New Bag: Da Bulls

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.

Too Late!

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.

Not That I Read Juicy Campus

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.

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.

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.

Shorts

If these didn't have a dick hole I could wear them in the summer- time when it's too hot for tights. They also come in brunette and ethnic.

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.

Don't Start Conversations This Way

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.

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.

Alaina Wants To Eat The Red Taco From Taco Bell

Jim Henson Endorses American Express From Beyond The Grave

Everyone else in this commercial is alive.

Bitch I Will Cut You

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.

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!

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.

Whoa-oh, New England!

This is my high school friend Andy. And like most people whose parents named them, "Andrew," he totally hates being called, "Andy." He lives in Vermont, which I don't know shit about, except that it gives him the capacity to find sweet- ass hand- made sweaters covered with giant pond animals. He also brags that there are stores in his area that dwarf the number of cheese-based products sold in the fine food shops that a metropolitan cheese connoisseur would frequent. I was already nostalgic for the times I've spent in New England, so now I'm fer- ociously excited to go back. Although New York is not technically in that region and lacks its old world charm, I'll happily be in New York from December 6 - 12. And I'll personally remind you again in a month.

Where It's At

One of my favorite bands to see live is the Mountain Goats, and one of my dad's favorite bands to see live is Beck. When the Mountain Goats played two nights at the Troubador, my dad accompanied me both nights, so when Beck played a double-header at Club Nokia, I was his date.

I remember when Odelay came out. Beck, not yet mega-famous or known as a Scientologist, was considered a fairly cool guy and admired by "indie" news for his stylishness. When asked where he bought his clothes, he shrugged, and said, "Target." He is totally wearing a bootleg Michael Starr shirt on the cover for the album Mutations.

It was actually excellent to see him twice, even though I haven't had strong feelings for Beck since 1999.
[Photo provided by this Flickr account.]
During the encore, Jay Reatard came on stage to sing the chorus of some Beck song I wasn't familiar with. Jay Reatard wasn't familiar with it either, and read the lyrics to the chorus from a cheat sheet. I don't think his mic was on, anyway.


On the subject of 1999, Beck's outfit last night was obviously modeled after Arnold from Hey Arnold!, which my creepy, 1999 self would have considered very hot.

OTGDY

If I ever make a new Facebook group, it's going to be called, "Don't make a Facebook group about me if I die," to serve as a living will for me and everyone who joins, asking our near and dear ones not to grieve for us over the internet, knowing that it is not what we would have wanted.

I have a friend who sends me the trashiest "forever in our hearts" Facebook groups, all made in remembrance of Long Island fuck ups who drove on Xanax straight into a tree. In a recent Deathbook group, which, based on the comments, was actually made while the kid was still on life support ["hes not dead yet" "they pulled the plug this morning"], one girl posted, "OTGDY." What? It's an abbreviation for the most used slogan following a South shore DUI death: Only The Good Die Young.

I don't know if, "Only the good die young," is how people mourn in other parts of the country, but back on Long Island, Billy Joel songs strike more than just mass-funerial chords. Growing up in Hicksville, naming his album after Cold Spring Harbor, and drunk driving into the living rooms of estates in the Hamptons, Billy Joel has 516 and 631 appeal. In turn, all of the classic rock radio stations in my area played his music all the time. In turn, I grew to really hate him, and following that, grew to like him as a joke.

One time, when Owen and I were underage, we snuck into a karaoke bar on N6 and ordered "Only the Good Die Young," to sing as a duet. Unfortunately, Owen got kicked out of the bar before the song came up for being too drunk and trying to open a locked door and then probably being carded, so I half-heartedly [with a straw in my mouth] sang the song alone.


Recently, in a vintage store in New York, I saw a soft-and-worn Billy Joel concert tee for sale for too much money. I really wanted it. I would never have received one as a family heirloom because my dad hates Billy Joel, too.

A week or two ago I saw another one in a vintage store on Melrose Ave. It was $12, which isn't unreasonable, but I passed on it. If I wear one, it'll obviously just seem like I really like Billy Joel, and that's one of the last things I'd want to have people think about me.

Whisper Whisper All You May And All Your Friends Will Go Away

Last night I posted a music sampler for free download on my blog - well, one of my blogs - with nine songs from five bands on my booking agency roster. I highly recommend downloading it if you plan on talking to me ever again.

