Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

Dear Federal Government,

I know times are tough, but could you at least splurge on some lube?

Kthnx,
America's Debt-Saddled College Grads

As I read this article, I realized I am not in the dire straits that this article discussed. I consolidated my federal loans as soon as my grace period was over, so I locked in a good rate. However, the ugly side of student loan debt that this article does not discuss is the unsubsidized private loans, which is where most of my soul-crushing debt is. Sallie Mae continues to own me until I'm forty, and their interest rate is variable. So, as the Fed continues raising interest rates, my bill goes up, and I'm fucked. And, unlike the comparatively kind federal loans, Sallie Mae doesn't adjust your payments based on your income. Pay up, or the nasty collection agencies come for you. My Mom also cosigned one of my loans, so if I don't pay she also gets a nastygram, and there is no collection agency more deadly and feared than my Mom being faced with damage to her immaculate credit score. I think she'd be less angry with me if I showed up on her front step pregnant and on drugs, but still paying my loans.

I anxiously await Hillary Clinton's bill that would limit student loan payments to a certain percentage of a grad's income, because that would be excellent, and allow me to pay off my credit card debt as well. Come on, Hil. Get on it. I'm dying here.

He's Got That Thing He's Got That Thing...

I know every blog in the history of ever that ever talks about the Red Sox is going to have this picture on it today, but, fuck it. That was effing amazing. I don't have any idea what Theo or Tito put in their Gatorade, but as long as it doesn't lead to a Congressional hearing, I'm fine with it.

I think, in Mr. Crisp's case, it was Red Bull, as the after-amazing shot in the dugout showed Coco sipping from a long silver and blue can. I guess it does give you wings. A heart attack too, but, wings!

I guess we can only hope the Sox continue on this meteoric ride of awesome for the foreseeable future.

It's Friday. I'm out of here at 12:30 for my four and a half day weekend. President Bush got smacked down by the Supreme Court for exceeding his authority. All in all, it's been a pretty good week, I'd say.

Have a safe fourth, everyone. Do not, as my great-grandmother warned me, sit on a bucket full of firecrackers and light matches. Or, as my DARE teacher said, do not get hammered and drive a car or a boat.

STD

Let's hear it for the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices, who today reccommended that girls as young as nine years old be immunized against HPV.

Health officials estimate that more than 50 percent of sexually active women and men will be infected with one or more types of HPV in their lifetimes. Vaccine proponents say it could dramatically reduce the nearly 4,000 cervical cancer deaths that occur each year in the United States.

I'm all for this. A friend of mine had a scare with HPV a few years ago. Luckily, what the doctors thought were tumors turned out to be fairly innocuous growths, but it was a scary series of biopsies she had to undergo. If a vaccine can prevent other young women from similar close calls, or, even worse, cancer, the government should reccommend that girls be vaccinated.

This is also encouraging:

Some health officials had girded themselves for arguments from religious conservatives and others that vaccinating youngsters against the sexually transmitted virus might make them more likely to have sex. But the controversy never materialized in the panel's public meetings.

Could maybe the abstinance-only folks be having a change of heart when faced with women with cancer? Because it's a staggering statistic that more than fifty percent of sexually active people have HPV. Yikes.

In Honor of Friendship

Do you ever get things that aren't music stuck in your head? With all this talk of Pedro returning to Fenway tonight (did you hear? they haven't mentioned it in the media or anything) I keep thinking "I miss Payro." So, to give credit where credit is due, I give you Manny Being GM, from the fine, fucked-up gentlemen over at the Dugout.

Looking Smart

Check it out! America's getting the Smart car!

Company officials at the German-American automaker conceded that with gas prices in the U.S. hovering above $3 a gallon in many places, the Smart fortwo could appeal to buyers looking to save money.

According to DaimlerChrysler specs, the fortwo can get up to 46 miles per gallon in city driving and as much as 69 mpg on the highway, but its speed is not like its Mercedes counterpart. The two-seater is powered only by a three-cylinder gasoline engine. A diesel variant is available in Europe.

Yes, I felt like a giant touristy douche having this picture taken.

Lookie how cute! How nimble! How efficient! It's like sitting in David Ortiz's rollerskate and driving around. Imagine how many more cars could fit on Storrow Drive if they were all this small. Hell, I could maybe even afford to own and operate a Smart car.

Of course, the article doesn't address the fact that this thing would splat like a fly on a windshield should it hit a H2 or some other giant American atrocity. But, I thought that about the Mini Cooper, and that's apparently quite safe in a collision. So let me know the price and my lease options, and I'll consider this fine automobile.

Good Night, and Eff This

We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. When the loyal opposition dies, I think the soul of America dies with it.
--Edward R. Murrow

The Republicans, having sensed another pot of shit they can stir up to benefit their midterm election hopes, have decided to pigpile on the New York Times, by not only calling it "disgraceful," but also going as far as calling for the paper's credentials to be revoked.

I shit you not:

President Bush calls the conduct of the New York Times "disgraceful." Vice President Cheney objects to the paper having won a Pulitzer Prize. A Republican congressman wants the Times prosecuted. National Review says its press credentials should be yanked. Radio commentator Tammy Bruce likens the paper to Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.

Unbelievable. The New York Times shows the faintest hint of balls, and the Republican machine goes crazy, going so far as to want to revoke the paper's Congressional credentials. They've got to be kidding. Right? Because the last I knew, it's the press' job to inform the people of what their government is doing with the money and rights the people forfeit to participate in this democracy. If the government is violating the people's trust, the people have a right to know. I can't really walk into the halls of Congress or into meetings between the President and whomever concocted this bank-account scheme, so I trust the press to do it for me.

I just can't believe how easily this administration can get away with tossing out the "we're doing this so you stay safe from terrorists" in the eyes of the press. The majority of the press is swallowing this without even a question.

