Read Me!

Check out my first full-time piece for Boston magazine, a write-up of the iPhone craziness and its impact on Apple store employees. Boston's July issue is out now and though you won't see any of my writing in print until August, you should read the new issue anyway. John Gonzalez gets in a fight with a Wahlberg brother and Joe Keohane imagines a 4th without Keith Lockhart, among other items of interest. And no, nobody's got a gun to the back of my head forcing me to say that.

Mish Mash

It's not you guys, it's me. It's funny how starting two new jobs in as many months is both terribly exciting and leaves me catatonic on my couch by 10pm. But I'm still reading the news, still doing the whole young urban woman thing, and sweating my balls off. Metaphorically. So, I do the copout thing and give you my random thoughts.

Am I the only person who does not give two shits about the iPhone? This comes from a girl who geeks out over everything Apple puts out, but I just don't care to wait in the 90-odd degree heat to buy a $600 phone. You know who does? One Henry Breen of Cambridge.

"It’s a holy day of obligation," said Breen, a Cambridge resident. "And if you tell me you’re not going I just think you’re mad. End of discussion."

Dude. It's a phone. Yeah, it's cool and all, but maybe you should read a book or something. Go for a walk. Get a grip.

It sucks to be stuck inside your office in the middle of a city and read "it's a great day for the beach!" online. While not everyone loves the beach as much as I do, the idea of sitting in the glaring sun and playing in the waves sounds so nice. Instead I'm going to either sit in front of my box fan all night, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible or I'm going to crush a neighbor by trying to install my air conditioner by myself. All around Boston, women are wearing skimpy clothes out to bars to lure burly men back to their lairs, where they will whisper, "Hey, hottie. Wanna install my air conditioner? It's here in the closet."

Kelly Clarkson's new album isn't as good as I'd hoped. I don't hate it, mind you, but maybe Joan Anderman at the Globe was right in saying that perhaps Kelly should have listened to Clive Davis' advice. I still want to hang out with Kelly, despite all the haters.

The Globe's 27-part epic on Mitt Romney is going to kill me. Thank God they're putting it online, because I can't sit and read that much over coffee. I want to be up on His Mittness' past (now I know why he hates France-- France was a dick to him) but wading through his family tree, his business deals, and a few generations of Romney photographs is going to take some time. And Mylanta. I'd also like to say hello to Mitt's supporters, who like to leave comments (read "Once There Was This Boy..."-- Haloscan doesn't work on permalinks) on my Mitt posts months after the fact that attack me for things I did the exact opposite of. Thanks for stopping by, guys!

Oh, and, as always, Ann Coulter is a cunt.



I wish Elizabeth Edwards had been a little more forceful with that abhorrent little toothpick. Though the best way to deal with Ann Coulter is to not deal with Ann Coulter. She's a vampire-- she won't bother you if you don't invite her in. (No similes intended. I think Coulter is actually a vampire. Her tan is just to throw us off.)

Get Right

I swear to God, if I check the weather midweek and hear "Great weekend! Sunny and warm on Saturday, slightly less warm on Sunday" and make plans then only to have the forecast change on Thursday again, I am going to lose it. I don't know if networks are looking to boost ratings by keeping us riveted to our television sets or if the weather people are just stupid, but it's not cute. What is also not cute is me, sitting on a beach with my friends in a goddamn hoodie in late June because of this forecast. You can also file my appearance as I walked all over Boston today sweating because today was the warm day under not adorable. I left my house with all intentions of walking to channel 7's health expo and telling the weather team that it's especially stupid to biff a forecast when they have to face the public for a whole weekend, but $140 and a hot leather bag later, I found myself unable to get riled up.

I walked through the North End, watching tourists watch me. I then walked by the Phantom Gourmet barbecue festival in City Hall Plaza. At first, the smell of cooking meats was enticing, but then I realized paying a $10 cover to then pay additionally for delicious meats was stupid. Redbones is a short T ride away and they don't charge me a cover to eat their meat, and I wouldn't get seared alive in the hot sun.

I then took a detour through Downtown Crossing. The last time I was down there, I found the selection to be pretty dismal. Nothing cute, everything full price. Today I had the opposite problem. I walked through H&M's sale racks and picked up about four items to try on. I then walked through the rest of the store and picked up some dresses. Since starting so many new jobs, I realize that I got away with wearing some pretty grungy clothes for a long time. While I don't like running up more charges, I also don't like looking like I just graduated from college, so for the next month or so I'm allowing myself to invest in work clothes. All this is to say I bought two adorable dresses for $70 at H&M, which are going to have to last until I'm forty.

