... it's a big "fuck you" to everyone, especially Michael Moore (who apparently misrepresented and doctored a newspaper editorial for his film (thanks Andrew)). Of course, if it pans out it might mean that Bush will actually gain some more credibility and win the election, and I'm still not sure if I want that to happen.
The Straphangers just rated the subways and what line do you think got the highest rating? Huh? Huh? Da 6. I love my subway line, even though it sometimes only runs in the downtown direction or not at all. But, to quote Madonna and every angsty emo/punk/pop band on the planet, nobody's perfect.
Since it was a rainy, nasty day yesterday, we decided to catch an early showing of Spiderman, which was of course entertaining but didn't show enough shots of Tobey Maguire's cute little, nevermind. Anyway, like most movie experiences on
Now, I'm not about to make any assumptions about the intelligence level of your average theater attendant, but you really don't need to be all that aggressive a thinker to know that letting a five-year-old into a movie theater with a helium balloon is not the greatest idea in the world. You see, as we (and others) were waiting patiently for our $10.25 movie to begin, said child (who managed to get passed the razor-sharp security) lost his grip on said balloon. Now this resulting in two distinct, yet related situations, namely a) a balloon bobbing up and down in front of the movie screen and b) an upset child who had lost said balloon and was making it known to the rest of the theater, loudly, and without much in the way of actual vocabulary.
But our tale of helium woes has just begun. About every ten minutes the balloon, which thankfully prefered to remain close to the ceiling, would make a cameo appearance on-screen. But lo! during a stirring speech by Dr. Octopus the balloon floated closer and closer to the ground, eliciting cries of "grab it! grab it!" from the crowd. A virtuous young lady, heeding those calls, leapt up from her front row seat and snatched the offending balloon and destroying it. She was greeted by much applause. Applause which, unfortunately, had it's own nasty side effects, namely setting off an applause chain reaction, not unlike Doc Ock's self-sustaining fusion reaction which used the unrealistically solid substance of tritium. This audience started clapping at everything! Aw, they kissed. Clap clap clap. Wow, Spiderman did something cool! Clap clap clap. Hey, great use of a classic
Needless to say, it was an enjoyably campy romp through summer blockbuster spendor as seen in the
It's a beautiful day in
I'm not entirely sure how fitting it is that the FMA was killed before it even got off the ground on Bastille Day. However, I do consider it interesting that Bill O'Reilly didn't mention it once (although I'm not sure when his show is taped), but did mention that residents of Palm Beach successfully sued to get a nativity placed next to the menorah under the heading "Traditionalist Victory" while also reaffirming his boycott of all things French and my dangling participles. I'd like someone to prove that his shampoo was made in
And speaking of
Oh, yes, that does say doll's head bezoar, a tangled mass of indigestable material made up of a doll's head. You'd think that it would be obvious that a Barbie doll's head would be indigestable. And it was obvious to a 35-year-old man who last year ingested multiple doll's heads. On purpose. Most people won't be able to follow the link, so I've reprinted most of the article from the American Journal of Roentgenology. Pay special attention to the bold (my emphases).
A 35-year-old man presented with severe abdominal pain and distention but normal vital signs. An abdominal radiograph showed multiple rounded objects, some of which projected in the shape of a head with a pointed nose. Suspecting a case of "body packing", we questioned the patient as to whether he had ingested packets filled with illicit drugs for the purpose of smuggling. However, the patient stated that he had ingested multiple heads of a popular children's toy doll over the course of several days. He declared that swallowing dolls' heads was his habit for anal autoerotic gratification. The patient's hospital course was uneventful after surgery for mechanical small-bowel obstruction....
In this case of small-bowel obstruction resulting from craniocervical dissociation of a doll, common search patterns used to detect atlantooccipital distraction injury do not apply. Radiographically, dolls' heads do not show a clear basion–dens interval or posterior axial line. A denslike structure that has a cylindric convexity connects the doll's cranium to the doll's body in a hinge joint. The entire head of the doll, including nose and hair, are radiodense. Familiarity with the radiographic appearance of this famous American doll may help to differentiate the foreign bodies in the bowel of our patient from packages of illicit drugs ingested by body packers.
