New posts are coming soon. In fact, I'm posting all over the internets...
I've been writing for the awesome pop-culture repository DeadOn and for Ladies..., a site where women take on, as I said in my post earlier today, both sports and the delicious packages of ManCandy that play them. And yes, I just quoted myself.
Both sites are guaranteed timewasters and, most importantly, not blocked by effing Websense in my office. The IT Demons have gotten out of control. I learned today that they have banned Mapquest, apparently because they don't want us to learn how to get out of that effing place.
Anyway, here are some links if you'd like to read my recap of last week's episode of The OC, my fascination with adulterous golfers, or my mother's take on Desperate Housewives.
Also, I'll be at Goodnight's tonight if you're looking for something to do in the next, oh, 90 minutes.
Confidential to Exit 141-Huffman Mill Road: Screw you, dickface. McDonald's is to the left off the exit, not to the right , you dumb shit. I wasted ten minutes trying to get a Snack Wrap that was seasoned with a hint of honey mustard and a single human hair. Go to hell, Burlington.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
New posts are coming soon. In fact, I'm posting all over the internets...
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I hope all of you had a lovely pseudo holiday yesterday, and that none of you followed the path chosen by my sister Runtie's latest patient who was admitted to the hospital mid-afternoon with a delicate condition known as "foreign object in the vagina". The patient appeared at the end of Runtie's shift, so she clocked out before learning what said object was, but I do hope it was something original, like a bottle of Tide, a birdcage, or the Travelocity gnome. I also hope that this woman is in a committed relationship because if it was 2 p.m. on Valentine's Day and she was alone trying to determine whether or not to be intimate with a garden trowel, well, let's just say she's made me feel much better about my life.
Last night I was invited to a party in a neighborhood that, like my own, is notable only because of the recent panic-inducing graphics on the local news showing the frequency of sexual assaults in the area. I parked on a street that had been marked with a giant exclamation point on WXII's map the night before and hoped that either my personality or my haircut would deter any would-be attackers the same way they've deterred any would-be dates, job offers, or invitations to family events.
The crowd was mainly composed of students from the art school. Despite having a theatre minor, I felt incredibly uncool because I had actually, um, purchased my clothing and had not created an outfit from various items procured from thrift stores, the costume department, or that guy that sleeps on the steps at the library. Art students are like Asian girls; they can combine any articles of clothing, various appliances, and a handful of glitter and make it look adorable. If I tried that, I'd be approached by an off-duty police officer and asked if I needed a ride back to the group home.
Although I didn't know anyone but the hostess, I tried to appear friendly by pointing out the pieces of candy I'd licked and placed back in the box; by asking other guests what they were studying before politely laughing and saying that it sounded stupid; and by offering a book of matches to anyone who went into the bathroom.
I also stepped in the cat's bowl, violently spilled a bottle of wine, stained the curtains, and told a story about food poisoning that no one seemed to appreciate.
As I sat on the sofa trying to casually pick bits of imitation crab off the hem of my pants, I overheard someone's phone ring. A girl wearing a shirt that appeared to be made of pipe cleaners pulled a sticker-covered Razr out of her purse, looked at the number, and casually dismissed it by saying, "Oh, it's just that guy I used to fool around with at Yale." This is one of the phrases that I'll never say, right up there with "I love my job", "I'm not bitter", or "No, the overtanned woman you left me for doesn't look like a catcher's mitt wearing eyeshadow. Not at all." I never fool around with people from the Ivy League. I'd have a hard time pulling tail at the bowling league. Probably because I'm not coated in Cooler Ranch seasoning. Oh, and because I'm obnoxious.
I was apologizing to the hostess about the curtains when a tiny Rachel Bilson lookalike wearing an outfit that may have been stolen from a Goodwill drop box but somehow looked perfect on her walked in, talking to a hipstery handsome guy whose "Join the Strokes Starter Kit" must have just arrived in the mail. She fluttered her big Disney eyelashes at him and talked about how, like, weird it is that every time she goes to a bar she is approached by men who want to buy her drinks or give her their number or buy her a chalet. And she, like, really hates it because, shyeah, like she's going to date a guy she met at a bar. I thought to myself, "Finally!" It was such a relief to meet someone with the same problem I have. Every single time I go out to clubs and stuff, I'm approached by a number of men. They tend to wrap me in a blanket, tag my ear, and release me back into the wild.
I left before the party ended. In fact as I was walking down the steps, another carefully disheveled couple was parking their car. I headed home, cleaned the remaining cat food from my feet, and turned on the news. There weren't any ominous-looking arrows or terrifying graphics last night, but a homeless guy downtown was missing a flannel shirt. Police are following a trail of glitter.
Friday, February 09, 2007
If you're looking for some quality standup comedy tomorrow night, I'll be performing at Tomato Jake's in Chapel Hill.
Get a calzone, enjoy a beverage, and feel superior to the depraved individuals next door who paid $17 for a dinner salad.
Show starts at 9:30.
For more info, e me.
I was deleting some pictures from my camera's memory card and I found this gem, taken in the so-wholesome-it-has-to-be-named-after-a-mammal town of Beaver, West Virginia.
