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because here’s an even newer peeve: Irresponsible operation of umbrellas on crowded rain-slicked city streets. You people are urban snowboarders. I fear for my eyes.

photos referred to as “snaps”… not as bad as a celebrity’s pregnant belly referred to as a “bump” which should only be used to describe that which sits on a log or goes up your nose, but irksome nonetheless.

This is you: Have you written anything lately? This is me: yes.

annoys me.

No, you don’t really.

In a coup for small unassuming women who ask a lot of questions everywhere, my mom won a small poker tournament in Las Vegas. My sister and I asked her to play a few hands with us since neither of us feel that comfortable with Texas Hold ‘Em (we’re Seven Card Stud players, kinda) and while this was going on I started to think how cool it would be if I could do cool shit with cards, like throw them out accordion style and deal them quickly and shuffle impressively, etc. And I became more and more obsessed with this idea and determined to learn — on the internet of course– because surely this kind of useful info is to be found there. I was wrong. Instead, I found voluminous information on card tricks, so I learned a few of those, because what the hell, right? And then I performed a couple for my sister. The first one I messed up but the second one she admitted was “impressive” and the whole things was all jokey like “look how funny and retarded this is that I’m doing these dumb magic tricks oh my god hahaha how silly.” So then of course I decided I may as well learn a few more or at least master the couple I knew and I started thinking about magic quite a bit and the scary thing is that I think this is how it starts. Because right now it’s all joking but before long what if I’m the ass at the party who’s doing tricks? Not just turning them? A-HA! But really. Can a cape be far behind?

I’m tired of them.

I have an unhealthy fascination with reality shows along with a whole host of far-flung theories about what their proliferation means which perhaps I’ll one day foist upon the world in a book of staid, inscrutable and self-satisfied cultural critical essays referencing things like the Frankfurt school and tropes. In the meantime though I’d just like to make out with all the producers of Joe Schmo. And so for reasons both adulterated and un, I was looking forward to MTV’s Reality Show Awards Show, which I didn’t realize only concerned reality shows that had aired on MTV. I mean, entire categories were based just on Punk’d. The whole show could have been packaged as a Top 100 Outrageous Moments in MTV Reality Shows or A Look Back at MTV Reality Shows or Ashton Kutcher Did Not Just Say That Ohmigod. The Awards Show conceit was quite a stretch though, and I could have been watching I Love the 80s or SVU. Network, please!

Tonight I saw Comets on Fire and Sunn0))) (I have no idea if that’s really how they spell their name, it’s some aggravating combination of letters and punctuation. This just in: that is how they spell their name!) at the Knitting Factory. While I could review the music, I think my words would be better used reviewing the smell of the show: ripe with a musky gamey funk I haven’t enjoyed since riding public transportation in Europe. About two-thirds of the way through Comets on Fire the scent suddenly turned decidedly skunky and acrid and I looked around to see whether someone was burning something hydroponic but I didn’t see anything of the sort leading me to the sad conclusion that I was just smelling the same smell I’d been smelling before, and maybe it was fermenting. Overwhelmed, I stepped outside, thus reducing the show’s female population by 50 percent.

This story was going to be a feature and then it was going to be a cover but then it turned back into a feature and now it’s just long.  Read it here.