A Glitch In the Time/Space Continuum.

This past month has been filled with a great many victories, surprises, and of course, sexy parties, so it goes without saying that I was too caught up in it all to be able to pursue my happy hobby of blogging until now. In the very last week of the month. On Thanksgiving Day. Because this was the only time I knew I'd be still long enough to get 'er done. Talking of which, I was watching TMZ the other day, and they were kind enough to show the American public just how fake Larry the Cable Guy's country accent is. Sellouts are so entertaining. So just for fun, and because I've just realized that I didn't really have as much insight to share in this blog as I thought, here is a list of this past month's victories and surprises:

1. The ability to say "President Barack Obama".

2. A new job.

3. A new "dance" partner. *ahem*

4. A fresh pair of kicks.

5. A crush on Charles Hamilton. (The rapper, not the Novelist)

6. A better handle on the French language.

7. Good grades.

8. The realization that my birthday is now 71 days away.

9. The purchase of a sexy Guess by Marciano party dress... for all those sexy parties.

10. The idea that I am finally able, for the first time in 11 months, to pay all my bills on time.

It's also been about that long since my last tattoo, and I'd say it's time to rectify that situation before I start to go through some serious withdrawals. Because I am nothing if not dedicated. On a lighter note, my grandfather's alcoholic brother is here for the Thanksgiving weekend, and I must say, I am fascinated by his capacity to consume liquor without so much as a slurred word. Since he got here last night he's knocked back 15 of those tiny VSOP bottles, and three 40s without blinking. Maybe it's that tough Mississippi blood. But one has to wonder, given my family's alcoholic past, why I have yet to fall victim to that particular addiction. Hmm? You mean this bottle of Cuervo? Oh this is for my cold. No, it's brunch time. McDonald's just stopped serving breakfast, why cant I have a drink? Or three. Ive been watching MTV and am delighted to discover that it's still cool to exploit Britney Spears for ratings. And even she's in on it this time! There's going to be some special documentary where she "sets things straight" and I for one feel it my duty to be apart of this shameless display by watching every minute of it. The funny thing is, I actually kind of like her now. Train-wreck Britney was so much more fun that bubble gum pop-star Britney. When she put out Gimme more I was all like "no she didn't just say 'It's Britney, bitch'!" But I was also kind of like, wow... how very fascinating. Now I will admit that there was a brief lapse of judgment some 10 years ago when I, as an influential prepubescent bought her 1st album. But I immediately hated it and gave it away. And since then, it has given me no greater pleasure than to spend the remainder of her career verbally abusing her and her image. So of course I was highly affronted when she began acting like a psycho, because it's totally not as funny making fun of someone who is doing rather a good job of it on their own. So then of course I went back to the Disney Channel stars and that has sustained me thus far. IT was cemented when I was dragged along with my mom, her boyfriend and my 7 year old brother to see HMS 3, where I spent and hour and 40 minutes being anally raped by the cheesy singing, dancing, and high school love as only Disney can portray. And the only thing that sustained me was the verbal abuse of the awful experience exchanged between my mother and I. I am prepping for a nice, long evening of overeating the likes of which my stomach hasn't seen for, well, a year I guess. But that's not the real point of Thanksgiving is it? The real point of Thanksgiving is to butter people up with good tidings and heavy food so that they will be forced into sedation, after which you are free to pillage and loot all their belongings, and perhaps, for good measure, their home as well. Because you know that term "Indian-giver"? Well we Americans invented that shit. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say that it is the basis of our whole country's existence. And we're proud of our roots. Which is why we have made a national holiday of the one of the biggest robberies in American history. And cover it up with a giant turkey and a bunch of fattening food. Because, I mean you've seen the stats. Americans enjoy food. A Lot. And every lie sounds better with a pound of ham, some dressing and some collard greens. God Bless You All, And God Bless America.

END.

P.E. The next post won't suck as much as this one. Promise.

