Tuesday, June 25, 2002
WHO'S GONNA CUT UP THE APPLES?
I dug your article on Salon. There's nothing that makes me more uncomfortable than listening to Bush etc whine on about how everything would be ok if we could just marry off all those naughty people living in sin in the big city. I firmly agree that people can make their own decisions about marriage and should be allowed to.
But as someone recently married I felt like I was being painted as a bit of a dullard for going through with the deed. I understand you're not opposed to it and would like it one day.
But I just wanted to point out that for some people - maybe a small minority - marriage is that exciting adventure that makes life richer, not narrower. I never really thought I'd get married but I fell madly in love with the guy I married. I like being alone. so does he. If he weren't around I'd have a great community of friends to fall back on and my own thing that can keep me busy for hours, days.
He hasn't held me back from doing anything. in fact because of him we moved across the country - a huge scary risk that turned out great.
Ugh - this is messy. but what I'm trying to say is that for some people marriage isn't about security and having someone to watch TV with on thursday night. It's about life being better and more complicated and having someone else's fascinating eyes to see the world through.
Married Not Buried
I knew a guy once who said he wanted a wife at home because "someone has to be there to cut up the apples." I think a lot of people get married for practical reasons, but I like to think that even more people get married because they're tired of their own limited ways of seeing things and want another person around to see life differently. There's nothing better than jumping on board and letting someone else lead you somewhere you wouldn't choose to go if you were left to your own devices.
Who wants to be left to their own devices anyway? All my devices are old and rusty and I'm bored with them. I've spent plenty of time rattling around in my own brain with the same tired old thoughts and reactions to the world. I'm much more excited about other people's reactions now. Especially if that other person is more relaxed and optimistic and goofy than I am. I have a great potential to be pleasant and fun and happy, but it sometimes takes a sharp kick in the shins to remind me to stop chasing my thoughts in little circles.
At any rate, it's good to be old enough to know what you're missing, and to be able to identify people who compliment you well. As in:
"Oh Rabbit, you look so pretty all unshowered and slumped on the couch in that Tshirt, slurping on lukewarm coffee and typing away..."
Monday, June 24, 2002
I'LL TAKE ALL THE BLAME
I have no beef with marriage. If my article seems to indicate that I do, then I didn't write it well enough. Personally, I'm not fond of going through life alone. As much as I need huge blocks of time to myself to contemplate and write about pointless crap, I also like to be around other people who'll remind me to eat well and relax and watch dumb shit on TV. I'd like to get married and have kids, in fact. I like kids. I like the idea of being married. I'm a domesticated rabbit. Mostly, I'd like to have a lot of grass. Having a big, grassy lawn is the one aspect of the American dream that speaks to me. It whispers to me in the night, when I'm sleeping. It jabs me in the side when I'm standing in line for a taco at the local taco stand. It's worse during the summer, what with all these grassy lawns around, and not one of them made just for me, watered excessively by me, there just for me to walk across in my bare feet. I want to get one of those blow-up pools, and some of those drink holders you stick into the ground, next to your lawn chair. I want a tacky American backyard, with a BBQ and maybe even one of those yellow slippery slides for the kids. I love the 4th of July, and all the manic shouting on the radio about sizzlin' summer sales and hot summer clearances and all that. The enforced cheer of American culture gets me down a lot of the time, but in the heat of the summer it feels right, and gets me out the door with a cooler full of cold ginger ales, or a bottle of wine and a blanket.
Let's see, where the hell was I? I don't think the fact that I want to have kids makes me a dull person any more than not wanting to have kids makes another person a fucking weirdo. My main concern is that our society should accept those who make choices that depart from the norm. I also feel that many people, myself included, need to be reminded that marriage alone will not make them blissfully happy. It takes a village, a village filled with many different kinds of people, some of them Village People, dig?
In other news, Minority Report was great. Also loved The Bourne Identity. I strongly recommend both. Please be sure to complain to me if you disagree, I love complaints. Whining makes the world go 'round.
