Kitty Photog

Got some random residual checks last week, so bit the bullet and bought myself a camera.


As you can see, Mildred thinks I should give it to her.

Heading to Colorado tomorrow--get ready for some badass snow/awwwww-worthy Eleanor pics to take over the blog. Also a thrilling account of how Meghan, Tom, and Ben went to audition for ABC's The Bachelor/ette, casting Sunday in Vail.

AaaaAAAAhhHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

SUCH AN EXCITING DAY!

First, I saw Christian Bale. Who actually didn't look that great. Like, I would not blame his Vicki Vale for failing on the Bruce Wayne-Batman connection. But come on. It's Christian Bale. The American Psycho. My favorite Newsie. Also saw the creepy policeman dude from Go. Yes, that was fun.

But whatever.

The really big news?

(Brace yourself).

I finally broke down and bought myself...

...a microplane zester.

And an 8-cup Pyrex measuring cup/mixing bowl.

Can you stand it?

Do Feet Actually Fit In Mouths?

Sometimes I get chatty with patrons at the exhibit. Often enough they say interesting things, or are adorably elderly, or want to talk shit about Gregory, or because of crushing midday boredom. Occasionally, it's because they're attractive. I tried chatting with one such young man yesterday, who was with what appeared to be his younger brother. They were polite enough, but stayed quiet. I sold them a poster and some books.

When he paid, I saw the name on the credit card: Matthew "Son of Superman" Reeve. With younger half-brother Will "I Was Orphaned Last Week And They Kept Broadcasting It On E! As If My Mom Dying Weren't Bad Enough" Reeve in tow.

What do you say?

"Hey, sorry your mom died. Wow, it must be awkward how everyone knows and stares and makes you feel all emotionally naked."

"So did your dad ever actually explain to you what he was thinking with Superman 4?"

"Do you watch Smallville?"

"Are you getting ridiculous amounts of action now that Ryan Seacrest keeps talking about you?"

Er...

I just wished them good day.

Personality Club

I met up with a school friend, AK, a while ago at the Gaslite, and again on St. Paddy's Day at Qs.

"You should come to Personality Club," he said. "Sundays. We just make food and drink wine. Did I mention my roommate's a chef?"

Uh, ding ding ding. Kristy and I went to the first of hopefully many PC meetings last night. Who wouldn't want to return, when plied with such a five course meal?

-Vegetable course
-Salad course with teeny baby Brussels sprouts and asparagus tips
-Lamb sandwiches with chimichurri course
-Marijuana course
-Homemade Nutella ice cream course

Plus they have a dog.

They live in heaven!

Say Wha?

Carolina's out of the tournament.

Upset by the kelly green soldiers from George Mason.

We're not even to the Sweet 16, and my bracket's shot to ribbons. I knew I should've had Teb make it for me.

Irish Heritage

I awoke on midnight's twelfth chime, a damp chill in the air, the lights suddenly a-green. A spirit stumbled through my wall and leaned heavily on the bookcase.

"Woo..." it started. We looked at each other.

"My God," I said, and the eyes went wide.

"Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain!" it shouted. Curiously, it spoke in a brogue. "Like all adult Catholics, we shall selectively follow the commandments set down."

Holy fuck. It was the ghost of St. Patrick's Day Past.

It flailed about the room, humming "Danny Boy" and dripping Guiness. "You've abandoned your roots, Blots," he said. "It used to be all about the pints-till-you're-holding-on-to-floor and suddenly you've gone all two Ketel One and sodas with a splash of cran. You call yourself Irish? You aren't even wearing green! Touch my hand, sticky with hops, and let us revisit your St. Patrick's Days past."

I gingerly laid a finger on its palm, and grassy mist began to swirl.

St. Patrick's Day 1982-2000
Baby Blotto, School-Age Blotto, and Teenage Blotto pick sulkily at corned beef and cabbage, wear kelly green, and attend the occasional parade.

St. Patrick's Day 2001
Spend camping in western North Carolina, but awake to green water in my Nalgene.

("That was me!" the spirit hiccoughs.)