After my bonanza at H&M, I should have known better than to go to the Basement. But it's closing, and I figured I'd snap a couple pictures of the old-school signs to remember it by. I went in a few weeks ago and found nothing, so I figured it would be safe for me. That was until I found the Cole Haan bags.

Generally when a nice handbag finds its way to the Basement, it's because it is so trendy that the store couldn't move it even on sale. While the Basement had some pretty heinous trendy bags, it also had some fairly classic pieces that won't look ridiculous next month. I grabbed a black doctor bag and a brown bag. I admired my sweaty reflection in the mirror. I kicked myself for giving a coworker the additional ten percent off coupon out of the Globe on Friday. In a panic, I grabbed my phone and called A.

A is very good about talking me out of a financial tree. "Think about your credit cards. Put it down and walk away." When I called her to report a pile of Cole Haan bags, she said "Don't you buy that bag. But I'm coming down there. Can you find me a coupon?"

I set the bags down as other women descended like vultures upon my lovelies. I walked to Winter Street and checked the Metro box for leftovers from Friday to get a coupon. Other people had that same idea and the box was empty. I saw a discarded Filene's coupon in the trash and seriously considered picking it out to save another eight bucks. As I strolled toward the Common, I started to feel better. Maybe putting that bag down was my first baby step to financial solvency. Finally, at age twenty-five, I'd learned to say no to a gorgeous leather bag that felt like God's butter for well under half price but still beyond my means. As I maneuvered my way through tourists, I felt the dawn of a new day.

Then I found a Metro box with leftovers. I took two copies.

A made it downtown and we went back to the Basement. She grabbed a cute black bag and I found my brown one again.

"That is really nice," A said.

"I don't have a brown bag at all," I said.

"And that will last you forever," she replied. "I'd say it's okay. But nothing else!"

We purchased our bags and hauled them around with guilt as we slogged through the city. After walked to the Pru, we stopped at the Pour House as channel 7 dismantled the health expo. I silently cursed them out for their forecast as I sipped my cider. Next time, I'll just spend both days at the beach. At least they don't have automatic markdown there.

I Only Say It Cos I Care

My brother always says that I was a cruel and heinous big sister. I never thought I was very mean to him. True, I forced him to wear some of my dress-up clothes from time to time and yes, there may have been times in my younger years when I shoved him a smidge too hard when playing snow football, but I felt I was a kind and just elder sister. My elementary school best friend was the paragon of horrible big sister to me. She would rage-- I mean shrieking, red-faced tirades-- at her younger brother for the smallest of indiscretions. Of course, this only made him bother her more. Even when I was in my single digits, I thought she should take it down a bit. My brother says I got much cooler when I got to high school, mainly because I wasn't home as much and when he was in junior high I'd drive him to school.

Okay, maybe a little cruel. And I wish I could still work shorts like those.

All this is to say that it's taking every ounce of self-control I have to not email my brother and brag that I'm smarter than him.

A massive study by Norwegian scientists appearing in today's edition of the journal Science concludes that a child raised as the eldest has a higher intelligence quotient, on average, than younger siblings.

Yes, the bossy mean side of me wants to brag that my IQ is higher than my dear brother's. However, my brother is having a hard time finding a new job so he's kind of down, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Also, his only bills are internet and car insurance and he's not in the hole tens of thousands of dollars for a liberal arts education, so the jury's still out on our family. I guess I'll just have to give him a good shove the next time I see him to ensure his humility instead. I'll just have to hope he won't kick my ass in return since he's bigger than me.

I Feel Happy!

Hi. I'm not dead. I promise. More later.

Superfreaky

Today I had an appointment, and Google maps sent me out of Boston on the Mass Pike. I generally don't take the Pike since I don't feel like I should pay a toll to take a major highway. After some construction worker forgot to cover up a detour sign to the Pike and after I missed a turn in Back Bay, I finally got on the Pike in Chinatown. The traffic was light, it was sunny and warm, and I was listening to the radio and generally enjoying myself, despite my road rage while trying to find the goddamn on-ramp downtown.

I got to the Allston/Brighton tolls and fished a dollar out of my wallet. I rolled down my window and stuck the bill out the window.

