I added, "This is so real. I mean, this is on some other shit. This on some real
shit that I've actually never seen before. They basically just took some Ameri- cana and then played up the like, fetishizing of Original American handy crafts, and then somehow figured out the perfect length at which to end the jacket, like they somehow knew that I wanted it like three weeks ago and got to work. This is like the natural progression. This rules so much." I decided to calm down. "I have to walk away now, I have to think about it. But I'll be back."I walked through the entire flea market, telling vendors that I'd come return to spend all of my money at their booth, when I clearly wouldn't.
When I made my way back to the front of market, where the jackets were, I tried them all on in front of a warped mirror. I finally decided on the black-and-white one with wild horses sewn on it - although the colorful one with a tiger head and lion head on the back and black faux fur on the collar was a close runner-up.
The woman selling them was happy to take my $25. "Oh yes," she smiled at me, "these are very new," and then mentioned a reservation or New Mexico or both. I told her that I could tell and that I didn't need a bag. I waited until I had left her sight to rip the shoulder pads out.
Thursday, November 27
Ethnic Cleansing
As with most historical genocides, there's no worst part about Thanksgiving, except perhaps that it's celebrated in my country. The mass txts haven't stopped, and I really have no intention of writing back. It would be like if the Germans won, and we all had November ninth off from school and work and the mail didn't come, and then network TV closed 5th Avenue and allowed blondes to march down it popping balloons and throwing drinking glasses. "Thank you for being my friend," they'd say to one another, "and for keeping your skin so fair."
I watched three minutes of Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I assumed I would have missed it, having slept until 1pm EST, but NBC played the merrymaking on a three-hour delay for those of us on PST. I saw the shiny Planters peanut car, with a giant, immobile Mr. Peanut in the backseat, his cane awkwardly held out in front of him, followed by a 35-person-controlled balloon of Ronald McDonald, which was trailed by a convertible driven by sickly children, Ronald McDonald standing up on the backseat.
Floats stopped in front Macy*s Herald Square, "the biggest store in the world," whose top two floors have been littered with trash and under construction since I was in nursery school, and whose jail accounts for another full floor. A float shaped like a pink castle pulled up to the store and paused, which didn't seem so bad because, unlike the Big Apple Circus float, it wasn't pulled by horses. It was covered with little white girls wearing feminine colors and doing a-rhythmic pelvic thrusts. NBC announced that this was Princess Academy's Castle of Dreams, where all girls can learn new skills and be princesses through practicing Generosity, Intelligence, Beauty, and Confidence.
"What a fucked school," I said to my dad, both of us mesmerized. According to a Macy*s press website, which has since been deleted, the float was made with "230,000 flecks of glitter," a unit of measure with which I am unfamiliar.
NBC then zoomed in on three blond pubescents who had a private balcony on the Castle of Dreams. Each had thick, crisp bangs, and matching platinum hair extensions, although only Destiny and Paris are related [Madison is their best friend since forever!] They were the only people on the S.S. Rosatia wearing black, and they were covered in dangly, silver jewelry. Microphones appeared in their hands, and the three girls began to lip sync very poorly to a song about about a boy. It looked as though NBC was dubbing over three blooming Germans from the Kristillnacht parade with English lyrics.
I watched three minutes of Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I assumed I would have missed it, having slept until 1pm EST, but NBC played the merrymaking on a three-hour delay for those of us on PST. I saw the shiny Planters peanut car, with a giant, immobile Mr. Peanut in the backseat, his cane awkwardly held out in front of him, followed by a 35-person-controlled balloon of Ronald McDonald, which was trailed by a convertible driven by sickly children, Ronald McDonald standing up on the backseat.
Floats stopped in front Macy*s Herald Square, "the biggest store in the world," whose top two floors have been littered with trash and under construction since I was in nursery school, and whose jail accounts for another full floor. A float shaped like a pink castle pulled up to the store and paused, which didn't seem so bad because, unlike the Big Apple Circus float, it wasn't pulled by horses. It was covered with little white girls wearing feminine colors and doing a-rhythmic pelvic thrusts. NBC announced that this was Princess Academy's Castle of Dreams, where all girls can learn new skills and be princesses through practicing Generosity, Intelligence, Beauty, and Confidence.
