Friday, September 30

Breaking (bad) News!

Friendster made a HUGE goof--you can now see who's been looking at your profile. Of course, we've all been dying to know who's checked us out.

But! We didn't want the flip-side. No, I do not want every single one of my ex-boyfriends to know that I stalk them on a regular friendster basis.

So. The reaction so far? Well, one friend is trying to get Friendster's email so that she can tell them how they've ruined her life.

One coworker is gleefully checking out the ex-boyfriends who have checked her profile. She's also starting to name people who should have, but didn't, check her profile.

And another unnamed coworker spent five minutes shaking back and forth, and is now deleting herself.

Now, there is a way to view profiles anonymously. But too little, too late. What about all the people I looked at before I knew that I would be punished this way?

The only good thing about this is that it doesn't reveal how *many* times I've stalked (I mean...looked at) people.

EDITED TO ADD: I broke the news to *a lot* of people and someone just said cause of me they're going to need a fistful of SSRIs. Wow. Don't blame the messenger, folks!

Thursday, September 29

Madeleine Hearts the New Yorker (and Vodka! and Weddings!)

“Guests will sit on big black velvet pillows decorated with gold crest, like Romanoffs. We follow menu of Tsar Alexander III. Best beluga caviar, served only with blinis and sour cream. Highest quality piroshki! Russian meatballs in vodka sauce on black toothpicks, quail eggs with horseradish cream, red borscht, whole roasted sturgeon, suckling pig, beef Stroganoff. Chilled Imperia vodka! We drink, we drink, we drink!”

The New Yorker -- "A Better Life"

And from Philip Levine's poem "I was Marrried on the Fiftieth Birthday of Pablo Neruda" in the New Yorker (sorry no specific link; poem is not online; let's all pray this is not a copyright violation, since I think we all know how Madeleine feels about suing):
Neither of us knew how crucial a day
it would become in the history
of poetry


while I was in a courthouse in Boone,
North Carolina, staring at a poster
of three auto wrecks and the one word
"Think!" in blazing red. The circuit judge
who'd just asked me, "Do you plight your troth?"
--seeing my befuddlement--saved the day:
"Just say yes, young fellow, and we can all
move on to what you been waiting for."

And now here's some info on Pablo Neruda.

A Very Important Annoucement

This Sunday, October 2, is International Pickle Day. I do this research for you because I love you. And you're welcome.

The best thank-yous are expressed in beer.

Wednesday, September 28

Loose Lips

Last night I went to Bowery Ballroom to see Supergrass. [Full disclosure: Supergrass is one of many bands on my list of Music I Should Know But Do Not Because Actually, I'm Not That Cool. Other related bands that I do not know would be: Supertramp and Superchunk. ] The show was good, with an intimate feeling, despite being in a relatively large venue. It was an acoustic set, billed not as a concert, but rather as 'An evening with Supergrass.' So it was weird that I wound up standing next to a flailing hot girl who was clearly underage and her posse of boys that she kept calling biatches.

Anyway, I'm a patient person. (Hey, stop snickering!) So I was mostly entertained by the chick and her biatches. But some of the gang of biatches behind me kept screaming "Loose Lips" at the end of every song, at the beginning of every song, in the middle of every song...there was a lot of "Loose Lips" screaming going on.

So, you know, when my huge mass of patience ran out, I turned to the loudest dude in the gang of biatches, and said, "You know, they have a set list. So if 'Loose Lips' is on the setlist, they'll play it."

And the loud dude said, "It's just that we really like the song 'Loose Lips.'"

"Yeah," I said, "I got that impression."

Anyway. It was a relatively peaceful interaction -- he repeated the whole conversation to the biatches, but without anger. And maybe some beer was spilled on me, but I chose to think that was an accident, not retaliation.

But. Then. A great song was played. I, of course, did not know it (see full disclosure above), but still, I know a great song when I hear one. Hot girl + her gang of biatches rocked out like mad. I smiled and watched. And then one of the dudes leaned over and screamed in my ear, "Sorry we're here for the music and not the scene like you!"

He called me a scenester!

So, I know this is an insult. And I feel insulted and defensive and want to explain to loud screaming biatch that in fact, I'm like a puppy dog at rock shows; I'm not cool and blase at all.

And yet, I feel strangely complimented that someone thought I was knowledgeable enough about any kind of "scene" or "next cool thing" to be a scenester.

Monday, September 26

"Little Girls Can't Play Pool"

This is what the men will yell at you from their SUVs when you bike on 3rd Avenue in Park Slope at 2AM on a Saturday. It's a comment that would be strange at any time, but particuarly at 2AM when, to be honest, I expect the words yelled from cars to be rather more graphically sexual. But while this statement was bizarre, it was also true.

I am relatively little--fully 1/4 of an inch under 5"4. I am certainly a girl, and wore a fuzzy pink sweater as I biked on my pink girl's bike that day. And finally, I do not play pool, since I have a strict non-competition with siblings contract (and a brother that yearns to quit his day job and be a pool shark).

