Examining the Christmas Haul

You guys, I'm in love. I'd like you to meet the very special additions to my life.

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Yes, that's a Big Blue Bug Christmas ornament (which will become a year-round desk ornament when/if I get a new full-time gig—it reminds me of my roots) and a 16GB iPod Touch. I know I say this every time I get a new iPod, but this is seriously the best thing to happen to me in months. Not only do I have all my music at my disposal again after years of using a teensy 1 GB Nano, but I think this may be the device that leads to my fiscal solvency.

Did you guys know about this site called Mint.com? You enter in all the information for your bank accounts, loans, credit cards, and investments, and it automatically updates and tells you what you're worth, what fees you've incurred, etc. I now know I'm worth -$49,532, and that's before I've added in my overdraft account and federal student loans. Which is a good thing to know, even if it does make me want to kill myself. And, provided there is WiFi available, I'll be able to see that before I make a stupid purchase.

This should be handy when my Mom and I hit the outlets tomorrow. Here's hoping for some good deals.

In other Christmas news, I'm happy to report I got a new coat, some gift certificates to Target, and some lovely soaps. And my brother hooked me up with a sweet USB hub and a portable battery backup which will keep me a-rockin' whilst I am on the road.

In honor of this special day, let's do the iPod meme.

Instructions: Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you?
Let Your Troubles Roll By, Carbon Leaf [Um, I guess I'm easygoing? I don't think so, but, 'kay.]

Will I have a happy life?
Say Hello, Jay-Z ["I come from the bottom, but I'm mad fly." Sounds good to me.]

What do my friends really think of me?
New Slang, The Shins ["Never should have called but my head's to the wall and I'm lonely." Depressing.]

What do people secretly think of me?
Original Sinsuality, Tori Amos [This is cryptic, even for Tori. I cannot divine meaning from this. Maybe I'm a ho?]

How can I be happy?
Georgia On My Mind, Ray Charles [I do like warm weather and peaches.]

What should I do with my life?
She Loves You, The Beatles [Tell people I love them? OK. Done.]

Will I ever have children?
American Girls, Counting Crows [Guess they'll be girls, which is OK. Just sad they won't have a British father.]

What is some good advice for me?
Thunder Road, Bruuuuce ["Hey what else can we do now/ Except roll down the window/ And let the wind blow/ Back your hair." Run away. Gotcha.]

How will I be remembered?
Seamless Life, Vance Gilbert [This is a beautiful song by an artist you should know, but it's very depressing. Basically about living the 9-5 grind without any adventure or complications. "No rough edges/ and no loose ties/ living the seamless life." Swell.]

What is my signature dancing song?
Gatheration, Lady Sovereign [Awesome. "Lightweights, I really can't stand 'em."]

What do I think my current theme song is?
Tears Dry on Their Own, Amy Winehouse [Um, yes. "Even if I stop wanting you/ Perspective pushes through/ I'll be some next man's other woman soon/ I shouldn't play myself again/ I should just be my own best friend/ Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men."]

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
God's Gonna Cut You Down, Johnny Cash [Holy crap. "You can run on for a long time/ Run on for a long time/ Run on for a long time/ Sooner or later God'll cut you down/ Sooner or later God'll cut you down."]

What song will play at my funeral?
Don't Stop Believin', Journey [Dudes. If I die, seriously, I want this played. For I am naught but a small-town girl living in a lonely world.]

What type of men/women do you like?
Never Coming Home, Sting [Ah, yes. This is true. The ones who run away.]

What is my day going to be like?
Love At First Sight, Kylie Minogue [Hey, I did fall in love today. With my iPod!]

Unemployed Dancing Fools

Over a couple of beers the other night, a fellow unemployed layabout and I decided that while we're in-between jobs, we should learn the dance from Beyonce's "Single Ladies" video.

Beyoncé‚ Knowles - Single Ladies
Video
Envoyé par mohzer sur wat.tv

Neither of us have any sense of grace. How hard could it possibly be?

But it got me thinking about all the other popular dances I've attempted to learn in my life. As a teenager, there was the bondage-lite classic, "If" by Janet Jackson.



But I never could get the arms and legs to move in unison. Nor could I find a strapping bald guy to dangle from the ceiling at the tender age of 13.

