Geeks and Wizards = L.O.V.E.

I'm going to completely dork out right now and admit that I just told my old boss "FYI...the final Harry Potter book comes out next week and if he dies, I'm going to need to take a leave of absence."

Seriously, I'll be inconsolable.

My Dysfunctional /Functional Relationships

I think of myself as a dropped pot, crazy-glued back together. It's sometimes hard to feel so obviously broken, and then so obviously glued together, so I surround myself with people who are going through the same thing. I don't like my little crew to be infiltrated by an unblemished surface. Why do they go home early? Why are they so optimistic? Why are they so organized?

I'm a collector of broken people, almost everyone I have chosen to have around me is messed up in some way or another. I don't intentionally do this - its more about attraction than anything else ... If there is a bruised soul in the room, I'm drawn to it instantly. We meet, and then we talk and discover a little about each other ...because we really already know each other way too well, we pick at our scabs, make unrealistic criticisms about the majority and then drink till 6am.

I am aware I can be the "fuck everyone" free spirit, but I'm really more chained than most anyone realizes- which is a retarded irony. (Or at least I think that's ironic, but when I declare something ironic someone smarter tells me that I'm wrong .... and then I have to punch them in the face. )

However, sometimes I get too attached. I get twisted around and love triangled, and it sucks, but for some reason I like it this way. It redirects my attention. I can't feel anything else. It's like trying to hear a pin drop at a rock concert. No one is anchored to anything ... so, the organized chaos just keeps on going.

What I am trying to say is, I don't know if this is love because (from what I'm told) love isn't supposed to make you feel half dead. But it's truly a miracle to move away from it and be closer to it than ever ... and there is something to that which cannot be dismissed.

So leave me alone about him.

Don't you hate when your pets are cheap?

Actual IM conversation yesterday about my friend Kenny's new pitbull Franklin.


Reb: What’s franklin like?

Kenny: Well, he’s actually pretty frugal.

Reb: Your dog is frugal?

Kenny: Yes

Reb: Because he doesn’t spend much money?

Kenny: That’s right - he doesn’t spend much. Hardly any at all really.

Reb: Don’t you think he doesn’t spend money because he is a dog, and not because he is frugal?

Kenny: I don’t see what you mean.

Reb: He is a dog.

Kenny: Right.

Reb: Dogs don't spend money.

Kenny: No, he doesn’t spend MUCH money. Hardly any in fact. I can’t remember the last time
he even got out his wallet.

Reb: He has a wallet?

Kenny: Of course he has a wallet! Where would he keep his money?

Reb: Where does he keep his wallet?

Kenny: I’m not sure, I haven’t seen him take it out in a while. It isn’t polite to talk about money
with friends.

Reb: But it’s your dog.

Kenny: I know. He’s sensitive.

Reb: I thought you said he is frugal?

Kenny: He’s many things to many different people.

Reb: What does that even mean?

Kenny: So frugal people can’t be sensitive? Fuck, you’re an asshole. Now, if you’ll excuse me,
Franklin and I are off to by a race car.

Reb: I thought you said he is frugal!

Kenny: Oh he is. I am the Spendy Spenderson. Franklin will be bitching the whole time about how we should get the least expensive race car possible.



Seriously.

The Infernal Black Screen of Existential Nothingness

Most of us registered our feelings about Sunday night’s big Sopranos finale on the disappointment scale somewhere between “total apathy” and “blind furry”, then went ahead and moved on with our lives. Inside Edition on the other hand, is clearly locked in a self-propagating state of disbelief. They have been dedicating a portion of every show so far this week to making sense of the confounding "Journey Scene", today delving into JFK-conspiracy levels of insanity by actually WALKING THROUGH the diner where the scene was shot, trying to re-create the moment before the the screen went black. They even went so far as to tracking down and trying to interview the background extra dude (who’s a pizza guy in real life) that may or may not have killed Tony.

For these people, ambiguity literally does not exist.

6/08/07 - We Shall Never Forget

Judge Michael Sauer is THE SHIT!! I never thought I would say it, but I have finally fallen madly in love and it feels fantastic. Can you blame me?