"Hi," I said the the middle-aged woman collecting tolls.

"Let's not talk," she said, barely raising her voice enough to be rude to me.

I was too stunned to respond to her bitchery while I was in the tollbooth. I figured I'd extend some human decency to a woman who probably gets sniped at by drivers and probably makes jack shit because I felt like it was a good thing to do. And how does she respond? By not even acknowledging my greeting politely or ignoring me, but by being a giant bitch. Fine. I hope someone threw a milkshake on you after I left, you nasty wench.

After taking Route 9 back into the city to avoid the milkshake-soaked super-bitch on the Pike, I got on the T to head home. A stop after I boarded, I noticed a tall, scrawny white boy wearing saggy jeans, a white wifebeater, black aviator shades, and had lots of piercings in his ears and face. His white loosely-laced shoes paced the length of the train, and he eventually stopped at the horizontal railing near the big windows on the old Green Line cars and started doing chin ups while watching himself in the window. I started to laugh openly, and looked around to make sure someone else was witnessing this. Across from me, a half-dead office drone nodded solemnly, as if to say fear not, you aren't imagining this. I wanted to believe him, but when the Eminem clone got off the bar and said "I'm so fucking hot" to his reflection I almost thought I had to be imagining it. Classes are over at Emerson-- this couldn't be a Jamie Kennedy Experiment-esque bit of comedy, could it? It must have been. No one person could exhibit so many signs of douchebaggery unless it's a satire. I hope.

Ladies Night

Despite their history of awesome sing-alongs, I hadn't been to any of the Coolidge Corner Theater's midnight jams. The premise of these events is that you show up and the theater plays music videos with subtitles and the entire audience participates in karaoke. While that sounds like hell for karaoke's many detractors, it is in fact awesome. I can say this since I attended the "Ladies of the '80s" sing-along on Saturday night.

Amy P and I had a few drinks before heading over to the theater. I wore my usual '80s outfit of a black and white striped skirt with my black white and red Police t-shirt and Amy P worked some epic '80s crimped hair. It's kind of sad that I couldn't tell who was dressed up for the '80s theme or who just walked over in what they'd worn all day, but the crowd was good, even though most of the people there had barely been out of the womb in the '80s. We took our seats, and began the evening with Kim Wilde's "You Keep Me Hangin' On." Amy and I sang dramatically to each other, but remained seated. We also remained in our chairs during the completely hilarious video for Bananarama's "Venus." Back in the day, I thought those chicks were so cool, but watching it again last night showed that choreography budgets were much lower in the '80s. The three women basically hopped up and down and giggled.

"Get up," I said to Amy, "and give Joan Jett some respect." But Amy was already up when the opening chords of "I Love Rock'n'Roll" played. We threw rock horns and screamed at the top of our lungs. I think I found my new karaoke fall back. The Eurythmics came on, and I forgot how hot Annie Lennox is in that video. And why the hell is there a cow?

My favorite moment of the night was when "Love Is A Battlefield" came on. A large portion of the audience had made their way to the stage to dance on either side of the movie screen, including Amy and I. Through the whole video I was waiting for the part when Pat Benatar and her girls shake their shoulders at the johns. As if on cue, Amy and I headed for the opposite side of the stage as one woman on the other side headed for us. The entire theater went nuts as we strutted across the stage, and I realized how I miss being in front of an audience even if I was making an ass of myself. The night ended far too soon, but was closed out by the excellent "Like A Prayer" by Madonna when she was American. I was sad the show was over, but when I saw the previews for the Prince sing-along and the "Jiggy Crunk" rap sing-along with Vanilla Ice, Sir Mixalot, and a pre-Beyonce Jay-Z, I got very excited. I'll be there in July and August, probably pulling muscles to get down to Prince and Salt-N-Pepa.

Hear Me

Uh-oh. What's all this about?

"I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to getting out there to perform for y'all. In the craziness of the music business, performing is what I look forward to doing the most, so it really is disappointing for me to have to tell you that I won't be coming out to tour this summer. The fact is that touring is just too much too soon.

But I promise you that we're going to get back out there as soon as is humanly possible to give you a show that will be even better.

Thanks for all of your love and continued support."