Even a white girl from the suburbs managed to pull this one off.



But this would completely end me. For real.



However, I feel completely comfortable with all the moves displayed in this classic scene. Especially the hopping from side to side while shaking my head. I'm a big fan of that one.



If I can do the Peanuts dance, certainly I can handle "Single Ladies." Right?

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.)

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.

Huggin', Touchin', Squeezin'

This is the most awesome thing I've ever seen on YouTube.



Love-crazed groupies! Represented by a pair of glorious gams attached to a heart. Shifty-eyed promoters! Run, Journey! Run for your 4-byte life! Live to rock another day!

I must have this video game.

I am so glad it is Friday. Tonight the girls and I are going dancing, and I'll get to see my grandmother on Easter for the first time since January. I'm also going to dream big and hope that the Easter Bunny brings me some Cadbury eggs.

And, in case you're keeping track, so far Barack Obama is my favorite presidential candidate. I just finished The Audacity of Hope and I'm encouraged that the man can write. He seems rational and measured in his actions. Which would be a nice change of pace, Bush administration.

Keep it holy this weekend, y'all.

Friday, I'm in Love

Do you ever get mad? I mean, of course you get mad. But the kind of mad where you can't even pinpoint the source of your deep-seated anger, thus your anger ends up coming out in alarming levels in situations that don't really call for it? The T is where this usually happens to me. Somebody doesn't get up for an old lady, some bitch with a huge bag keeps nudging me in the small of my back with her ginormous suitcase, this guy won't move his hand a fraction of an inch to give me a better position to not go flying during an abrupt stop. While these things are annoying, my mind will immediately start flinging profanities around my skull, and I desperately try to harness the Force and send the offending person flying through the window and be shredded to death by the broken glass.

This is one of those things that isn't normal, right?

I think I have it figured out, though. I can't do what I want right now, and it's pissing me off. I don't mean this in the Paris Hilton, Veruca Salt way of wanting everything my way, but just one thing my way would be nice. A nice apartment I can afford. A new computer. Maybe winning a car or a large sum of money. Paying of my credit cards. A nice haircut. None of these things are possible right now. I did get my tax return, and aside from $100 of that money, I've got to hang onto it until I figure out the apartment situation. (Andraste, thanks for the offer. Right now, I'm staying put in the free living until they give me the boot, which should be June 1.) The sensation of being stymied in every way is just hugely frustrating to me. I feel like a college kid, scrimping for every little thing, but I'm 25. Things should not be this hard for me. I'm well-educated. I'm smart. I'm pretty. I'm talented. Dammit, something's gotta go my way.

I may take $100 of my earmarked fun money and buy Lily Allen's CD this weekend. I can not get enough of the song "Smile." Any song that embraces schadenfreude so fully is okay in my book. Also good is the song "Knock 'Em Out" because I too hate sketchy guys in bars, who seem to be the only kind of guys I meet. A little sketch to my men is fine, but if you've got gray hair and a tan line where your wedding band was until an hour and four beers ago, I don't want to talk to you.

Also on my to-do with money list: buy a new pair of nice jeans. I have this problem where I'll buy a pair of jeans at the Gap. I try them on, I'm not sure in the store, so I get them home and wind up loving them. Like an asshole, I don't go back to the store right away to buy another pair or two, and then the Gap discontinues them. The pair I have is about two years old, and I love them. They're kind of a trouser jean with a crease down my shin, hug the ass firmly but not too tightly, skim the leg, and fall at the perfect length for either flats or heels. Does the Gap make them anymore? No, no they do not. I'm not a terrorist, but I'd like to send them a clear message about their practices. "Dear Gap, Please bring back the flare curvy whatever-the-fuck you sold two years ago that make my ass look nice. I tire of trying on your jeans with the eight-inch-long zipper-cock and uncanny ability to fall directly on the fattest part of my tummy pooch. Die in a fire. Love, Amy."

So, in short, I need a beer. So much for quitting drinking after St. Patrick's Day. Have a good first weekend of spring, y'all.