Motives for ingestion of foreign bodies vary greatly. To our knowledge, ingestion of dolls' heads for anal autoerotic gratification has not been described previously. Most ingested foreign bodies pass the small and large bowels without serious consequence, and patients seek medical help only if the passage is impeded at anatomic narrowings. Body packers smuggle illicit drugs (such as cocaine or heroin) in multiple ingested packages and may present as a toxicologic emergency with life-threatening symptoms caused by a leaking substance from a broken package. Rectal foreign bodies rarely come from ingestion but more commonly are the result of conscious insertion.
Radiographic detection of the characteristic nose and the unique features of the craniocervical junction of famous dolls may serve as a clue to identify the doll radiographically, even if located in the bowel of an individual. This case illustrates how icons of popular culture affect all aspects of life and can present emergently to the radiologist, who should keep in mind that human imagination may not follow clinical algorithms.
It's the simplest recipe for success. You're a pop megastar with a twenty year career, something like 60 million albums sold, at least 50 hit singles and an athletic body that looks at least fifteen years younger than your age. You have millions of fans ready to shell out upwards of $300 a ticket for a concert. You've got billions of dollars of personal assets, access to the best choreographers, producers, promotors and videographers in the world and a stadium in every major city willing to let you play. All you have to do is play some old favorites, remix a few songs to spice things up and grind your breasts against half-naked male dancers and your fans will be screaming for more all night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Or you could do what Madonna did with her "Re-Invention Tour"...
I don't think there's any good place to begin, other than the beginning. Madonna (Esther) rises on stage in a toned-down version of her bustier days and does some yoga to "Vogue". We stayed seated because we were wating for her to warn us up. After a song that nobody seemed to recognize (which Madonna must have figured because she kept flashing the lyrics up on the screen) she stood in front of a mike stand and sang "Frozen" while a Chris Cunningham video played in the background. I hate that song but would have forced myself to get into it if I had known that it was just going to go down hill from there.
I'm not entirely sure when she lost me. It may have been her electric guitar rendition of "Material Girl". Or maybe it was when the wimple- and burkha-clad women came dancing with her on the catwalk during "American Life." Or possibly when she broke into a jazz version (a jazz version!) of "Deeper and Deeper." It's entirely possible that it was during her horribly choreographed rendition of "Die Another Day" which ended with her being strapped into an electric chair (an electric chair!) and having to endure a song from Evita, and not one of the popular songs you'd recognize immediately either (and believe me, if anyone should have recognized it, it should have been me).
It could have been at any one of those moments. But I know which moment got her heckled (by people other than us, who were doing our fair share of heckling). It was when she informed us that she was about to perform a "no-sitting down song" (and if you have to tell your audience not to sit, you're doing something wickedly wrong) and she broke into "Like a Prayer." I don't know what the hell she did to it but that song was more exciting when I used to listen to it on cassette in my old Buick Skylark with one broken speaker than being performed live by Madonna in a 20,000 seat stadium. Maybe it was the slower than natural tempo or the entirely un-ironic beating Sacred Heart and crucified Christ looming behind her. But my guess was that it led into a cover of a song that, and I quote the material girl verbatim, "was written 35 years ago but sounds like it could have been written today." Oh yes, my brothers and sisters, Madonna/Esther serenaded us with "Imagine" (yes, that "Imagine") while we were subjected to images of impoverished Palestinian children and starving Africans, ending in a commercial (a commercial!) for SpiritualityForKids.org. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the great Madonna was booed. Unfortunately not off-stage. Although I am curious to know if she appreciated the irony of singing the line "don't tell me to stop"...
I don't mean to be too negative, though. There were some highlights. We got to hear "Burning Up", a great version of "Crazy For You" and "Hanky-Panky", which unfortunately wasn't nearly as dirty as it should have been. But where was "Like a Virgin", "Ray of Light" and "Beautiful Stranger"? Where was the energy?
I'll tell you where the energy got into sucked to: Kabbalah.
Our evening was summed up best as we were forced to trek through the ghetto to get to the subway and were stopped by a homeless man asking for change. The boy replied: "Sorry, I just gave all my money to Madonna, but believe me it would've been better spent giving it all to you."
So I had a dream last night that I had to urinate very badly and in my dream I found a bathroom and pee'd for eight solid minutes. Does this dream mean anything significant? Maybe about my sex life? Or my mother? Or does it have to do with the fact that I woke up having to pee like a racehorse? Anyone? Anyone?