If that logo hasn't already been trademarked, I'd really like to see Summer's Eve start to use it.
God help them if they have a high school.
So I'm leaving the gym this morning and walk out with the Attractive Fit Guy that I see in Spin class every day.
Note: he is not the guy who sweats so copiously that he has to place two towels on the floor beside his bike but, based on this morning's performance, should probably just start getting some sandbags from the National Guard.
Nor is he the guy who wears expensive cycling gear and is way too intense considering that the bike he's riding is bolted to the floor and across from a mural of multicultural schoolchildren standing under a rainbow.
And it's definitely not the guy who farts, then slows his pace as he gives everyone within ten feet an accusatory glance and feigns a search for the culprit when we all know that it's his own still-steaming ass. Sir, please save your cropdusting for the locker room. If I wanted to be exposed to your ass potpourri, we would be married.
Anyway, Attractive Fit Guy (AFG) gives me a hug before we take off toward our respective cars in the parking lot. Then we have this exchange.
AFG: Hmm...why are you so huggable?
Me: Because I don't have scales.
Me: Or wings.
AFG: Gives me the kind of expression Tyler Hansbrough would give if you asked him to write his name in cursive. Or just to write, period.
Me: Not soft wings like, say, Pegasus. I was thinking more like a dragon. Or a moth, you know, how if you touch one of them, they get that dust all over you?
AFG: inches towards his car
Me:Then it can't fly and it just flaps around helplessly in a tight little circle so you feel bad for ever touching it, but then you remember that it was probably either going to chew something in your closet or die in the bottom of the light in your kitchen.
AFG: clicks the button on his keychain that unlocks the door, says nothing.
Me: Um. Well. Call me!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
So my sister Runtie came to visit over the weekend. She was here celebrating her new job, which is still a bit disturbing because she shouldn’t be old enough to have a job. In my head, she’s 8 and I’m cutting her bangs into jagged peaks while she sleeps. In actuality, she is about to begin an admirable career while I spend the better part of my mornings drawing pictures of sea monsters.
My most recent favorite Runtisms:
Upon realizing that she didn’t pack her makeup bag:
"I knew I would have to stop and buy some foundation. If I used yours I’d look like a kabuki."
Upon hearing Baz Luhrman’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” on the 90’s station:
"This reminds me of flannel shirts and colored denim. And when you used to wear dickeys under t-shirts."
Note: That’s actually true. When I was in elementary school, I hated my bony little neck and refused to show it, ever. Perhaps I should’ve stopped cutting the sleeves off of turtlenecks so I could wear them under my Max Headroom t-shirt and done something about my unfortunate-looking perm. Again, a big thank you goes out to the stylist at Bonnie’s Beauty Barn who refused to let me have a rat tail—which I had dreamed about, especially when it grew long enough to majestically flutter behind me when I rode my Big Wheel—but instead decided that I needed a perm that would make me look like I was wearing a cocker spaniel’s ass as a hat. After several years of refusing to purchase my school pictures, my family decided to stop going to a hair salon that was attached to a gas station.
Responding to my suggestion that we go for a run instead of watching a third consecutive hour of MTV’s “My Super Sweet 16”:
"I already exercised. I did an hour of Kegels."
On Saturday night, we went out to dinner at a reasonably upscale restaurant where if you wear jeans they seat you in the restroom but it’s OK for the head waiter to wear Crocs. And to unapologetically graze your breast with the back of his hand as he places the napkin on your lap. And to have cystic acne.
Looking around the dining area at all the couples, it was obvious we’d crashed date night. Less obvious was why the man who approached the hostess right before we did asked if he and his date could be seated in the middle of the room. One glance at his orange and brown ‘these two shades only appear together in designer clothing or when you vomit after consuming an entire bag of candy corn’ Hermés tie and platinum bracelet fed the assumption that he was just the type of pretentious assclown that this place catered to. (Note: Men shouldn’t wear bracelets unless they’ve just been admitted to the hospital)
Then we saw his date. She looked like Blanka from Street Fighter II if it had transitioned from denim cutoffs into a sensible St. John’s pantsuit. There’s no way Hermés Guy was flaunting a creature like that. If I were a man whose only romantic options were radioactive beasts, I’d probably spend less money on accessories and more on prostitutes.
We were led to our table, pleasantly located beneath the hand dryer, and seated beside yet another couple who had to be in college. He sported carefully cultivated stubble on his face, which served as a distraction from his lazy eye. She looked like she’d shunned campus housing in favor of sleeping in either a tanning bed or a crock-pot. Her complexion wouldn’t have been more unnatural if she’d just brushed herself with wood varnish.
As we read the menu and wondered whether Blanka would select an appetizer or just gnaw on Hermés’ face, our neighbors had the following conversation:
Her: So, like, do you want anything for graduation? Since I got you that dog for your birthday?
Him: No you didn’t.
Her: Well it was, like, my idea that you get a dog.
Him: No, it wasn’t.
Her: I named it though.
Him: No you didn’t. And arguing makes you look fat.