Reflections on Songs and Men

Something about being home makes me reflective. Maybe it's the boredom. I can't really go off for too long since my brother has stuff he needs to do and my Mom, who just came home today, can't be left alone in case she needs to get up or down stairs. But when I go out to do errands I like to go by myself so I can listen to the radio and sing along without anybody judging me for my questionable song preferences. I love cheesy pop songs that remind me of certain times of my life. I wish it weren't bone-chillingly cold so I could roll the windows down and feel the wind in my hair while I sing. The quiet control of moving so quickly, alone, is wonderful and something I don't really get when I'm driving in Boston.

The song that pop radio is most enamoured with right now is DAUGHTRY's "It's Not Over." It's early in the game, but Chris Daughtry's association with American Idol has become secondary to his fame, much like Kelly Clarkson. His album is actually good, without the caveat "...for an American Idol album." "It's Not Over" is a great radio pop-rock song. My favorite line is "a part of me is dead and in the ground/ this love is killing me because you're the only one..." It speaks to me because a part of me is in fact dead and in the ground (my dad), but it also works on all the guys I've dated who I've had to metaphorically bury.

Right now, guys I've dated are on my mind. Being home reminds me of the first time I was in love, and when I hear "Once in a Lifetime" while driving down a certain stretch of road, I remember the night I lost my virginity, the sun just beginning to set later at night, the sky turning purple as he drove me back to my car. Just hearing the words "and you may say to yourself, my God, what have I done?!" comforted me in that moment when I wasn't sure. Wasn't sure if I was any good, wasn't sure if I looked okay or if I made the right noises, wasn't sure if anything would change between us, wasn't sure if I'd manage to avoid getting pregnant. That guy managed to manipulate me into more sex, but I eventually realized I was worth more than his shit and kicked him out of my life. I was so scared I shook when I told him I hated how he treated me, and that he could never make it right. My God, what have I done? But I haven't spoken to him since. Sadly, it's one of the proudest accomplishments of my life to have not given him another chance.

The next guy was years later, and was my first actual relationship. I loved being with him. I loved that he would drop me off at work in the morning. The mid-day text messages made me happy. We looked great together-- a cute couple. We had a spark between us and I'm a sucker for a spark. Unfortunately, sparks also cause fights. We should probably have only dated for six months, but we went on and off for nearly a year and a half. He was my boyfriend. Then he dumped me. Then we got drunk at a party and started play-fighting. Then we started talking. Then started with the clandestine sex. Then our friends caught on, but we weren't dating. After a blowout fight, we began dating. Another big fight, then we broke up. During the time while he was debating whether our latest fight was surmountable, I was listening to Nine Inch Nails' album "With Teeth" incessantly. The song "Every Day is Exactly the Same" was on rotation in my head. The words "there is no love here/ and there is no pain" turned into worn stones in my mind as we eventaully got together to formally break it off. I tried to stay away from him, but we kept seeing each other. Right before I left for Italy last year, we had sex again. While in Italy, I hauled my ass all over Venice, trying to find a small glass parrot to bring back to him because I said I would. The only glass parrots I found were huge, so I just took a picture to show him. I hoped it would be enough. For a man I wasn't dating. I sucked a year ago.

I came back from Italy a year ago yesterday. A year ago today, I found out what my whatever had done right before I left. The day before he had sex with me, he'd gotten one of my good friends so hammered she couldn't even type words, then basically date-raped her. She described it to me as her "not saying no enough, I guess." He told her how now when we talked about his sexual activities she'd have a basis of comparison. Horrible, horrible things. My friend told me what happened, in tears, telling me that she understood if I didn't want to be her friend anymore. Since she came to me first, and was so upset and guilty about what had happened while he had been turned on by it and failed to mention it, she proved her friendship to me.

When I confronted him, he never said "I'm sorry." He made excuses, he told me that he didn't cheat on me (which wasn't the issue), told me that she was asking for it, basically. Finally, I got to yell at him, not concerned with being an adult or being polite, but just read him the riot act. Aside from a voicemail he left on my phone, I haven't spoken to him or heard from him since. After I told our mutual friends what had happened, he lost all his friends. I'm a firm believer in karma doing my dirty work, so just being my ex sucks more than anything I could do to him. Again, it's another proud moment for me to not have given in on checking his MySpace or reading his blog, not even once. My friends didn't think I'd cut him dead since I put up with so much from him, but that was it.

