It's Not Just ANY Diffractometer, You Know

This morning's Best Excuse Ever Award goes to Ness, who explained why she didn't get back to me over the weekend as follows:

"And I havent had time to scratch myself - we are smack bang in the process of commissioning the best powder neutron diffractometer in the world! Its me and two other people - except that I also have another instrument to commission with another two people."

Whoa, I know exactly what she's going through. I am also working feverishly to commission a new powder neutron diffractometer, too- if, by powder neutron diffractometer, one means trying to get a new perspective on my life and personal ontology. My current one is making me miserable- poisoning my career, emotions, relationship, friendships, "feminine plumbing" (eewwwwww!), cat, writing, dancing at concerts, eating and sleeping habits, and worst of all (are you choking back a sob yet?), my blog.

So, for the next week, I'm going to take some time to return to my writing roots, namely, writing in my diary about my imaginary boyfriends. And so, dear Gooey readers, I leave you to navigate the stormy seas of the interwebs on your own. But I shall return to you next Monday with a bigger, better, and even powdery-er neutron diffractometer! I shall be triumphant in my successes and confident in my ability to impart to you the wisdom I have learned from a week of introspection!

More likely than not, I'll spend the week trying to figure out what the fuck a powder neutron diffractometer actually is.

Either way, let's meet back here next Monday.

Ultimate Power= Concert Tickets

So I know that I've been whining about how the Neon Bible is a hugantic and completely unshocking disappointment- I didn't expect them to devolve! But last time the Arcade Fire came to town, I had to work late back at the old job where I spent my days yelling at kids, "You be quiet when I'm talking to Her Majesty about the edits!"

So I vowed not to miss out this time.

And oh yes, I have my tickets. I believe they are in the middle of Row JJ. So the only way I'll be able to actually hear the concert is if I bring along a little portable radio and listen to the All Songs Considered webcast (though that kinda already happened, didn't it). So fuck you, Craigslist scalpers- I spent my saturday morning flagging your douchebaggery with abandon. Muahaha. Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Whoa, ultimate power DOES corrupt.

Bad Dawg!

Was anyone else out there in land of bloggy goodness as excited about the opening of M'dawg? It's that new "semi-snazzy haute dog" bar brought to you by the owners of the inimitable Amsterdam Falafel shop.

It sucks so very, very, much, and now I know I'm not just being my usual catastrophizing self. CORROBORATION!!! I had the veggie dog last Friday night. If they're going to call it a "virgin" dog, they should do something to make it look and taste a little less like a flaccid, moldy, penis. I had to pay $2 extra for the fancy toppings, which are included in the falafel shop's prices. In what universe does a fucking hot dog with ketchup and mustard cost $4.50???

Adding insult to injury, there was nowhere to put those toppings, save for scooping them directly in my mouth. M'virgin dog was hanging way outside of the too-small bun that somewhere in the baking process transmogrified from whole wheat to cardboard. It was my only choice of bun, as they were out of potato and poppy buns. The whole contraption came on an even smaller piece of flimsy cardboard that barely held the dawg, much less made room for toppings. To be fair, the meager amount of toppings I did manage to score- caramelized onions, a corn chutney, and wasabi garlic sauce- were pretty damn tasty, and my meatatarian friend said his half-smoke was one of the best he'd had (he was unimpressed by everything else, though). I couldn't even turn to the fries for solace- they were woefully undercooked and soggy, and poor conduits for the sauces.

The staff was unfriendly, unhelpful, and ridiculously slow; I felt as though I was imposing on the cashier what with my entering their dining establishment and demanding food. The place was almost empty, and there were at least seven employees there, so go figure. The worst part was when the cooking staff stood obliviously in front of the toppings yammering away to each other while I stood there trying to get to the deliciousness.

My dining cohort felt the same way- two dawgs, one large fries, and $17 later, we felt like the virgin dawg raped us.

If Adams Morgansters need a delicious, cheap, and quick new veggie dining experience, go to Yazuzu. The place looks like an airplane designed by Stanley Kubrick, circa 1972, and the food is even more awesome. The Mediterranean-north African- fusion cuisine is all either braised or steamed, which generally means "completely lacking in all flavor." But at Yazuzu, it's culinary magic. The food feels light while tasting rich, delicately nuanced, and spicy-flavorful (nothing I had was spicy-hot), all at the same time. The veggies are fresh and crispy; I would find it hard to believe that they use food-service items. Pay less than ten bucks and you will leave will a full belly and most likely some leftovers.