Dropping Some NYC

Last night I hung out with Jenny's friend Christine from San Francisco. She was wearing the same amazing Payless shoes that Jenny has. I got pretty drunk, at which point, in explaining how much I didn't want to live there anymore, I probably said the words "New York" six hundred times. If New York had a dick, Christine would have noted how much I obviously miss fucking it.

Jenny also has these combat boots that are legitimately sold on send-a-salami-to-your-boy-in-the-army Marine Corps websites. She recently wore them on some form of New York public transportation, where she was seated near a damaged Vietnam veteran. The veteran seemed to recognize her boots. "He was looking at me like [the boots] belonged to the guy who killed his friend," recounted Jenny. She is starting an eBay store soon and the boots will be the first things to go up for auction.

This Was One Of My BFFs In Middle School

I think we used to conference call people and one of us wouldn't talk so we could find out who was willing to talk shit about us behind our backs. For all the faults of our relationship, that was some real-ass loyalty.

She was only on the first episode, which I watched until she was kicked off, at which point I immediately friended her on Facebook. Every time they interviewed her, she kept talking about being in a sorority, but sororities are for ppl who have trouble making friends, and obviously Paris Hilton doesn't need help. Honestly, she didn't give PH enough credit, and for that, her ass had to go back to Roslyn. If she had played it straight, she totally could've continued on. She doesn't make a bad BFF.

I Left My Heart In San LOCO

If I ever make it back to San Loco, and God-in-Heaven I sure hope I do, I'm going to print this picture out, cut it so it fits in a frame, and demand that the margarita-pumping microwave attendants at San Loco hang it up next to all the other Santo fan art they have cluttering their Mexican fast food restaurant. Everyone always talks about how great the Mexican food is in Southern California because there's an actual Mexican population, but it's 5:30 a.m. NY-time and I can't think of a single person I wouldn't kill right now to have two bean guaco-locos in front of me.

My Heart Is An Ironic Hunter

On Halloween I took an unintentional four-hour nap. I rolled awake and called Robbie Wildes and said, "So I woke up dressed as a hunter..."
Before my nap, I had resolved to not dress up for about five minutes, when Mia came into my room and told me that I had to dress up.
"Well..." I started, fishing for an excuse.
"You could be a Droog," she suggested, which was almost reverse psychology. "You know, with the bowler and the fake eyelashes on one eye."
"No way! Everyone's going to be in Clockwork Orange outfits. That's way too popular! That's like dressing like Marilyn Monroe." It sent me on a mission to do better than that. I looked around my room for anything I could use to make a real costume, and only one thing popped out: My Real Tree Hardwoods camouflage pants with patented Scent Lock to mask my human scent from white-tailed bucks.

Three winters ago, I bought a Real Tree Hardwoods hooded coat from Dick's Sporting Goods for $40. It was the warmest coat I had ever owned, without looking especially bulky or furry. It was stolen after that winter [understandably!] and my family surprised me with a new one the next winter, which was a dark, night-hunting print. Owen stole me a Coors Light pin from a vintage store on Grand St for me to garnish it with. Soon after that, I bought my first union suit [which unfortunately doesn't have an ass-flap], and then a pair of L.L. Bean "Bean Boots," which have a lifetime guarantee on them.

The coats had started to get me in trouble. Once I was on the LIRR, Roslyn-bound, and one of two old men in suits said, "Real Tree Hardwoods!" as I walked past to find a seat. At the time, I wasn't actually aware that my coat was of the official brand of heavily-camouflaged hunters throughout Appalachia.
"You hunt?" the man asked.
"Oh no, I just bought this coat because I think it's funny." And our conversation promptly ended.

Another time, when I was dating my second boyfriend who lived on Staten Island [but the first to have been raised in Southern Maine], I was taking a shuttle bus to the Staten Island ferry. It was early October, and I was wearing the night-hunting coat, and I was asked by a guy on the bus if I was getting ready for Turkey season.
"No - no! I'm a vegetarian. But does Turkey season run until Thanksgiving?"
Turkey season ends in early November, apparently. I didn't hear anything else from that guy.