— Kelly

Now, I'm not disappointed on a personal level because I didn't buy tickets for this summer's tour. I saw Kelly last year at the Tweeter Center and had a lovely time. This summer, her show was at the Garden and I hate seeing shows there because the acoustics are so bad and the tickets were expensive, so I took a pass. But now I'm worried about my girl. Did she only eat Triscuits for too long? After admitting her inability to say "I love you" to the world, did she decide to see a shrink? There's no shame in seeing a shrink, and I'm sure she could afford to keep one on-hand and sing for her fans.

When I said I wanted to go out and tear it up, I didn't mean we had to do it now, Kelly. It was more of an open invitation for when you had some time. Don't let Clive Davis steal away your youthful vigor. Fight the old man off, and hopefully we'll see you soon.

Looking for Attention

I got home yesterday afternoon and was wickedly stressed out. I spent too much money at the grocery store was was ruminating on my ever-increasing debt. I opened up my mailbox and was delighted to find the July issue of Elle waiting for me. I was downright giddy when I saw that Kelly Clarkson was on the cover.


Kelleeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!1!!

Kelly Clarkson could kill a puppy, skin it, and eat the skin raw in front of me and I'd still think she's the coolest chick on the planet. Luckily, Allison Glock also thinks Kelly is the coolest girl ever, and the piece is aimed at those of us who are a hair too excited for Kelly's next album.

"I love my friends and my family," she explains, taking a bite of a Triscuit, her lunch. "But I have never said the words 'I love you' to anyone in a romantic relationship. Ever."

I just... I just want to go out and get totally wrecked with Kelly Clarkson. I want to get guys to buy us drinks but not give out our numbers. Even though she can sing circles around me, we'd sing karaoke from the top of the bar. I want to have late night/early morning drunken discussions over scrambled eggs and stale coffee about how men have screwed us over. I love how Kelly Clarkson is not afraid to be pissed off and bitter, that she's got the balls to be a female pop star who doesn't starve herself, and that she stood up to Clive Davis. While I don't agree with most of her sartorial choices, she looks fucking fierce in the Elle shoot. I'm totally going to hang pictures of her up on my fridge and start one of those internet countdowns for when her album comes out.

Next week, I discuss my experiences in responding to a restraining order. Stay tuned.

Low Side of the Road

I both love and hate when the meteorologists make the wrong forecast in a good way. While it's nice to get a bonus sunny day, it's not good when you're trying to make plans for your precious 48 hours of freedom. My friend A and I went back and forth on Friday and yesterday about what we should do on Sunday. Since every meteorologist in the Boston area called for both days to be drizzly damp affairs, imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning to see the sun filtering through my window.

"What the fuck?" I said, as if the sun was somehow bad news.

After administering my weekend dose of bagel and iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts, A and I finally got our act together and went to Wrentham. Which, for someone with a high credit card balance and is paying too much in rent, was a stupid idea. We'd planned to go to Banana Republic and J. Crew, but after we each spent over $100 in J. Crew and nearly squashed four children whose parents weren't paying any attention to them, we packed it in early. But the sun was bright and strong and the breeze was cool, so we went down to our native land of Rhode Island for some chowder and clamcakes.

As we drove around after lunch looking for a Dels stand to soothe our too-full bellies, we saw a Saturn pulled over on the side of the road. An angry looking man in a wife beater and baggy basketball shorts stalked away from the car. It looked like he was hoofing it to the park-and-ride nearby to call for help. Once we got closer to the Saturn, we saw a woman sitting in the driver's seat and sobbing, and the car slowly began to move forward.

"OHHHHHHHHHH! DAMN!" A and I hooted as we drove off.

"He must have said something really bad to get dumped out here," I commented.

"Or she admitted something really bad and he insisted she let him out," A theorized.

"Holy crap. That sucks. He's got a long walk even if he lives near here."

"Damn. Wow. I bet that's a good story," A muttered.

"I can't believe I've never been left on the side of the road by a boyfriend," I commented. "There were a couple times I thought I would for sure. But that chick did it. Damn."

This only goes to show that telling someone emotional news when you're in a car is not the best idea. Pick that fight when you're near a phone to call a cab. This announcement is brought to you by Those Who've Been In Shitty, Semi-Abusive Relationships and the Ad Council.

Rhode Island Dead

Dammit.

