Wednesday, October 31, 2001Today is Wednesday and this is one of my favorite Fillers. Read it and long for boom-time angst.
Tuesday, October 30, 2001Hey Rabbit,
The other weekend I was at a concert and saw somebody kissing a large pole. Not just kissing it, but fully open mouthed tongue action, complete with grinding his hips into it and everything.
What do you think he was on? And where can I get some?
Ugh. I try not to hate, I really do, but I genuinely hate the person you just described.
Drugs, wonderful, whatever - no one I know was ever high enough to hump a pole. And I've known some serious lab animals as far as drugs go. I know people who've done stuff that is just flat out fucking stupid (not courageous or wild, just dumb), but they still never shat their pants or fucked a pole or made out with a dog or jumped off a roof.
I mean, you're on drugs, and suddenly it occurs to you that you might want to jump off a roof. In my memory, some small part of the brain is still quietly whispering in your ear: This is how people on drugs die. Once I was drunk on a roof, and I looked at the ground and thought, "Weird, that doesn't seem scary at all." Then I thought: "I need to get the fuck off this roof right now."
I was at a party at a loft downtown once, and someone there told me that at the last party they had a month earlier, someone tried to jump from one part of the roof to the other and ended up falling 16 stories. He died, of course, and people supposedly freaked out, but they stayed and kept drinking. Isn't there some point where you don't keep drinking, where you send people home and then don't have a party again, ever? I mean, is it possible to run out of self-respect at some point, or, with enough drugs, can you just go on humping poles until the cows come home?
I don't know. Just talking about this crap makes me feel like I need a nap.
I guess that means I'm old.
Anyway...you want to know where you can get some of whatever that guy was on? That's a funny joke. Maybe you need to take up a new hobby or start an arts and crafts project of some kind.
Monday, October 29, 2001This idea of writing a novel in a month seems utterly stupid to me now, not surprisingly. This is a typical sea change. One day, I drink too much coffee or eat a doughnut, and suddenly I'm totally optimistic. Everything I come across seems joyous and glowing and special, and I'm excited and I babble incoherently and dye my hair red and buy watermelon-flavored Jello and everything I do is absolutely brilliant and fantastic and thrilling. Then, the next day, I'm cynical about everything I embraced the day before. Suddenly I hate my red hair, I hate watermelon Jello, and I'm disgusted with everything I said, did, and thought the day before.
Needless to say, manic depressives like myself should not have blogs.
However, in a renewed effort to behave like an adult, at least every now and then, I'm sticking with my commitment to write a novel in a month, even though it's very clear my novel will suck. On Friday, it seemed funny that my novel would suck. Now it just seems shameful.
So today I've decided that major decisions in my novel should be made by complete strangers. I know it's totally '96 of me, but I'm thinking my novel should be...ahem..."interactive." That way there's at least one thing that's redeeming about it.
So. What should be the first sentence in my novel? Send me your suggestion by Wednesday, Oct 31, 2001. Just think, I may base my entire novel on a sentence that you suggested!
I know that seems far too good to be true.
Me, tedious me!
Cold wieners and me me!
Friday, October 26, 2001Did you know that next month is National Novel Writing Month?
Well, neither did I! I can't believe my good fortune! I discovered a way to justify my existence for another month: Write a crappy novel, then drink to celebrate! And a bunch of other losers are gonna do it with me, so I don't feel quite so pathetic and loathsome!
The goal is to write 50,000 words in a month. Yes, shortish, and hopefully brutish as well. Just think! All I have to do is write roughly 2500 words per weekday, and by November 30th, blam! Novel!
Which means I can walk around saying I'm a novelist. "So, what do you do?" "Oh, I'm a novelist, actually." See also: douchebag.
Does using the word "douchebag" date me? Is that sort of "Liar's Poker"-era humor?
Which brings me to my next problem: I need a milieu. The trouble is, the last time I left the house on a regular basis, I was working for a website. What the world needs now is love, not another novel about some fucking office situation featuring easily recognizable hotheads whose dreams of new media dominance seem sadly deluded in retrospect.
Maybe it should be one of those fluffy bourgeois single girl books, like Animal Husbandry, with major plot points centering on the challenges of effective hair removal, with big existential questions throughout, like what ever happened to sundried tomato cream cheese, and why did they discontinue the Today Sponge?
One thing is for certain: It will be bad. But parts of it will be better than others, and those parts will be surgically removed and inserted into a more worthwhile venture, something more of the caliber I'm used to producing, ha ha ha. You know, a masterpiece of some kind, format and medium currently uncertain, as yet untitled, release date to be announced.
Anyway, details, shmetails, I'm gonna write a novel! Woohoo!
I think I deserve a beer now.
disturbing new painting that I love. Go look at his stuff. He's a very talented rabbit. Most rabbits aren't that dexterous, either, which makes him sort of a freak of nature.