SHE WAS TAKEN BACK TO PRISON SCREAMING!!! SHE WILL NOW SERVE HER ENTIRE 45 DAY SENTENCE. IT WILL NOT BE REDUCED TO 23. SHE SCREAMED “ITS NOT RIGHT!” THEN SCREAMED “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!!!”

Excuse me for a minute.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, if life were a movie, this would be the point when you turn to your friend and say “This is the best movie in the history of the world!”

A Solid Candidate For Photo of the Year

I serioulsy laughed for 10 minutes when I saw this picture. Judge Michael T. Sauer, henceforth known to all as the Patron Saint of Awesome.

God bless America!

Stanley Crunk

I know that I am obviously filled with bitter rage that the Sens have somehow made it to the Stanley Cup Finals ... but I want to know one thing ...What in the name of all that’s green & holy is this? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I know Lil John likes to sport impressive custom made goblets to all the gangsta Miami clubs, but this is bordering on sacriledge. All I know, is that if someone is going to be drinking Cristal out of Lord Stanley’s cup - they better fucking know how to play the game.

I’d love to know how this photo came about, because all due "respect" - I don’t think that LJ typically hangs out in the sorts of places that the Cup tours through. Unless it was featured as the finale of a recent booty clap contest in Atlanta. Still, stranger things have happened. Alright - no they haven’t.

Just so you know...

Saturday night, I got into a cab with a cab driver who was clearly drunk.

What alarmed me the most, though, was not how he swerved from lane to lane with little regard of the vehicles he was cutting off. Not how he giggled and snorted so loudly on his cell phone headset. Not how he almost ran over a pedestrian .... who then chased us a block. What kinda shocks me is that I was too lazy to get out of the cab and get another one. I didn't even buckle my seatbelt. He may have even fallen asleep at the wheel and I had no idea. I just sipped on my Fanta and yawned like a baby lamb ..... and then gave him a $5 tip on a $12 fare.

I apparently can't even be bothered to save my own life.

What time is it?

Things I learned last night:

1. Yorkville is overrun with girls who are just a little bit overweight.

2. 2:00am is the new 4:00am.

3. Wine is good, but cheap whiskey is better.

4. Literally anything deep fried tastes good when drunk. Anything. Fry a pencil - I'll eat it and it will be delicious.

5. I love a good cab driver. I mean I downright love them. A cab driver that speeds up for yellow lights, takes all the right streets – I just want to be friends with them. Having a friend who is a good cab driver is like having a friend who is a gourmet chef. No difference.

6. Advertising cereal as solely a breakfast food was a terrible idea. Cereal is one of the greatest meals in the world. Cookie Crisp tried to get that message across, but pussied out. Cereal is going nowhere as a breakfast.

7. Why I’m not in throwing up and crying right now is beyond me.

Al Gore can take global warming and shove it up his ass

Fashion Anaylsis 101

A few friends of mine (who I also refer to as my fans) have been quite upset with my lack of blogging as of late. It's just that I have this little thing that supports my shopping habit ... it's called a job and it's keeping me really busy right now. However I'm going to stop drinking for a few evenings in order to free up some time and address the following picture of a transvestite hooker that a friend emailed me:

Let's discuss...

1) The white bra under a white dress. NO. NO. NO. I realize I'm notorious for wearing black, red, hot pink, lime green bra's under white tops but for normal chicks a nude bra is common sense. White under white??? Please. Not to mention this particular BRAZZIRE is something that only an 87 year old lactating grandmother would wear. Most bitches know better than this, so I'll move on. (Although I would like to know what surgeon did his tits)

2) The makeup: This guy is over the top even for a tranny streetwalker. The rule is the eyes OR lips ...not both.

3) Love the bag. Love the jacket.

4) The nude colored fishnets: If he's going to wear a skirt that short, he may as well just go all the way with bare legs. What's the point? It's not like he needs the fishnets to give the ensemble more edge.

5) The hair: It's so cliche. He'd be much more mysterious and wholesome with a darker color.

My comments may be bitchy but I don't feel bad.