Of course, the Democrats aren't much help either:

Most Democratic lawmakers, meanwhile, lay low. Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid sidestepped a question yesterday about whether the Times should be prosecuted. Similarly, while the conservative blogosphere was on fire over the Times, many liberal Web sites ignored the controversy.

Speaking of not having any balls; ladies and gentlemen, your Democratic party! What the hell happened to them? Why are the Democrats pussyfooting around this issue? This is where they could shine. Hillary Clinton could come out, machine gun in each hand, shooting bullets of "freedom of speech" and "attempting to stifle the press" and "the terrorists have won if we take away the right to privacy that is essential to our democracy." It's not like this is an isolated incident. Does anyone else remember the domestic wiretapping program? It wasn't in the Nixon administration, folks. It's happening now.

Also, THANK YOU:

Lucy Dalglish, executive director of the Reporters' Committee for Freedom of the Press, questioned how groundbreaking the Times banking report was. "Wouldn't you think any reasonably smart terrorist is going to know that his financial transactions are being tracked?" she asked.

No kidding. If I'm a terrorist, I immediately know my bank transactions are being watched. Hell, I'm a white girl from Rhode Island, and I figure my bank transactions are being watched, either by identity thieves or my landlord leafing through my monthly statements. I guess if you're looking to catch the dumb terrorists, this is the way to go. But I think we should worry more about the smart ones.

William Bennett is also outraged:

William Bennett, the former Reagan administration official and conservative radio host, said the "cumulative impact" of both Times stories, and The Post's disclosure of secret CIA prisons overseas, had brought the situation to a "critical mass." Conservatives, he said, now wonder: "Gosh, is there a secret operation we're running that won't be disclosed by the press?"

He's still cranky toward the press because they found out about his gambling problems. Book of Virtues, indeed, Mr. Bennett.

Here's the thing: other administrations have kept the press from publishing sensitive information. The difference here is that a) this information does not immediately endanger American lives, here or in Iraq and b) that the Bush administration is consistently going after "liberal" publications, especially the Times. You don't hear them getting riled up at Fox News, which I'm sure has reported about this program as well. This is a deliberate attempt to try and stifle the spread of information that Americans need to hear to make informed choices about their elected officials.

I reiterate: get your free speech on, press.

Collect Your Things, Get Out

So it seems that Brett Myers, Phillies wife-beater, erm, pitcher, has taken a "personal leave" after beating his wife in the streets of Boston. Allegedly.

Listen, I'm all about due process of law, but wife-beating ranks at about the same level as pedophilia and torturing animals in my book. You're taking advantage of someone who's weaker in physical strength than you, and it's wrong. It's also wrong that he was allowed to pitch a day after his arrest. Way to give the kids a great example. Beat your wife, get to pitch in a major league ball game. Even if MLB wouldn't bar him from playing, he should have insisted he not play. I mean, if you're going to smack your wife, allegedly, you may not be the paragon of class, but you deserved the booing you got. Someplace, Gabe Kapler is sticking needles in a voodoo doll.

But, here are some issues I have with this short tidbit:

1. It takes only $200 to bail out an alleged wife beater? That seems too low.
2. Is Myers going to be paid for this leave? He shouldn't be.
3. "Inappropriate?" You didn't stare at Hazel Mae's boobs. You hit your wife, you douche. "Inappropriate" is not the word you're looking for. "Deplorable" is probably more like it.

Speaking of deplorable abuse, Coleen sent me a petition to ask that a couple of thugs who allegedly let loose two pitbulls, let them run, then shot them with high-powered shotguns be punished severely. I don't know if it will help, but adding your name to the list can't hurt.

Jeez. I'm just a ray of freaking sunshine today, aren't I?

Tryin' to Catch Him Flyin' Dirty

BWAH HA HA HA HA!!

Rush Limbaugh was detained for more than three hours Monday at Palm Beach International Airport after authorities said they found a bottle of Viagra in his possession without a prescription.

HA HA HA HA! HA! ::wipes tear from eye::

Any misfortune that finds Rush Limbaugh with his deaf, blowhard, drug-abusing, hypocritical pants around his ankles is the sweetest, most delectible, Cristal-level-of-awesome schadenfreude available. It's almost as if Ann Coulter were held in airport security after her giant vibrator had the entire airport evacuated. Oh, how sweet. How long before Rush is on some kind of "legalize it" tour with Phish?

And what were you doing in the Dominican, Mr. Limbaugh? Doctor shopping, or using your Viagra on a fine piece of Dominican ass? Either way, the scadenfreude goes down smoother than Ketel One.

HA.

Welcome to This One-Man Show

Well, this is fucking depressing.

Nearly a quarter of people surveyed said they had "zero" close friends with whom to discuss personal matters. More than 50 percent named two or fewer confidants, most often immediate family members, the researchers said.

I was thinking about this report last night as I sat in my apartment. What the hell is wrong with us as a society? I'm not in this horrific percentage with no close confidants. I'd say I have two or three, four if you count my Mom, who is the immediate family member I confide in. But I'm one of those warm, fuzzy, schmoopy people. I like being a confidant for my friends. I like being able to help them out. I can't imagine the twenty-five percent of people who have nobody. Who helps them move? Who listens to them blow their nose in the phone when their heart breaks? Who do they go on vacation with?

Our society is fucked up. I think that's what it all boils down to. We're told that we've never been more connected to each other. We have cell phones and instant messengers and email and instant messengers built in to our email, but what good is it if you don't have anyone to talk to? We watch television shows where "real" people confess their darkest secrets into a camera, but we can't bring ourselves to trust another human being with the choice contents in the deep dark recesses of our own souls?

Are we driven solely by money? We have to work to have money to have cell phones and computers and iPods, not just a house, clothes and food? Are we so driven to have all the stuff that we think we need that we cut ourselves off from people since maintaining a relationship takes time away from work? Because if that's the case, kill me now.