Raging Insomnia Presents:The Amazing Technicolor Government

Damn. Despite all valiant efforts to the contrary, I am finishing my final October blog 3 hours and 10 minutes after the 1st day November. A completely ridiculous and unfortunate result of fairly frequent sleep-deprivation. I am going off exactly 2 hours and 45 minutes of sleep, because due to some strange circumstance... I have come down with a rather alarming case of Insomnia, and I could not be more disgruntled. My tank is running on E here, and I have subsequently been spending long periods of time zoning out with a vague and vacant look on my face, and a small but steady trickle of drool from the right corner of my mouth because, you know, I like to be consistent. I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of the day abed in my new Vicky's Secret nightie, dozing off at regular intervals while half-listening to Eternal sunshine of the Spotless Mind in the background... for pleasant dreams. But alas, I have made commitments, arrangements, whatever you may call them, and soon I must rise, get dressed, haul ass in the sunless early morning and take no less than 50 different trains while muttering no less than 50 different curse words. Per second. My great uncle and his wife were in town from D.C last weekend and it confirmed for me the idea that old people in general talk ENTIRELY TOO MUCH. I sat with them at the dinner table thinking to myself "If I'm called 'little lady' one more time... just once more, that lovely carving knife Uncle Clem (yes, all black people really do have an Uncle Clem) imported all the way from the nearest dollar store is going to end up lodged in at someone's quivering jowls until I can reestablish some fucking dignity." Their presence also made me remember why I said I was never going to another family reunion so long as I am mentally fit enough to realize my surroundings. I am appalled by the distant family member's unwillingness to believe that you don't remember dick about them from when you were 3 years old, and they might has well have been fucking George and Wheezy because we don't know each other. Period. I am also thoroughly convinced that one should be allowed large quantities of alcoholic beverage when subjected to such mental abuse as is inflicted by relatives. Or at least fix it so that I can start the fuck smoking again and finally get rid of the persistent neurosis I've developed since I forced myself to quit. I'm reminded suddenly of that line from "Secret Window" where Johnny Depp tells John Turturro that he's taking up smoking again for his health. I remember when that movie first came out back in '04 (when I could still smoke virtually guilt-free) I made that my new punchline, and whenever I was around some angry naysayer, I would whip it out like some wicked weapon the likes of which they had never seen. But alas, the glory days are over. I am forced to acknowledge the rather alarming warning labels on the packaging and be a model citizen. And I can't tell you how much it fucking sucks. Like listening to McCain's wheezy, raspy voice, calling me his friend repeatedly when he couldn't give a good butt fuck about me, Joe the plumber, or any other lowly fucking middle or lower class American comes kind of close though, but it's not like we pay his paycheck or anything. It's not like we're the whole reason his job exists. That would just be overly presumptuous now wouldn't it? And I'm hoping that these godforsaken, hope-injecting polls haven't been overly presumptuous, because and I mean this in all seriousness, if John McCain becomes the next president of the United States, I'm going to have shoot myself in the face. Right before I flee to Canada. And have extensive plastic surgery that I'll get their government to pay for. I mean, I've been wanting that Heidi Montag nose ever since she got it, so I might as well have those homely Canadians pick up the tab. But honestly, I'm terribly nervous. I can't imagine what this country would be like under a McCain administration, but I'd like to think it would involve lots of poverty, a complete disregard for the current energy crisis resulting in the Earth melting onto our heads at random moments throughout the day, as well as, of course, lots and lots of beer. So I guess it can't be TOO bad. But still. I think the job of President of the United States is the most ridiculously challenging demanding job you could pursue in this country, and frankly, it baffles me that these idiot politicians keep turning up every year, knocking each other over to get it. I mean sure there's the international fame, the sweet annual salary, and, best of all, the ability to throw all the White House sexy parties you want, but you can't tell me these assholes who run for office really expect to get in there and honestly know what they're doing? They're ridiculous. I don't think anyone is qualified to be president until they've been one already. No it's true. You can watch all the C-SPAN, and MSNBC you want, but nothing can prepare you for the sacrifices you have to make, the gravity of the decisions that will be placed upon your shoulders and the immense pressure that comes with that rather difficult responsibility. It's the kind of job where you're not only blamed for your own personal fuck-ups, but the fuck-ups of 301,139,947 people. And that's not even including the illegal aliens and the newborns. And I've done a lot of campaigning and speaking out on behalf of Barack Obama, but the truth is, if he wants to be the President, he's just as much an idiot as the rest of them. And God love him for it. That's the thing about having faith in a politician. You get so caught up in the smooth talk, the fancy words, and the hope stew that you forget that what this man is, at the very core of his being, is a politician. And obviously an ambitious one at that. I'm not saying that I'm suddenly withdrawing my vote for him. For one thing I've already voted so I couldn't if I wanted to. And for another, Republicans are typically pretty fucking scary, and a septuagenarian one... well I just can't think what's worse. But I'm just reflecting on a hard truth. You can't ever trust a politican. Because they'll promise you the fucking second coming of Jesuse if the can get your vote and then they get in office and The People are asking them where the hell's the messiah, they tell us some bullshit about, "extenuating circumstances", or "new timeline", or some other lame ass political mumbo jumbo that we will in turn eat up because whereas we fed willingly from their hand on the campaign trail, now we're stuck with the bastard and it's either eat the bullshit or starve. And that's what's so great about living in America today. We are not a nation of whiners former Senator Phil Gramm, we are a nation of shit-eaters. And that's okay! Because, I mean look at the whole slavery thing. A whole race of people ate major shit for a couple hundred years and it really isn't that big a deal now, right? Because no one has ever or will ever suffer from the backlash of slavery, right? That's why we didn't get the 40 acres and a mule. We SO didn't need it. I mean when you've got the clothes on your back and the fresh scent of American earth in your nostrils, who the hell needs resources to live? America's the kind of country where you can live off hope, and hope alone. That's why there's so many homeless people. And dead guys.