Having said that, Carrie Underwood's song "Before He Cheats" is the catharsis I want without any of the potential lawsuits. I'm not much of a country fan, nor a Carrie Underwood fan, but the nastiness in her voice in that song is amazing. The snarl when she describes bashing out her date-raping ex's headlights is perfect. I love a woman done wrong song. It's been on my iPod for over a month, but I sang along loudly last night after I got a call from my friend, saying that the elevator doors in her office building opened up, and date-raping douchebag was waiting outside. She froze, then when he tried to talk to her she booked it out of the elevators and called me. I don't know how she handled it. Over the course of this year, the knots in my stomach when I see a car like his or a haircut and build like his have faded. Occasionally, I think I see him and a panic rises up in me for some reason. If I actually saw him, I'd either a) kick him in the dick, b) puke or c) just be numb. Ideally, I'd like to look smoking hot (I've lost weight since we broke up) and just keep my cool around him, to not even acknowledge his existence on this planet. I could do that, then find his car and take a Louisville Slugger to both headlights.

There have been other guys, and they all have their songs. This summer's fling ruined "Closer" for me for a while, which I've since gotten over. Some songs just can't be sullied by a man. The Shins playing at the Local after a hot Scotsman grabbed my ass, told me how cute I was, then ran off after his friend and didn't come back.

Friday Answers to Questions

Happy Friday, everyone. I hope your tailbones are all in tact after two days of commuting to work by opening your coat and sailing across the ice. I'm hopeful that Saturday will lead to some thawing because I don't think I can handle watching people run across glare ice to catch the T to work for another week. It's nerve-wracking. I guess the T is hoping some cracked-open skulls will melt the ice more effectively than hiring someone to clear platforms properly.

I know Mitt Romney announced his candidacy for president this week, but it's not like we didn't know it was coming. Whatever. He didn't announce his intentions here in Massachusetts, which is fine with me. I don't understand why his campaign HQ is in the North End when he's much more popular in the midwest. Does Mitt really like lasagna? He seems like more of a Swedish meatballs kind of guy to me. With buttered noodles. No sauce.

I am unnaturally excited to see Music and Lyrics tonight. It's like an overdose of cuteness with both Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore in one movie. They could put Hugh Grant in a movie where he just read the boxes of various cold cereals with an occasional "blimey" or stutter thrown in and I'd pay $10.50 to see it. Yes, I know I'm falling prey to a moneymaking machine and killing my brain. Whatever. Hugh Grant is so DREAMY.

One of the things I really enjoy about my blog is StatCounter. This handy little device tells me where my readers are, where they came from, and how many hits I get. The most fascinating aspect of this is the "keyword analysis" tab, which shows me what people Google to land on my little corner of the internet. Some of the items are downright nasty (involving wax and cooters, mainly), but most of my random hits come from some very specific terms. To make it easier on everyone, I'll just answer your questions now.

1. I don't know the truth behind any rumors about Maria Stephanos, including whether she's had a boob job or where she gets her clothes. Yes, I guess she's attractive. But I don't know the details of her life, her physique, or her anything for that matter.
2. I don't know who the people are in the new Rembrandt commercial. I was too busy imagining the eight-year-old detailing to a shrink in twenty years how her babysitter exposed her to a heavy make-out session. "And he pulled on her lip! It was frightening to me! I thought he was hurting her! I USED TO LIKE TOOTHPASTE ADS!" I think one of the entertainment shows like Access Hollywood or Extra had a piece on the "actors" in the commercial earlier this week. Check there. I believe they're Italian or Spanish.
3. Chikage Windler left Channel 7 in Boston in September of 2006. She's in Minnesota. See? She had bad hair, though she was lovely otherwise.
4. Todd Gross was fired from Channel 7 in Boston in a rather abrupt fashion, as rumor has it. He still broadcasts the weather on his website and has endorsed hummus. No, I'm not kidding. I will bet you $100 American dollars that Todd Gross' ringtone is "White and Nerdy."

No, my ringtone is not "White and Nerdy." It's currently "Any Way You Want It" by Journey.

Enjoy your weekend, folks. Resist the urge to buy cars this weekend, and instead have elaborate fantasies about what a President with an actual brain could do for us.

They Would Wait for Him Here, The Same Place Every Year

YES!

It's official, kids.