I hate resorting to the rhetorical questions, but I don't have any answers that apply to everyone. All I know is that I think I'm here on this planet not to be a little worker bee and have the best laptop or the biggest house. I feel like I'm here to mean something to people. Not in the fame-whore, cover of People meaning, but in the making the human race better, even if only a little meaning. I want the kids I babysit to remember me as the woman who took them to the beach and bought them clamstrips and spoiled them a little since their grandparents live far away. I want my family and friends to think of me as someone who they can call when they need me, who will be there through the good and bad shit. I hope that by writing this blog, somebody reads it and says, "Wow, this crazy girl with the Pete Bouchard fetish feels the way I feel about Mitt Romney and the Red Sox." I don't want to end up meaning nothing in the big pond of life, like a little bug who only makes one little ripple. I want to be the big, weird bug who motors around the surface of the water, making ripples everywhere.

Now I'm all bummed out. I have got to stop listening to Nine Inch Nails for a few minutes.

Disgrace

GeeDubya is back at it again. This time, it seems the press is "disgraceful" for doing its job.

United States President George W. Bush criticized newspapers yesterday for disclosing a secret American government program monitoring international banking transactions, calling the disclosures a "disgraceful" act that could assist terrorists.

"The disclosure of this program is disgraceful," he said. "We're at war with a bunch of people who want to hurt the United States of America, and for people to leak that program, and for a newspaper to publish it does great harm to the United States of America.

"Congress was aware of it, and we were within the law to do so," he added.

I agree with the editor of the Times (I assume of New York):

"Most Americans seem to support extraordinary measures in defence against this extraordinary threat but some officials who have been involved in these programs have spoken to the Times about their discomfort over the legality of the government's actions and over the adequacy of oversight."

That's the thing. If there's a question of legality, we have a right to know about the program. It's not like the Times revealed the location of troops, or plans for attacking al-Quieda holdouts (probably because this administration has a bad habit of not planning anything and no such plans exist). Yes, the United States is at war. But this is not a war with defined boundaries and defined battlefields. Balancing the need for information about our enemies with the rights of the people who are our allies needs to be handled carefully, and the Bush administration is doing a Broadway dance routine in the China shop.

Get your free speech on, newspapers.

This is What it Feels Like

As I walked to Back Bay station to catch my train that would bring me to Rhode Island to meet up with Amanda, the sky opened up. It was gradual at first-- the rumble of thunder behind me, I hoped to make it to the station without needing my umbrella. Then I felt a drop. Then two. Then, a deluge. Tourists ran for cover by the BPL, and I sighed and took out my umbrella.

The rain continued as Amanda and I pulled into the Tweeter Center parking lot a few hours later. Amanda wanted to see Peaches and Bauhaus, so we got there at 5:30 to get a good seat on the lawn before the throngs we imagined would be there showed up. We sat in her Saturn, watching the tailgaters around us with envy.


(Photos shamelessly stolen from Amanda. Mine are still on my phone.)

"We should have brought a six-pack," I moaned.

"At least," she said.

We talked about boys, both how much we still like them despite the fact all the ones we've known before have fucked us over. A group of guys were grilling in front of us, and after about half an hour, one of them came over.

"How you going to come to a concert and not tailgate?"

"We didn't bring any beer," I lamented.

"Well, come on ovah. We've got beahs and food."

We stood around the guy's gray truck, and met his friend, whose name escapes me, but I think was Jay. He looked at me with a mix of confusion, attraction, and drunkenness.

"So what do you do?"

"I work in college textbooks. Humanities textbooks."

"Okay, if you work in textbooks, can you tell me why it is that my book that's 300 pages long costs me $150?"

This is a question I'm used to fielding from people I've just met. Sometimes, I think it would be easier if I said I worked for the Gestapo or the IRS.

"Our books aren't that much. What's your major?"

"Nuclear engineering."

"That's why. Those books have to be updated a lot more than humanities books do."

"So where did you go to school?"

"Emerson."

"Where?"

"Emerson. In Boston."

"What did you study there?"

"Writing."

"Oh. When did you graduate?"

"2003."

"Oh wow. That makes you, what, like, thirty?"

"No. Twenty-four."

Chris, the guy who'd come over and invited us to tailgate, laughed. "Well, Jay's a baby anyway. How old are you, like, fifteen? Nineteen?"

"Twenty-one."

"Oh man. You're as old as my baby brother," I said.

Amanda and I stood and had more awkward conversation, used the Portajohn and then headed in to get a spot for the show. Since the weather was shitty and there were two openers, we got a spot right along the fence that separates the unwashed masses in the lawn seats from the reserved seating. The first opener, Peaches, strutted around the stage in a black bra and boy shorts, with boots that came up to the middle of her thigh. Most of her schtick was to sing about fucking. Grabbing her boobs, singing about two guys fucking each other in front of her, and so on. While I appreciate the slutty Joan Jett persona she had working, the music got a little redundant.

During the break between Peaches and Bauhaus, a group of stoner kids came over and commenced smoking copious amounts of ganja next to us. Amanda even got offered a toke while I was in the bathroom. Since neither of us like weed and Amanda likes her job and didn't want to fail a drug test, we figured we'd move over. We stood by the fence and watched Bauhaus, which I'm not familiar with, and Amanda was also not well-versed in. It was cool and rocking, but the crowd perked up noticeably when Bauhaus cleared out and Nine Inch Nails' roadies started clearing the stage.

The Tweeter Center staff walked through the lawn seats and told the crowd that they could sit in the unsheltered seats closer to the stage. Amanda, who wanted to be able to dance, hung back. One of the guys came over and told us we could move up.

"Well, here's pretty good," Amanda said.

He looked at us, and over his shoulders to see if anyone was around. "Or, would you like to sit under the roof in case it starts raining again?"

"Yes," I said, not caring if Amanda could dance or not at that point. The sky was brightening and streaked with the setting sun, but I didn't want to take a chance. Also, if I could get closer to the stage, that increased my odds of launching myself at Trent Reznor. We sat in row T, which was really close. I could see the roadies without looking at the video screens.

