I will be guest judging a music competition. I’ve been advised to be “more like Paula than Simon.” Which would be cool if I watched American Idol. Could they put that in Facts of Life terms? I’m pretty much doing it for the gift basket of coffee and coffee parerfpahnaylaiazylvania (it’s a cross between junk, a flower, and the state of pennsylvania. duh!)
THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN AT A PREVIOUS TIME. PLEASE DO NOT CALL IN.
wanting to forget what I already know. like a fucking cognitive cul-de-sac.
of a certain age, having consorted with a decent number of men, which is really just an excuse to use the word “consort” because it’s funny, I find that I now have a series of anecdotes rippling through my brain, conjured by god knows what, and whereas I used to know with whom each story was linked, I suddenly find the mental filing in disarray and all I know is that someone lifted a car off his friend and I can’t remember who. Other stories which have no home? I can’t remember. I made a list in my head on the plane but as previously mentioned, things in my head are getting jumbled. One day I’ll wonder who made a list in their head on the plane. But anyway, if you’re reading this and care to claim that story, do so, because it’s fucking driving me fucking nuts that I can’t remember anything other than a vague image of someone lifting a car off his friend and possibly having been the one to run over his friend too. Also scary? For all I know I heard this in high school and for all I know I heard it a few weeks ago.
I’m a woman of many blogs. (Many = 2). I tend to post more frequently on Myspace probably because I’ve been hypermarketed to in ways I don’t eve know and for some reason it’s easier to write total throwaway observations on that blog as opposed to this one, which I save for two-thirds throwaway observations. If I were fancy I would just include a Myspace link but I’m not. I’m decidedly unfancy. And so I’ll just repost some of the entries from over there so if anyone happens to be reading both they can be bombarded with sameness.
sometimes I wish I were more, and don’t think I am enough. The inner workings of my own mind, however, remain endlessly fascinating. Oh I did not just think that, I often think to myself, chuckling. And then I said what?! Oh I didn’t! But I did. What happened in my dream? I know!
The loud conversations of the people who gather on the balconies of the apartments near mine though, I find less interesting than things I’m not interested in, and actaully are beginning to piss me off. “Someone was having a party here last night!” I bitched to my sister. “Where was it?” she asked. “Seemingly in every apartment but ours.” In my fantasy I lean out the window and manage to catch the attention of some drunken buttplug. “Excuse me, hi, normally I wouldn’t complain about your little fest, as I too am someone who enjoys revelry and regularly vomits from overindulgance of alcohol– that’s how fucking FUN I am– but see I am doing this TV segment, I know, I never thought I’d be on TV either. What? Yeah! I know. Anyway it’s at the crack of dawn tomorrow and I really need to get like four hours of sleep so could you possibly move the partying inside? Thanks!” Then they’d retire to their convertible one bedroom and set the VCR so they could watch their neighbor on the news while reminding themselves to invite me to their next soiree. And would I go? Doubtful, but it was so nice of them to think of me. Instead I just lie there getting more and more agitated. Or do I lay there? Dirty!
on the news this morning the anchors started dancing to the drummers from the Family Drum Circle which is an event I was talking about and first I stood there uncomfortably/comfortably and smiled as one who doesn’t dance will do when surrounded by sudden dancing but then one of the anchors whispered ferociously DANCE! and so I did some retarded dance while trying to affect a look on my face of “I don’t really dance yet I”m dancing which is kind of making fun of dancing as opposed to sincerely dancing” which never works since if you’re on the dance floor busting out the Roger Rabbit and thinking you’re doing an Ironic Roger Rabbit, really you’re just a douchbag, not that I did the Roger Rabbit, and can I also say that my sister actually told me some months ago that I “have no dancer’s intuition” when she was trying to show me how to kick my leg up in some way that she was doing which looked fun, so essentially I can’t even fidget gracefully, but anyway the media person from the magazine said the dancing wasn’t on air however IT SO TOTALLY WAS
unrelated of course. anyone else have this stomach flu thing that’s apparently going around. it’s the type that makes it so you can’t sit still and you can’t stand and you can’t lie down unless you’re asleep because you feel all tingly/nauseated and your skin hurts. actually, I compared it to the world’s worst hangover except I haven’t been drinking and then it was suggested to me that perhaps it’s DTs. So anyway though, I was also on the news talking about summer concerts and CBS put it up on their web site. See it here
is waking up half a year later feeling like you’ve been on an episode of Shipmates where someone forgot to yell “cut!”
In honor of my being 30–the only benefit of which I’ve noticed thus far being that I can blithely refer to “my twenties”–I decided to turn once more for guidance to the sticky black orb sitting on my kitchen counter near piles of stupid mail. Did I explain that the ball is sticky? It is. It’s a strange kind of only-in-new-york grime. Maybe it’s more tacky than sticky. I mean, it’s tacky, but you know. Maybe it’s some kind of prophetic slime. Anyone touched a soothsayer? Are they sticky?
Q: should I?
A: It is decidedly so
Q: will I?
A: It is certain
Hm.
but I can’t figure out which I care less about, this new pope hoo-ha or sports. It’s a draw. Also, I bet if you were to say “new pope hoo-ha” over and over eventually you’d say “new poop” or even “no poop.” A less mature person might laugh about that.