I've found it best to go with a friend to maximize the variety of deliciousnesses you can indulge in. So far, my favorites are the Lebanese-braised dandelion with caramelized onions, the tomato and olive oil braised green beans, and the red lentil dal with fresh turmeric. The nabulsi cheese in the vegetarian panini is pretty salty, but tempered by the mint-almond pesto. When I couldn't decide between all the deliciousness, the supremely nice, helpful, and cool staff walked me through the whole process.

A restaurant with a gimmick will crash and burn if it doesn't have some damn good food and service backing it up. M'Dawg would do well to take a trip a few blocks down 18th street to Yazuzu to see how to do it right.

Yindie Dreams

Now that I have my new iPod, it's time to accessorize.

Can't I Get Upset Without Having To Talk About What's Really Upsetting Me?

Wait, so does anyone else out there ever lay awake at night with the soul-wrenching feeling that you're a lot more talented and disciplined than what you're doing, but a few poor choices in terms of your career are going to forever condemn you to a life of crushing ennui and mediocrity?

Ugh, I don't want to talk about that anymore. Partly because later on, the Object will force me to talk about it, since he grew up in one of those families where the kids discussed their problems in a safe and caring atmosphere, resolved them, and moved on- whereas I grew up in one of those families where we internalized problems and pushed them waaaaaaay down into our subconscious so that they became hard, cancerous knots, which is apparently how Grandma died while my Dad's father was married to three women all at once.

My mother is a fish.

But also, talking about angst this morning blemishes my glorious accomplishment of last night:

Dearest Reader, I have 80 gigabytes of fresh, clean, brand-spanking-new iPod goodness.

And to herald this momentous occasion, what was the first thing I listened to?

Fleetwood Fucking Mac.

Don't Even Get Started on President's Day

First of all, for those of you whom I told that Ash Wednesday was the same day as Valentine's Day this year- whoops. Sorry if you cancelled on your sweetie to go make good with God. But really, when you think about it, what is Valentine's Day, other than a special day set aside for women to let the men in their lives know just how badly he has fucked up?

I know a guy who took his longtime girlfriend out to lunch at a fancy DC establishment- one that makes you get reservations way in advance and whatnot. Then, he took her out to dinner- again at one of those reserve-several-months-in-advance kind of places, where he gave her a lovely bouquet of flowers and some really nice fancy, expensive chocolates. We're talking better than CVS brand.

Apparently, somewhere between fancy meal A and from-a-choclatier-chocolates, he fucked up badly enough that they had to have a Deep and Meaningful until 3 in the morning about just how dedicated to the relationship he was. You know what she did for Valentine's Day?

She made him a PowerPoint. About their relationship.

Clearly, she loves him more.

Women of the world: if you are one of these types of women, this business has got to stop. You are ruining it for the rest of us.

Look, I don't need the Object to get a card for me to prove his undying love- he demonstrates his affection every day through little things. You know, like stealing the covers from me because he knows I like to sleep in the cold (at least he told me that's why he does that), or making me laugh at really inappropriate times by pretending to be Truman Capote. But I would not have minded a box of chocolates. Or better yet, sour jelly bellies. But when the peoples hear the tales like that of the unfortunate chap above, they feel compelled to take a stand against such termagant behavior. And of course the blame extends to the entire holiday for being a manifestation of bad female behavior. This is exactly what the Object did- after I took him out for Valentine's Day (a very confusing three days before the actual holiday).

So thanks a lot, you crazy shrews. I just wanted some jelly bellies and maybe a couple of those chalky conversation hearts. And a new iPod. But a few bad apples on the double-X side have impossibly high standards that now have forever sullied a sweet gift-getting and giving opportunity. Look, a holiday has as much weight or importance as a person allows it. Putting so much gravitas on being able to prove in one short day the entire breadth and depth of a complicated, multi-faceted relationship does seem pretty daunting. I can't so much blame the Object as I can empathize with him- if his gender expected that of me, I'd give up on the whole damn day, too.