Former Providence Mayor Vincent "Buddy" Cianci Jr. began work Friday at The 903 Residences in Providence, NBC 10 News has confirmed. . . . NBC 10 News learned that the federal Bureau of Prisons rejected Cianci's proposed sales and marketing position at the luxury boutique hotel Fifteen Beacon in Boston. Cianci was tentatively scheduled to attend an orientation on Tuesday.

I'll tell you what happened here. Mayor Menino got freaked out. Think about it. You're a somewhat embattled mayor in a city with a crime problem, and a smooth criminal with political experience gets released back into the wild. Are you going to let a guy with an extensive criminal record who somehow keeps winning people over into your city to threaten your plans for a new city hall? Hell no. You're going to send him back to the little podunk backwater seventy miles to the south where he can't run for election until 2014 and won't cause you any harm. Mayor Menino totally pulled some strings and got Buddy reassigned.

Menino had better watch himself. He's going to start getting fireplace logs lobbed though his window at night. I'd mess with a lot of people, but Buddy Cianci isn't one of them.

Writing Like It's My Job

Way back when on May 23, 2004, I started this blog.

I've been blogging since 1998. I don't know if the word "blog" even existed in 1998, but I was doing it. But my blog involved emailing a piece of my wisdom to everyone in my address book, which clogged their inbox since I was writing a lot more in 1998. I've since slowed my writing, but occasionally still have cause to share my wisdom. I hope that this will make it easier.
I hope to set up some kind of archive to illustrate the growth of my work since 1998. I also hope that some publisher will read this, realize how brilliant I am and give me a syndicated column in America's major newspapers and a sitcom based on my work.
So thanks for coming by... hopefully we can enjoy this blogging thing together.

I've come a long way, baby. I read some of my older stuff and groan, but I also read some of it and laugh my ass off at my own wit. (Yes, I'm very modest.) After more than three years of writing nearly daily here, I've had some success. I've written articles for InSite. I did the freelance piece for Boston Magazine in November. Universal Hub very kindly links to me on a fairly regular basis. One guy sent me a book. (Hi, Michael!) I have some of the very awesomest readers on the Internet who aren't afraid to disagree with me, but more often than not laugh or rage right along with me. I enjoy writing here every day.

And, amid all this good stuff, pasquinade has gotten me where I wanted it to. I've been hired as a staff writer for Boston Magazine. Yes, Dan Shaughnessy's worst nightmare is coming true: the bloggers are coming out of their parents' basements and into the hallowed halls of print publishing. Watch out, Danny boy! If you don't step it up, Basegirl's gonna have your job soon.

It was a total whirlwind process that started only a couple of weeks ago. One of the editors emailed me to ask if I'd like to come in and interview for a full-time gig. I was pretty sure I was being punked, but when I showed up and was actually allowed in the building I got really excited. After I did a couple of sample pieces for them and another harrowing phone interview, I was offered the job. Of course, I accepted. I start next week.

I'm very grateful for the opportunity that Boston Magazine is giving me. They're taking a chance on someone who is a relatively inexperienced writer just because I'm a good inexperienced writer. I'm totally up for the challenge, and I can't wait to get started. I hope to keep pasquinade up and running because I do like writing with lots of swears, and I'm probably going to have to reign that in a bit for my day job. (My writing day job. Hee. It's not old yet.) I can't tell you what I'll be writing yet, but I do hope you'll keep tabs on me in my "professional" capacity. I can only hope the sitcom deal comes through for me next.

Nachomama

Somebody get me a freelance gig. There's too much good food out there to stay home and eat in.

Last night I joined A and Missy for a walk around the reservoir in Cleveland Circle. Since the Green Line took forever and a day to get us to Brookline, it was late when we wrapped up walking. Instead of waiting around for the next bus back to the Ville and probably eating my own fist to sate my hunger, A and I took a walk to Super Fusion Cuisine.

A friend and I went to Ma Soba in Beacon Hill a couple of weeks ago. My friend really liked it, but I was hesitant since I've been spoiled by Super Fusion. Once I got my food, I was disappointed. I found hairs in my sushi, and the california rolls were really bland. The atmosphere was nice, but the price I paid for middling food soured me.

But Super Fusion! How I love you. Your down and dirty storefront. Suhsi Sam greeting everyone enthusiastically. One bite of the volcano maki made me sorry I had strayed. Some day when I have money from the freelance gig I sorely need, I'm going to try Fugakyu, which is where Sushi Sam used to work. While the atmosphere may be nicer, I doubt the sushi could be any better.