Some of my loyal readers have been wondering about the meaning of the Third of the Month. They ask me, Michael, what exactly is this Third of the Month thing? Why do you want every day to be the Third of the Month? Why not the sixth of the month? Or the twenty-third?
Well, loyal fans, it's quite simple to explain and not at all as interesting as you think it may be. All will not be revealed today because like all good mysteries the mystery of the Third of the Month is an enigma that, once de-enigmatized, is no longer an enigma.
Suffice it to say, The Third of the Month is, at it's heart, a euphamism; a euphamism for something that we all do and those of us who don't are usually lying about. But it is more, so much more, than that. It fills a void in our holiday-lite calendars. It gives us a well needed excuse to do something we shouldn't need an excuse to do, appreciate ourselves. All too often we get caught up in our hectic daily lives, too much so to cherish our own existences. As the old saying goes, I know I'm someone cause God don't make no dirt! (neglecting for the moment, that if God did make everything in the universe, and dirt being a part of the universe, that he did, in fact make dirt so maybe you really aren't somebody afterall you worthless piece of camel offal and I just got off-track, sorry) and we often forget that we are someone. The Third of the Month is a helpful reminder.
But the goal of this blog, it's mission if you will, is to make us appreciate ourselves each and every day; to get us to forget about what is so special about the Third of the Month because out of habit we treat each and every day as if it were.
But Michael, you say, why the Third of the Month? And exactly what does that date have to do with self-gratification? And why, for the love of God, does it have to involve plaid?
Well, kiddies, that's a story for another day....
Those of you who were with me this weekend know that I had very little time to celebrate the Third of the Month in typical TotM fashion. Oh don't get me wrong, I celebrated myself but it was far from typical. I rang in my Third of the Month already trashed, after a kick-ass over-indulgent meal at The River Cafe for the boy's birthday and our "anniversary". Touristy? Yup. Awesome view? You bet. But was the food worth it? Every blessed cent I spent.
Little did I know, however, that I would get to indulge in my wonderfulness so much more, later on, at the Pyramid. Hot eighties music, hot guys and friends buying me drinks. Who could ask for anything more? There was even high drama (stolen purse of a friend) that I remained blissfully unaware of as I danced the night away....
This weekend was also full of celebration goodies in the form of my most perfect Fourth of the Month. First, I got to see Riker's Island for the first time from the water. Then I got to see my darling Mets sweep the Evil Empire, even if the game was played under protest. And then, I celebrated the wonderfulness of myself and my country while watching the fireworks launched from the Statue of Liberty from a 33rd floor apartment in Battery Park City in soupful awe.
But that was then and this is now. Today is a beautiful day, so if you didn't take time out of your busy weekend to honor and love yourself, take time away from the election and the war and Michael Moore and worrying about falling out windows or having cars drive into your roof, if you haven't realized your full beauty, intelligence and sheer potential lately, if you haven't looked at yourself in the mirror and realized that out of all the improbabilities in the Universe that it chose you to be right here, right now and as awesome as you are and not some sea slug or garden weed or Mark Sommers, if you haven't done that yet, then get your ass home and celebrate yourself! A lot! Because gosh darn it, you deserve it!
Me, I'm going to go home early today to do laundry so I've got plenty of plaid tonight. Of course, not before I swing by the cafeteria and swipe some moist towellettes....
For my little sister's birthday/graduation present, I let her come visit me in the city, play Atari (because she always let me play Vice City on her PS2) and see Little Shop of Horrors. I knew that the cast was being overhauled but I didn't know what a surprise I was in for. Hunter Foster left to go to The Producers (I wish I'd known *that* before I saw it last month) and as Melissa and I were walking down the street with both caught a glimpse of the marquee.
"Little Shop of Horrors!" it said in large lettering. And, much to my pleasure (chagrin?) a sign almost as large underneath. I was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted. "Now Starring.... Joey Fatone!" Yup, kiddies, Seymour Krelborn was being played by none other than the fat one from *NSYNC. Needless to say, it made our night. Also needless to say, he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
First it was my fault that the state of marriage in this country is crumbling, even though I'm not even allowed to get marriage. Then I was responsible for the Abu Gharib prison scandal (cuz ya know, all those soldiers got their ideas from looking at gay porn on the internet).