OK. Enough drivel. Time for tacos.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
PACK RAT PACK
Why do pack rats pack? Why do hoarders hoard? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Are they coveting the little bits of string and slips of paper and half-empty packs of Kleenex in your purse, which is really more like a tote bag, since you insist on hauling most of your possessions around with you everywhere you go, for fear of getting caught halfway through "The Bourne Identity" without eyedrops, dental floss, an individually-wrapped facial cleansing pad, and the business card of someone you met three months ago whom you never intended to call in the first place?
This week I'm attempting to clear out everything that's useless and worthless in my apartment. For others, such a task might sound easy enough. These are the kinds of people who say things like, "If you haven't worn it in the last month, throw it out." My rule is more like, "If you remember wearing it in junior high school, there must be some reason you still have it around. Invest that inertia with meaning and assume that a more sensible, thrifty you firmly decided years ago that this highly unattractive minidress from The Limited should stay in your possession for as long as humanly possible. So what if it looks like something Cyndi Lauper wore twenty years ago? Who cares about whether or not your entire ass shows when you raise your arms above your head? Even if you don't wear it again, it's certain that some child or grandchild or distant cousin or needy gypsy will treasure it someday. Or maybe you'll make a quilt when you're older and this bright, flowery square of material will bring back a flood of fond preteen memories, like that time you were wearing your beloved minidress in 8th grade English class, and in the middle of class, Bill Turner told you that you should "stop trying to cover up your zits, 'cause it looks fucking stupid."
It makes me feel like a yuppie, to throw away perfectly good clothing. It should make me feel like a reasonable human being, a mentally stable, sensible person who wishes to contribute to society by foisting unusually unattractive clothing onto the needy who sift through Goodwill's bins in search of something that's not 20 years old and hideous. Instead, it makes me feel like a jerk. "Won't this come back into style eventually, say in 10 or 20 years?" Somehow I never take the time to picture myself at age 52, wearing a size 6 minidress from The Limited.
Part of the problem is also sentimentality. I have a skin-tight lycra dress that an ex-boyfriend got me for my birthday when I was 22. He claimed that I didn't show off my body enough. I wasn't sure why I should show off my body at all, since I already had a boyfriend. He dumped me a month later.
I only wore it once, to dinner the night of my birthday, but seeing it in my closet always gives me a chuckle. Sometimes I try it on for a laugh, or to see how much fatter or skinnier I am compared to when I was 22. It's hard to get rid of, because it gives me a masochistic thrill, to recall this boyfriend who didn't like me that much, and was hoping that if he saw other men checking out my body, it might renew his dwindling interest.
But I'm adopting a ruthless, merciless, unsentimental attitude today, in the hopes of casting out countless boxes of useless shit. Why be sentimental about stuff that you only cast a cursory glance at every five years in an effort to purge?
Nostalgia defies logic. One of the toughest challenges of keeping pointless crap around, though, is figuring out how to label the box.
Please choose the term that makes you feel the least dirty deep inside:
f) stuff for scrapbook (what scrapbook?)
g) old shit
Tough, huh? I should probably go with something instructive like "shit you really don't need and should throw out as soon as you're strong enough to get your fat ass off the couch."
Anyway, my goal is to have about 30% less crap at the end of today. Here's hoping!
Thursday, June 13, 2002
LAND O' LAKERS
"She also hoped the champagne would make her ill, so that she could have a legitimate reason for staying in bed all day." - Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky
The Lakers won the championship again, and it was so anticlimactic, it didn't even seem like a good excuse to drink too much champagne - or champiggidy, as Derek Fisher apparently likes to call it.
I'm always looking for a good excuse to drink champagne, and for a good reason to stay in bed all day, or just to sit on the couch and watch the US Open and drink peach milkshakes. I may do that regardless. I need a break from the grind. It's tough to drum up fresh, original insights into the human condition when you're under deadline. Brilliance rarely occurs while the clock is ticking down. On the other hand, churning out volumes on random subjects is always within grasp. Just look at yesterday's ridiculous experiment.
Man oh man. I want a week by the pool, sipping fruity cocktails and reading novels. Mmm, novels. Remember novels? I miss them.
Days like today make me feel like a wilty little tenderpaw, like those horribly bored, horribly entitled drifters in The Sheltering Sky. See where entitlement leaves you, Ken B.? Dead or crazy as a loon.
