Like the Corners of My Mind

Today, I read that Lindsey Lohan is shopping around her memoirs. And then I squeezed my eyes closed real tight and whispered "Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God."

Doubters will say "But Lindsey's so young. What wisdom could she possibly have to offer?" Whatever. Lindsey's young, sure, but she's lived, man. And you? You've probably never even thrown up in a limo. Or at least not more than once. And I suspect you can probably recall many of the individuals with whom you have had sexual relations over the years. Lindsey often can't remember who she's having sexual relations with while she's having them. And it's those kinds of experiences from which life lessons are born, folks.

Excerpts below. Come, learn with me!

November 1, 1997

God, Dennis Quaid is such a douche. It's like he doesn't even care that I play TWO people in this movie. I'm in every scene, twice. That's like Lindsey Lohan Squared. Does he think it's easy? Whatever. He is so washed up anyway. I told my agent I wasn't even doing this stupid movie unless we could get somebody important, like Robert DeNiro, or Will Smith, to play my dad. But my mom says I have to do it because they put the house up for dad's bail and she's worried he's going to leave. I told my personal assistant that I don't care if he leaves but she said I really do and then I threw the phone at her.

Last night, after we got done shooting my scene, I had the limo driver take me and my friends Ashley and Mary Kate to this bar. I can't remember the name. My mom went too, which is so not cool. But whatever, she just sits at the bar and tries to get free drinks. While we were doing rails in the bathroom this skanky bitch came in and she was all 'Oh my God, Lindsey Lohan!' But I was all 'Get the f#%^ out of here, whore.' Mary Kate says her name is Paris. Which is so retarded, because Paris is, like, a country in England or something. My tutor is going to be so psyched that I remembered that.

Love,
Lindsey

May 16, 2007
God, rehab gets lamer every time. What the hell is there to do in Utah, for f*#&'s sake? Sleep with a Mennonite or whatever? No thanks. Yesterday they tried to serve us water with lunch, but I was all 'Uh, do I look like a goddamned refugee? Who do I have to blow to get some Cristal around here? I will seriously burn this place down.' My therapist says I need to be accountable or something, and that I'm acting out because I'm angry at my mom. But I said I have like an accountant and a personal assistant and two maids, and they can do my accounting or whatever.

Last night Riley and I snuck out and went downtown to break into a drugstore because he thinks I gave him gonorrhea, so he wanted to steal some Bactine or something for it. Which is so ridiculous, because if I had gonorrhea I think my assistant would have told me. And if I really do have it, that skank Wilmer Valderamma gave it to me, for sure. Riley's totally annoying, but I am so not going 90 days without humping anything. He said I'm a firecracker in the sack, but I thought he was going to say firecrotch, and I totally hate that name, so I hit him with a lamp. He actually looks kind of cute when he's passed out.

Serenity now,
Lindsey

Dr. Spock's Got Nothin' on Britney

OMG! Paris Hilton and me are sooo on the same page. Today she said she thinks Britney Spears is "a great mother and a great girl..." Me too! Totally! I mean, she's no Joan Crawford or even Lynne Spears, but she definitely seems like a pretty good mom. People get so uptight when you drive with your infant on your lap once in a while, or if your kid (accidentally, y'all!) falls out of his high chair and fractures his skull a teeny bit. And I think all of us have tripped over our bell bottoms while walking in our platforms. And if I had a baby, I'd probably have been carrying mine when it happened too. Geez. Let she who is without platforms cast the first stone, you know?

As for the picture, well, the jury's still out on second-hand smoke, and it was obviously taken outdoors. Not to mention the cigarette's a solid 18 inches from the kid's face. You can't baby them all the time, or they'll never grow up.

And finally, uh, I think Paris Hilton knows what she's talking about. She isn't just pretty and talented and extremely large of hoof. She's smart and insightful too. If she says Britney Spears is a good mother, I don't think any of us are in a position to say otherwise.

Never Mind the Bollocks

I think each of us remembers the first time, sitting in traffic, when we glimpsed a set of giant testicles hanging from the pick-up truck in front of us. And while we all may have reacted slightly differently, the one thing that probably occurred to all of us is "God, male genitalia is soooooo hilariously unpleasant looking." Which is correct. There's just nothing all that aesthetically pleasing about what amounts to two golf balls swinging in a baggy, hairy sock. Gagging yet?