THE POLICE ARE PLAYING FENWAY PARK ON MY BIRTHDAY!

You know the drill. If you happen to find yourself in possession of a ticket, please think of me. I will pay up to $300. My coworkers and I have a multi-pronged attack plan involving the dissemination of credit card information, standing in line, calling on cell phones, sending carrier pigeons, rocket flares, and maybe even feigning a terminal illness to get ourselves into this concert. All rational thought has gone out the window. I will pay tons of money I don't have to see a band I have no recollection of during their first spin of fame because I was a toddler because THEY FUCKING ROCK.

Stop me if you've heard this before, but I became familiar with the Police when I bought their Message In a Box collection on tape for $20 at the Wrentham outlets. The set has every song from every album, along with some live versions and the infamous "Don't Stand So Close to Me '86," the recording of which was the straw that broke the band up. The tapes lived in my car for my freshman year at URI. I'd listen to the "new" Police tracks for a while, then change the tape for the grittier sound of their early days. I always mourned the fact I'd been born years too late to catch them live in their heyday. This concert will be a way for me to experience that in a way, even if I am years late in arriving to the party.

AND IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! How are you going to deny the birthday girl all she wants for her birthday? Nobody likes a pouty 26-year-old.

Portrait of the Blogger on Liquid Crack

So Trader Joe's has this new item that is basically Mountain Dew meets Red Bull with some natural flavoring in it. It has 75mg of caffeine in it, per serving. A can has two servings. I drank the whole can. Now I'm jittery but my eyes are still heavy. It's rather unpleasant and I don't recommend it.

As you may know, last night Kristen and I got some gratis tickets to the Bruins game (thanks, Deb!) and were wicked close to the hockey players. I got my first official whiff of eu de hockey stank from nine rows back. Also, Chara is a fucking monster. However, the highlight of the evening for me was appearing on a Jumbo-tron. A group of about four ten-year-old boys were kitted out in Bruins bear foam hats and Bruins foam paws, so they got put on the scoreboard with Kristen and I in the corner of the shot. I know it's stupid, but I always wanted to be on a Jumbo-tron. That's how Pamela Anderson got her career started, which is notable in that while she had to put up with both Tommy Lee and Kid Rock (...ew), she got to appear in Borat. She should just quit now while she's ahead. I don't know what this means for me since I have no aspirations to be a Molson Girl but I think it is a sign of good fortune. If I don't post for a few days, it's because I've finally won the lottery. Or had a heart attack after too much sugar and caffeine. Whatever.

Hey! Did you guys hear that Jewel is playing South Station today?! Yeah, if it were 1996 we might give a shit. Nothing will get the workweek drones and college kids (and me) heading home to points South faster than some freestyle yodeling. The trains run on time tonight, friends!

Does anyone know who is hosting the Grammys? I know Ellen is hosting the Oscars, which is going to be cool. I think Stephen Colbert should host an awards show. Lots of wardrobe changes, and from what I hear, the kids love them some Colbert. And, as I've mentioned, I am fucking stoked that the Police are playing the Grammys. I am giving up some P-Bruins action to get back to Boston in time to watch the show. In other Police news, rumor has it the Police will be playing Fenway Park on my birthday. Like, the actual day of my birth. I have put my friends on notice, and if any of my wonderful readers have connections, I will pay you any amount of money for tickets to that show, even if you don't want to outright give them to me to celebrate the wonder of my birth.

I'm going to go all Miss Manners For the New Millennium on you, kids. Please turn your mobile phones to the "silent," "vibrate," or "off" functions while at work, especially if you work in a cubicle. At present, four of my coworkers and I are having audio-water-torture inflicted upon us because somebody left his or her phone on the "hear it from the Space Station" setting and is at a meeting while her voicemail indicator works. Beep. Beep. I'm about to go through her things and throw the fucking thing under a bus.

That is all. Have a good weekend, and I'll see you back at the office on Monday.

Dizzy Walking in a Straight Line

OH MY GOD! YES!

The Police will reunite to open the 49th Annual Grammy Awards in Los Angeles on February 11, The Recording Academy said on Tuesday, fueling speculation that the hit 1980s band is planning a reunion tour.