End.

Of Getting Angry, & Accepting That Some People Will Never Shut Up

Do you know that song by N*Sync, "It's gonna be me?" Well I've found a way to adapt that piece of cheesy 90s pop into an everyday mantra. Recently, I have been sucked into a series of ridiculous and all together pointless arguments with a multitude of people, over nothing. And I keep wondering why it is that they alway end up getting so ugly for no reason. Then I realize it's because I don't have a drink in my hand while I'm arguing. But mostly, I've come to realization that arguments continue because neither party is willing to just say, "You know what, this is stupid. Someone's gotta end this... guess it's gonna be me." And I've decided that it is... uh, going to be me. I will ignore obnoxious text messages spouting drunken buffoonery, and I will no longer indulge the contents of angry myspace messages by acknowledging the hatred in the words. And in the way of bettering myself, ignoring a few texts, and being less profane may not seem like a lot but it is. Trust me. Being less profane in anything is, for me, a fucking miracle, especially when I'm angry. And do you have any idea how hard it is to ignore any kind of text message?! It's easy to hit ignore when the wrong call comes in, but I have one of those wretched phones that displays a preview of text messages when they come in so I am forced to look at it whenever I flip my phone on... and the temptation is, more often than not, too much to resist. You try to act like you haven't seen it, but then, snatches of it start to creep into your mind. You get angry and start writing imaginary, though equally scathing replies, and then after a while, you fool yourself into believing that so & so really deserves this rather pertinent and well thought out piece of your mind. Before you know it, you have sent back a three part text message complete with angry emoticons and extra exclamations points, to really drive the point home. My little brother was watching some kid movie in my mom's SUV yesterday morning and one of the characters shouted "It's so hard to communicate without emoticons!!!" And I couldn't help thinking, by God he's right! Where would all of my Aim and Yahoo Messenger convos be without them? How could I properly display my wide range of emotions without the vast selections of emoticons in the sidebar? It's almost unthinkable. How, for example, could I convey my renewed affections for Joseph Gordon-Levitt were it not for the googly-eyed emoticon with the hearts popping out of her head? Speaking of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, I owe him a lot, I think. When I first saw him, on "Third Rock From the Sun", (which by the way remained my favorite television show for the better part of four years) it made me realize that Johnny Depp wasn't the only cute white guy in the world. There was, just to name a few Brad Pitt... Sean Lennon and of course JGL himself. That's 3 right there. He also helped me to rediscover the joy of indie films. They really are an untapped treasure. The other day, I came home and had a mini marathon and completey forgot about how much I still hate Charlotte Kemp Muhl for about 6 hours which is really something. Just picturing her lithe figure clinging to Sean Lennon in all his awesomeness makes me want to never eat another slice of cheesecake again, while simultaneously wondering how long I could make it in the frozen tundras after commiting capital murder. But of course I will eat cheesecake again. Tomorrow. But only because Auntie Ebony just made two of them last night and I paid for all the ingredients. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't eat a whole cheesecake on my own in a corner while watching another mini marathon, this time of back episodes of "Third Rock From the Sun" so I can reminisce about what it was like to be young and enjoy the type of comedy usually reserved for varying classes of white people. Like, just to throw a name out there, Sarah Palin. Who, by the way, very obviously abused her gubernatorial power and acted on her family's grudge in firing her ex-brother-in-law's supervisor, it's finally official. And the real kicker here is that I'm almost certain that it won't make any fucking difference in the polls because, well, the general American public tend to be a bit idiotic. And we have the very useful gift of selective hearing. You know like how we heard what Jeremiah Wright said, but the words were somehow coming out of Barack Obama's mouth? Or that McCain is not raising anyone's taxes, but how he's taxing employee health benefits and giving tax breaks to big business, in hopes of seeing the "trickle-down" effect succeed, when we have surmounting evidence (i.e the current recession that is threatening to turn into a Depression if something doesn't turn around soon) that it typically, uhm what's the word, oh yeah, FAILS. But I mean look at it from his perspective though. He comes from a family of modest wealth, thanks in part to dedicated government and armed service, and his wife is heiress of Hensley & Co, one of the world's largest Anheuser-Busch beer distribution companies, on which she sits on the board as Chair. The words "recession" have little effect on people who can afford to keep three homes on every coast. But what am I saying? We're his fellow prisoners, right? So of course he sympathizes with our plight. Even though he's got the good life, right down to an endless supply of free beer, he can understand what we're going through. I bet he was just as pissed as I was when "Third Rock From the Sun" got canceled. And far be it for him to have watched the reruns that came on at least a good 3 hours after his usual 7pm bedtime. And he totally knows about struggling to pay bills because he's watched us do it on TV. Surely it can't be much different than that. Excepting of course, the fact that the actors portraying us own their own islands, it's pretty fair. I think. So I'm going to lay off McCain. Because, and this is small consolation, mind, but at the very least, if he dies within the average life-span of 75.4 years then we're shot of him in 3! And he's a good patriotic soul. He's gotta die when we expect him to. Wearing a flag-pin. While knocking back some Bud light. And maybe even about to tuck into to some good old fashioned apple pie. Now THAT'S American.