But this is the last straw! Now I'm being blamed for obesity. That's right, obesity. Lord Tebbit, former Conservative cabinet minister, had this to say:
"The root cause of this problem, like a number of others, is the break down in family life," he said, arguing that families "don't so often eat together" and that "wives are virtually pressurised into feeling they ought to go to work instead of looking after their children".
He said this decline in family life was due to the current government, which he accused of doing "everything it can to promote buggery"...
"We don’t only have an epidemic of obesity, we have a huge problem with AIDS. And the government's attitude is to do everything it can to promote buggery - knowing that those two are intimately connected."
At this point, Conservative MP Boris Johnson was keen to point out that "I don't think you can say gay marriage is the root cause of obesity".
Riddle me this: Since I moved my apartment around, my alarm clock is on the opposite side of the room, far away from my bed. How then did I manage to snooze three times this morning? Somehow I had enough energy to get out of bed, trip over two pairs of shoes and my coffee table a full three times, but was unable to get into the shower. I continue to amaze even myself.
... of town when the Gay Pride Parade is going on. I've never actually been, considering I find it garish, offensive and, oh, I hate parades (although the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island this weekend was, um, enjoyable). But the Pride Parade is my favorite parade for one reason and one reason only: It's the only major parade that doesn't run through my neighborhood, thereby fucking up traffic, public transportation and even walking for hours. I'm so happy that the Stonewall is in the Village and not under the Queensboro Bridge.
Through a series of unrelated events, I ended up watching "Celebrity Poker Showdown" on Bravo last night for much longer than anyone should. Now I realize that Bravo is the gay-friendly network, but they somehow managed to turn poker (poker!) into the gayest subject ever. I won't get into it.
However, recently I've become acutely aware of television advertising. I suppose it started when I was watching a lot of wrestling and realized that I had no interest in Stacker II, Motorola motor oil, Lugz street shoes or video games that I probably wasn't the average WWE fan (who is, apparently, overweight, likes cars, is poorly dressed and has no social life). Likewise, during a commercial for a prodcut promising to lower my cholesterol and being hawked by George Hamilton, I wasn't the target audience of "Celebrity Poker" either. What struck me as interesting last night, however, was the fact that by the time I'd stopped watching wrestling on a regular basis, I was saving up money to by a Playstation. Which led me to ponder, do I want all the products advertised during the Daily Show because I'm the Daily Show's target demographic (which I am) or because these are the products I keep seeing because I watch the Daily Show? Like in this paper I read today, is membrane thickness modified by the lipids or by the embedded proteins? Or is it symbionic? Or synergistic? Or axiomatic?
I think I'm rambling. Anyway, as you can see, my revelation was, well, obvious and not very illuminating. Kind of like the advice of "The Gambler".
It's been a couple months, but I finally have another pigeon on my balcony. This time, she didn't bother to take the time to build an elaborate nest underneath my air conditioner. No, this time the wily bitch nested in one of my planters. Oh yes. Now granted, I have a lot of plants on my balcony, azaleas, pansies, basil, mint, parsley, sage and rosemary (no thyme). And granted, I did leave this particular box empty, save soil, so it did make for a nice nest. Needless to say, I didn't call an exterminator this time; instead I took care of her myself. I drove her off with a broom, dumped the dirt and fried the egg of up for breakfast. (Ok, not that last part, but I thought about it.) Then I emptied my bladder all over the balcony because apparently they hate the smell of humans. Ok, I didn't do that either, but it would've served the bitch right.
Sigh, all this tough talk. Really, I felt bad for her. She looked so peaceful and mother-like. It was hard to kick her out and kill her baby. I might loose two or three whole winks of sleep over this. Ah, the curse of a conscience.
This post is in loving memory of the Contessa (2002-2002). Forgive me, Ramon.
So last night I decided to immerse myself fully into middlebrow American pop culture by indulging in both a #1 pop-schlock bestseller and a made-for-TV movie based on a #1 pop-schlock bestseller, The Da Vinci Code and TNT's 'Salem's Lot.
Woo-wee! What a ride that one was. First, I finished The Da Vinci Code and I have to say that Dan Brown is no Umberto Eco, try as he might. A lot of the book was just flaunting random knowledge and useless linguistic observations which served the author's ego more than his unindoctrinated readers. Second, he lied. Well, he didn't really lie, as some people might have you think. But he definitely bent the truth to serve his story. The problem that I had was that he painted some of the historical origins of the Catholic Church as if it had been covering up some vast conspiracy. Unfortunately I knew most of everything he was saying because I, um, went to Catholic school and they told us how the early Church leaders got together and decided what should stay in the Bible and what shouldn't. For example. Of course, if I give him more credit than I ought to, I would say that all his manipulations and machinations were calculated and intentional and the reader was supposed to see through them as exactly that simply because "everyone loves a conspiracy." That would be, like, meta or something. Deep, man, deep.