OK, I made that last part up but that would’ve been effing awesome. It would’ve been equally as cool if he’d just given up and started screwing the plate of fingerling potatoes that she refused to eat because they were worth, like, 2 hours on the elliptical machine because potatoes are carbs. She whispered the last word with regret, the way some of us would say rape baby. Or Republican.
In truth, he dismissed her with a shrug and a ‘whatever’. He poured himself a second Chardonnay and holding the glass by the stem he raised it and began swirling the wine. It was a clumsy, forced gesture because the bottle he’d selected was a half-step above hot dog water.
She looked at him quizzically, like he’d asked her to use a compass or shop at Marshall’s and said, “Ew, do you have something in your glass?” Obviously culture wasn’t part of Clinique’s free gift this month. But this is coming from me, who once considered taking a picture of a particularly impressive bowel movement.
After dinner, we went to see The Messengers because, Oscar nomination or not, I’m not going to see a film about Queen Elisabeth unless she scuttles across the ceiling like a sand crab, haunts a troubled family of four, or bleeds from her pupil-less eyes. And I was admittedly disappointed upon learning that Babel had nothing to do with that kids’ story about the elephant (who marries his cousin, a detail that I didn’t notice until I reread it last week. Because the restrooms of doctor's offices have a surprisingly poor book selection). Babel, Babar, who cares? They both make me feel stupid.
Fortunately, The Messengers has several extended scenes where Dylan McDermott rides a tractor and wears a mesh hat, two things I understand. It also stars Penelope Ann Miller who I instantly recognized from the Lifetime Original movie ‘All American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story’. Between gaps in the hauntings, I half-expected her to attempt to seduce Bobby, the Poorly Developed Supporting Character Who Has No Reason to Help the Main Character Because He’s Only In Three Scenes But Shows Up In The Ridiculous Climax Anyway. In fact, the plot was so disjointed, it would’ve made just as much sense had Mary Kay looked at Bobby, tossed her hair suggestively and purred “So is that the restless spirit of the house’s murdered inhabitants in your pocket or just your erection?"
I had never seen Dustin Milligan, the actor who portrayed Bobby before but he looks like Napoleon Dynamite if he’d been given a makeover by the American Idol producers.
The theatre was packed and the woman sitting beside Runtie was holding her child, a tiny little guy who was old enough to notice the onscreen action but still young enough to have his age given in months. More disturbing than this woman bringing her small child to a horror flick (diluted as it may have been) was that every time the demons appeared, the kid would point and say “Da-da! Da-da!” Just one more reason why I’m never reproducing. Or having sex with anything I suspect to be a demon, which rules out my former boyfriend, several of my college classmates, and most of the people I work with. Marketing is one of the lesser-known dark arts.
The film was directed by Oxide Pang, which is one hell of a versatile product. Last week I used it to clean my carpet.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Excerpts from tonight's IM chat with my sister, Runtie. These few lines should tell you everything you need to know about today.
Runtie (8:55:06 PM): did you get fired today?
J-Money (8:55:54 PM): Not yet. Dammit.
Runtie (8:56:18 PM):: when you do, you can work at target. since you like red.
Runtie (8:56:19 PM): and you'll get us a discount on leggings and boxed wine
J-Money (8:57:54 PM): THAT IS THE BEST IDEA EVER!!!!
Runtie (8:58:12 PM): i know. and i'll work at harris teeter and get us food for cheap.
J-Money (8:58:57 PM): Mom told me I needed to pray for a new job, btw. I told her that Jesus did not work for Monster.com
Runtie (8:59:31 PM): hahahahahaha. the lord works for careerbuilder. she told me today that you needed to go to church.
Runtie (8:59:34 PM): i told her that you go to the one above your apartment that rings the f-ing loud bells.
J-Money (9:00:37 PM): Did she really? How did that come up?
Runtie (9:01:02 PM): i don't know...she was just bored at home today, i think. she got tired of putting costumes on her dog
J-Money (9:01:50 PM): That sounds about right. But I don't think writing scripture on my resume makes me look less incompetent.
Runtie (9:02:02): ummm no. not unless it's from song of solomon.
Runtie (9:02:05): the verse about being a precious unopened flower would be nice.
J-Money (9:02:28):That should help. Along with the naked pictures. Tits and Acts.
J-Money (9:02:49): That was hilarious.
Runtie (9:03:11): i am the coolest.
J-Money (9:03:19): I meant me.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
I didn't know that there was a way for the upcoming Ghost Rider flick to look more terrible until I saw the latest commercial. From what I've learned, in Ghost Rider Nicolas Cage plays a vigilante comic book character with a hairpiece that looks like a melted crayon and the special ability to make any film unwatchable. Did you see The Wicker Man? Jesus, he's less like an actor and more like a sawhorse with a costume.
Anyway, the trailer I saw during Sportscenter featured the song "Bad to the Bone". Congrats to the producers for turning Ghost Rider into Problem Child. I just hope that at some point, a minor character gets his ass blown off by a firecracker in the toilet and spends the last third of the movie wearing a giant diaper. Oh, and Michael Richards will play a bow-tied serial killer...because what does he have left to lose? I give it another three months before he's even comfortable enough to start separating his laundry into "whites" and "darks" again.