Sigh, sometimes I long for the days when Valentine's Day was just another excuse for single women to get trashed and sob into their pillows to try and dispel the soul-crushing loneliness. Or maybe just an excuse to get really trashed and party with all your girlyfriends. Either way, good times.

Anyhoo, let's move on, because Valentine's day was last week, and apparently, Mardi Gras is today.

Despite the fact that I'm a practicing apostate, I still try and observe Lent- not so much because I like the idea of trying to live a more ascetic life (new iPod! NEW IPOD!), but more because I'm so undisciplined that any tiny measure of regiment is immediately noticeable, thus making me look better- that whole moral high ground business.

Today at work, Ginny brought a crazy delicious King Cake from New Orleans. Cream cheese and everything. Since I had about 12 pieces, the odds were in my favor that I'd win the baby- and whaddaya know, I did! First of all, the whole thing was not a little scary- mostly because at first, I thought I was biting down on my crazy expensive stick-on tooth. It got even worse when I realized that I was essentially eating an effigy of the baby Jesus, and regardless of whether or not you believe in him, that's the sort of thing that's going to come back to haunt you in a horrible, horrible way, probably with vicious killer baby lambs.

Now here's the thing- I'm a little confused about the rules here. I know the baby means I won, but I'm unsure of exactly what I've won. So I have two questions:

1. If I remember my time in New Orleans during Carnival (which, really, I don't), this means I have to show my tits to get the prize. Can we just skip that part?

2. Can the prize be a Get-Out-of-Lent-Free card? Because then I could give the li'l Jee-sus effigy to someone who actually believes in the whole thing. Check it: a non-heretic gets a useful negotiation chip for finagling some divine favor, and I get my Lenten lip service. And then no one has to see my tits. Everyone wins!

Did You Ever Want to Run Around with Bandits?

To settle into my workday, after I take off my assorted winter paraphernalia and reheat some lentils for breakfast, I pop on my headphones and try to imagine I'm somewhere else, usually back in bed curled up with a book. It's not that my job sucks, it's just that sometimes I want to go home and disappear for a long time.

As it turns out, I'm Van Occupanther.

I'm Van Occupanther!

Let me explain. The first time I listened to Midlake's Van Occupanther, I was blown away- until I heard We Gathered In Spring and couldn't get over the Fleetwood Mac-iness of the wah-wah¹. I didn't listen to them again- until this week, when WAMU, my local Morning Edition affiliate, held their funding drive. Because I prefer to pirate my public radio with a clear conscience, I wait out the week of Kojo Nnamdi and Diane Rehm admonishing me by turning them off. This particular funding drive, I replaced them with Midlake, in anticipation of their concert at the Rock 'n' Roll Hotel, which both the Object and Lionel (yes, the cat of a vampiverish nature) assured me would be awesome.

About 12 bars into the song, the fluorescent lights around my "office"² faded and I was transported all Neverending Storylike back to 1891. Not a lot of bands can make you forget the workday to the extent that the Executive Director has to wave her arms like an air traffic controller to get your attention. It's kind of like a musical version of Little House on The Prairie: The Young Twentysomething Years. Not the suckedy t.v. show version, either.

So needless to say, I got psyched for the concert.

This was my first foray into the world of the Rock 'n' Roll Hotel, in the up and coming Atlas District, which, is the up and coming-est area in the city.³ Their major design flaw: the bathrooms were up in the front, past the stage. This meant if you, the Object, and Lionel find a sweet spot along the wall where you could actually see the stage, you didn't know if the Fezzik⁴ in front of you was worming his way to the bathroom or worming his way in front of you to camp out for the long-term. But the sound quality was mixed so well that the denizens of DC can no longer apologize for the Black Cat's tin-litter box sound quality.

I came in during the second opener, St. Vincent, who seemed to be working really hard to prove her indie street cred by wearing oversized dorky non-prescription glasses, American Apparel, and asking the mostly male crowd if they were ever into Alfred E. Neuman, too⁵. She had a sound that evoked Fiona Apple- throaty and deep high notes with the soul of an eighty year old man. With a sped-up tempo and a talented rhythm section, I would defs go see her headlining. Also, she stood next to me during Midlake's set, and I felt damn cool by association.