He is beautiful. Words won't bring him down.

BFF: What's Yer Twenty?

It's strange... getting to work yesterday was almost TOO convenient. No shinsplints, no sweaty layers of sweaters and scarfs, no ingenuine smiles at strangers as I shove them out of my way trying to catch the train. Just people invading my personal space and touching me inappropriately, two things I've grown used to and have almost learned to enjoy on my daily commutes.

But perhaps my elation went a little overboard this morning when I boarded the northbound train. As I was reading the Metro (their political cartoons kill me) I caught glimpse of the girl standing next to me. God, she looks so familiar. Staring at people on the train can be dangerous territory. There's only so much side-glancing one can do before they end up with a mouthful of fist that is likely laden with various fecal-and-pube-ridden germs.

I turned back to my reading, but really -- I know this girl! I slowly shifted my gaze to my right. Oh my god... it's Marisa Palumbo! My best friend from middle school! "MARISA!" I shouted in my brain. "MARISA IT'S ME! REBECCA! MARISA, LOOK OVER HERE!" Silently, I returned to my paper, barely able to contain my exuberance. Marisa P. got me through some hard times in middle school. I had just come out of probably the most traumatic years of my life in elementary school (which, once again, I'd like to thank my parents for allowing their underdeveloped daughter to have a skater-boy haircut and a retainer at the same time .... especially when "Pat" was such a huge hit on SNL).

An artist's rendering of me in 7th Grade.

Our friendship came to a sad end the summer before high-school when my family moved, and I had to start 9th Grade the next year sans a best friend. I remember that day so well: The doorbell rang and we walked out front and started BAWLING. Just crying so hard ... even her Dad cried. We gave each other a farewell hug, and that was that: No more Marisa. We kept in touch for a couple of years, and then somehow fell out of touch.

Whenever I think of her now, I picture her as a successful wife and mother for some reason ...but I always wonder .... does she have kids? Is there an anonymous god-child out there I've never met? So you can imagine how overwhelmed I felt on the train when I thought THE Marisa Palumbo was standing next to me. Same long thick hair, heavy eyelids, skin tone, height, weight, everything. Even her fingernails were the same -- bitten to near extinction ... which I think I may have made-up because I really don't remember what her fingernails looked like.

OMG ... Had she seen me? Wouldn't she recognize me? Is it weird to ask a strange woman on the train "Excuse me, is your name Marisa P.? ..." as I slowly pull out the 14K Gold Best Friends half heart necklace with a sparkle in my eye. Then she would pull out her half of the necklace, and we would embrace and cry, then Montel would board the train and the entire car would clap and sing "This Little Light of Mine."

I couldn't help myself. I slowly turned my head as the car approached Bloor, and "Marisa" turned to let someone by.

Oh sweet mercy. Oh God no.

Not standing profile anymore, the girl turned to me directly and I saw her face head on. .... it was not Marisa.

A little raincloud formed over my head, small cartoonish lightning striking above. Here I was, thinking my saddness would be temporarily lifted and my long lost friend was RIDING THE TRAIN next to me -- and alas, it's just some girl in a puffy coat going to work.

So no tearful reunions that morning. But Marisa Palumbo, if you're out there Googling yourself and you come across this, DEF get in touch. I'd love to know how you are.

And if you're the girl who rode next to me on the train: Stop biting your nails. It's massively repulsive.

A Little Friday Flavor

Nice body? Check.

Hot face? Check.

Messy hair with 5 'o clock shadow? Check.

Alcoholic chain smoker? Check.

Dead cold expression that says, "You are going to put me through community college and like it"? Check and check.

For some reason I feel like I know this man. Let's say, for example, he wasn't a multi-million dollar movie star BUT just your regular run of the mill dude who pumps gas. This is the Collin I know. And if we had met at the local dive-bar before he became famous, he would immediately have known that I was going to give him my undying devotion and an interest-free loan. I, in turn, would know that he was going to forget my birthday and steal my prescription medicine for his own recreation.

But seriously, just look at him. This is the guy who will sleep with your sister and tell you to stop being so sensitive about it.