I looked around, and saw Beth, whose account is much more detailed and actually about the show than this one. I wasn't surprised that she was there, but it was odd to run into her in such a large crowd. She got up when the roadies started to prepare the stage. The smoke machine kicked in, and the crowd went nuts.

My benchmark for the best show I've ever seen is the Indigo Girls. (Can it. Those girls are awesome.) They consistently work hard, and you can tell they like to put on a good show for the audience. But I think that Nine Inch Nails may be my new litmus test for great live shows. Trent and crew do not stop for the entire show. Trent's a great showman-- writhing, jumping, crowd-surfing. He also wore a tank top in the hot weather, all the better to display his tickets to the gun show; nay, to show his tickets and guest passes to the gun show. His music is great, but good Christ on a Triscuit, he's hot.

I screamed and yelled and danced for the whole show, though not as vigorously as the girl in front of me, who I feared would give herself a spinal cord injury. I think my favorite performance was "Closer," but "Hurt" and "Something I Can Never Have" were also excellent. When Nine Inch Nails come around again, go see them, even if you're normally the folksy-pop type. A good show is a good show, regardless of genre.


Me and Amanda, post-show, still rockin' out in post-concert traffic.

Sad Bastards

Sometimes, a girl just has to don the Doc Martens that live in her soul, wear black, and rock out. Not every day can have the sunshine and light of Kelly Clarkson shining on it. Some days, you just need to rock out. Today is one of those days, as I'm heading to the Tweeter Center to see Nine Inch Nails.

Yes, I was just looking for an excuse to use that picture again.

Of course, it's going to piss down rain tonight, but Amanda and I will soldier through, I am sure. I freaking love Nine Inch Nails. Which is odd, given my usual folk/pop leanings. But, damn. Anybody who says he wants to feel you from the inside is worth standing in the pouring rain for.

See you on the other side of this weekend. Stay dry and have fun, kiddos.

North vs. South, Catholic vs. Jewish, Mac vs. PC

You, sir, are an asshole.

I love Macs. I love their cute exterior, their snappy operating systems, their easy keyboard shortcuts, their lack of crash-and-freezing that PCs are prone to. Since an ex-jackass sold me his iMac back when they were blue and see-through, I've had Macs. Now I have an iBook that's getting a little old, but I still love it. Until I get off my ass and start a magazine or something, I'm not doing anything that desperately needs fast processing, so my five-year-old laptop will do. I also try to "convert" people to Macs. I tell them how much I enjoy the fast processing, the ease of use once you get past a Windows mentality. Sometimes it sticks. Other times, I am threatened with death.

But I hope I don't come across like the asshole in these new advertisements that Mac is running to try to lure PC users over to Macs. I agree with his assertions, but he's so smug. God. Take that hipster hoodie off and let the guy have his PC. Maybe you should offer to let the old guy try your PowerBook and let him find out for himself that it's more fun.

I think Mac is trying to play on the whole cult-like following their computers have and lure PC users over with these ads, but I think it cements PC users opinion that Mac users are just pretentious jerks. We don't all wear hoodies. We're not all smug assholes. Please. Just try the Mac. It's something different, like a third political party or a hybrid car. You may like it. You won't become the asshole in the hoodie. I promise you.

No Hateration In My Peterie

It has been brought to my attention, by both Lewis and GiC, that there is another woman in Boston who loves the Pete Bouchard. Both these people told me this information in the hopes that I would start some shit, throw down all junior-high-girl bitchy-style on this woman for allegedly being at the head of the Pete Bouchard posse. But, though I am an uppity bitch who will not hesitate to lay the smackdown on someone who messes with my man, I cannot muster up the hate for this Dee person. For we both enjoy the finer things in life. A balding man who loves science and the Police. A good man, who somehow ended up at a clusterfuck of a television station. So, like Mary J. says, there is no more drama. However, once I get some Photoshop acumen, you'd better believe I'll be selling t-shirts on Cafepress.

Return of the Amy

Hey y'all.

Sorry it's been so quiet around these parts lately. I am sans internet since I am broke and the cable companies aren't giving away internet (nor are my neighbors dumb enough to have unprotected wireless networks) so this limits my ability to blog. I also spent three days with the family on the Cape. Which was fun, but it's always nice to return to the subterranean fortress of solitude after spending three solid days with the people you moved away from because you saw a lot of them. I love my family, but I live on my own for a reason. It also doesn't help that I am the odd man out when it comes to vacationing activities. For instance, I went to the Cape and didn't sit on a beach. I know. But I did get to go to Woods Hole and see a really interesting exhibit about the discovery of the Titanic by Robert Ballard in 1985, which always fascinated me. I am a giant dork.

Also, mad thanks to Kristen's family, as they once again provided my alcoholic ass with all the free beer I could drink and all the chili I could eat. You people do the Lord's work. Or something.
I am also happy to see that Mr. Gabe Kapler is back playing for the Boston Sox. Yowza. Words fail me. Somebody had to hot that team up again. Also, Trot needs another dirt dog compatriot to hang out with. But, also, the hot.

Speaking of Nixon, I should be getting my kitten this weekend or early next week. Pictures to follow.

I really miss TV. My brother and I stayed up in the hotel after my Mom went to bed, and I watched the Daily Show. God, I love Jon Stewart. "Next, the Congress will pass a resolution that kittens are, quote, 'adorable.'" But I shall not cave! I am not getting cable!

Okay. Off to get some work done. Hopefully some indignant ranting will follow later.

Defined

Friday brings the happiest part of my existence in the world of publishing: Summer Hours. Monday-Thursday, I toil at my desk until 5:30. But Friday; sweet, delicious, wonderful Friday, I get to leave at 12:30. An additional four hours to do with what I please. A gift, hard earned by a week of begging my friends to kill me via the internet.