Over this past summer, no longer owning any hunting jackets, I went to Maine every two weeks for a week to see my second [and favorite!!] boyfriend from Southern Maine.
One after- noon, while he was at work, his mother and I went to the enormous L.L. Bean store, which has a two-story-tall Bean Boot in front of it. I looked through the boots there, and noted that they had discontinued the design of boots I have, which have a big buckle across the tops [v feminine]. Soon, I was in their hunting section.

It was like a candy store, or those times that my dad would take me to Toys R Us; Toys R Us stores have ugly, warehouse ceilings, and really poor florescent lights, which I only realized when I was in late-middle school. Up until then, I had been too entranced to look beyond the shelves.

When I asked for assistance finding the smallest size of the Real Tree Hardwoods-print Scent Lock long johns [complete with dick hole], the sales associate asked if I was getting ready for Buck Season.
"No, er..." I began, honestly, "I just like them!"
In the end, I bought the Scent Lock pants, a XXXL Real Tree Hardwoods t-shirt with pocket that I posted about earlier, and a pack of Gum-O-Flague in apple flavor, which masks the human scent coming from my mouth. For a while, I debated getting a hunting DVD, something with the most live kills ever recorded and the Guinness record for most children holding guns at a single time, something we could make a drinking game out of, but I didn't want to risk being broken up with.

I paired all of my gear with a set of binoculars that my dad uses to watch soccer players' facial expressions, the most masculine hat in the history of Patricia Fields, and the enormous [fake] antler necklace that Colby made me for my birthday and later had signed by the members of Deerhoof and Bradford Cox of Deerhunter. Robbie Wildes and his sisters and I went to the Standard to drink and I got home by 2.

No Hood Is So Hood!

Is This An Ultimate Fuck Fantasy Or What?

Do you think he's dressed as a cop? I stole this pix from some hater high schooler's Halloween Facebook album, which is sort of a bad look, but w/e. I hope they fall in love by ac-ci-dent.

AIM Convo About How I Applied For A Job At Another Youthful Retailer

RED is Alaina
GREEN is Colby
[Seasonal colors for seasonal hiring! Gimme those USD!]

then i went to get a job at ***** outfitters!!!!!!
did you get the job?
or apply for it?
i applied
it was one of my better interviews
and they said that working at shows is retail experience
that's good
that's awesome
lies
but w/e
so then i got back home and took a survey that i ahd to take to work there
68 questions
40 of them were about smoking weed on the job
and the rest were about stealing
really? haha
that's really funny
it was really funny
if it wasnt timed i wouldve taken screen shots of the whole thing
haha
haha
thats funny
it was like "It's okay to smoke a marijuana cigarette on your break as long as you can still perform your duties."
its like Yes
but i have to say Totally Disagree
which was a choice
Slightly Disagree, Disagree, Strongly Disagree, and Totally Disagree
hahaha
that's really funny
v retarded

"The Mac Is Back!" -John McCain

As I mentioned before in my blog - well, one of my blogs - my dad really loves gambling; not in casinos, and never in the-deed-to-his-house desperation, but on sports, and all in good fun and success. He paid for my first year of college gambling on the 2004 NBA finals and championship.

His secret is betting on the underdog. Because odds are based on public perception, and history, and on which team has the highest number of hopeful superfans, you can usually count on the less-favored team to at least cover the spread.

On the website he uses to place some bets, there have been odds on the election since before the primaries. Yesterday, Barack Obama was favored 7 to 1 [so if you wanted to win $100, you'd have to bet $700], but today his odds are 10 to 1. And today if you put down $100 on John McCain, and he wins, you would win $550. My dad considered putting a small amount down on the underdog, but then ditched that plan.

Right now McCain is on CNN HD talking about how he's going to win.
"I sat in that cage and I ate fuckin' rats," my dad just said to the TV in a fake Arizona-POW accent. "Do you know what it's like to eat a cockroach when it's carryin' eggs?"

I signed up to work at a polling place from 3pm to 8pm today. I have to stand 100 ft away from where people are voting and hand out paperwork. I realize it's going to stop me from two things I wanted to do today:

The Los Angeles buses have little TVs in them. The TVs play 3 minute entertainment segments [cooking, BMX bike tricks, etc] so as to keep people occupied but not so much that they could miss their stop. At night, to keep the bus quiet, as its often filled with sleeping elderly people, the TVs just play news reels. One evening, on my way to the Smell, the bus TVs showed surveys that people had answered earlier online. A questioned that they had posed to people visiting Metro.net was, "Should it be illegal to vote drunk?" I don't remember how most people responded, but what a good idea!