"What a fucked school," I said to my dad, both of us mesmerized. According to a Macy*s press website, which has since been deleted, the float was made with "230,000 flecks of glitter," a unit of measure with which I am unfamiliar.
NBC then zoomed in on three blond pubescents who had a private balcony on the Castle of Dreams. Each had thick, crisp bangs, and matching platinum hair extensions, although only Destiny and Paris are related [Madison is their best friend since forever!] They were the only people on the S.S. Rosatia wearing black, and they were covered in dangly, silver jewelry. Microphones appeared in their hands, and the three girls began to lip sync very poorly to a song about about a boy. It looked as though NBC was dubbing over three blooming Germans from the Kristillnacht parade with English lyrics.
Tuesday, November 25
I'm Being Invaded!
The other week I woke up with a stressful feeling that my identity was being stolen. It was probably, in part, from all of the minimum wage job applications I filled out, which never lead to any source of income and, to my great discomfort, required that I scribble in my social security number - as though people with felonies don't work at Pinkberry. 
However, I now believe the real threat to be Elaine Stamatis, taking New York, NY by storm, and fear what similar actions she may take.
However, I now believe the real threat to be Elaine Stamatis, taking New York, NY by storm, and fear what similar actions she may take.
Monday, November 24
Children Are The Future
This woman with webbed feet did such a poor job 
painting her toenails that I can't help but wonder if she has webbed fingers. Either way, it's good to know, based on the smaller foot in the picture, that webbing is not hereditary.
painting her toenails that I can't help but wonder if she has webbed fingers. Either way, it's good to know, based on the smaller foot in the picture, that webbing is not hereditary.
Sunday, November 23
Bond Girl
"Make me look like the girl from Quantum of Solace," I told the barber at Rudy's as she wrapped the security blanket around my neck. 
"What?" she asked as though she heard me but couldn't understand.
"The new Bond girl with dark hair."
"Oh, I didn't see it."
"Oh, neither did I, but the billboards are everywhere!"
"Nah. I haven't seen them."
Some people use hyperbole but I write in very literal terms: the last time I hiked up a mountain and looked down on the city of Los Angeles I could see TWO sky-scraper-sized ads for Quantum of Solace in which Daniel Craig and the bitch with the dark hair [who comes from the area of Spain where the popular dominant gene is to have six fingers] are walking through the desert. Another ad, not visible from "Inspiration Point," was a few blocks away from the barber shop, on the same major street.
"She has the brown, short hair?"
"I haven't seen those ads."
"She was born with six fingers."
"What? I'm sorry, I really don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? Does your seeing-eye dog drop you off at your chair every morning and come back to pick you up at five?" I thought. I then explained that she should cut my hair above the shoulder and put in some light bangs.
"What?" she asked as though she heard me but couldn't understand.
"The new Bond girl with dark hair."
"Oh, I didn't see it."
"Oh, neither did I, but the billboards are everywhere!"
"Nah. I haven't seen them."
Some people use hyperbole but I write in very literal terms: the last time I hiked up a mountain and looked down on the city of Los Angeles I could see TWO sky-scraper-sized ads for Quantum of Solace in which Daniel Craig and the bitch with the dark hair [who comes from the area of Spain where the popular dominant gene is to have six fingers] are walking through the desert. Another ad, not visible from "Inspiration Point," was a few blocks away from the barber shop, on the same major street.
"She has the brown, short hair?"
"I haven't seen those ads."
"She was born with six fingers."
"What? I'm sorry, I really don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? Does your seeing-eye dog drop you off at your chair every morning and come back to pick you up at five?" I thought. I then explained that she should cut my hair above the shoulder and put in some light bangs.
Saturday, November 22
Friday, November 21
Products Made With Greeks In Mind
I'd never seen the catalog before but Mia said it arrives every year before Christmas. Ellinas Multimedia's shopping booklet, enthusiastically putting the Greek in Greek-American, at five pages, isn't quite long enough to be hilarious. We don't belong to any Greek organizations that would have our Los Angeles address, so either E.M. has access to an invasive database of pure blood Greeks, or our mailbox number was given to E.M. by relative with whom we have trouble relating.
Without an actual cover, the catalog's outer page is the first page, advertising a new product to the Ellinas Multimedia holiday line: Baklava-flavored Popcorn, available in one and two gallon tins. "We took Yia Yia's [grandmother's] secret Baklava recipe" and put it on popcorn, and then put the popcorn in "designer tins that say Merry Christmas in Greek! (after Christmas lids will say, 'Baklava Popcorn' only)."