Since it's been shitty for the last few Fridays, I haven't done much with the first few early quitting Fridays I've had. But today, the sun shines passionately on Boston. The leaves are green, the sidewalks aren't slippery with mold, and the afternoon is mine. I left work, and went to the gym. I exercised, then left and had lunch with Kristen. She left for points west, while I walked through the Back Bay back to my place, watching old people stroll slowly, watching babies in adorable sun hats laze in strollers. I dropped my gym bag off, put my laptop in my backpack, and walked over to the local independent coffee shop to write an article for InSite. I think, as of this moment, if you open up Webster's, you'll see a picture of me, iBook and iced coffee at my side, beaming happily, next to the definition of "yuppie."

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Had It

Usually, I leave the sports blogging to the professionals. But sometimes, a girl who usually talks politics, meterologists, boobs and women's rights has to get her dander up about sports.

Yeah, word up, last-year's Bronson. What the fuck is wrong with you, Boston Sox? Why can't you help poor Tim Wakefield? He's such a nice guy. Loves his kids. Loves his wife. Was the second coolest thing on the Queer Eye Sox makeover episode (first being Millar declaring he's gay). He is humble and wonderful and his own personal catcher who had a mothereffing police escort into Fenway has decided that baseball is golf and won't hit. You're not helping, Douglas.

Not like the rest of you are any better. Trot, I am disappointed. There is a kitten in Rockland with your name on it. No, I'm not giving you a kitten, but I am going to name the cat, be it boy or girl, Nixon. When I heard the news that my kitten had been born and would be ready for me next week, you went 4 for 4. I can't get the cat for another couple weeks. Could you please trust that the cat will bear your name and hit?

So, I'll leave it to Kristen to swear at you and full-name you. I'll just leave it at this: Boston Sox, I am very disappointed in you.

A Place for all God's Little Creatures

Alicia sent me this link with the comment that Bush is looking for a bump in his dismal approval ratings by building a marine sanctuary. I think, if the President knew about President Theodore Roosevelt ("number twenty-six," George) and his passion for conserving America's wildlife and forests, Bush would say, "I am just like that great American President. Except without the disdain for large corporations." And then flexes his presidently muscles in the mirror.

But, in fact, the best part of this article is this picture of an albatross. Who does it remind you of?


Hee hee hee.

Blind Needling the Blind

God, what a maroon.

President Bush, who often teases members of the White House press corps, apologized Wednesday after he poked fun at a reporter for wearing sunglasses without realizing they were needed for vision loss.

Um, GW? You are the President of the mother-effing United States of America. Maybe a little professionalism? A little? I know that Americans are getting less and less formal in the workplace. I'm guilty of it. I'm wearing jeans and flip flops at work. God Bless America for that. I get to needle my coworkers a little too. But I know enough about them not to tease them about medical conditions, for the love of God. "Hey, Gimpy Boss, how's yer knee doin? Hope we don't have a fire because you'll be stuck inside this tinderbox. Ha ha ha!"

I guess I should be content that Bush apologized. His track record of admitting he's done things wrong isn't so good. Maybe he's turning over a new leaf. I am clinging to any shred of hope.

Flix

This week, I have officially become a cool kid, and joined Netflix.

And on the eighth day, God made home-delivery video rentals

I am one of those people who doesn't get movie references. Someone will say something, and look at me, waiting for the lightbulb over my head to illuminate. I look back at them, wondering if maybe my mascara gave me raccoon eyes. Why are they looking at me like that?

I guess it's because I watched a lot more TV than movies that I'm so far behind in the celluloid pop culture. You make a reference to an episode of M*A*S*H, and I'll probably get it. Good Fellas? Gone With the Wind? Scarface? No idea.

Tonight begins my quest to see movies and TV shows that I am way behind on. Allegedly, Mean Girls should be sitting in my mailbox when I get home tonight, and I am very excited. Shut up. I loves me some pre-anorexia/"exhaustion"/crack Lohan. I'll put the DVD into my itty bitty laptop and enjoy. After that, Season One of Entourage should arrive. My gym recently started playing episodes of Entourage, and I have no idea what's happening, so I have to catch up. Then Season One of the fantastic Project Runway. So, in short, I am perpetuating my issues with not getting movie references. Though I do have some "classics" on my queue that will show up once Season One of The Chappelle Show is back at Netflix HQ.

Cable TV can continue to suck it. I'll just wait until their shows come out on DVD.

Dear New England Cable Companies,

You are all a bunch of stupid whores.

Do you know what happened to me today? I came in to work. That usually happens on Monday-Friday, but I came into my sports-crazed office without knowing that apparently the best game in the history of baseball or whatever happened last night. Do you know who told me? The office Yankees fan. Do you know what part she omitted? The fact that the Red Sox let up a grand slam in the bottom of the 75th and lost. Until the IT department head told me, she let me be smug and enjoy what I thought was a victory. Then she laughed at me. I was humiliated. What kind of baseball fan am I?

Listen up, RCN and Comcast. I am not rolling it dough. Were I rolling in dough, I would pay your exorbitant rates to get expanded basic cable and have NESN on as I enjoy my subterranean fortress of solitude. But there have been movies with ransom demands that cost less than a summer of expanded basic cable and internet. It's absolutely ludicrous that you don't put NESN on the basic cable package. Is it a smart business move? Absolutely. People without $450 monthly student loan payments will find a way to swing it. Us poor bastards who can't afford it alone just can't afford it. I'd gladly get basic cable from you if it had NESN. But it doesn't. And I'm in no rush to buy a TV since I don't want to buy cable from you since I'll miss baseball either way.

The Red Sox aren't completely innocent in this either. By giving the rights to broadcast Sox games exclusively to NESN this year, I can't even enjoy the Friday night games on FOX. The Globe had some letters to the editor about this, but the Sox are in effect kicking fans in lower economic brackets out. A ticket to Fenway is a lot more than most people can regularly afford. Expanded basic cable costs about $60 a month. Kids who hear about Papi and Manny can't afford to see him since their parents can't afford to bring them to Fenway or buy cable with NESN. It's eventually going to bite the Sox in the ass.