So bad he's good, ladies. So bad he's good.

Best Cab Story EVER!!!!

My friend Tina e-mailed me with her awesomely-awesome taxi story about her experience returning home from 42nd Street to Brooklyn. It may seem long, but it DOES include a cabbie with a bloody nose... so I suggest setting aside some time to read this:

"You will not believe my cabbie story!!

After a harrowing trip to 42nd street yesterday afternoon, my coworker John and I decided to leave together at about 4 pm and split a cab to Brooklyn. He lives in Bayridge. We walked down 42nd towards the FDR and were lucky enough to catch a cab that was going off-duty to Brooklyn. I said I needed to go just over the bridge; John said he just needed to get into Brooklyn.

P.S. John's a bit odd...maybe a bit of a...loose cannon.

So we're driving along and John says he needs to go to Bayridge. The cabbie says "No, I'm going off duty to Coney Island. I have to give this cab to my partner." John says "No, you're not going to leave me 7 miles from my house." They argue and the cabbie points at John and says "You can't change your destination, I am not going to Bayridge!" John says "Don't point your fucking finger at me or I'll break it off!" They keep yelling and John grabs his finger and bends it backwards and says "I'll break your fucking finger off..." blah blah blah ..

The cabbie pushes him off and John fucking PUNCHES THE CABBIE IN THE FACE while we are driving. The guy slams on the brakes and John jumps out and opens my door for me to get out. And I'm like hell no, I don't even fucking know this guy and he just punched dude in the face! So I stay in and he says "fine" and walks away.

The cabbie is sort of shocked and keeps saying "I don't know why he punished me in my face! This never happen to me!!" And I'm sympathizing and explaining I don't really know John and I'm sorry and he's bleeding a little and does he need help. So we're going down the FDR and suddenly the guy's like "I'm out of control! I'm driving but I'm out of control!" Then he's like "What just happened? Where am I? Where are we going? I'm out of control! Out of control!"

(It was at this point I ask her why she didn't get out of the cab.)

"I was on the FDR! I couldn't get out!"

(Okay! Relax. Finish your story.)

"So he calls 911 and tells them what happened, but his English sucks and he's, you know, out of control. He hands the phone to me and asks me to talk to them and i'm just thinking "What the fuck?" We get in the lane to pull off and we're in it for a good 20 minutes, and the whole time he keeps asking where we're going and what happened and if I called 911 yet.

He keeps saying: "I'm driving but out of control! God sees, or else we'd be dead right now! He's driving the car or else we'd be in the water!"

He calls his partner and talks to him in some chadian language that sounds like "Njofhoj jopfjpewk out of control! Jiojwiojio out of control out of control!" Finally he says "Forget it, I'll take you home, your time is important."

Anyway, he takes me somehow to the West Side Highway and somehow through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and leaves me in Red Hook, I have no idea where I am, and I find a guy in a DJ equipment truck who gives us directions to a street I can walk home from. I tell the directions to the driver and he says oh that's too far and I'm so exasperated I just get out and slam the door and start walking.

The DJ equipment guy honks and says he's going that way; he'll drive me. I take the ride since I have no idea where I am, I'm in the middle of warehouses and desolation. So he drives me for like half an hour and he's super nice (Nigel, from Trinidad, two kids) and he dropped me on Atlantic Ave. and I walked the rest of the way, getting home at about 7:30. THEN, John calls me to make sure I got home okay, and I was like uh...yeah. THANKS."

No, thanks to YOU, Tina for relaying your alarming and emotional journey.I really hope that John kid gets what he deserves in life, which is a swift kick in the crotch.

You're a Slave No More ...

Oh sweetie, I feel you. When you were taking a Bic to your head like Frida, you're allllmost there. Alllmost. But fear not, my beloved Brit! This is a good break. Its called a breakdown, and in the long run, you'll find it far more preferable to continuing on in your current roles as paycheck, vicarious source of self esteem, and doormat to all.