And that's why I can get behind Virginia Delegate Lionel Spruill, who has proposed a bill to ban the display of human genitalia replicas on motor vehicles in the state. Usually, I'm not the kind of person who tells other people what to do with their genitalia--real or fake. But when you choose to swing them from your bumper, forcing me to look a them, even briefly, I think I want the state to intervene.

Regardless of the proposed legislation, one question remains--what type of person actually wants a big ball sack hanging from their vehicle? Vulgar? Check. Kinda sad? 10-4. Misguidedly enamored of their own goofy genitals? You know it! Plus maybe tobacco-chewing, or most likely to get in a bar fight.

And yes, I know the Virginia legislature probably has more important things to do, but let's face it, we all know they're not going to. So why not do this in the meantime? Plus, at the end of the day, any piece of legislation that spawns headlines like "Possible Testicle Ban In Virginia" can't be all bad, right?

Twisted

Last July Blogger made this guy a blog of note, and deservedly so:

http://www.bentobjects.blogspot.com/

I occasionally remember to check it and each time I do I am totally floored by how cool/funny/innovative/geniusy it is. Today after checking it, I decided that the three or four people who sometimes read my blog should know about it too. Whether or not you think it's cool is probably a good litmus test of whether or not I think you're cool. There are exceptions either way, of course, but I'd say it's a good rule of thumb.

It also reminds me, in some (not completely related) way, to this stuff:

http://www.sloanetanen.com/

or in case you're lazy, it's like this:

Also cool and hilarious.

I'm painfully jealous, since I lack even the most microscopic speck of creativity.

Good thing I've got my crazy smarts, and supermodel good looks to make up for it. :)

There Will Be Blogging

Last weekend, we went to see "There Will Be Blood." Which has already won an assload of awards, and will likely win a whole lot more before all is said and done. Did I like it? Meh. The acting was out-freaking-standing, to be sure. There were some strange choices though--particularly the weird, climactic anti-climax. But what bothered me most about the film itself was the score. It, too, is getting crazy good reviews and critical acclaim, but to all of that I say "whatever." It was weird, and loud, and super dischordant--like a monkey playing a violin and a cello at the same time. And most of all, it seemed like it was meant to accompany a different movie. It would ratchet up to the point where I was certain something pivotal was about to happen, and then...nothing. They'd drink some goat's milk. Or go to sleep. Leaving me confused.

But what we saw is not nearly as important as how we saw it, or how much of it. Our choices were few, and we ended up at Cinema Arts in Fairfax, which, commendably, focuses on small, independent films. Less commendable is seeing only 8/9ths of the movie, because the clever theater designers chose not to bother staggering the non-stadium seats, instead placing each one directly behind the one in front of it so that unless you had the foresight to round up a theater full of midgets, I'm sorry--little people, some of the movie will be the head of the person in front of you.

That would probably be plenty to piss me off. But then there was the forced recline. Generally, when I sit down in the theater, my first job is to distribute the contraband. This is made difficult when your chair and seatback form a 120-degree angle that doesn't respond to even the most valiant efforts to sit upright. Several times I wanted to apologize to the person behind me, above whose lap my head hovered. Later, after the film concluded, I got somewhat carried away while demonstrating to my companions why I thought the seats were problematic, and ended up scaring two old people trying to watch the credits. Oops.

All of this was iced by the theater manager, whose practice it is to come in before the previews to tell you weird stuff you don't really need to know and then walks around topping off people's popcorn (without asking.) I focused on not making eye contact. Which is one of the many good reasons to go to the movies in the first place--no human interaction. It's the same reason I use self-checkout. For my money, it didn't add a whole lot good to the experience.

In summary: "There Will Be Blood"=Meh; Stadium Seating=Woo hoo; Sitting directly behind the person in front of you=Blurgh; Monkeys Playing String Instruments=Cute!; Theater Management in the Style of Chatty Patty=None for me, thanks.

So Long Old Friend

"There is no faith which has never yet been broken, except that of a truly faithful dog."

Attention Northern Virginia Drivers!

This is a traffic stop:
They are generally a routine occurrence, and do not require that you stomp on your brakes. The police officer is typically occupied at the time you observe such an event, and unless you are waving your crack pipe out the window, honking your horn and flipping the officer the bird, smashing into the car in front of you, or generally committing some other significant, attention-getting violation, they do not care what you are doing. Perhaps you find such an event fascinating, on par with a meteor falling from the sky. In this case I suggest getting out more often. It's really not all that interesting. If it's such an unusual site that you must become accustomed to viewing it, try an image search on Google. There are plenty of photographs, like the one above, of people being pulled over. Maybe after viewing enough of them, you will be able to withstand the overwhelming desire to slow down and stare, mouth agape, when a fellow motorist is being stopped, and thus I WILL BE ABLE TO GET TO WORK ON TIME.
Thank you. You may now resume being a moron.