Midlake spent about three or four hours setting up their massive arsenal of instruments, but oh, how the wait was worth it. They launched into We Gathered in Spring. The first thing I noticed about the band⁶is how well-rehearsed they were. The five-part harmonies were tighter than traffic in Dupont Circle at 5:30 p.m. And don't get me wrong, I'm not damning them with faint praise- all that rehearsal showcases how immensely talented they are- Roscoe being the prime evidence. Delicate vocals coupled with intricate instrumentation and lyrics came together to give their songs an epic storytelling-quality that brought the experience of listening to them way beyond simply listening to a band that draws from Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young and Steely Dan. Snooty indie kids take note: you can't get away with calling these guys derivative. Ha ha!

Adding video and imagery to back up a concert is not a little risky- you just never when it's just gonna come off as an experiment in marketing for adult ADD. The band backed up their songs with videos that took a minute to realize were not stock footage from the 1890's but of the band themselves traipsing through barren woods wearing top hats and monocles in pope mobile-like contraptions. But ADD this was not- if the album alone transported me, the video made me a character in the songs. On one particular song, which, sadly, I didn't know, since I didn't have their first album (yet), they started with a picture of a charcoal-drawn witch, and as the song progressed, the camera panned out to show an entire Albrecht Durer-type scene, which, as an audience member, you couldn't help but feel as though you were one of the wretched villagers- but y'know, in a good way, because you had beer and Midlake was the band.

What with all that musicianship and storytelling talent, the band could very easily have been insufferable and far too big for their britches. But I couldn't tell you which bandmember I loved most. There was Tim Smith, who could woo anyone using solely his voice. Eric Pulido's guitar solos put Lindsay Buckingham to shame. Paul Alexander timidly stood behind the two of them and looked like he was most comfortable getting his rawk on when no one noticed. Onstage, McKenzie Smith looks a little like Daniel Franco, but plays a trap set like he's not sure if he's Tony Williams (not that Tony Williams) or Satan.
And Eric Nichelson's keyboards were like ketchup to the band's french fries- simply pointless without it. While they were intense to the verge of looking all heroin-addled while playing, their between-song banter charmed me- highlights included dedicating Young Bride to a couple who had gotten engaged that day, and introducing Chasing After Deer as "a song about a guy who chases after a girl, who is chasing deer, and then she falls off a cliff. Guys, you can write a song about anything."

My complaints about the show were kinda gluttonous in nature. I wish that they'd made room on the stage for two people to come in and play a real flute and a real violin on Van Occupanther. The song needed the real instruments to capture its introspection- i guess the song worked, but it could have been so much sweeter. And with all the band's cohesiveness, I would have loved it if they had taken the time to break out and rawk. I've never said this before, and I may never say it again, but more jamming! When they closed with Head Home, I was too entranced to look away, but if I had looked back, I'm sure I would have the Object and Lionel trading air guitar solos. If the band had let go of themselves, Lionel would be probably picking Van Occupanther as the number one name for the baby in Mrs. Lionel's tummy.

It could still happen. I think their current frontrunner is Baby Return to Castle Wolfenstein. And between the two names, only one will teach her not to chase a deer off a cliff.






1. I'm really just not a FM fan, and you know what, I'm not sorry.

2. It's not a cubicle.

3. The Object and I were totally hanging out there back in the day, before it was cool. Yes, I'm talking about the era of seven weeks ago.

4. For serious- he towered over even the Object and Lionel, who are no slouches at 6'2" or so.

5. I'm probs just jealous that she's getting her cred at a younger age than I.

6. Other than the giant paper mache-ed bear head with pink bejeweled eyes.

Just When I Was Starting to Think She Was My Imaginary Best Friend

I'm going to be Spasmo McMorgan for a sec here, just go with it.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

My SuperIncrediblyBFF is in town for three hours and I'm gonna get to see her and I haven't gotten to see her since she went and oved to that "India" place, and now she's back and here in DC for three hours and then she's gonna move to New York City and she doesn't realize it yet but she'll move to Bushwick or somewhere awesome and all I'll have to do is take the Chinatown bus and then go see her and then I'll be able to go see all those shows like Peter, Bjorn, and John and we can hang out and call the "delivery" men who come to your door and then Keshav will move back to the U.S. and we can party and make some paneer and ohmigod it'll be so much fun until I convince the Object to move to Costa Rica and then we'll move and that'll be sad until I get Ani and Keshav to move to Costa Rica, too, and everyone will surf and eat Salsa Lizano!

