1) So today is Presidents' Day and some of you may be off from work and/or saving an additional 15% on new hand towels. Surprise! I am too! Through the magic of funemployment, I've gotten to celebrate a shitload of Prez Days. Just last week, I took the time to memorialize Martin Van Buren and Franklin Pierce, two men elected during ye olden days when you could be President if you were one of the eight or nine people who knew how to read and owned two pairs of pants.
2) As I twittered last week, the postal demon delivered the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue on Valentine's Day. Thank you, Mailphistopheles. Nothing made me feel better about spending VD alone, eating a can of Beefaroni and cleaning out my lint trap (not a euphemism, although it should be) than seeing pictures of flawless bikini-clad women with tits the size of Mini Coopers dangling from their sternums. I also failed to appreciate the pages where their Grand Tetons had been painted to look like bathing gear. Only models can pull that off; if I stepped out of my apartment covered in paint, someone would call the authorities, assuming that I'd wandered away from the Adult Education Center.
Respect to 'em, though, for figuring out how to rock the wearable art... Within ten minutes of being brushed, my paint* would be smeared and flecked with dog hair as I debated whether I could still eat the pigment-coated Sour Patch Kid I'd dropped onto my chest. Perhaps this is why SI hasn't called me. That and the fact that when I take my shirt off I look like E.T.
3) Every day on our walk, Pigpen and I pass a travel agency that advertises their destinations not with actual photographs but with horrible little paintings of islands and sunsets**. I'm not sure whether the owners don't actually leave their homes or if the biz itself caters to virgin travelers, the kind of people who could be dropped off in the Home Depot greenhouse and told "Bienvenidos! You're in Brazil!
4) Again, walking Pigpen, I saw a dude I know from the gym--well, I saw his face anyway--blown up and slapped on a billboard advertising something innocuous, like a doctor's office or a mortgage company or The ManHole Dance Club & Gift Shop. I wasn't shocked to see him working as a pitchman 'cause I've always thought he was good-naturedly handsome, like the son of Richard Gere and a Golden Retriever.***Anyway, when I saw him on Saturday morning (in person), mentioned the 'board and made some joke about his modeling career, he racked his weights and said, "Yeah, that's just a something I've been into for 14 or 15 years". For some reason, this made me like him less.
5) Finally, Nate--one of my fave blogsmiths--tagged me with this meme last week and because I've been so busy with all of the President's Days, I'm just now hitting it. You're supposed to open a book to page 123, find the 5th sentence, and then type the next three sentences. I'm not sure what this ritual does but if it summons Candyman, I'm going to be pissed.
The book I'm currently reading is One Train Later by Andy Summers, guitarist for the Police. Here are his insanely long sentences:
"The drugs make you love everyone and everything: you reach out to strangers...you spout little bits of spiritual wisdom and knowingly smile at one another...this is the sixties...this is our time...the lights from the Whiskey swirl across our faces and I feel happy--blissful, stoned. I pull a young girl closer, and Eric turns to me with a scared look on his face and says, "Help me man, I forgot who I am--you gotta help me." We go outside and sit in the Sting Ray for an hour as I guide him back down from the narcoticized altitude that he is cruising in: no face, no name."There was a time when I thought that Andy was the best looking member of The Police, but unfortunately, now he looks like a lawn gnome. So I've switched my affections to drummer Stuart Copeland because, honestly, I think Sting may be a Replicant.
*I would not be painted with a bikini. The artist would most likely go for something more full-coverage, like overalls. Or a prison jumpsuit.
** I think it's supposed to be a sunset. It could just as easily be cat vomit.
*** This is a union that may have actually happened.