St. Patrick's Day 2003
Australia. Boozing begins at 10 AM with Malibu and Coke purchased pre-mixed in cans (I love Oz) and a harbour cruise around Sydney. Mildest nod to the holiday with a green headscarf and attempt to drink at the less-than-aptly named Orient Irish Pub. Too crowded, so swill wheat lagers at Lowenbrau instead. I think we turned in at like 9 and got milkshakes.

St. Patrick's Day 2004
The ex and his friends, having turned into a wandering blacked out herd, called for a ride home from the Joyce. Facilitated Roommate of Old and the ex's roommates' drunken tryst. Found, upon returning to his room in the morning, 36 empty cans of Guinness and all ceiling tiles askew.

St. Patrick's Day 2005
First time out at Busby's! Ushered in like rockstars due to new roommate knowing everyone. Make out with boy at bar for no reason and tell him to get lost immediately after. Next day interview at Bruckheimer.

"You see?" said the spirit, at this point openly slurring its words. "You see?"

Not really. But I ate sauteed cabbage today (much better than steamed). Maybe if I'm feeling saucy I'll rewatch The Commitments. Erin go bragh!

Thursdays With Pearla

Avenue Q has a brilliant song entitled "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist."

Everyone's a little bit racist!
Sometiiiiiiiiiiiimes--
It doesn't mean you go 'round committing
Hate criiiiiiiiiiiiiiimes!

It strikes that fine balance between being both non-accusatory and completely true.

Anyway, I share the info desk with a black girl named Pearla, who makes me feel a little bit racist, as the living embodiment of every Republican teenager's idea of the black community.

Maybe it's just a lack of context. For instance, when I expressed confusion about filing my tax returns, she looked at me with complete disdain.

"Giiiiiiiiirl, you gotta get yo'self a kid. I save three grand by havin' a kid."

(Pearla has an eleven-year-old and a toddler. She's 26).

Pearla does no work. She sits at the desk (deks) and occasionally points someone toward the restroom, but mostly stares into her calculator, tabulating her salary-to-rent ratio and asking me how to spell 'credit.' She didn't recognize Meg Ryan. She spent most of today rolling her eyes at Trinity, who must be from Georgia or something because she cannot let a lady walk by without complimenting her coat.

She also teaches me Ebonic slang.

And actually, I like Pearla a lot. It's just that sometimes, for instance if I suggest she refill some freakin shelves, she looks at me like some plantation wife lady/50s housewife with black maid and rolls her eyes because it is the 21st century, giiiiiiiiiirl. But I tell her anyway, and forgive myself. Because everyone's a little bit racist! Sometiiiiiiiiiiimes!

Kevin Co-nay

Kevin Covais is the 11-year-old on American Idol. He bears a remarkable resemblance to Chicken Little, which Ryan Seacrest pointed out a few weeks ago, both to show us exactly the level at which he is fucked, and to prove his intolerance for competing midgets. Most high schoolers would crawl under the stage from such treatment, but Kevin warbles on. He even seems to have bought in to Paula's insistence that he is a new sex symbol.

Which is weird. The mere idea of liking him makes me feel pedophiliac, and the idea of America finding Mr. Covais sexalicious is worrisome on that raindow party level. Last night, though, they showed everyone with their "KEVIN IS HEAVEN" posters and thankee lordee, they are all 7.

Sex symbol for the sexless. I can live with that.

Except what if... um... no, I'm not going there.

Eek-Ack

Fuck boys: The Sopranos is back.

Sites I recognize from the opening credits:

-NJ Turnpike Exit 13 (one before me!)
-Carpet World
-nightmare highway of all time Pulaski Skyway (Hoboken)
-Pizzaland (Kearny)
-Bayonne Cemetery (current home to Meghan's great-grandparents)
-streets of North Caldwell

I mean, they thank me in the closing credits!

Thank you to: the People of New Jersey

At least David Chase loves me.




I'd have his bebbies.