You can also order mugs that read a literal, "Good Christmas," and mugs that read, I <3 Theo! [uncle], Thea!, Yia Yia!, Papou! [grandfather], Nouno! [godfather], and Nouna!, the <3, of course, is a navy-and-white striped heart with a small white cross in the top-left chamber, in turn reading a literal, "I Greek-love uncle!" There are also ageist license plate frames that warn, "Prosexee! Yia Yia is Driving."
The catalog has two pages [of the five] featuring bottled olive oil and olive oil-based soaps, if you can believe it.
On sale for $29.95, down from $34.95, is Taki the talking and singing [in Greek] stuffed bear, who has a red fez that reads, OPA, which matches his traditional, red tsaruxia shoes [with black pompom at the toe]. An animated Taki also appears on pillowcases that read Good Morning and Good Night in English [beneath the Greek].
There are drink coasters themed with your favorite Greek island [Mykonos or Santorini, guys?] and children's books/flashcards/education CD-roms of "Greek4Kids" and "My First Hundred Words In Greek" [which I need].
I also need the baby bib with Greek Food Groups because it's corny and accurate.
Mia pointed out the Super Papou t-shirt, which obviously mocks the Superman emblem, and then sighed, "I wish we had gotten this for him before he died." It was surrounded by aprons that read, "DESPERATE GREEK HOUSEWIFE" and "↑ Definition of a Greek God." I considered ordering the "got ouzo?" t-shirt but the largest size it comes in is XL.
On the last page they have a selection of Christmas Cards. My favorite is the one with dancing Christmas characters that reads, "Merry Greecemas," because at first it looks fucking stupid but then when you say it aloud, it really does sound like you have an eastern European accent. The other cards make reference to Santa Claus coming down the chimney late to deliver presents, referring to his lack of punctuality as following, "Greek time."
I have feta cheese on my salads everyday, and call my grandparents and godparents by their official names. I actually love ouzo, especially when you pour a little cold water in with it, or take a shot of it when it's been mixed with lemonade. I'm also late for everything, which is why I get these jokes.
Without an actual cover, the catalog's outer page is the first page, advertising a new product to the Ellinas Multimedia holiday line: Baklava-flavored Popcorn, available in one and two gallon tins. "We took Yia Yia's [grandmother's] secret Baklava recipe" and put it on popcorn, and then put the popcorn in "designer tins that say Merry Christmas in Greek! (after Christmas lids will say, 'Baklava Popcorn' only)."
You can also order mugs that read a literal, "Good Christmas," and mugs that read, I <3 Theo! [uncle], Thea!, Yia Yia!, Papou! [grandfather], Nouno! [godfather], and Nouna!, the <3, of course, is a navy-and-white striped heart with a small white cross in the top-left chamber, in turn reading a literal, "I Greek-love uncle!" There are also ageist license plate frames that warn, "Prosexee! Yia Yia is Driving."
The catalog has two pages [of the five] featuring bottled olive oil and olive oil-based soaps, if you can believe it.
On sale for $29.95, down from $34.95, is Taki the talking and singing [in Greek] stuffed bear, who has a red fez that reads, OPA, which matches his traditional, red tsaruxia shoes [with black pompom at the toe]. An animated Taki also appears on pillowcases that read Good Morning and Good Night in English [beneath the Greek].
There are drink coasters themed with your favorite Greek island [Mykonos or Santorini, guys?] and children's books/flashcards/education CD-roms of "Greek4Kids" and "My First Hundred Words In Greek" [which I need].
I also need the baby bib with Greek Food Groups because it's corny and accurate.Mia pointed out the Super Papou t-shirt, which obviously mocks the Superman emblem, and then sighed, "I wish we had gotten this for him before he died." It was surrounded by aprons that read, "DESPERATE GREEK HOUSEWIFE" and "↑ Definition of a Greek God." I considered ordering the "got ouzo?" t-shirt but the largest size it comes in is XL.
On the last page they have a selection of Christmas Cards. My favorite is the one with dancing Christmas characters that reads, "Merry Greecemas," because at first it looks fucking stupid but then when you say it aloud, it really does sound like you have an eastern European accent. The other cards make reference to Santa Claus coming down the chimney late to deliver presents, referring to his lack of punctuality as following, "Greek time."