Tonight, another friend and I are going to try Wagamama in Faneuil Hall. A huge restaurant chain in the UK (which I didn't go to when I was over there), the Boston location is its first in the States. Since I love ramen noodles on their own merits, I'm excited to try them with actual natural ingredients. However, I always forget the name of the restaurant. "Wasamama? Wamamama? Nachomama? What's it called?"

I'll save money when I'm too old to enjoy it. It's finally summer, and I'm going to enjoy this city until the snows come back.

Those People Keep Moving, And That's What Tortures Me

The criminal justice system has failed us. Yet again.

Paris Hilton was released from a Los Angeles County jail early Thursday because of an unspecified medical problem and will fulfill the remainder of her sentence in home confinement, a sheriff's spokesman said.

I hate Paris Hilton. I hate her. There are so many people who could breathe the air she breathes who would do so much good in the world who are dead, and yet Paris Hilton is still allowed to walk this planet by whatever greater power there may be. At Lindsay Lohan was good in The Parent Trap and Mean Girls. Paris Hilton has done no good in this world. People who are innocent rot in jail because they can't afford a team of lawyers, and Paris Hilton waltzes right out of jail. Home confinement? For real? That's like a parent sending a misbehaving child to his room with cable TV, video games, and his cell phone. It's not a punishment-- it's a quiet afternoon.

I can only hope that this cryptic "unspecified medical problem" is that her cooter actually had it with all the STDs and fell out to die on its own terms.

What Would Jesus' Rider Be?

One of the things I miss about my old job was the office copy of the Boston Globe. My new job has the Wall Street Journal, but that stuff is greek to me. The paper is a weird color. And there are no comic strips or horoscopes or dining reviews. What's the use in that?

So I've taken to checking the front page of the Globe on boston.com. Yesterday, the big story was a faith-based movie company that is considering building a studio in Massachusetts, creating about 1,500 jobs. While the irony of faith-based movies being filmed in the bluest state in the nation (with the possible exception of Vermont) is sweet, the one thing that jumped out at me was this:

Kirkpatrick, a former president of Paramount Pictures and a cofounder of the year-old Good News Holdings, whose mission is to produce "spiritainment" that will "please God," is in search of 100 acres in his native Massachusetts to build a $150 million-plus studio to produce films, television shows, and commercials, both religious and otherwise.

"Spiritainment?" For real? Spiritainment? Now they're taking the language of God and turning it into something that Ari Gold tosses around? "Listen, bitch, we're turning the other cheek and getting you into spiritainment. Those Catholic girls have a lot of money and are led by their pent-up hormones. They're gonna love you. You're totally doing 'The True Life and Loves of Mary Magdalene.' Buy a sweater, you're going to Massachusetts. Hug it out."

And is God pleased by made-for-TV movies about His life and times? I thought that being good and just and helping people is what pleased God, not bitchin' special effects and a rockin' soundtrack. Then again, I am no spiritual scholar by any means so maybe that's somewhere in the New Testament and I missed it.

I don't care if people make religious movies or TV shows. If having a heavy religious influence in your programming is what you like, fine. The Bible has some really good stories that make great movies. I just think it's odd that this culture that celebrates charity and sharing the wealth is out to make its fortune by combining the religious with what is generally considered the godless realm of entertainment and is already inventing its own nomenclature. We've come a long way from Davy and Goliath.

My iPod is Dead

...Long live my iPod.


Why so glum?

This is what my iPod is currently telling me. I should be cautious because it is sad. I just went to Apple's website and got this lovely information:

If you cannot force your iPod into disk mode and restore it, then your iPod is in need of service. Set up an iPod Service Request or make a reservation at the Genius Bar before visiting your local Apple Retail Store.

No way. I've tried to set up an appointment at the Genius Bar before, and that place is harder to get into than Studio 54 in the '70s unless you've got a current Apple Care plan that gives you access to the geniuses at the bar before everybody else. At the ripe old age of nearly two, my iPod, my beloved lovely, is dead. (Unless anyone has any ideas on something I could try that doesn't involve dismantling the whole thing.)

Remember when I got my iPod? I was dating the Whatever. I was still living in an affordable apartment and had about seven roommates. I was psyched the iPod had a color display and could hold pictures. It feels as though a lifetime has passed since then. The Whatever is history, I can't afford my gorgeous studio apartment, and iPods now play movies. I'm just disappointed we don't have flying cars yet in this glorious future.