I can't very well just have a schedule of houses I visit to watch Sox games. "Kristen, okay, you're on Monday. Marianne, you're on Tuesday. I'll go to a bar on Wednesday. One of these days is bound to be an off day. Shit." I shall wander the streets of Boston, peering into the windows of bars until they ask me to move along. Me and all the poor kids, together.

So, in closing, let me reiterate. You, meaning the cable companies and the Red Sox, are a bunch of assholes.

Sincerely,
Amy

Come On, We're Going Drinking!

Check it out. Turns out, us "coffee until noon, beer thereafter" folks are going to be just fine.

DRINKING coffee could help protect you from liver disease caused by alcohol, research shows.

People who drink one cup of coffee a day are 20 per cent less likely to suffer alcoholic cirrhosis than those who drink none.

And the protective effect increases with the more coffee you have: those who drink two or three cups a day are 40 per cent less likely to suffer cirrhosis, while people who drink four or more cups are 80 per cent less likely to get the disease.

HA! As I sit here, drinking my iced coffee after consuming a delicious beer with my delicious hamburger with my delicious friend Kristen last night-- and before I go out of a cool mojito with my cool coworker Karen tonight-- I feel validated. My body knows itself. It knows it needs beer to come down from the coffee and Coke Zero jitters that get me through my workday, and it needs coffee and Coke Zero to manage to get anything done.

Don't worry, kids. We'll be juuuust fiiiiine.

Let's celebrate! The Gansett's on me!

Away With It

Well well. Turns out Karl Rove won't be indicted in the CIA leak case.

Top White House aide Karl Rove has been told by prosecutors he won't be charged with any crimes in the investigation into the leak of a CIA officer's identity, his lawyer said Tuesday, lifting a heavy burden from one of President Bush's most trusted advisers.

Mark Corallo, a spokesman for Rove, said the White House official "is elated" and said that "we're done."

I hope Libby enjoys taking the fall for Rove. Rove lied about who he talked to about this case during his testimony. Not to mention he's a skunk and a manipulative liar who's bent on keeping the sketchy Republicans in office. He's a shady, shady mofo, and I'm sorry to hear he'll continue being around during the midterm elections.

Trauma

Last year, I brought the kids I babysit to a Paw Sox game for their birthday. It's cheaper than Fenway, and I figured if they hated it, I'd be out about $20 for trying and we'd leave. Luckily, they loved watching the game and started getting into baseball. So, since they all recently had birthdays, I brought them to McCoy yesterday for a day of baseball enjoyment.

"We've been counting down the hours since we got up!" Eldest chirped as we got into the car and headed down. I chugged my Vitamin water and prayed my stomach lining held during the game, cursing myself for that last Guinness the night before.

As I drove, happy to not be soaked by rain, my mood improved. Baby slept in the backseat, and the older two chatted away as I drove into McCoy. We unpacked the van, with me forgetting my cell phone, which had fallen under the front seat, so I don't have any pictures of kids being adorable at a baseball game.

We walked into McCoy and found some seats along the third base line. Boy donned his batting helmet I'd bought him, along with his orange-metallic '90s sunglasses that his parents and I told him made him look like a real baseball player. The older two and I put on our gloves. Baby sat in my lap and looked around.

The Boy Scout troop came out with the flag, and a school band got ready to play the National Anthem.

"Come on guys, stand up and take off your hats."

"Why?"

"It's a sign of respect."

"Why are they playing this song?"

"Because that's what you do at a baseball game. Stand up."

The Anthem ended, and we sat back down and the game began. The kids cheered, and Boy was much better this year at being able to recognize which team was which on the field. We got up and got hot dogs and fries. Baby covered herself and me with ketchup. The Paw Sox were ahead by one, then tied, then losing. Figuring the game had gone to shit, we got up to get dessert.

Of course, as we entered the main concourse, the cheers erupted, letting us know that the game had turned in our favor. The kids were mad they didn't see what happened, and the baby looked confused. We ordered our treats, and we had to wait while Eldest's doughboy was cooked. As we waited, Paws, the Paw Sox mascot, walked by. The older two laughed and waved, which brought the mascots closer. Baby turned her head, saw the six feet tall walking stuffed animals, grabbed me like a baby monkey holding his mother, and screamed in terror.

"MOMMA! MOMMA! NOOOOO! MOMMA!" She shimmied nearly over my shoulders to hide behind me. She trembled, and I've never felt a two-year-old hold onto me that tightly. I traumatized the baby. She wouldn't relax for about five minutes after the bears were well out of her sight. The older two laughed at her, but I can see where she's coming from. She's little, they're big, emotionless, walking stuffed animals.

We went back to our seats, and between innings the announcer came on. "Now playing on the right field screen is a live video feed from Boston, where the Sox trail by two, and David Oritz is at the plate with two men on."

McCoy went wild. "PA-PI. PA-PI. PA-PI."

Eldest asked between bites of her doughboy, "What's going on? The Paw Sox aren't playing now."

"Look at the screen," I said. "The Boston Sox could win the game if David Ortiz hits a home run."

"Who's Papi?"

"That's David Oritz's nickname. It means he's the big guy who takes care of everything."

Strike one.

"Pa-pi. Pa-pi."

Strike two.

The pitcher on the screen stops. Ortiz steps out of the box. The crowd waits.

The video feed stops, and the stats for the player about to hit come up.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" The whole stadium booed vigorously.

"What happened?" Eldest asked.

"Well, we don't know. That's why people are booing. I wish I had a radio."

After about a minute, a guy a couple sections over stood up, waving a radio, and yelling, "PAAAAAAAAAAAAAPI!" It was an awesome moment.

The Paw Sox won the game, and the announcer updated the Yankees score, saying they were losing in the eighth.