Then Sting writes a sad song about you, and teenagers hum it to themselves without knowing what it means. Tea in the Sahara with you, baby! You with the cool red moped and the soccer shorts and the feathered blonde hair!
Oh, the endless inbreeding of popular culture, with less and less substance each time Cousin It and Cousin It swap spit. All the meaning is drained out of our favorite books by their endless repetition and reflection and refraction. How many times can we hear Louis Armstrong sing, "I see trees of green..." and appreciate it on its own terms, without thinking of Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal and an endless list of characters in films with soundtracks that beat the most soulful songs to death, until they sound more appropriate when heard waiting in line for a Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks?
One thing's for sure, I'm a part of the problem. But then, what did cavemen do, but repeat the same stupid stories about the hunt? I'm sure that shit got old fast. At least we have Britney.
Cookie, I dig yer frame.
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
Today is my friend Wood's birthday. Happy birthday, Wood! Wood is from Kinston, NC and went to Duke with me. We went out all of our freshman year and half of our sophomore year. We spent most of our first year at Duke sitting in the grass eating roast beef sandwiches and barbecue and talking about all the pompous smug fucks in our classes. Wood studied a lot. I drank a lot. We made a nice team.
Wood and I planned on getting married and becoming lawyers in North Carolina. We were going to live in Winston Salem. When Wood and I talked about the future, it was sort of like two kids in kindergarten talking about what they want to be when they grow up: cute, unrealistic, and arbitrary, if not slightly misguided. Being a lawyer seemed cool to me then: I liked to argue a lot, and I liked the idea of wearing a suit to work and intimidating people - you know, like Angie Harmon, but without the strong moral code. I also liked the thought of a big old house in Winston Salem, with big trees and grass and lots of kids.
But then I'd think about having kids who are apathetic and spoiled and unenlightened because their parents are lawyers who work constantly and they're growing up with a lot of money in a smallish Southern town. I'd prefer to have kids who grow up wretchedly poor in some foul, twisted city.
So here I am, following my dream by being wretchedly poor in a foul, twisted city. All I need now are some babies, a bottle, and maybe a wire monkey to raise them...
Wood is also following his dream. He's a long way off, compared to me. I mean, he's happily married and happily employed and lives in Seattle, sure, but I'm betting he doesn't argue nearly as much as I do. It's sad, isn't it, to see people give up on their dreams?
I BEEN TIRED
Boy, I'm tired. This blogging every hour thing is tough. Thank god I don't work at a news desk or work at some other kind of taxing job or really do anything at all, or I'd be tired all the time.
A lot of you out there are tired all the time, aren't you? That sucks. It sucks to waste your entire life feeling overworked and tired. Why do it? So you can vacation somewhere pretty for one week out of the year, and spend the other week being tortured by your family? I understand that at a certain age you start having kids, and then everything you do, you do for them. That also sucks, in my opinion.
So what else is there, then, you ill-tempered jerkwad? Well, there's pizza with extra garlic. There's great sex and even better sex. There are places in Palm Springs where they bring you cold beers to reward you for tanning so evenly. There are seemingly friendly Korean women who do your nails for you because you're too much of clumsy loser to do them yourself, which they giggle about to each other, calling you a filthy, repugnant American whore in Korean - which it is fully in their rights to do, mind you, and wouldn't you, if you had to paint the toenails of disgusting, smelly American sluts all day?
There are sunsets and puppy dogs. OK, I'm running on empty here. There are smiley faces and joyous occasions. There are, in theory, homes not utterly infested with roaches the size of falafels.
MENTAL DISORDER OF THE WEEK
This week, we explore our friend, the Manic Episode. In times of trouble or lethargy, we turn to the Manic Episode for comfort, or just to pace and babble like a lunatic. Our friend the Manic Episode has the pleasant side effect of creeping people out, thereby getting our family off our back, getting our coworkers to finally leave us the fuck alone instead of assigning us dumb tasks, and getting our friends to stop inviting us out to do boring, sedentary things instead of fun stuff like fucking whores and shoplifting. In fact, if our friend the Manic Episode comes to visit often enough, chances are we won't have any friends after a while, and we won't have to deal with our pesky jobs any longer, which means we can spend our time doing really important stuff like making replicas of Devil's Mountain in our living rooms, which we won't abandon no matter how much Terri Garr yells at us to stop it already, or since we don't have a lot of dirt to throw in the window, we work with what we have and build little towns out of dry spaghetti and dustbunnies, with dead roaches for cars and, god, the sheer brilliance of it all! We're geniuses, we're truly gifted and special!