Equally impressive is his ability to discuss his work without sounding like a complete jackass. I knew this guy a long time ago who was getting an MFA in fine art at UPenn, and apparently a big part of the program there involved answering stupid questions from pretentious art critic types. I don't know if they had paid actors to play the art critics or not, but they were well-versed in lobbing scary open-ended questions like "Who is the real Heather Havashmevsky?" Then, to get a good grade, you'd have to stand there, straight-faced and self-serious, and concoct the most grandiose, creepy answers possible: "The real Heather Havashmevsky defies categorization, transcends words! She exists above and beyond and past! Why, she is the queen of sound and light! The ruler of all she surveys! Heather Havashmevsky binds the galaxy together! Step out of her way, you sad little mortal! She doth bestride the narrow world like a colossus!"
On that note, clearly the most important thing about Eric White is that he's featured at the end of this Filler. He's the guy who asked his ants to leave - nicely. True story. The first cartoon prominently features that indie record store on Mission and 21st, can't remember the name of it. Reckless Records? Recluse Records?
Me, glorious me!
Hot sausage and me me!
Wednesday, October 24, 2001
My boyfriend watches too much TV. I don't like it. Last night I got home from a hard day at work, and there he was, watching some totally inane show on the WB. I shit you not.
What should I do?
Tired of Chumpy
Dear Tired of Chumpy,
Well, it was only a matter of time before one of you discovered my little respite here, in this dank corner of the web, and turned my lovely party of one into a room full of talkative, clingy bystanders in need of cold beverages and somewhere to ash. But, as much as I've enjoyed listening to my mediocre thoughts rattling around in my big head (with very little brains to insulate the sound, the echo is nice and hollow, like a tin can full of buttons and pennies), I have to admit, it's nice to have some company. We rabbits like company so much that, when we run out of friends, we often resort to making some more. It gives new meaning to the phrase "go make some friends of your own" - which, not surprisingly, I've often been encouraged to do, by passers-by and mental health professionals alike.
So, first of all, ToC, thanks for saving me from myself. But then, starting a blog is about as clear a cry for help as there is, huh?
Onward: All boyfriends watch too much TV, particularly here in LA where people are dim-witted enough to believe that watching TV is actually a valuable and productive way of researching the television market and the greater culture industry. According to these sad little monkeys, Hollywood and popular culture are so ever-shifting and complex that it takes more than watching about 30 seconds of a Jay-Z video to fully grasp the breadth and scope of what's going on out there in the world of young chumpys.
There are actually a multitude of good reasons for doing all kinds of mindless, lazy, bullshit things here in LA, and an equal number of rationalizations for not doing anything remotely intellectual, meaningful, or substantive, but why list them all here? Suffice it to say that LA is really only dangerous for people like me who are always looking for a good excuse to do anything mindless, lazy, or bullshit and not to do anything remotely intellectual, meaningful, or substantive.
In fact, if someone were to walk in the door right now and say, "Hey! There's this great exhibit at LACMA and then this great band is playing at The Knitting Factory right after that! Let's go!" First I'd feel a general sense of panic because I would know that I have no good excuse for not going, and yet I'm fiercely determined to concoct one in the next few seconds. Secondly, I'd get that oppressive This Is Exactly The Kind Of Thing I Should Do More Of feeling, which sort of eats away at my motivation to breathe, let alone run a comb through my hair and get in the car. Thirdly, I'd think of the stupid annoying drive across town, and that would make me long for a shinier, taller car, with power steering and a CD player, shallow fuck that I am. Fourthly, I'd think of my empty wallet. Fifthly, I'd think of something dumb and pointless I'd sort of felt like doing in the next few minutes, like listen to some Three Mile Pilot CD whilst mindlessly noodling on my guitar. Sixthly, I'd imagine that I might end up overhearing an awful industry-related conversation between some sleazy dolled-up hacks in lemon-yellow sports jackets. Nothing takes away your will to live like a hushed, insidery exchange between glazed-headed stooges wearing coats of many colors.
In fact, just thinking about them takes away my will to live. Maybe we should use them for covert acts of terrorism against Afghanistan. Send in the gel-glazed industry smug fucks, and heads will roll, I tell you!
Where oh where am I going with this?
OK, here it is: If your boyfriend just watched lots of TV, I'd say fine. But, um, your boyfriend has been caught red-handed watching the WB.
There can only be bad news to come.
Luckily, I have recently learned, from ABC News, some handy tips on giving people bad news:
1. Talk from the heart
"As if you were talking to a friend, or a son or daughter..."
Um, honey? Your boyfriend is sort of a big fucking loser.
2. Tell the truth, and tell it simply, and avoid frightening phrases
Look. Your boyfriend watches the WB. There's no possible way that you aren't currently sleeping with a gay man. I'm sorry, pumpkin, but I am quite certain that your boyfriend is physically repulsed by the sight of your naked body.