Ho Boy

The man situation is getting dire. I am seriously considering joining Match.com. We went to Rick's Tavern and Finn Fucking McCool's last night and I talked to three boys. Were they the boys I arrived with? Oh, you know me too well. Maybe it was four, if you count the "Nice breasts!" dude, except I didn't reply, so probably not.

Here's where I'd complain about feeling fat and ugly, but I was kind of sexified last night. My hair was very shiny and I wore the you-really-want-to-fuck-me dress (which is deceptive; it isn't particularly low or short, and it's red-orange and wrinkly, but for some reason it acts as flame to the moth that is male), and dudes were asking Dennis in the bathroom if he was my boyfriend.

But I don't convert. And I hang out with bad wingmen. Oh, and I'm judgmental and unapproachable and have trouble finding any desire to talk to boys in bars. Such nights end with me and my I-am-so-hottt dress scarfing Jack in the Box and moaning to DK about how I want to bang all these people who don't find me attractive. Right.

Is the Internet the answer to such woes? Is this a line I can cross?

I don't knoooooooooow!!!

New Thing

I decided to have hot wavy hair today and set it in pincurls last night, fully expecting either Veronica Lake boudoir waves or sexy Izzie Stevens bedhead to emerge in the morning. Either's fine. Woke up, took out the pins.

Yeah. Dreadlocks.

I brushed it out, figuring fallen zombie bride frizz trumps possibly smelly hippie.

I've never had a bad hair day before (it grows straight, stays straight, does nothing but straight; if it had a conservative daddy he would be very proud)...



... and it's interesting.

Mickeyina

I had a nice long yak session with R. Painter, my senior year downstairs neighbor (but oh so much more), the other day. We also did theater today--we played a resplendently dowdy married couple one year, with me in a housedress + apron and he in Postal Service regalia + puka shell necklace. Has nothing to do with the conversation, but I like saying "puka shell."

Mr. Painter tolerated the loud Bjork I played through that year's numerous breakups and graciously accepted the pink kitchen sponges Roommate of Old and I gave him for Valentine's Day, upon learning that he and Ed, who had lived there since August, had yet to wash a dish. (They remined unopened). R. likes The Fifth Element, eschews carbs, and after throwing his computer down in a rage, told his father it had fallen victim to a Pelican Shakespeare. As you might imagine, we're great friends.

I'm still hazy on why R., after producing a nosebleedy LSAT score, moved to Orlando, FL, but he did, and is tutoring and working at Walt Disney World. His boss is a computer.

From our conversation, some things I have learned:

-The Mickey who meets world leaders and such is always the same Kickey. And that Mickey, like most Mickeys? Is a girl.
-Walt Disney World is the largest single-site employer in the United States.
-The tunnels of headless Plutos, etc., is not a rumor.
-Apparel for theme show volunteers run from size small to 5XL.
-A shiny, accolade-laden resume such as R.'s is met with probing questions: "Do you have any tattoos?" and "Do you have a car?"
-Mickey is a girl! Seriously, such news has implications for the Disney brand, no? Because something tells me Minnie's not a dude...

They're All Gonna Laugh At You!

Was trying on t-shirts over lunch when Sissy Spacek and Much Less Talented And Beautiful Yet Has Starred In Movies/Has Record Deal/Models For Abercrombie But Don't Worry Is Still Relatively Unknown Except To Famewhores Like Me Daughter Schuyler Fiske came in the dressing room. Very jarring to come out and look in communal mirror, already freaked out by the increasing potbelly, and have Carrie herself sitting there (thankfully sans piggy blood) piled up with jackets and trousers shouting "SKY?!?!? HOW'RE THE PANTS GOING???? SKY?!?!?!"

Yeah. They're just like us.

A New Devil In Town

So while I was busy getting my panties in a wad over UNC students in Kville and Crash winning an Oscar, Governor Mike Rounds of South Dakota signed a bill banning all abortions in the state, excepting for direct necessity to save the mother's life, with no allowances for rape or incest!


Hi! I'm Mike Rounds! If I looked up and stood, you'd see my red nondilatory pupils and cloven hoof! Also my wife fellating me while cooking dinner, because that is her sole purpose in life!