A distinct period of abnormally and persistently elevated, expansive, or irritable mood, lasting at least 1 week (or any duration if hospitalization is necessary). During the period of mood disturbance, three (or more) of the following symptoms have persisted (four if the mood is only irritable) and have been present to a significant degree:
(1) inflated self-esteem or grandiosity
(2) decreased need for sleep (e.g., feels rested after only 3 hours of sleep)
(3) more talkative than usual or pressure to keep talking
(4) flight of ideas or subjective experience that thoughts are racing
(5) distractibility (i.e., attention too easily drawn to unimportant or irrelevant external stimuli)
(6) increase in goal-directed activity (either socially, at work or school, or sexually) or psychomotor agitation
(7) excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences (e.g., engaging in unrestrained buying sprees, sexual indiscretions, or foolish business investments
[Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition (DSM-IV)]
What We Learned
The Manic Episode is our friend. We need it to function. Without it, how would we alienate our friends and relatives, or do the laundry in a timely fashion?
Interesting, isn't it, how "elevated, expansive, or irritable" are lumped together? Makes me want to drink a quadruple latte and beat the shit out of someone, then write an insightful little book about it. I'll call it "The Four Disagreements."
The Four Disagreements
1. Don't Promise Anyone Anything
2. Take Everything Personally
3. Live In Your Own Little World
4. I Know You Are, But What Am I?
BEDTIME FOR JESUS JR.
The other night we were putting six-year-old Robert to bed. After I read him a short bedtime story he said, "You didn't just read that because of the cereal box, did you?" I assured him that it wasn't because of the cereal box.
Robert was referring to the Cheerios he's had for breakfast this week. On the back of the box, under the mail-in offer for some Star Wars racing cars, there's a section intended for parents which reads "The Nurturing Corner: Here Are Five Great Ways to Show Your Kids You Care: * Ask them about their day * Tell them your favorite stories about them growing up * Eat breakfast together * Give them at least one hug each day * Read them a bedtime story"
There's something about receiving family counseling from the folks at General Mills. Some are probably offended, some might take the advice. Most people don't notice it, I'm sure. Maybe that's why Cheerios cost five bucks; a dollar per box goes for the staff psychologist.
Here I was going to list some made-up tips seen on other General Mills packaging, like for Cocoa Puffs, "The Medication Corner: Ritalin, pros and cons," but I can't, because I've been outdone. Someone beat me to this topic and their sincere fury blows away any other smarty-pants comments I could write. Also, note their interpretation of "General Mills" not as a place where grain is ground into flour ("milled"), but as the title of a military man.
Bob "wilty little baby sunflower" Henderson
I went to that site and thought it was a joke, despite your use of the word "sincere," which I apparently ignored the way I ignore the words "lovely" and "inspired" and "good" and "bad" and "shut up" and "please, please stop talking" and "I'm leaving you" and "the sight of you makes my stomach turn" and "OK, you can sleep on the porch tonight, but tomorrow I want you and your teddy bear out of here!"
See what happens when children don't understand and embrace a full-orbed Christian worldview? They end up all drippy and weird like me. In fact, I often think, "If only I understood and embraced a full-orbed Christian worldview! Why, it would undergird my beliefs and actions in every sphere of life! Instead, here I am, all sullen and indecisive, high on caffeine, ordering pizzas to my door with excessive amounts of garlic on them, killing God's little rat-sized insect creatures with the heal of my shoe like some kind of a vagrant with no respect for life, then leaving the gut-smeared shoe in my bathroom, on the tub's ledge, no less, like some common junkie!"
Then the pizza gets here, and I forget what I was just thinking about.