While I'd normally be throwing myself out of a window with grief, I've had so much good news lately that this minor bump in the road isn't phasing me. (More on that later.) I also got an iPod as a gift for my old company's 20th anniversary, so I have a backup. I'm a little nervous because it's a Nano and mine is a full-blown iPod with 20GB of storage. While I hadn't filled it up, I think I'm quite a bit over 5GB, so I'm going to have to make some hard choices. I can't live without Kelly Clarkson, Amy Winehouse, Tori Amos, Nine Inch Nails, or the Indigo Girls. I need my cheesy pop music for when I work out. I need to keep my '90s throwback music on for impromptu parties. I actually had this exchange with a coworker at my work gym last week:

Me: Go ahead and watch whatever you want.

Guy: Thanks. You're iPodding it today, huh?

Me: Yeah.

Guy: What are you listening to?

Me: Um... Salt-n-Pepa.

Guy: Wow. Old school. You got any Bel Biv Devoe on there?

Me: Actually, yes.

Guy: Awesome.

I feel no shame. I can't be the only one who prays for a Salt-n-Pepa reunion tour. If the Police can do it, in about ten years I should be singing "Shoop" at Fenway Park.

The worst thing about my iPod being broken is the fact that I had to go to Apple's website to decode the cryptic sad iPod on the display. Now I see there are shiny new MacBooks that I am in desperate need of, since it's becoming apparent my six-year-old laptop isn't cutting it anymore and may die at any time. I think I'm going to wait until after the Mac World conference in a couple of weeks and see when the new OS X will be rolled out and consider going into debt (more) for a new baby.

EDIT: Now my computer has recognized the iPod, I have restored it, and it now isn't recognizing the wall outlet. And like an obedient circus dog, I am doing what it asks to try and make it work again. Damn technology.

EDIT 2: Yeah, the work gift was a 1GB iPod. I forgot until I had to make some very unsavory decisions on what to add and what keep on my computer only. Stupid thing. I guess I'm going for another big fuck off line of credit then because I am NOT living without my iPod while I'm riding the T. No sir.

Tom Brady Wears Hat: Film At 11

Oh for fuck's sake.



Really, Boston.com? With news that Army Specialist Alex Jimenez may have been killed by his captors, planes falling out of the sky, tuberculosis about to come and kill all of us, and a presidential debate we could talk about, you elect to run a story about Tom Brady wearing a hat? Or is the underpaid writer on your night desk just messing with us to try and whip up another frenzy? Yes, this is an award-winning scoop you've got there.

I just fear this could go to a bad place for our beloved QB. Since this whole paparazzi thing is relatively new to him ("Bridget Moynawho?") he may freak out like Britney Spears did during the whole Kevin Federline courtship and baby-making and use his fashion to communicate with his adoring public. If we're not careful, Tom may start sporting one of these heinous things:



While I don't think he'd lose it enough to order a pink hat, I do fear he could bring back the trucker hat from its well-deserved grave to send messages to his public. Let's just let the man put whatever he wants on his head without a slide show, let him have fun with his hot girlfriend this summer, and start talking about his football prowess in a couple of months. Don't make him so desperate he breaks out his "I'm a Virgin (But This is an Old t-shirt)" shirt. God.

They Tried to Make Me Go To Rehab and I Was Like No, No, No

I don't feel my age very often. I'm young enough where my day-to-day activities don't remind me that the eternal footman is holding my coat and snickering. I don't have many aches or pains, my hair is mercifully not going gray yet, and I'm usually mistaken for someone in their early twenties. It's days like today that remind me that me, and my liver, aren't as young as they used to be.

When I was in college, I could drink. Whatever booze I could get my grubby underage hands on would be consumed in large quantities. Sometimes, as the "panther piss" party debacle of 2003 illustrated in gory Red #4 detail, I'd get sick from drinking and feel miserable. But after passing out, waking up, and administering some coffee and a bagel and half an hour in front of the TV I'd be a functional human being for the rest of the day.