It's all coming together.

Oh, and it's her birthday! Let us pause a moment and reflect on how fabulously delicious the world is just by virtue of her being in it.

Ahhhhh.

Check it: Here's a picture of the Persian goddess, Anahita.

You'll notice that you can totally see her boob. Sweet, huh? Well, check this picture of the Persian goddess Anahita- in Adams Morgan.

Again with the sweet boobs. And you know that's what the statue is there for!

This picture was taken pre-India, and may no longer reflect what she actually looks like. You never know, she may have turned blue and grown some arms. She is a goddess, after all.





It's been another hectic week, what with the FW Thomas-ing, the Maine Mom in towning, the JackPep in towning, the finding out of the extent of fucked-uppedness-ing of my hip and whatnot. If you stay tuned, I promise to give you my review of the Midlake concert (awesome), the story of my first heartbreak (tragic), and the Object's stand against Valentine's day (in which I am an unwitting pawn).

Feel Free To Vote

I wonder who would win in a sword fight: Madmartigan or Inigo Montoya?

I'm thinking Inigo Montoya has the better fencing skills and accent, but Val Kilmer is definitely hotter, and as we all know, hotness is a crucial factor in these sorts of things.

Lucy Van Pelt: My Role Model

The Object and I have been bickering a lot lately about the stupidest shit. Prime example: last Sunday, we had a lovely stroll over to Trader Joe's to get stock up on vittles for the week. As we neared the store, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped five or ten degrees, making the prospect of the walk home less than jaunty. When we were about to leave, I nicely asked told him to stop and talk to me about The Plan to Get Home. When he didn't give the exact answer that I had predetermined was the only appropriate answer to the question, I flipped out, all stompy-foot- snarly-six year-old temper tantrum style. I was one more misplaced phrase on his part away from sitting on the floor of the grocery store, crossing my arms, and pouting, which I haven't done in weeks. I was in the mood to discuss important plans and he was acting all flighty like it was just a lazy Sunday afternoon! My friends, it was ugly.

So one of the things that I really enjoy about yoga is that it gives me time to be completely introspective and get a close look at how I'm being in life by simply that- being. In doing that, I start to recognize ways I'm being that I didn't even realize- it's a nice little look at The Way Things Are According to the Goo. Also, I get rewarded with tea and cookies at the end for doing so. Everybody wins- tonight we got Nilla wafers! I was thinking about this bickering business, and what my whole role in that is. I realized that something I'm possibly definitely doing is being just a weeeeee bit stubborn about my moods.

The Way Things Are:

I'll start out a hanging out-age with the Object in a certain mood. I'll want him to be in that same mood or similar whereabouts, because well, why shouldn't things be that way? If he is, great, we're all set. But if he's not, I'll do one of two things. I'll either expect him to tailor his mood to match mine, completely disregarding what kind of mood he's in. Otherwise, I'll reserve the right to get stompy footed for not being in the same mood as me. The nerve he has sometimes: it's just galling.

Really, I think I hit my best moments (some might call it rare form) when I give in just a little bit. I'll give up an inch of my precious, precious mood to deal with him on his stupid little level. If he doesn't immediately kowtow to my relationship brilliance, I get not only foot-stompy, but haughty and sniffy on top of that, because you know what? On top of his fucking obliviousness, now he's insulted my sense of moral righteousness by having feelings independent of mine. It makes my blood boil just thinking about what an asshole he can be.

We used to be really good at avoiding this sort of thing- diffusing these moods, but the cartoon hearts in our eyes have faded as we've settled into our relationship, and I've given up showing off how easygoing and low-maintenance I am. Nowadays, I'll refuse to be cheered up or just become all the more stubbornly intractable and determined to show how wrong he is for having his own mood. I will keep it up at all expenses and let it seep in to poison every other facet of our relationship. Should he not want to engage in a little spoonage, I'll fault him for being moody, and I'll turn it into another huge battle of wills that I'm not even sure he knows he's playing.