OK, so here's what you should do. Go get a newspaper and some cardboard boxes. Look in the newspaper for a new apartment, then put all your stuff in the boxes, and load the boxes into your car, and drive away.
Thanks for writing!
From the heart,
Tuesday, October 23, 2001I just noticed that the last Filler ever is called "Nifty Alternatives to Dating". How sad, no? Sad not only that I'm forlornly wandering around in the Filler archives, but also that I never even noticed that pathetic title before.
Do you know that on the day I lost my job, I was out shopping? Unusual, considering I hate to shop. And do you know how much I spent that day? Do you? Well, I could afford it. That is, I could've afforded it, had I kept my job. But I lost my job, hence, these days I can hardly afford a tangy bowl of meat-flavored Ramen noodles.
But then, hard times are meat-flavored Ramen noodle soup for the soul!
Ah yes, the rabbit blog, chock full o' wisdom!
Or as the kids say today, Wis-izzo-to-the-dizzo-dom!
In other news, I have recently deduced that, given my current maturity level, my development was arrested (and charged, and convicted) around the time I was 12. Not coincidentally, it was during that time period that my mother, fresh from her divorce and emancipated from the more conservative habits of the dual-parent home, was prone to buying a box of Dunkin Donuts without the slightest provocation. Thus, without notice, there would occasionally appear, in our otherwise barren fridge, a box of delightful doughnuts from a wide range of ethnic backgrounds: those coy cinnamon-covered Apple-filled friends, the weirdly alluring chocolate cake type thingies, the humble yet breathtaking glazed, the pungent, almost radioactive strawberry jelly bombs. But the most beloved of all were the Bavarian Cremes, and as such, the population of these boxes was predominantly Bavarian.
Sometimes I still wander to the fridge in the hopes that a box of Dunkin Donuts might magically appear, without my actually having to get in the car and drive to the nearest Dunkin Donuts, which, as far as I know, is somewhere in Western Illinois.
Of course, I've never really bothered to find out, have I? And yet I continue to long for them. Ineffectually, like a preteen.
But then, much of my behavior is ineffectual in the manner of a preteen.
But more importantly: Doughnuts. I miss them. I think I lost touch with the common doughnut right around the time I was driving to my job in San Francisco about 6 years ago, and I passed a bunch of people smoking and drinking coffee and just generally looking unhealthy and miserable while waiting for the bus in front of a sign that said "Chinese Food and Donuts" and it struck me that misery and bad diets are nearly inseparable. Not that my diet improved much from that point on, but doughnuts suddenly seemed BAD.
Then, I got sort of fat without noticing, and I went to the state fair in North Carolina with my dad, and I couldn't figure out why he thought it was funny to take a picture of me in front of the Fried Dough sign, holding a doughnut the size of my head (which, at the time, was rather large). When I got the pictures back, I noticed that I was fat. That was strange because I had never been fat before. So I associated doughnuts with being chubby.
But I'm not chubby anymore, and goddamn it, I like doughnuts. So why don't I eat them more often? Maybe I need to start a list of resolutions. It's a little early, but still...
1. Eat more doughnuts
Wow, this blog is really going to improve my life. I can feel the difference already!
Thursday, October 18, 2001Just discovered one of the most fascinating blogs ever. It's good to see that someone out there is still dedicated to the lost art of meticulously planning future eyeshadow purchases.
Yes, the web truly has come of age!
Wednesday, October 17, 2001I know what you're thinking. "Why should a rabbit have a blog?" And I guess if I weren't a rabbit, I might wonder the same thing. If I were, god forbid, a squirrel, or a dog, I would really wonder. I might even think, "Jesus, who cares about rabbits?" Of course if I were a dog, I'd probably be too busy eating someone else's vomit off the pavement to notice.
And hey, that's fine. Rabbits have endured far worse tragedies over the years than merely being ignored by a bunch of unenlightened clods with their species-blinders on. The McGregor Massacre of '94, for one, makes 9/11 look about as tragic as a lukewarm latte.
I would make this a "rabbit war blog", but frankly the threat of international terrorism is about as relevant to a rabbit as breaking news that a 24-year-old aspiring actress in West Hollywood just received an unusually painful bikini wax.
Of course, the rabbit situation in Afghanistan is something that has received alarmingly little coverage by the media. But why start now? Why make everyone feel awkward and nervous now, just because those humanitarian food drops consisted of packages that rabbits can't even open? Talk about your propagandist garbage. Do you know how easy it would be to scatter rabbit chow from those planes?
And local rabbit knowledge of the position of land mines could really help the Northern Alliance, but are they asking for our help? Of course not. They're too busy eating our scrawny Afghan asses for lunch.
Yeah, rabbits are cute and fluffy, who gives a crap, right? Well, as my mom used to say, "We're here, we're dear, get used to it!"