END.

On Late-Night Limewiring and My New-Found Crush On Shia LaBeouf

My recent late-night ritual, when all is quiet and dark in the house, is to dive head-first into a series of new tracks bestowed upon me by the wonders of Limewire. I try, with all my might to to hold on to my remorse at the thought of illegal downloading, but then I look in my wallet and it all mysteriously disappears. You try expanding your music collection with my checks. I couldn't so much as purchase a millisecond of Yanni without having to pay it off in installments for the next 8 months. And I am SO over payment installments. But I'm wondering, though, how Limewire has so far managed, unlike Napster, to continually slip through the cracks. I am clearly getting loads of good quality tracks for free and I am certainly not sharing any of mine because I'm too lazy to figure out how to upload them. P2P sharing, as it's called in computer circles is a totally awesome and innovative idea. The thing is, with every great, noble idea, there will be some awful, unmoral person out there willing to exploit it. And that's where I come in. I watch movies for free too, now that you mention it. I have a man-friend that will burn me a copy of pretty much any movie I ask for, and then their is the wonder of the internet where you can find, well, just about anything. Free movies, or course, being included in that everything. And I couldn't be more thrilled. But I'm not all bad. I do tend to pay for most things. The movie theater, for instance, where they won't even let you upstairs for a piss without a ticket stub, often gets a great deal of my money on the weekends. Why, this year alone, I wouldn't be surprised if I had spent upwards of 200 bucks just to sit in a theater and crane my head up at a giant screen for 2 hours. And in the last two weeks, I have seen the movie "Eagle Eye" twice. Which is an absolute first for me. In my entire movie-going career, I have never seen a movie (even a really awesome one, like Dark Knight, or Iron Man... or something with Johnny Depp in it so that I could drool mindlessly thinking completely unnatural, and purely sexual thoughts) in the theaters more than once. To pay $10.50 more than once for any particular movie just seems ridiculous to me. And this past weekend I had my heart set on falling in love with "Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist". Instead, I gave in to my movie companions and saw "Eagle Eye". Again. And it made me realize something. Shia Labeouf has definitely gotten WAY hotter in the past two years. I remember him from my very brief Disney Channel days, when he played "Louis Stevens" on the show "Even Stevens", and I remember being fond of him even then, but more in the "we can hang out and make fart jokes together" way, as opposed to the, "we can knock back a few drinks, get a pizza and fuck" kind of way. Like now. My attraction to him becomes increasingly more prevalent. I found myself anticipating the appearance of his face on the screen, and imagining lame, but equally pleasing scenarios where he would sweep me off my feet and keep me on my back for at least 2 hours. But then, it could be nothing. I almost lost it during the preview of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" when I had to stare at the achingly gorgeous features of William Bradley Pitt for a good minute. And whilst I endured that torture, my mind wandered to his bedmate, and I thought to myself, if I could just have one night in between the both of them, I could become a better person. No really, I mean it. I'm convinced that sex with them actually makes you THAT much better. Look at Billy Bob Thornton for instance. But, as usual, I'm getting off topic here. I had become dejected in my attraction to Shia, because I'd heard from People magazine that he was totally kicking it with Adrien Grenier's ex-girl Isabel Lucas, but, to my imagination's great delight, he showed up to the Eagle Eye premiere without her, following some pretty serious break-up rumors. Not that I don't daydream about guys with a woman, I mean, I've fucked Barack Obama like 48 times in my head since the debate ended at 9.30, but I do have a bit of a conscience, and so I have to imagine them breaking up gruesomely first, and then I can imagine us depicted in various explicit sexual scenes from the very