Ugh, I wouldn't want to sleep with me either.

Here's the thing- I'm not so sure whyI'm so goddamn attached to these moods. It's like I'm holding onto them to prove something to him- to show off that I've got a stronger will than him, and that I'm righter, (I can totally be righter- he can't, but I can) smarter, and while we're at it, I'm prettier, too. One teeensy catch: it's at the expense of getting to BE with him on any emotional level.

You know what I figured out, though, all on my own?

It's a mood, not a delicate museum artifact.

If you think about it, mood is about as intractable as a fluffy white cloud. But I'll give my mood weight and gravitas, like I'm hoping it'll win the Nobel Prize. And should anyone mess with my mood, I will treat him with the disdain that befits a person who has just cost me 1.3 million dollars.

Kinda stupid, ain't it? And not just because, much to my dismay, there's no Nobel Prize in Feelings. Anyone who's ever met me is reading that and saying to themselves, "this is not news." When the Object reads it, I'll bet he finds a tree to bang his head against and cry out, "I can't stand it! I just can't stand it!" But sometimes it's hard to see the way you're being when you're very busy being that way.

So now the problem I have is letting go. I don't even like to do this physically. It makes me very nervous to wear gloves in the winter, so that I can't keep a firm grip my sleeve cuffs. When my sleeves don't reach my wrists or I'm wearing a tank top, I have to be holding something- a piece of yarn, my iPod- I've definitely thought about taking up smoking just so I'd have a prop to hold onto. But I have a feeling that if I keep this business up, I'll be letting go of the Object, whether I like it or not. And if there's one thing I really like holding onto, it's the Object- have I mentioned how good the spoonage is? He's all warm and snuggly and he always catches my pinky finger when he clasps my hand.

So I'm gonna let go of my mood. And as scary and awful as it is to fall, I have a good feeling the Object will be there to soften the landing. There's a good chance he'll even have tea and cookies! Ad if he doesn't, well, that's a legitimate reason to get stopmy-footed.

Shocker

Ooooooh, I wonder what the announcement's gonna be!?!?!?

Sigh, he's so dreamy!

Can I just say that I'm excited for the presidential race, if only because the slate of democratic candidates sort of reflects the peoples. We've got our African American in Barack, Hillary covers our double X bases, and Bill Richardson brings the Latinos to the table. Seriously, the party's a Jewish person and a handi-capable person away from a United Way commercial. And if Joe Lieberman joins the race, he'll take care of both!

(Womp womp!)

Karma's Gonna Be a Bitch

Panhandlers waiting outside the yoga studio, waiting to ask for spare change from women who have spent the past hour in the "sacred space" getting in touch with their compassionate and generous sides: dirty, devious, and genius.

Two can play at this game.

I stopped carrying cash. The yoga helps me maintain a cherubic look of conscience-stricken concern; I knit my eyebrows together, look the panhandler in the eye, and apologize sincerely, "I'm so sorry, I don't have anything. Good luck to you!" If I'm particularly piqued, I'll even add a "God bless!" Because nothing says "fuck off" like invoking a deity you don't believe in.

Of course, when it's 4 degrees out, and a homeless guy asks me to help him find three dollars to get into the shelter, I take him directly to the yoga studio. Just not mine.

As Long As We're on the Subject

I'm pretty sure that for a woman between the ages of 19-37 to live in Manhattan, she has to be a certified yoga instructor. I'll bet it would make the blood of those oh-so centered Man-yogis to know the role the Second City played in bringing yoga to the States.

Devil in the White City really is the best tool for pissing off those smarmy Manhanttanites.

FINALLY

Toby!

Yeahah!

Toby!

I Eat Red Froot Loops for Breakfast

I'm generally a huge fan of the Organic Consumers Association, cuz they spend their days making sure that the term "organic" actually means something more than your pocketbook getting anally raped by Safeway.

But I have to take issue with what they popped into the inbox today:

A recent study by the Prevention Institute found that the majority of products with images of fruit on their labels actually contain little or no fruit at all. The study assessed 37 heavily marketed "fruit" products and found that 51% had absolutely no fruit and another 16% had minimal amounts of fruit (less than 10%). Products that ranked among the worst in the study included Smuckers Jam, Fruit Rollups and Froot Loops.