I really wanted to make and wear a shirt that reads, "RALPH FUCKING NADER," but that won't be allowed within 500 ft of a polling place.

The good thing is that I'll definitely get an "I voted!" sticker, so I can collect free Ben&Jerry's, Starbucks, and first drink at every bar in WeHo.

Danger

Being a poser can be dangerous because, if you're really good at it, members of the community that you are mocking will come forward and try to be your friend. This happens to me a lot, but once over the summer I saw it happen to someone else.

After an evening of passion, Susan and a new lover and his brother-like friend went out for burritos in Williamsburg. On the other side of town, Jenny had slept over my apartment in Bushwick, and then we headed into Williamsburg to eat and maybe sell some clothes. Walking down Havemeyer we ran into our friend, who had left her date and his friend in the restaurant in search of an automated teller machine. We invited ourselves to juevos rancheros with them.

Because of her precise drawings and Twiggy figure, Susan can easily lay every soft-spoken, visual artists on the eastern seaboard. These kind of dudes tend to use their exceptionally-nerdy pasts to make jokes that only one or two people can hear. Unfortunately, they are rarely fond of me because I'm too loud and funny, often disproving the two fundamental truths by which they live: that a, they are the funniest person at the table, and b, people who have a lot of friends have limited cultural knowledge or significance. I see where she's coming from on these guys, though; they're usually hot and wearing funny things.

So we were eating, and the guys were talking about Star Wars: Episode II but not loud of enough for Jenny and me to really hear, since we were imposing, so I just started yelling and getting hyper.The guy who had originally been a 3rd wheel to burrito breakfast, until Jenny and I came along, went to the counter to order some lemonade. He was wearing a shirt with the Aztec Calendar on it, and when the man who was manning the register saw it, he got so excited that he turned around, bent over slightly, and pulled up his shirt, revealing a tattoo that took up most of his back of the Aztec Calendar.

There are a lot of emotions that are easy to feign, but surprised and excited aren't two of them. The kid smiled blankly and quietly made a remark about the coincidence. He told the man at the register that he had never been to Mexico, but that his friend had, and he had gotten the shirt for him. To some extent, he admitted to the man that he didn't really know what the design meant. I stopped spying at that point, and went back to yelling. I knew that awkwardness all too well... [more on that soon]

Name Blame Game

When they came home from Halloween shopping on Olvera Street, the Mexican chachkas market in Downtown LA, Terry and Mia presented me with this keychain.
"Look!" my dad exclaimed. "They had your name! It's what you've always wanted."
"No! They didn't!"
"You're right. They didn't. We had this custom-made. But isn't it good?"
"This must be what it feels like to be named Michael!"

In 9th grade I was required to buy a ruler for a class, so I bought the one that was made for girls named Natasha.
"But your name is nowhere near Natasha!" Charlie yelled at me [eight years ago].
"Natasha has the same number of A's!"

Lately I really dislike when people with popular, American names try to jazz themselves up by creating a nickname that sounds like a real, rare name or by adding their middle name as an extra three syllables to their first name. Their entire lives they could always get pencils and magnets and sometimes coffee mugs with their names on them from any city or resort in the country, either bought personally or as a gift from a friendly traveler. On the first day of school, every year, their teachers didn't embarrassingly struggle to pronounce their name, nor did every substitute teacher who ever filled in, regardless of whether or not the sub already knew them! And at the end of the E.T. ride at Universal Studios [spoiler alert] E.T. could actually say their name while waving at them.

Sometimes their parents would try to jazz it up for them from the onset.
"My name is Nicole but with two Ls."
E.T. still knew how to pronounce it.

The Emilys and the Daniels and the Melissas of the world have had easy-ass childhoods, and unfortunately for them, it's chic in adulthood to have irregular first and last names. And instead of trying to switch teams 18 years into the game, they ought admit defeat and do the right thing when they become parents. Until then, the Lancelots and the Nickodemuses and the Alainas will have everything under control.