"You know, I don't know who the team that's playing the Yankees is, but I don't like the Yankees very much, so I hope that other team wins," Eldest said. I am raising these kids right.

The eldest kids ran the bases at the end of the game, while I stood with the baby at home plate, praying she didn't see Paws from a distance and commence crying again. I dragged the kids back to the car, and we headed for home. Another fun time at the baseball park.

I am going to have to get a new job, however.

"Amy, when are you going to take us to a game at Fenway?"

Cold-Hearted Bitch

Ann Coulter, everybody!

If you've been widowed, as my mother was, I'm sure you've used your husband's death to make a political point. I'm sure Ms. Coulter would think my mom was taking advantage of the system by staying at home and collecting Social Security and raising her kids because she's a lazy, system-abusing slacker. Fuck you. If my (imaginary) husband died in a national tragedy, which may have been prevented if the president had done his damn job, you'd best believe I'd be on every politician I could find to insist they find out why my husband died in a terrorist attack. I hope if one of these "Witches of East Brunswick" ever meets Ann Coulter, she claws Ann's eyes out with her bare hands.

And if anyone is enjoying the deaths of thousands of people on 9/11 for political gain, it's Ann Coulter and her conservative talk show host brethren. "If only the Democrats had given us more money for weapons, we could have prevented this!" "If only the Democrats didn't insist that invading people's privacy is a violation of rights, we could have prevented this!" My fucking God. As my old roommate Deb would say, "What a miserable cunt."

Wanted: Dead or Alive

Well, it looks like Zarqawi got dead, as he was killed in an air raid in Iraq.

I wish I could get really excited by this, and I guess it's good that one of the masterminds of al Qaeda isn't in commission anymore. But I remember that it was supposed to be great when we captured Hussein, and the insurgency only got stronger. Iraqis and American troops are still dying at an alarming rate. I don't know what would make me feel better about Iraq, really. I think if we tried to improve conditions there by trying to build some infastructure and make Iraqis feel like they got something for us overthrowing their government, the appeal of radical movements would be lessened.

Of course, a new president with some fucking intelligence would also encourage me greatly.

No Shit, Sherlock

Gee. Do you think if energy costs a lot it'll stunt the economy? Do we really need to pull Greenspan away from his retirement lodge wallpapered with pages from The Wealth of Nations and attractive women in $100-bill-printed bikinis serving him drinks to tell us this? Because if we can't figure this out for ourselves, I'm going to be leading the nation in economic theory. And I can barely balance a checkbook. Fear this.

Save Me

Okay so. It's shitty outside. I woke up at 2:30am from that drunken "going to bed" which is actually called "passing out" to the sound of pouring rain. Again. Some more. After some fitful sleeping, I woke up at 7:30 and immediately started humming "Save Me" by Amiee Mann. And my iPod has just seen fit to randomly play this song now, and I think it may be the perfect rainy day song. It's mellow, kind of sad, and haunting. "Long December" by the Counting Crows is a good winter song, but, for my melancholy weather dollar, "Save Me" wins. Download it now. NOW.

Gays on Display

The Article 8 alliance strikes again, this time bullying Macy's into taking down their gay pride week display at their Downtown Crossing location. Way to go, Macy's. It's not even like Filene's is there to compete with you. Tell the Alliance to go suck an egg. It wasn't two dudes doing it or anything. It was a mannequin in a rainbow-colored outfit.

The Gay Pride Parade is on Saturday in Copley Square. Turn out and support the cause after this week of amendment talk and display complaints. I'm sure they'd like the support.

And I Shall Call Him...

So if you're like me, and wondered why in the hell channel 7's weather was forecast by a black box with no name, only to scroll down and find some fellow named Jeremy is now reporting the weather in the mornings on channel 7, you probably wondered what he looks like. He is not some faceless entity, but is indeed the newest weathercasting hottie in Boston. If you have not seen the weather recently, as I have not since I don't own a TV right now, behold:

I shall call him Mini-Pete. Because, really. Let's side-by-side these two dudes.

Yeah. Add some hair, take away some skin pigment (or maybe use some proper lighting on the lefthand picture) and they could be father and son. If I were Mrs. Bouchard, I'd be looking into my husband's activities when he was... okay, probably twelve. But, if I were Mrs. Bouchard...

Ahem.

Sometimes, the writing just gets away from you. But welcome to Boston, Mr. Reiner. And welcome to your wife as well.

::sigh::

Don't Believe the Hype

Listen up, dyed-in-the-wool, fall-in-line conservatives. You are being manipulated. You are being used. Hoodwinked!

I don't like to use such hyped-up language. But you are being used. You've been used for six years to get Bush Jr. and his daddy's cronies back into power. Don't you get it? Don't you get that the gay marriage amendment is a big red herring the Republican party is slapping you with over and over to get you to vote for them? Read the language. You're being "wooed." They are "wooing" you? Woo?

No. It's a manipulation, not sonnets and dropped hankies. The economy sucks, the Bush administration has run up the deficit more than the Sodomite Clinton administration did. The Bush administration has acted as anti-Republicans. Republicans are supposed to be fiscally and morally conservative. FISCALLY CONSERVATIVE means SPENDING LESS MONEY. Bush has not spent less money. But if you look too closely, you'll realize that. So he tosses the evils of homosexuality at you, makes you afraid that gay people will ruin your life by loving each other, and you fall for the same shit again.

President Bush and Wanna-Be President Romney are both attacking Massachusetts as ruining families across America by our gay-marriage example.

In returning to the divisive issue of gay marriage, the president is seeking to energize social conservatives in advance of the midterm congressional elections. He maintained that without a constitutional amendment, states across the country might have to recognize marriage "as redefined by judges in, say, Massachusetts."

"Our policies should aim to strengthen families, not undermine them," the president said in a speech at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, as the Senate began the first of three days of debate on the measure. "And changing the definition of marriage would undermine the family structure."