I'm pretty sure Froot Loops are made from 100% Froot- a delicious pastiche of rainbows, smiles, high-fructose corn syrup, and the ground-up beaks of endangered toucans. But that's an entirely different e-mail campaign, isn't it?

Sigh, We Know.

If Peyton Manning/Scott Weise has a girlfriend, she's one lucky gal.

"I think I kind of represent all Bears fans," he said. "Not that I'm saying they're all idiots like me, but I represent their passion because I really care about my team, you know?"

I DO know. I even watched football, despite the fact that I don't even like it, just to cheer on the Bears.

Lookey What I Got!

Almost ten years after high school, which means about ten years too late, I can finally prove my indie street cred:

I have the new Arcade Fire album.

Yes, the one that doesn't come out till March 6.

It's kinda awesome, but I'm not sure if it warrants the italics reversed on the phrase kinda awesome yet (that would look like this: kinda awesome).

All I have to say so far is that it sounds a little like Win Butler went to Mass with Flock of Seagulls.

I would also like extra credit for not having gotten it through the magic of the interwebs, but through people who know people who know-or possibly knew; the details were hazy- people.

A Wintertime Wish

Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But my mohair hat with a fleece earband, earmuffs, camisole, thermal undershirt, wool sweater, two scarves, fleece gloves under wool mittens, fleece longjohns, fleece bra, wool legwarmers, and fleece socks under wool socks are so delightful,
So as long as it's fucking cold,
Let it snow, let it snow, for the love of GOD, let it snow!

Ahhhh, you can take the Goo out of Chicago, but you can't take the Chicago out of the Goo. I love this weather. It makes me feel refreshed, alert, focused, and energized(and apparently, not a little more bubbly and annoying than usual). But I'm convinced that winter and snow are nature's Adderall.

The Object doesn't like to wear a hat in the wintertime, since he's worried it will mess up the arrangement of his "carelessly" tousled moptop, but feels free to whine about how frigidly cold he feels. I see a LOT of the peoples here in DC similarly dressed improperly for the cold weather, and their mewing about the cold baffles me. It's not like summer, where the only way to escape the oppressive heat is either to find a beach or to duck into a building so overly air-conditioned that you need the same clothes you're not wearing in winter. PUT ON A HAT, YOU NITWITS ! I mean, which looks worse- flat hair or frostbite?

The worst, though, are the women who leave huge sections of their legs and/or midriff exposed, so as not to ruin the "sexiness" of their outfits. I mean, I'm no connoisseur, but I'm pretty sure there are no titty or weenis magazines dedicated to goosepimples or blue skin on the living. It's just not attractive by any stretch of the imagination.

Let's think about this logically- if everyone wore dressed for the weather, not only would it cut down on the amount of bitching and moaning I have to listen to from you whinging babies with your testicles all shrivelled up in your pancreas (n.b. if this is happening to you, put on some goddamn underroos! Alternately, you could upgrade to genitals that neatly tuck themselves inside. But I will grant that balls are not evidence of intelligent design), but it would lower the hair standard for all of society! Then, we could keep ourselves even cozier by beating to a senseless pulp the one or two fluffy haired Vanity Smurfs left traipsing around. Ahhhhh, there's no glow warmer than the glow of an angry, rioting mob. It kinda makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over just thinking about it.

Now go put on some longjohns and quit yer bitching, or else you'll scare away the Snow!

I'll Never Leave You Again!

Well hello there, Poofygoers!

Many of you have expressed your outrage concern at the paltriness of postage in the past week, but oh my, the events of the past week were so odd and disjunct that I can only express them in bullet form:

• I had a shitty performance review at work, mostly based on the fact that I used to sometimes show up to work three or four minutes late. The fact that I have been, on average, 15 minutes early for the past three or four months didn't really seem to play a factor in the reviewing. The bad news is that cost me a raise. The good news is that the Muppet Show came in the mail just in the nick of time. Also, I had some Xanax leftover from the dentist.
  