pits of hell itself and be content. Also it helps to imagine them as unshakably democratic. And any guy who says The Shins are his favorite band like Shia Labeouf does on his Myspace (totally my favorite band too. We can get shack up and share custody of a dog now) has gotta have some democrat in him somewhere. Speaking of democrats, my favorite one did pretty well today in the Town Hall meeting that more closely resembled a particularly aggressive public service announcement from both candidates instead of the open forum it was meant to be. I think both of them were pretty quick on the draw against each other, though, due mostly to my bias, I feel certain Obama reigned supreme. I could hear the heavy breathing every time McCain moved across the stage and tried to speak at the same time. You could just hear him thinking "damn that ar-th-ritis. (you know how old people draw out words in that annoying way...)" and hoping no one mistakes any of the new liver spots on his face as returning Melanoma. (I'm going to stop making the melanoma jokes soon. I swear.) Oh yeah, and by the way McCain, if you're reading (because thanks to seeing Eagle Eye two times in as many weeks, I am firmly reassured that ANYONE and EVERYONE is reading and watching AT ALL TIMES) I caught the hair regrowth joke you made when talking about advanced health-care plans, I'd like you to know that no one laughed because it wasn't fucking funny. At All. We already know you're old. If we need a reminder all we need do is watch you shuffle weakly across the stage muttering incoherently shouting the words "War hero" "Experience" "Maverick" and, my personal favorite, what seems to be your transparent attempt at being personable: "My Friends". We realize that you have been in public office since the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, during which time you narrowly escaped permanent dismantlement along with the rest of the Keating Five, a credential you conveniently fail to mention when you regurgitate your governmental resume, and we also know that you served in the armed forces where you were captured and sung like a canary, calling yourself both a "Black criminal" and an "Air pirate". So please shut up about it so we can do more important stuff. Like watch streaming episodes of The Hills from the past few weeks on MTV.com. And rent the 4th Indy movie. Because I'm getting tired of fucking Shia Labeouf on a table in an empty office at Chicago's FBI headquaters.

END.

Why Sean Lennon is Cool... and Super Models Are Infections on Human Culture. Pt.Une

Playing and replaying the French remix to Sean Lennon's song "Parachute" called "L'eclispe", and featuring the always awesome -M- (Mattieu Chedid, who is a little-known French artist who does lots of collaborations with really great indie artists, the lucky Vanessa Paradis for instance, known widely for being Johnny Depp's housemate and baby- mama, hence her being lucky) I am reminded of the sheer artistic genius that stems from the offspring of the world's most beloved Ex-Beatle, and Yoko Ono. I remember I first heard of him actually watching the the documentary about his father: "Imagine". Then, he was an articulate 13 year old boy who even then bore a striking resemblance to his famous papa. I googled him, and of course, the first thing I saw was his myspace page, because, and I'm so not kidding, even Jesus has a myspace. Actually, he has several. I haven't yet figured out which one is really him, but, if we reference the bible, then theoretically he is everywhere, so it would follow logically that they are all the real Jesus, but I'm getting off topic here. So there are several varied reasons why Sean Lennon is cool. The first being quite obvious, but, for the benefit of the post, I shall state them all below in numerical order:
1.He began life as the sperm of John Lennon, and, I have to admit, even I'm a little bit jealous of that.
2. He looks remarkably like his father, and it seems pretty effortless, though, I've gotta say, wearing the rounded spectacles are abusing it a bit...
3. His music is illuminating, dynamic, and, ultimately rad.
4. His mom is the most famous band-wrecker in world history.
5. He wrote a song in French which is arguably the sexiest language on Earth. And I hope you don't mind me saying that I dare you to prove me otherwise.