So, SUV dudes, you are correct: Little Girls Can't Play Pool. Or at least, this little girl cannot play pool.

Saturday, September 24

Love Actually

To all my friends that know about my tremendous love of Hugh Grant--how did you let me go so long without seeing this movie!?!?! How fabulous was Love Actually? So fabulous that I abandoned my hatred of children (temporarily). I made the roomie watch with me, and we kvelled together over true love. I mean, I know it's ultimately kinda lame that I'm giving into the estrogen-rush that is Love Actually, but hey, the movie solved my bad-mood-from-work-hangover.

Oh, were we talking about my horrific PT job to get myself out of credit card debt?

You may wonder how day two at the Law & Order of retail stores was -- bad. Terrible & no good. I was scolded for chewing gum and make 2K for the store.

Friday, September 23

I am shallow

...and so I'm absurdly proud that I got an invite to comment on Gawker. It's a thrill to have connections with people who are way, way cooler than me.

I think this might make up for receiving my gmail invite so late that there was no one left to invite. Everyone was already attending that party when I came in (unfashionably) late.

Thursday, September 22


Watch Kinky Friedman's campaign commercial here.

Link via the BookSlut. So slutty & so booky: much like me. (Kidding! Joke!)

If I lived in Texas I would vote Kinky, following along with his slogan of: Why the hell not?

The video is pretty genius: it makes the typical argument about the worthlessness of politicians with humor. And, of course, potentially offensive jokes about Jesus can't be offensive if they're animated, right? (Is this not what South Park taught us?)

EDITED TO ADD: This is the New Yorker article where I first found out that Kinky was running for governor. This article is long but also super-awesome:

No political observer in the state was giving Kinky Friedman any chance at all, and he was still saying things like '“If I win, the first thing I'll do is demand a recount,' and promising that, if elected the first Jewish governor of Texas, he would reduce the speed limit to 54.95. ... But, one after another, voters told him they thanked God that he had decided to do this, that they were sick of the way politics was being practiced.

Wednesday, September 21

Sometimes it's just as bad as you'd think

It's reassuring actually, when things are every bit as horrific in reality as they were in your imagination.

I had a root canal recently, and although I'm not afraid of dental work, I am at least a little bit sensible, and was certainly *not* looking forward to the exploration of my tooth's roots. Day of the work, though, I found myself relieved when the hands were removed from my mouth mostly cause it meant I could finally ask all my questions about what the f*ck had been going on in there, and less because it meant the root exploration was complete.

All this to say that I'm sitting with a beer having just finished my first shift at my new retail job. I'm working at a clothing store. I'm not going to name it--one of my smaller life goals is to die without having been sued--but let's just say that I'm certain that you own at least one item of apparel from this store. Let's further say that this store, and the stores related to it, are much like Law and Order: inescapable, and relatively likeable to the vast majority of people.

Why was the first shift so bad? I think mostly because it exceeded all of my negative expectations. I expected to feel cranky about the hours, the pay, the giving up of hungover Saturday brunch. And expected too that I would inevitably be given the Locker That Does Not Open Once It Has Been Closed. I expected my feet to hurt and my brain to feel numb.

On my interview, I was asked four times about how I work with difficult people. I had hoped, at least during my first shift, to not meet the reason I was asked this question. But I did.

He's not so bad. But he's pretty terrible. A toucher, a sweet-talker, a non-manager manager. There's sort of nothing more lame than wanting to be a manager at a retail store and not getting to be one. It means that the managers don't give you all the respect they would for a peer, and the fellow employees can only hate you for your attempt to cross the party line.

What else was terrible? Well, there was Melvin, who tried to bond with me cause we both work 9-5 jobs. Melvin, in case you're wondering, was a wanker. He told my future work friend, Duane, who pretended I'd performed more customer service than I ever will in my life, that he was a failure. Not quite so bluntly as breaking out the "f" word--but pretty shocking. A direct hit at D's lack of higher education. And let me just say this: I do not think Melvin is the brains-champ of the Queens.

What else was painful? Well, how about the sweater folding lessons, where I spent more time learning how to correctly fold a sweater (quick hint: it involves use of a board) than some medical students would spend learning the correct way to perform an appendectomy.

I could go on. But haven't we all had painful jobs? So I'll just end by saying that this job is as bad, if not worse than I thought it would be. And some small part of me thinks that must somehow be related to how much fun I had during my root canal.

Monday, September 19

Even Kids Can't Stand Life If They Can't Have A Drink

A slogan the alcoholics of the world can stand behind:
Even Kids Can't Stand Life If They Can't Have A Drink. The picture in the article is kinda priceless, mostly 'cause the kids look so shiny and ready to take on little league.

In places other than America, all sorts of cool things are available via vending machines. In Paris,
you can get a book from a vending machines, which is pretty awesome. Hey, I told you there would be stuff about books in this blog.

Mostly, though, I think vending machines should sell cigarettes. Remind me again: when did those go away? I saw a cigarette vending machine the other day at a bar, and it was like the machine was surrounded in a golden aura of nicotine goodness. Is it showing that I only smoke the candy cigarettes these days?