• Then, my boss had a shitty review, and we had a deep and meaningful, and now we're BFF's. Also, today I had to explain to the Executive Director about what, precisely, it means to say that Hitler and the Pope were BFFs. As it turns out, she was just unclear on the acronym, not the concept. But that gave me a BRILLIANT idea: a publication that is reports international news events a la the BBC or International Herald Tribune, edited in the style of Sassy.
• Then, I had to explain to my physical therapist, who is Jewish, about St. Ann (Ann is my saint's name, which is how this all came up), the mother of Mary, who, despite the fact that she never shows up in the Bible, is a saint, and she gave birth to Mary, and Mary was somehow sooooo pure that she NEVER sinned, not even the original sin that EVERYBODY has, and that despite this fact, she was still way cool. I ran this by the Object, who is non-religious, and he didn't really follow along either. Actually, the Mysterious Ambiguously-Aged Asian Woman Roommate (MAAAWR), who has a degree in such things but is not Catholic didn't really get it, either. What's not to get? It's not illogical, it's mysterious, and if God can work in mysterious ways, then goddammit, so can the Catholic Church.
  
• Then, within a half hour of each other, I received an e-mail from one friend saying, "I GOT MY DREAM JOB!!!!!" and an e-mail from another friend saying, "Dunno what you've done today, but as of March 31st, I'm laid off." The bad news is that failing to keep straight who's who in such a situation can lose you some friends real quick. The good news is that any way you look at it, there's drinking to be done!
• Then, I tried to incorporate the phrase "anti-semanticism" into the general lexicon. Thus far, I have failed. I will keep you all posted.
  
• Then, I found out that there is a Wikipedia Article for Wabbit Season. I'm pleased to note that the article does conform to the Wikipedia standards for encyclopedic-style writing:

The "duck season/rabbit season" argument from this short became one of the most notable references of the Looney Tunes franchise, and has been analyzed both by scholars and by Jones himself. According to an essay by Darragh O'Donoghue, Rabbit Fire "stands in close relation to human experience, striving and generally failing to grasp an elusive quarry or goal." Richard Thompson said that in the film, there is "the clearest definition of character roles: Elmer never knows what's going on; Bugs always knows what's going on and is in control of things; Daffy is bright enough to understand how to be in control, but never quite makes it." Jones himself refers to Rabbit Fire as a "corner" picture, among his works that, "as in turning a corner in a strange city, reveal new and enchanting vistas."

• Then, Molly Ivins died, and every time I tried to write a post about it, I started crying. For serious. I don't think that's what she would have wanted, but if she wanted her wishes honored, she shouldn't have gone and died.
• Then, I found out Butterstick might stay and NOT go back to the land o' commie pinkos, which is a fine place for cats (who have a tendancy to walk around saying, "Mao! MAO!") but is no place for a baby panda, and I felt a little better.
  
• Then, Al Sharpton made a funny joke:

[Senator Biden's] comments indicated that Obama might be the first African American candidate 'clean' enough to win... Many other African American leaders came out to be even more critical of Biden's comments, Al Sharpton expressed the fact that he showers every day.

• Then, I started going to this yoga class offered through Studio Serenity (two weeks unlimited classes for $20, sah-WEET!) , and every time I come out of it, I feel all happy and a little less hurty in my hip than when I went in. The good news is that last Saturday night was the first night in months that I didn't come home limping and sobbing over the pain (the crack addicts near the metro always offer to carry me home- so nice!). The bad news is that I'm so calm and centered when I come out of the class that the Object refuses to speak to me for a minimum of two hours, since in that time, I'm unflappably un-instigatable. Happily, it doesn't take much to get me back to the irrational shrew we all know and love.
  
• Then, the Bears did NOT perform a Superbowl shuffle, and as you all know by now, it cost them the game. Let this be a lesson for next year: tight white pants and dancing win games, not record-setting touchdowns!
  
• Then, the highlight of the halftime show was not so much Prince's performance- which was the awesomosity one expects of glow-in-the dark marching bands (way not to take it the extra mile, Gwen Stefani)-but the fact that the lasers and whatnot lit up the pouring rain so that it was purple- yes, literally, purple rain.
  
• Then, I heard this joke:

A baby seal walked into a club.

I do believe we're now ready to resume the bloggy goodness.