I think those are all pretty straightforward, so now I suppose you're wondering why Supermodels are Infections on Human Culture, and I'm going to tell you:

1. They are thin waifs whose main purpose seems to be to make very normal woman feel like regurgitated dog crap every time they open a magazine and realize that one of their thighs is probably twice the weight of the girl in the expensive Balenciaga ball gown.
2. They have learned to get over the incumbent stupidity of their namesakes and have begun to build empires, as if they didn't dominate the world enough simply by being beautiful. Bitches.
3. They often have long, lasting relationships with the most awesome/hot/intelligent/avant-garde/successful men. And the rest of us are left with guys like David Spade, only without the fame and money. Fucking Bitches.
4. We have to see their faces advertising everything from the makeup we wear, to the fucking underwear, and if it doesn't stop soon, I'm going to have to boycott all basic feminine products (except, of course, the sanitary ones) in order to maintain what little self esteem I have left. Goddamn Fucking Bitches.
5. One day, when their beauty has wilted around the edges, and they can't figure out whether their tits or their face is sagging faster, they will still be irrevocably rich from all that smart entrepreneurship in which case they can probably afford to surgically intervene any kind of sagging and wrinkles for the rest of their miserable, privileged lives.

Now I bet you're wondering what on Earth Supermodels have to do with Sean Lennon. Well, I'm glad you asked that. Because you see, when wondering about the age difference between he and I and deciding it was more than reasonable to date a 32 year old at my age, especially since my ex-boyfriend will be the same age in November, I realized, of course that it was highly unlikely that someone as cool as Sean Lennon would be single. And I was right. I think you can see where I'm going here. He is, quite predictably dating a Supermodel named Charlotte Kemp Muhl, whom I had never even heard of until today, and immediately wished, after seeing how beautiful she was, that I was still comfortably oblivious to her existence. I suppose, even being an American, I can't be ignorant all the time. Now that I've said that, I'd better go out and buy a flag pin to replace the one I wear now that says "Listen to your mama, vote Obama." Because properly displayed patriotic memorabilia is much more important than deciding who's going to run the country. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say that politics are really not the business of the general American public and we should spend more time being comfortably oblivious to its existence whilst doing more fulfilling activities. Like reading Vogue, or watching the Tyra Banks show, or better yet, going to Victoria's Secret to buy their new "Supermodel" fragrance. Like I'm about to do. Right now.

End.

Why Media Sucks... & Other Exciting Tales

Today, I am in a very reminiscent mood. I recovered several pictures of me in all my former glory, and found myself longing, once more, for a guilt-free all-nighter with all the liquor and cigarettes my poor body can take. And believe me, such was the norm back then. But you grow up, you get pregnant, and you live to fuck another day. Or you hope to anyway. I woke up this morning, ever the early bird, at 11.55am. Just in time for the good news reporters on WGN to do their lunchtime broadcast at noon. I couldn't help but notice the excessive use of a blurred clip of a racy billboard supposedly causing traffic in order to entice viewers to keep tuning in. And I don't know about the rest of the Chicagoan population, but I have to say, for me, it failed hopelessly. I was watching a rerun of Tyra before I even got a chance to hear the 7-day forecast. But it was that episode with the beauty tips that I missed from last season, so it was kind of a big deal. Really though it got me to thinking about how these big media companies view the American public. We are, quite obviously viewed as sex-crazed idiots who will tune in as long as you say the word "boob" enough. And I think they might be on to something. It has long been said that sex sells, but none so much as it does in this country,and it seems to be because we ourselves have had a history of making too much out of the small things. For years the only way the Beatniks could publish their racy, softcore sex scene, drug laced poetry and prose was to do so in France, or other more liberated countries. And speaking of softcore, how many late night Cinemax fliks have you seen where the man's penis is shown? I count zero. But the amount of vagina I've seen in the films is pretty much innumerable. And I've probably seen all of them. Not because of the sex scenes, but because of the story lines. You know, just like how G-Dub went into Iraq for those WMDs that were unquestionably there. Totally like that. And... speaking of nicknames, the Illinois state governor has, by far, the funniest one. Rod Blagojevich is affectionately know by the press as "G-Rod". This is of course made even more hilarious by the fact that he once used the phrase "testicular virility". I had never been prouder of state politics than I was in that moment. And I mean that. You know in thinking of the media today, I stopped to marvel at just how much influence it has on what us dim-witted Americans think. The television told us that Barack Obama was inexperienced in foreign policy, and with politics in general, and of course, on news show after pointless news show I had to listen to Kathy from Tallahassee, and George from Grand Rapids, and fucking Beth Anne from fucking Frisco feed me the same uneducated bullshit that Nancy Grace and Bill O'Reilly told me 4 seconds ago. I'm like, SO over it. Like totally. But on the bright side, Al Franken is running for public office against some creepy Republican I've never heard of (maybe he's friends with Sarah Palin), and I can only hope that he will bring all the candor and wit from Air America to his new seat in public office, without becoming the corrupt, droning, morally bankrupt fiend they all eventually do, which makes me wonder why in the hell I'm wearing this "Politicians Rule!" t-shirt. Unless I mean it literally in which case, I suppose they do. Damn, I can never remember when to take myself seriously. I think that's been George Bush's main problem for the last 8 years. Wow, I just realized that means I share a common characteristic with a republican. And they say the American public doesn't know anything about bi-partisanship.