I have feta cheese on my salads everyday, and call my grandparents and godparents by their official names. I actually love ouzo, especially when you pour a little cold water in with it, or take a shot of it when it's been mixed with lemonade. I'm also late for everything, which is why I get these jokes.
Thursday, November 20
Wednesday, November 19
Getting Serious
I run a booking agency out of my computer, which is sometimes in the kitchen. I've got a solid roster of great people for whom I'd love to organize six consecutive European tours, with one offs on cruises and celebrity hayrides and the long-awaited revival of airships [I think it's safe to write that we've recovered from the Hindenburg]. In preparation, I have, over the past three months, built up six Google spread sheets of venues. They are titled: EU!, da north, da south, da wild wild west, da middle west, and College Venues. Excluding the first spread sheet, the venues, separated by region, are organized by state, and then city, with their calendar, and all of their contact information, and then I created a column for "Notez".
Although I've Google-shared these documents with several people, I'm the only one who adds to it, and probably the only person who's ever read them over, so these Notez are Notez To Self. At some point in September, I developed a system of adjectives to describe the venues. One of them is "serious," which refers to the level of fame of the bands performing at a venue, compared with the aggressiveness of the language in their website's booking instructions. If a venue's calendar has mostly corny band names [Frigid Magnet, Greetings From Hell, etc] with an inexplicable Monotonix date and, to request a show, demands that you fill out a booking survey with references and warns that, due to the high level of submissions, they may take up to 3 months to respond, the venue may warrant a Note like, "less serious than they wish" or "tribute bands play here." If the venue planned a bunch of Two Sundays Til Death-style bands but had an upcoming Vanessa Carlton show, they received a "Vanessa Carlton serious" or "seriously hilarious." And if they required a mailed-in press kit I wrote, "are they serious??????"
In my EU! spreadsheet, I called two places "gay," although I generally don't resort to slurs, but these were kind of earned; for one venue I wrote, "probably gay" for a place named "Razzmatazz," which didn't update its calendar, and then for another venue three rows down I wrote, "Franz Ferdinand gay" [because the space had an upcoming Franz Ferdinand concert, because European culture is developmentally delayed].
So if you wonder how I spend my unemployed days at home, or if you're a band, questioning why I haven't organized a show for you just yet, please respect and pardon my behavior; through diligent research, I'm trying to get more serious.
Although I've Google-shared these documents with several people, I'm the only one who adds to it, and probably the only person who's ever read them over, so these Notez are Notez To Self. At some point in September, I developed a system of adjectives to describe the venues. One of them is "serious," which refers to the level of fame of the bands performing at a venue, compared with the aggressiveness of the language in their website's booking instructions. If a venue's calendar has mostly corny band names [Frigid Magnet, Greetings From Hell, etc] with an inexplicable Monotonix date and, to request a show, demands that you fill out a booking survey with references and warns that, due to the high level of submissions, they may take up to 3 months to respond, the venue may warrant a Note like, "less serious than they wish" or "tribute bands play here." If the venue planned a bunch of Two Sundays Til Death-style bands but had an upcoming Vanessa Carlton show, they received a "Vanessa Carlton serious" or "seriously hilarious." And if they required a mailed-in press kit I wrote, "are they serious??????"
In my EU! spreadsheet, I called two places "gay," although I generally don't resort to slurs, but these were kind of earned; for one venue I wrote, "probably gay" for a place named "Razzmatazz," which didn't update its calendar, and then for another venue three rows down I wrote, "Franz Ferdinand gay" [because the space had an upcoming Franz Ferdinand concert, because European culture is developmentally delayed].
So if you wonder how I spend my unemployed days at home, or if you're a band, questioning why I haven't organized a show for you just yet, please respect and pardon my behavior; through diligent research, I'm trying to get more serious.
Monday, November 17
Abba - Gold!
Usually on afternoons when other people are home, I listen to a lot of Abba, embarrassingly enough. I assume the influx in Abba-blasting is somewhat related to now living in West Hollywood, the gay capital of Southern California, but for some reason this incongruous behavior is less common when I have more privacy. My dad will walk by the kitchen, or come to my room to inquire about something, and instead end up asking, "Abba again?"