It boggles the mind to think of how much money those Britney Spears Mega Machine locks represented, how many times your users twisted them this way and that for profit, extending them, bleaching them, cutting them - all because market research suggested it. How many times did K-Fed run his dirty-digger fingers through them? Surely enough for the bundle to be considered hazardous material. Ewwwww.

But now they're gone. What a spectacular "fuck you" to society ... couldn't have done it better if I tried. Hopefully you're smart enough to understand the shearing as the metaphor its meant to be, and do the real shearing required to get any semblance of a life back. Leave your gut-sucking, white trash family, loser Fresno ex-hubby and money-grubbing manager behind like your over-dyed clippings of hair cast to the floor of a salon for some broom girl (or Perez Hilton) to pick up and sniff obsessively.

Now run ... run far away. In fact, run straight to Neil Strauss' house and tell him everything, so he can put it into one of his gorgeous biographies, and be sure to pick up some Kombuchi tea on your way there, because your liver fucking needs it. Oh, and while you're at it, please re-cover Joan Jett's "I love Rock and Roll" 'cause you were never really that hard-core in the first place, but something tells me you are now, you bald-as-fuck, carpet-munching, finger-flipping bitch.

I love you more than ever.

Actually, I never really liked you, but I do now.

Wintery Humiliation

The only good thing about these horrifc winter snow storms is the opportunity to witness moments such as these:

Victim #1

WHEN: 8:32am
WHERE: Queen Subway Station - Northbound Train
THE VICTIM: 5'10" male. Approximately 35. Brown hair. Glasses.
NATURE OF FALL: Victim rushed the doors as they were closing. Floor was slick. Full-on slippage followed. For a second, victim was airborne and totally parallel to the train floor. Landed on back.
POSSIBLE CAUSES: Converse shoes. Poor time management. Hubris.
I WAS LEFT FEELING: Anxious. Empty. Like I should call someone just to say 'I love you'

Victim #2

WHEN: 3:30pm
WHERE: Yonge Street - Outside Starbucks
THE VICTIM: 4'11" Female. Brown hair. Wanna-be Diva.
NATURE OF FALL: Victim pitched forward unexpectedly, knees sunk into a patch of snow that was suspiciously beige. Wee little hands clutching an extra long cigarette followed. Victim emitted a jagged peal of self-conscious laughter into her cell phone, a clear indication she was crying on the inside.
POSSIBLE CAUSES: Non-hemmed Citizens of Humanity jeans. Adorable little pointy shoes had style yet lacked traction.
I WAS LEFT FEELING: Gleeful. Then guilty. Then an oddly pleasurable combination of both...


Two falls in one day and that's not even including the killer drunken wipe-out's I saw last night at our company party .... Happy Valentine's Day to me!

Chop Stix

I was out for drinks with my friend last week and she was telling me about her cousin who is getting married at the end of the month .... Apparently, she and her cousin don't really see eye to eye and she was complaining about how her cousin had recently changed her Vietnamese name, Chin, to Ashley because it's a little more "common". My friend suspects that she only did this because she wants her name to "match" her husband-to-be's name ... Victor ... and I'm not even lying.

Seriously. Ashley and Victor. I know.

So, later that night I was telling the ex-boyfriend the story ... not that he would would even get it (he doesn't watch Y&R), but because I was buzzed and the only things I could retrieve from my memory happened within the previous two hours ..


Me: "So, her cousins name is Chin and she changed it to Ashley .... AND .... her fiancee's name's Victor! What is that?"


Ex B-Friend: "Dude, if I were Asian and my name were Chin I would totally change it to Chink."

Sometimes, I just love that fucker ...

First Class All The Way!

Because my ex-boyfriend is feral, he lacks certain manners. Table manners, primarily.

I suppose this is because he had a single Mom who was raising a litter of kids and therefore was extremely busy and worn thin. As a result she never had the time teach him how to use things like forks, knives and napkins. It could also be because he left home at 16, and he was forced off to "boarding" school, where he scraped with the other little wolves, sporting a wild crudeness which evolved into totally disgusting table behavior. Whatever the cause, he eats like a fucking animal.