"It's Raining It's Pouring, the Old Man Is Snoring..."

Tropical Storm Gustav is rearing it's ugly head even here in this wonderful metropolis smack dab in the middle of America's heartland... and I couldn't be more disgruntled. Sure, there are no street signs blowing in the wind, or flash floods depriving hard-working folks of their homes and businesses, but I've gotten used to the ominous lack of rain and dammit, I don't like this sudden catapult into unfriendly weather. Especially on the day of an interview. "Hi, my name is 'pissed because I just rained on'. I'm here for an interview." It set the perfect tone for what was sure to be an awesome day. I wasted 10 dollars on a cab I couldn't afford to be 30 minutes early and didn't even get interviewed until 15 minutes after my scheduled time. Because, well, this is how fate treats me. And I can't say that I've ever liked that bitch too much. Then, of course, part of the interview process was a tour of the floor which was, to say the least, the LONGEST tour of ANYTHING. EVER. And I just happened to be wearing 3 and a half inch heels. Were it not for shame I would've just said "fuck it" and put my flip-flops on. Damn you, obligations of positive 1st impressions. On the bus ride home, standing in my heels on the slippery floor packed with the rest of the evening commuters like sardines, I took a moment to reflect on the poor effect the weather has had not only on my day, but on my mood as well. Why is it that rain always tends to make me feel like shit? No seriously, you have to be out in the crap, you get all wet and cold, (oh, that's why) and you think to yourself, if mother nature were a person, you would plant no less that 50 strategically placed pipe bombs around her house, car and place of work in the hopes that, in the words of Stewie Griffin her "uppance will come." Also, I must admit a slight headache no doubt brought on by the loud-mouthed high-schoolers I had to endure the entire ride, not to mention the screaming baby who, despite the fruitless efforts of both mother and father to soothe him, continued to torment us all with high, piteous screams of obvious despair. My maternal instincts were not very forgiving given that I was dealing with wet pant legs, a rising headache, and I was REALLY fucking hungry. This is what happens when you try to have a good day. You don't. You fucking don't. And of course, this has to be the first below 70-degree daytime temp we've had in about 2 months, and it has to happen when I'm outside. Then of course, I get in the house, and have left the windows open, allowing mother nature and her inconsiderate wrath to rain all over my new leather shoes. I was a little more than livid. Now imagine if they had been the blue suede ones. But seriously I couldn't get a break today. Someone rushed and stole the seat on the bus I was quite obviously eyeing from the moment I stepped on, then when I finally did get one, I unknowingly sat next to the mumbles-to-himself-and-twitches-guy, whose quirks I had to endure because thanks to the generous tour of the floor, my feet were threatening to detach and set off to find a human that didn't treat them so poorly. This was one of those days where I could be found mouthing the words "I hate Murphy and his accursed law" over and over again like a homicidal mantra. Sometimes I think perhaps irony follows me. And other times, like today, I think fate just REALLY likes to fuck with me. Ain't that a bitch?