Sometimes when people are in the same room with me for an extended period, seated across from me quietly accomplishing something, I'll have a fierce craving to listen to the Mamma Mia: The Movie soundtrack, which is significantly worse; not only was Pierce Bronson cast, but someone in the musical direction department had advised him to grunt out the lyrics to S.O.S. ["I try to reach for you, but you have closed your mind..."] for the middle-aged lady viewers [who were the average-age only viewers] to get off to later. Meryl Streep doesn't sound too good, either, but I posted her cover of Mamma Mia in my blog - well, one of my blogs - and 3 people downloaded it! The only good thing about the soundtrack is that the first half of Lay All Your Love On Me is sung by a man, with the lines changed to, "I wasn't jealous before we met, now every man that I see is a potential threat," which sounds so much better because obviously the song is meant to be gay.
Last week I was in the West Hollywood post office to get passport pictures taken and I was listening to Abba. At some point I probably put on Waterloo because it's my favorite Abba song. Without any filter, I've told a bunch of people to download it. Other people in line at the post office thought it was weird that I was getting passport pictures and looked me up-and-down, including the stocky guy in an Under Armor shirt whose shoes resembled rubber toe-socks. I do agree that shoes should be close to the ground so as to keep the walking experience as natural as possible, but faux webbed feet are very unsightly. However, unlike people who wear Under Armor in the real world in the real world, I had a feeling he was really cool.
As I sat in the corner, getting polaroided and stared at, the amphibious man went up to the mail counter holding whatever he needed to ship. Taking his wallet out to pay, I could hear him lightly sing, "Money, money, money..." and I knew I'd been right.
Sometimes when people are in the same room with me for an extended period, seated across from me quietly accomplishing something, I'll have a fierce craving to listen to the Mamma Mia: The Movie soundtrack, which is significantly worse; not only was Pierce Bronson cast, but someone in the musical direction department had advised him to grunt out the lyrics to S.O.S. ["I try to reach for you, but you have closed your mind..."] for the middle-aged lady viewers [who were the average-age only viewers] to get off to later. Meryl Streep doesn't sound too good, either, but I posted her cover of Mamma Mia in my blog - well, one of my blogs - and 3 people downloaded it! The only good thing about the soundtrack is that the first half of Lay All Your Love On Me is sung by a man, with the lines changed to, "I wasn't jealous before we met, now every man that I see is a potential threat," which sounds so much better because obviously the song is meant to be gay.
Last week I was in the West Hollywood post office to get passport pictures taken and I was listening to Abba. At some point I probably put on Waterloo because it's my favorite Abba song. Without any filter, I've told a bunch of people to download it. Other people in line at the post office thought it was weird that I was getting passport pictures and looked me up-and-down, including the stocky guy in an Under Armor shirt whose shoes resembled rubber toe-socks. I do agree that shoes should be close to the ground so as to keep the walking experience as natural as possible, but faux webbed feet are very unsightly. However, unlike people who wear Under Armor in the real world in the real world, I had a feeling he was really cool.
As I sat in the corner, getting polaroided and stared at, the amphibious man went up to the mail counter holding whatever he needed to ship. Taking his wallet out to pay, I could hear him lightly sing, "Money, money, money..." and I knew I'd been right.
Sunday, November 16
Jim Henson Endorses American Express From Beyond The Grave
Everyone else in this commercial is alive.
Friday, November 14
Thursday, November 13
Two Turntables And A Microphone
After I saw Beck with my dad and had had a few of these pineapple-vodka drinks, I txted a bunch of ppl who still live at SUNY Purchase [most of whom don't really know each other]:
Are there any recycling dispensers @ purchase that still read "bottles and cans and just clap your hands" and if so can you take cell phone pix for me??
In some flash of brilliance from unidentifiable Purchase students [which I rarely saw before or again], recycling bins that had read "Bottles And Cans" were tagged with, "And Just Clap Your Hands," accompanied by a stencil of two clapping hands. None of my mass-txt receivers were able to deliver on an image.
On the last day of seventh grade, I wore a Two Turntables And A Microphone, Odelay-tour Beck t-shirt to school. I always thought it was cool,
especially because it paired different shades of blue. However, the moment I stepped into school, like an anxiety nightmare wherein I haven't even started my summer reading and showed up to school without pants, I realized that the turntable belts are positioned on the shirt to outline breasts, with record holes representing areolas. I was mortified and later got rid of the shirt, but I definitely wish I could wear it now.