This kind of talk makes me blind with anger. Seriously. I wish I could be eloquent about this, but I just get so fucking mad I resort to curse words and ad hominem attacks. But it's a complete bullshit maneuver. Attack the people who are different and scare your conservative base into voting for men who sent young boys off to die without just cause. And doesn't allowing gay couples-- who already exist-- who already have kids and condominiums an additional layer of support if one of them dies strengthen families? More families with rights equals a greater family structure.

Mitt pipes up. In Washington, people of both parties shrug:

"In order to protect the institution of marriage, we must prevent it from being redefined by judges like those here in Massachusetts," wrote Romney, who is preparing for a possible 2008 presidential run. "Once a society establishes that it is legally indifferent between traditional marriage and same-sex marriage, how can one preserve any practice which favors the union of a man and a woman?"

Why does it matter? Why does it matter if a couple is a man or a woman or a man and a man? I don't get it. I can get why people are uncomfortable with the idea of homosexuality. Open homosexuality is a relatively new concept for our puritanical society. But I don't get the leap in logic that once homosexual couples have rights that everyone is going to become homosexual. I don't know if Republicans have noticed, but being gay isn't always rainbows and parades. Lots of homosexuals are assaulted and killed simply because of their orientation. It's not an easy choice to decide to be open about your preferences. Many gay people lose their families by admitting they're gay.

See? It even works on me as a distraction. Don't you get that gas prices are so high because the oil companies, who are rife with Bush family friends, are making record profits? It's right there in front of us. Record. Profits. You grab your ankles and pay, they have nice vacations while you can't afford insurance, let alone a trip to Mexico. Don't believe them. This is happening to distract you from the important issues, like false wars, a lack of medical insurance for the poor, starving people in America, the fact that we could pursue alternative energy but the government won't pay for it, etc.

If you want to be a pawn, fine. I've had it with you.

Scoreless

Let me say this: I am all for evolving as a species. I mean, God gave us thumbs, frontal cortexes and all the reason that comes with them for a reason, right? It can't be just to create TiVo and destroy the planet God so lovingly created for us. Yes, we have base urges such as greed and lust that we can't fully explain, but we should try to evolve past that.

But, I don't think telling kids that the score doesn't matter for competitive sports is a place we should be evolving.

If you read the article, you'll see that the kids naturally revert to keeping score themselves. It's kind of a base instinct for them. We're going to tell kids to just enjoy the game, it's all for fun, hee hee hee, while Mom and/or Dad is screaming at the television for Keith Foulke to sack up and strike the motherfucker out and not completely send the game to shit? We're already sending the message that keeping score is important. Kids know scores are important. They get grades at school to judge performance-- a score for a soccer game does the same thing. Many aspects of adult life have some form of scorekeeping involved. If I fuck up a big project at work, my boss notices and counts it against me. If I do a really good job and get the book done a month early (which I did, mothafuckas, I'm awesome!) my boss notices that and I eventually get promoted (effective of June 1!). I performed, I get the rewards. If I fuck up, no ice cream and Papa Gino's on the way home.

If a parent is afraid their kid will become a end-result-oriented cheaterpants, they should get their kid involved in a less competitive sport. Surfing can be an individual quest to achieve greater feats on the board. I'm currently working on "standing up" on the surfboard. A kid can see how far he can bike on his own. But I think most kids can handle a soccer game. I played softball for a year or two in elementary school, and I played my best but it didn't break my heart if we lost.

I think the large part of this policy comes down to crazy raging parents who choose to live vicariously through their progeny not being able to brag as easily about their kid's feats. Sure, a parent will keep score, but without the "official" standings, it's slightly better. I think a policy of "if you rage at anyone at one of these games, you will not be allowed back to watch your child play" would be better than coddling kids. Life sucks. Not performing has consequences. Kids need to learn how to deal with participating in competitions and not losing their shit over it. By testing ourselves, this is how we will evolve, not by eliminating feelings.

Monday Monday

Another week begins, the sun finally shining on Boston, with the sheen of possibility on everything. If you're a conservative, you decide that you'd like to press an amendment declaring marriage between a man and a woman. Because mid-term elections are coming up in a few months, and that homosexual Trojan horse got y'all elected last time, so why not bring it out of the stable and try again?

If you're me, you wake up stuffy for the third morning in a row and dread that you are allergic to your own apartment.

If you're Patrick Kennedy, you check out of rehab and head back to Rhode Island, which will welcome you with open arms.

If you're Kevin Youkilis, you flex and say, "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta."

If you read the Improper Bostonian's column titled "A Gal's Guide to Fenway" and took it at all seriously, please kill yourself now. Listen up, gold-diggers: Save the precious tickets for girls who actually give a shit either way about baseball. If you want to meet a man, go to speed-dating. If you want to watch baseball, watch some baseball. If you have to be told not to wear uncomfortable shoes at Fenway, you should not be allowed in. I mean, colleges make people take aptitude tests before they're admitted. Fenway should be just as selective.

If you wish to remain employed, you should probably get to work. Which I shall now...

Hello, Goodbye

Goodbye, shitty old apartment.


Goodbye, shitty collapsing bathroom ceiling.


Goodbye, shitty collapsing living room ceiling, which broke when the neighbors apparently dropped an elephant.

Hello, new apartment of solitude.

I still fear that a) a mouse will crawl across my bare foot, because mice love nice basement apartments and I did find what may have been turds in the closet, but it didn't look like anyone had cleaned the closet in a long time, and I did plug in my super-sonic mouse scaring device, so I hope that works and I fear b) that I will end up hating the place. It's always difficult to figure how you'll like a place until your stuff is assembled and easily accessible (I was fifteen minutes late to work because I could not stop sweating while I got ready) and you get into a routine. But after the fighting I apparently missed while my old place was being cleaned out, the idea of only having to contend with myself for a while is great.

Story of my most excellent movers, Pedro, Danny and Some Dude, to come. I have to email my bosses my new address.