I will pay any amount of money for tickets if the Police do a reunion tour. I will sell my body on these cold city streets to a john with tickets to see my beloved Sting perform the songs he wrote at the zenith of his musical career. (Yes, The Soul Cages, Ten Summoner's Tales, and Brand New Day are pretty good, but come on. None of them are "Roxanne" or "Bring on the Night" or "Bed's Too Big Without You.") Anything! Any amount of money!

This is wonderful news. Excellent!

Fergilicious definition

There are many songs on my iPod that I have a hate-love relationship with. Some of you may recall my early dislike for Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack." However, after having it drilled into my head for a few weeks, it grew on me. Now it's totally my jam. On New Year's Eve, we all watched MTV 37 where they play actual music videos and "SexyBack" came on. That is a hot video. All us white dorks started getting down as JT shoved a Spanish actress onto a table and started taking off her clothes.

One song that I can't stand is the new song by Fergie, "Fergilicious." First of all, I do not understand the attraction men have to Fergie. If you ask just about any woman out there, they don't think Fergie is attractive, or will accurately call her a butterface. However, every guy I've dated or had a conversation with since the advent of miss Fergie-Ferg finds her unbearably hot. She's got a cute body, I guess, but her face is busted. I just don't see it. Even ignoring the fact that she's not that hot, "Fergilicious" is just some horrible songwriting.


Not hot!

Behold:

Fergalicious definition make them boys go loco
They want my treasure so they get their pleasures from my photo
You could see you, you can't squeeze me
I ain't easy, I ain't sleazy
I got reasons why I tease 'em
Boys just come and go like seasons

Fergalicious (Fergalicious)
But I ain't promiscuous
And if you was suspicious
All that **** is fictitious
I blow kisses (mmmwwahhh)
That puts them boys on rock, rock
And they be lining down the block just to watch what I got

That shit just doesn't make sense. What is putting boys on "rock rock" mean? She's so hot men start doing crack? She quit the rock not that long ago. You'd think she wouldn't want others to go through what she has.

However, this is pretty brilliant:

I'm Fergalicious (so delicious)
My body stay vicious
I be up in the gym just working on my fitness
He's my witness (oooh wee)
I put yo' boy on rock rock

I love that "up in the gym just workin' on my fitness" line. It's pretty funny. I think I'm going to sing it while I'm at the gym working off my holiday cookies.

With all that said, I cannot stop listening to this piece of shit song because it's just so deeply entwined with my semi-memories of Kerri's wedding. A mutual friend of ours, Jamie, loves cheesy pop like Gwen Stefani and Fergie. Since graduating from high school I've maybe seen her a couple of times, but in the past couple of months I've seen her several times and it's been good to catch up. I've found that since I'm much less miserable than I was in high school, Jamie brings out the silly dork in me. At the reception, Jamie and I gave the Groom the "Night at the Roxbury" treatment, which I generally don't do. At the bachelorette party, Jamie was excited to go out dancing and hear "Fergilicious."

"I hate that goddamn song," I said.

"Whaaaaat?" She replied, "that's a wicked good song."

After copious amounts of alcohol and the Bride and I getting the entire bachelorette party kicked out of a bar for knocking over a table, we went to the Fish Company in Providence where, finally, "Fergilicious" played. Jamie grabbed me, and we danced on risers with stripper poles. I think my dancing was pretty poor (which Jamie corroborates) but I do remember dancing to that song.

At the wedding reception, Fergie struck again. I think it played right after a slow song, which found my single guy friends and I hitting the bar for another drink, and the Bride ran back across the room in her big dress to dance with her sister. Watching a girl in a puffy dress get down to "Fergilicious" with her sister who's in seminary school was one of the funniest things I'd seen all weekend. Jamie ran out onto the dance floor in her bridesmaid dress and we reprived our dancing from the bachelorette party (but without the stripper poles). Even the Bride's six-year-old half-brother was getting down in his wifebeater and formal shoes to Fergie.

So, despite my best judgement to the contrary, I downloaded "Fergilicious." I know it's a piece of shit song, I know Fergie is busted (no matter what the men say), but I will always remember it as a big part of celebrating my friend's marriage. As long as this doesn't happen with anything by the Pussycat Dolls (which should have stopped when it was a burlesque troop because THEY AREN'T MUSIC ARTISTS!) I think I'll be okay.