Are there any recycling dispensers @ purchase that still read "bottles and cans and just clap your hands" and if so can you take cell phone pix for me??
In some flash of brilliance from unidentifiable Purchase students [which I rarely saw before or again], recycling bins that had read "Bottles And Cans" were tagged with, "And Just Clap Your Hands," accompanied by a stencil of two clapping hands. None of my mass-txt receivers were able to deliver on an image.
On the last day of seventh grade, I wore a Two Turntables And A Microphone, Odelay-tour Beck t-shirt to school. I always thought it was cool,
especially because it paired different shades of blue. However, the moment I stepped into school, like an anxiety nightmare wherein I haven't even started my summer reading and showed up to school without pants, I realized that the turntable belts are positioned on the shirt to outline breasts, with record holes representing areolas. I was mortified and later got rid of the shirt, but I definitely wish I could wear it now.
Crotch Sag
I've been wearing my leggings along my pelvic line ever since I stopped wearing jeans [which were also at my pelvic line, because I only wore jeans when slouch fit waists were king]. Unlike with denim, there generally aren't any zippers or buttons in the front of leggings to distract from the extra fabric originally allotted to cover the lower stomach, but I welcomed it. I often imagine that it somehow makes my thighs look cooler.
One day, when I still lived right off of the tough streets in Bushwick, I was wearing long johns, and like most days when I left my apartment, some women on the street made fun of me. At some point, probably because of my sneering, they began to feel guilty and then made comments to each other that actually I did in fact look cute in my pajamas. I wasn't having it.
But ever since I invented it, crotch sag has been all the rage. Other women across the nation, across the world, have an interest in keeping their pelvises heavily draped and their upper thighs totally imaginary. In about five hours, tons of them will be welcomed into H&M to viciously peck at the new, budget Comme des Garçons line.
And of this line, which will obviously go the way of Isaac Mizrahi for Target, do you know what the only distinctive garment is [to me]?
I need to put a lock on my hamper!
One day, when I still lived right off of the tough streets in Bushwick, I was wearing long johns, and like most days when I left my apartment, some women on the street made fun of me. At some point, probably because of my sneering, they began to feel guilty and then made comments to each other that actually I did in fact look cute in my pajamas. I wasn't having it.
But ever since I invented it, crotch sag has been all the rage. Other women across the nation, across the world, have an interest in keeping their pelvises heavily draped and their upper thighs totally imaginary. In about five hours, tons of them will be welcomed into H&M to viciously peck at the new, budget Comme des Garçons line.And of this line, which will obviously go the way of Isaac Mizrahi for Target, do you know what the only distinctive garment is [to me]?
I need to put a lock on my hamper!
Wednesday, November 12
Skype
The only Americans who use Skype are weirdo backpackers and kids that did service trips
in high school school and, for a few months, tried to keep in touch with Vikki from Vienna. The iChat option to videochat is responsible for most of the American interest to conduct webcam convos, as prior to that webcams were primarily used by sluts.Unfortunately, iChat's videochatting connection is weak when it comes to cross-Atlantic face-to-face experiences.
With Colby in Paris, and now Beljum, I was directed to download Skype. I leave Skype logged in all the time, and started getting unsolicited messages. With Skype, the conversation box opens with a person who wishes to speak with you before they have said anything. One day, when I was still living in New York, a Skype user with a Taiwanese name initiated a conversation with me, but hadn't said anything.
"Herro?" I sent across the world.
He or she sent back a smiley face.
I was getting so many middle eastern requests for cyber sex [especially when I jokingly set my location to Yemen] that I made my Skype icon a photo in which I'm obviously nude so I could get even more. 
And I did! Even after I had changed my profile to say that I live in the USA.Eventually,
it started getting annoying. I'd sit at my computer, minding everyone else's business, and then start profusely getting Skype phonecalls from international strangers. I'd deny the call, and they'd call again, and again, and again! When I was in fifth and sixth grade, I would constantly enter weird chatrooms ["AZN ONLY!" "Pagan magic"] 
and get into long conversations with really scary people. It would have been so much worse if they had somehow been able to show me their genitals. Skype actually makes me nervous to raise a child [overseas, as thankfully no beautiful American children have Skype].Skype has its LDR benefits. I'd rather not have to use it, though.
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