Fast forward four years, and I can't bounce back like I used to. You'd think that my consistent consumption of alcoholic beverages would keep my liver in prime condition to process a night of heavy indulgence, but you'd be wrong. Last night I attended a classy engagement party at the couple's house. I got all dressed up in a hot little number I got at Century 21 in New York last weekend and we all behaved as civilized adults. They even had signs for the hors d'oeuvres. However, I made the mistake of drinking a lot of hard liquor right out of the gate. Despite my best attempts at munching on food, I got pretty drunk. I think I cornered one of the couple's friends and basically brow-beat him into giving me his information so he could get my brother a job. I talked a lot. I sat down and got the spins and had to be sick. I whisked myself into the bathroom discreetly (I hope) and did my business. I went back to the party, sat down, and felt another wave of nausea and stumbled back into the bathroom. Eventually, I ended up passing out on the couple's roommate's bed. I woke up at 7:30 with a complete sense of disorientation. Where the hell...? Ooohhhh, right.

I lay on the bed, roommate snoozing next to me, contemplating how badly my head was going to hurt when I sat up and the fact that I'm an idiot. The morning light was mercifully dim due to the haze over Boston. I wished I hadn't agreed to go home to visit my Mom, because instead of laying quietly in the bed and praying for death until everyone got up and ventured to greasy food, I had to get out of the apartment, get back to my place, collect my things and get to the train. After checking to make sure my dress was still covering me, I got up, put on my shoes, and did the walk of shame all the way back to the Ville.

Despite my best efforts (iced coffee, Gatorade, bagel) I've been a mess all day. My balance is still off. My eyes hurt. My stomach swings from ravenously hungry to wrenching like it wants to hurl again. I could barely enjoy my chowder and clamcakes when my family went out to lunch. Usually I love to drive when I go home, but I could barely keep my eyes open and wished someone else would offer to drive. My Mom wanted to shop and do things, but all I wanted was to watch the America's Next Top Model marathon on MTV. If I didn't have to work tomorrow, I would have crashed at her house and done just that.

When I overhear college kids talking about how they drank so much they don't remember how much they drank, it makes me feel old. While I love to rehash those war stories myself from time to time, they are not the most notable news items of my weekend anymore. ("I got to sleep in until 10am and then go grocery shopping!" is a typical highlight now.) One of these days, I hope that the wisdom of old age will kick in, and I'll put down the third vodka tonic in as many hours next time.

(And, as a totally random side-note: I sincerely hope that "Rehab" is Lindsay Lohan's ring tone right now, because that would be very ironic. And, irony of ironies, it's my ring tone too.)

It Would Be Okay on Any Other Day

Gentlemen!

What are you so happy about? Apparently, you suck.

"This is unbelievably lame," Copeland wrote of Wednesday's show at the GM Place arena. "We are the mighty Police and we are totally at sea."

What the hell kind of musicians are you? I can't play a kazoo and I know that if you flub a song, you play it off and keep going, and you certainly don't write about how badly you sucked on the internet. And I don't want to hear this news of you giggling like schoolgirls backstage after your mistakes. I waited outside for hours in February in Boston to get tickets to your show in July. I want you guys to effing rock. I want Sting throwing hissy fits and digging up the sod at Fenway to spite everyone. I want you to fight about the drum machine. I was just a wee little child when you were in your heyday. Now that I'm old enough to appreciate your bitchery and the genius music it made, I expect you to behave like the juveniles you were when you made it. Sack up.

Though I will admit I am digging your set list.

"Message in a Bottle"
"Synchronicity II"
"Don't Stand So Close to Me"
"Voices Inside My Head"/"When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around"
"Spirits in the Material World"
"Driven to Tears"
"Walking on the Moon"
"Truth Hits Everybody"
"Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic"
"Wrapped Around Your Finger"
"The Bed's Too Big Without You"
"Murder by Numbers"
"De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da"
"Invisible Sun"
"Walking in Your Footsteps"
"Can't Stand Losing You"
"Roxanne"
"King of Pain"
"So Lonely"
"Every Breath You Take"
"Next to You"

All I would add to this list off the top of my head is "I Burn for You" because it's hot and "Born in the '50s" because it is awesome. But aside from that, I like your plan. Now you just need to get out and execute. Don't make me come back there and do the junior high school drama start. You know how it goes. "Stuart, did Sting tell you that he thought you totally sucked balls on 'Can't Stand Losing You'? No? Oh. Well. Don't tell him I told you." "Sting, Andy said that you should retire that piece of shit bass guitar you've been playing since the Reagan administration. Ooops. I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

You've got less than two months until you perform for my birthday. (So I'm telling myself.) Get it together.

Kthnx,
Amy