My second foray into pop culture land was a TV mini-series starring Rob Lowe and about vampires. Ironically, it co-starred both Donald Sutherland and Rutger Hauer who also co-starred in another pop-culture vampire movie that spawned a legacy. Now, I could critique this till the cows come home because 'Salem's Lot is my favorite Stephen King novel and they just plain ruined the ending. Up until that it was very, very good. But why mess with greatness? And they were just plain inconsistent with the vampires. I did, however, realize that Stephen King has a message buried in his story: support of the FMA. Think about it: two fussy, foppish antique dealers, "partners" if you will, move into a small town. The town suspects something is funny about their relationship. Soon, small boys go missing. In no time they've converted the entire town to their evil ways. See, not only are gays responsible for the torture in Iraq, but for vampires too.
Desperation is a sad thing. So last night, the boy and I joined Christy and Tim for a pleasant evening of Opera in the Park. They were performing Madama Butterfly, which was, at least according to the synopsis since I don't speak Italian, surprising similiar to Miss Saigon. Puccini is a hack. Anyway, between the four of us we split four bottles of wine (a pleasant pinot grigio, two Sicilian reds which could have been aged more and a nice South African pinotage, which at that point in the evening went down like water). We also had some lovely cured meat sandwiches and tasty goat milk brie on wee toasts. Needless to say by the end of the evening I was pleasantly toasted as well, and I found myself home early, buzzed and not ready to go to bed.
Here is where desperation comes in. Since I quit smoking in April, I'd had a couple of packs of cigarettes left over in a drawer in my closet. Whenever I was feeling stressed or buzzed or the boy wanted one, I sneak one out. Needless to say, I was jonesin'. Well, kiddies, much to my chagrin I discovered that I'd successfully sneaked every single cigarette, including my cloves, out of my apartment. Three empty packs of fags, and not a single smoke. So I started digging. Almost immediately I found a three year old pack of unfiltered Camels with about six cigarettes left. I'm not that desperate, I told myself, and I kept digging. It's amazing what you find at the bottom of forgotten drawers. I found a faded admission ticket to the Aquarium of the Americas in New Orleans, dated March 1999. While I do remember being in New Orleans for spring break my senior year of college, I have absolutely no recollection of going to an aquarium. I also found $5.50 in penny rolls, which I put with the rest of my change. I actually have enough change to pay off all of our war debt, but I have yet to do anything with it. I've been planning on taking it to Commerce Bank which has free change machines, but you really have to make a planned trip. I can't just put it all in my bag and pop round after work because I'd probably give myself another hernia. I guess I could take it in shifts but that requires much more forethought and energy expenditure than I'm willing to invest. I figure, I'll do something with it when it's finally time to move. Or, I guess I could have taken some of it and walked the block and half to a bodega to buy a pack of smokes.
But since this post is about desperation, I of course ended up smoking a three year old unfiltered Camel and being none too happy about it, especially since you really can't tell how far you're supposed to smoke since there's no handy filter to help you gauge in the dark.
Do you know where your next paycheck is coming from? Fortunately I do and unfortunately that's the only thing going well this week. Currently I'm typing this on the ground, which is ergonomically evil; I hope I don't damage my wrists to much today since it's quite possible the worst day to do so. The reason I'm lying on the ground is because, while we are in our new lab space, there are only two network connections and the Unix box that is running one of them is acting wack-ass. The other one is in a room that does not yet have what one might call a table. And I'm starving because I've had nothing but fruit to eat all day since the boy somehow convinced me to go on some cracked crash-diet with him and his sister.
This sitch has hugs and puppies at the end of the tunnel, though. I have window now. And a new computer for analysis. And I got to label shit today. And what, if anything, is this day about but than to look on the bright side of things?
So, while I'm looking out my window with no shades as the sun strikes me blind, I will only thing of how good I am, how smart I am, and how wonderful my cabbage soup is going to be tonight.
It's a shame I forgot to wear plaid today.