Even at the finest restaurants, there is no use of a napkin. More often than not, there is no use of table utensils. He eats sushi with his fingers. He eats ribs like a caveman, diving in, wolfing the platter down in a manner which leaves sauce mittens on his hands all the way up to the wrist. I am appalled and say, "Do you want to borrow my napkin?" though I don't want to give it to him for fear of him returning it when finished. And with a barbeque sauce smile smeared across his cheeks and chin like Crusty the Clown, he says, "Nah, I'll clean up when I'm done."

Luckily, like a starving mutt, he finishes his food in under two minutes. He then excuses himself with his sauce mittens and clown face, and heads to the bathroom to clean up while the people sitting around us look in my direction with empathy .... for I am out on a date with a retarded boy.

MmmmmmmmmHmmmmmmmmmm

and he has most of his own teeth ....which is kind of a big deal ....

Issue of the Week ... so far

I've seriously had it with public transportation. Coupled with the fact that Mother Nature is a total whore, yesterday I fully waited 45 minutes for the streetcar in the freezing cold, while my waiting companions shared their verbal validation of the city's disrespect for particular ethnic groups. By the time the streetcar got there, they had mustered up such collective anger I'm suprised there wasn't a revolt ... against me ... because I'm white.

If you happen take the bus anytime after 9pm you'll notice that ALL the people on it are verfiably NOT in in a hurry due to the fact they are either:


a) Insane/Drunk /Homeless
b) 100 years old


Additionally, everytime I get onto the subway or streetcar, 9 times out of 10 I will be forced into some sort of verbal altercation with those who fall into category "a". And chances are, the cracked-out drunk guy that I just told to go fuck himself, is getting off at my stop.... .... because I live in the ghetto and I'm just lucky like that. F'n A!

Good-Bye, Sweet Valley High

When I was about 13, long before I developed some sort of adult attention defecit disorder and became too lazy to read anything but blogs and magazines, I used to suck down Young Adult books by the dozen. As I remember, my YA books were always about poor kids; Poor kids trying to fit in at rich schools. Poor kids living in boxcars and getting by on sheer luck. Poor kids keeping stiff upper lips after dad lost his job. (Ramona Quimby, I'm looking at you.) In one book, Papa Quimby took the family to a hamburger restaurant and it was as though Jesus Christ had descended to Earth and bought them a burger. Or that scatterbrain Booky (pronounced Boo-ky) whose family was so poor, she and her brother were on the school "lunch program" for welfare kids (which, I can only speculate, was the reason I thought SPAM sandwiches on stale bread sounded appealing). Even those Sweet Valley twins, Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield, lived in a "split level ranch house" which, in a suburb like Sweet Valley, was clearly only middle-class digs.

That's why, when browsing the site of a local publishing agent, I was really surprised by the volume of rich-kid lit. I don't know what happened to all the poor kids, but now it's all about brand names, naughty missent text messages, and throw-downs at debutante balls. I do remember a racy Babysitters Club special in which Stacy and Mallory went to Surf City, New Jersey - but it wasn't anything like this passage from the book "Psyche In A Dress" currently available in the Young Readers section:

The next night we ate avocados, oranges and honey in Orpheus's candlelit cavern deep in the canyon. I wore strapless pale lace and tulle and lilies in my hair.
"Tell me" he said. "Tell me a story"
This in itself was an aphrodisiac.
My throat opened like a flower.


I don't know if I'm disturbed, or just jealous that I never got to read anything close to this titillating. I suspect the latter. I have pretty much always been a perv - which would explain why Samantha Fox's song "Touch Me" really spoke to me at the ripe age of 11.

In case you are not versed on the inspiring musical creations of Samantha Fox, here is a little taster from "Touch Me."

Hot and cold emotion confusing my brain
I could not decide between pleasure and pain.
Like a tramp in the night I was begging for you
To treat my body like you wanted to.

(moan, moan)

Touch me , touch me
I want to feel your body
Your heart beat next to mine
Touch me - Touch me now!
Cuz I want your body all the time

(moan, moan)

So, I apparently could have used a little avocado and honey back in my pre-teen days.

Okay, now too.