The Show-Me (Your Bible) State

When I was little we traveled to Missouri a few times to visit my father's family in St. Louis, where he was born and raised. I was always excited for these trips...we got to see the Cardinals play, go up in the Arch, buy soft pretzels from street vendors, and eat at White Castle. (What? I wasn't always a vegetarian, and we didn't have White Castle in Vermont.) Plus, there were strange bugs to poke at, kids to play with, and a next door neighbor who always gave us candy (back in the days when the neighbor wasn't just using the candy to lure you inside and eventually boil you in a pot on the stove.)

But today, Missouri isn't quite as alluring as it used to be. I have many kind and lovely relatives who still live there, and I don't blame them, but it seems that Missouri has taken a turn for, well, the evil.

First, there was the story this morning about a town in Missouri that may ban swearing. They also want to ban table-dancing and profane music, in order to keep the town's rowdy bar patrons under control. Right. Because it couldn't be the alcohol or anything. There are few things more sacred to me than my right to swear. It's what separates us from the animals, after all. (Yeah, and the thumb, I know.) Take away the table-dancing if you must. I'll find other ways to express my art. And if profane music includes the likes of, say "My Humps" or something, I guess I can get behind that. But no one gets between me and my colorful vocabulary. No one.

I guess I should have seen it coming. After all, it is the state that unleashed John Ashcroft on an unsuspecting public, and where a middle school attempted to prohibit an eighth-grade girl from participating in her graduation ceremony unless she wore a dress, and additionally, in which the town of Purdy continues to enforce a historical ban on high school dances, possibly inspiring the plot of "Footloose" (and perhaps Kenny Loggins' rousing anthem to "cutting loose, footloose.")
I offer this information only as a warning to anyone who occasionally employs the F-word, enjoys cutting a rug, or in the case of you women-folk, prefers pants. The only thing Missouri would like to "Show" you heathens is the border.

Some things I would have blogged about if it hadn't been a distractingly crappy month (or My Triumphant Return to Blogging)

1. Holiday Crafts Weekend- During which we purchased a tree, hung a stellar, yet classy, display of Christmas lights (man, I love Christmas lights, seriously, of all kinds), and bought cranberries, destined for a craft we never completed. Maybe someday. Darren's exemplary light-hanging work was noticed by the neighbors, who slowly succumbed to the holiday spirit and hung their own lights. Just not as good as ours.

2. Hooters- It all comes down to this: What in God's name are they wearing? And why do people go there? Ever? I began asking questions when I saw the Hooters waitresses featured as ring girls at that fight we attended. The giant, blinding white aerobics sneakers (high tops required, per the official Hooters employee handbook), orange shorts, WITH PANTYHOSE (suntan, also according to the handbook.) A wife-beater with the word "Hooters" emblazoned across the front, as if to caption its contents. I guess if you're going for white trash you might as well go all the way. It's probably also worth mentioning that Hooters has a special "Kids Eat Free" day (Thursdays, in case you want to bring little Johnny or Sally along.) Seems a little outside of their target market, but I suppose you gotta start 'em young.

3. Santa's Nuts- That's as in "the nuts belonging to Santa" as opposed to "Man, Santa is nuts." Why was I thinking about Santa's nuts? Well, who wouldn't? But also, I did read an article about a woman in Connecticut who was arrested for groping Santa Claus at a mall. She was charged with fourth degree sexual assault. And while I do not support sexually assaulting Santa Claus, I have to admit I wondered for a brief moment if, given all of the crying and badgering and maybe even vomiting that your average mall Santa has to endure, if maybe he didn't like it just a little tiny bit. Does that make me a bad person?

As for why it was a really crappy four weeks, I'll just mention a few things: 1. The holidays are emotionally and financially stressful-I am sure you did not know this; 2. Our veterinarian has a solid start on a college fund for the little ones, or took a trip to Acapulco for the holidays, thanks to our eight visits during the latter half of December. Most importantly, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, Weasel is back in force, so all's well that ends well; 3. As a result of 1. and 2. I may now qualify for food stamps. Donations are welcome, but sadly are not tax-deductible.

My New Year's resolution? Occasionally remembering that I have a blog.