He noted that it doesn't ban emergency contraception, so if a 14-year-old's uncle rapes her on a farm in the middle of nowhere in -14 degree cold and she can't find a 1) physician to prescribe EC and 2) non-freakish Christian pharmacist to fill it within 72 hours, it's her own slutty fault: the law should require her to rip up her uterus, screw with her estrogen, and have his three-kidneyed baby.

Oh my do I hate Republicans. Republicans and Academy voters (there's little overlap), but Republicans more. Even you smart ones who vote right for fiscal purposes: suck it up. The Republican Party's platform has a leg on hating women. This guy hates women. And if you vote that way, you do too.

Sample Balloting

Now, I have no concrete evidence that this is what the Academy voters received, but it's the only plausible explanation:

For Best Picture:
(choose all)

[ ] Crash
[ ] Crash
[ ] Crash
[ ] Crash
[ ] Crash

Duke Duke MotherFUCKER

BITCHES. Last time this happened I was a freshman, and I was there. BITCHES! All I have to say is that Bobby Frasor is a petulant child, going down and crying if he gets breathed on hard. And Tyler Hansbrough? Not JJ Redick. Not in shooting, not in bone structure, not in poesy, nada.

Aw, JJ. Buck up. I'm sorry your last Cameron game turned out that way, but the post-season is sure to treat you well. I bet you'll write some terrific verse about it; would you mind sending it my way? I could even put it up on the blog, if you wanted. And would you take terrible offense if I enquired about your bacne? I really doubt it's as bad as it was in 02, so is the t-shirt continuity really necessary?




Off to shower. Game Day Wifebeater gets a break until the tournament. Enjoy it, undershirt--I'm hoping you get a good long workout to the final.


UPDATE: Apparently Robertson Scholars on loan to Duke from UNC (how the program considers 15 Dukies for 15 Tar Holes a fair trade remains mysterious, but I digress) tented in Kville and wore baby blue to the game.

And were not killed. Or even disfigured. Or even appropriately verbally abused! I don't care if they're Duke students for the semester; they're Tar Heels, and those rooting for Tar Heels should do it in the goddamn Dean Dome.

Fuckers.

Who The Fuck Did You Come To See?

I'm sitting at home with my cat, wearing my Game Day Wifebeater (ripped in several places, favorite cheer hand-lettered in Sharpie and Mr. Sketch, unwashable due to water-based nature of said Mr. Sketch marker), watching ESPN. This isn't exantly common, but it's the Duke-UNC game and right now UNC IS UP BY 10. Mildred and I: most upset.

5:43 left. Let's go on a run.

An Open Letter To Milla Jovovich, Who I Really Liked Back In The 1997 Fifth Element Days

Dear Milla Johovowovozovich,



STOP MAKING ACTION MOVIES.

Thank you.

Ain't No Lie: Bai Bai Bai

My PR roommate invited us to the REEL Lounge pre-Oscar red carpet (open bar) event. It would be the first time my 12th grade bought-as-a-damage-when-I-worked-at-Banana-Republic heels would touch magenta shag! L. waved us through after Sasha Cohen. Would I get mistaken for a celebrity? Would I end up on Go Fug Yourself?

We don't know who "Meghan Valerio" is, or what relevance she holds to our culture, but what's up with the 1999 footwear? And is that dress from the Gap? Ugh. At least she's not in formal shorts

Getting fugged is kind of a dream of mine.

Also ahead of me was the Fug regular Bai Ling, who was curiously and uncharacteristically dressed as a human.

"She got the dress from the lounge," my roommate whispered. "After modeling five others. By the last one the photographers were giving her pity shots."

Would I get a pity shot? Maybe? Come on, guys!

"Okay go now," roommate said, pushing me onto the rug. I heard a reporter.

"Hold the cameras."

Ah well. At least there was open bar. The night ended on Dennis's couch, with me drunkenly chugging stolen bottles of Fiji water and voting for American Idol.



Sighted today: Chloe from 24, (with small dog), Rod Stewart (looked like ass).