THE JOY OF MASSIVE, UNWELCOME GUESTS
How pleasing it is, to discover a half-dead roach the size of a shrew on one's bedroom floor! The sheer thrill of tip-toeing over, barefoot, to squash the roach with a shoe! The exhilaration of wiping several ounces of guts off the floor with newspaper!
And oh, the joy, the way one's heart swells with pride as one finds yet another roach, equal in girth to the last, dying but less dead than the first, sprawling on its back like that legendary bug sprawling under a pin in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock! And in the bathtub, by the drain, right next to the little rubber ducky! How rich, how whimsical! Delicious, how it struggles after the first whack with a shoe. Delightful, the mess it makes on the soles. Perch that gut-smeared shoe on the edge of the bathtub, and deal with it later - you've got blogging to do!
But while she blogs, she contemplates Roach Motels the size of shoe boxes, for nothing less could house these unexpected monsters that have recently begun stopping by, unannounced, without even a bottle of wine or a small yet zany gift.
She calls Friendy for advice. He tells her Roach Motels, even Roach Hotels, even Roach Four Seasons or Roach Bel Air Hotels, won't fit the bill. "If they do check out at all," he says, "They'll check out late, and they're sure to steal the robes."
I was looking at your blog. Mostly this is because I feel an affinity for you. You once answered an e-mail I sent to Suck and well, I was touched - not exactly touched-by-an-angel touched, but more touched by a minor web-celebrity which I guess is better than being touched by a creepy close-talking boss, but then again that probably depends on the celebrity.
Anyway, I saw that Ms. Havrilesky was nominated for sexiest blogger, so I went to check out the other nominees. I'm new to the whole blogging phenomena, which I sense is probably a little less irritating than that singing salmon phenomena, but probably more solipsistic. So I'm scanning through the other nominees desperately seeking sexiness (who isn't looking to add a little more sexy blogging to their life?) but instead of finding sexiness I keep running into reactionary politics and egotism. This is very confusing to me. I had always associated sexiness with cleavage and sparkling wit, not political conservatism and anger. So I'm wondering, is there a whole new type of sexiness out there now? Is Ms. Havrilesky behind the times and less sexy because she doesn't post strong political opinions (of course she hasn't posted any cleavage either)?
Hopefully an experienced blogger like you can answer these questions.
As a wise man once said, "Sexiness, who are you, to take these many forms?" Yes, the world of sexy has changed, and left Havrilesky in its dust. These days, sexy is less about irritable brown-eyed women and red grenadine, and more about the latest news from Poland. Folks out there today prefer multiple exclamation points to multiple orgasms. What's a fun girl like Havrilesky to do?
I'm sure she'll think of something, the little slut. But I can tell you that when I'm looking to add a little more sexy blogging to my life, I turn to Tony Pierce, friend and comrade, who today has a delicious slideshow of Britney Spears accompanied by his tell-tale highly weird man-child commentary. Or what about his provocative and detailed Anna Kournikova biopic? True, it pales in comparison to the latest on global warming, but while you concrete thinkers worry your pretty little heads over rapidly melting cola squishees, the lovers, the dreamers, and me are going to stare at the roundest, firmest ass in the universe.
Your highly unsexy grassroots inactivist,
TODAY AND ONLY TODAY! ONE POST PER HOUR!
I'm offering a free Wednesday special bonus that's absolutely free, for one day and one day only. I hereby declare that I will post every hour on the hour all day long. I don't know exactly how it's going to work, or how I'll manage to do it, but today I feel a hankering for blowing off everything else and giving my squalid readers a little hourly slice of rich, juicy rabbit.
Check back every hour, little playthings, and your long, sullen summer afternoon trapped in the office will breeze by like... a summer breeze!
That's right! Today is a day that will live on in the hearts of the rabbiteers for years to come! A week's worth of content, all in one day! Be still my manic rabbity heart!
Hopefully no one will call or anything and nothing important will come up.
Tuesday, June 11, 2002
AFTER PROLONGED EXPOSURE
Those legendary rock innovators at hazel motes just put out a new album. Can you hear that gasp of joy, echoing across the valleys and plains of this great land of ours? You can't? Well, your hearing sucks.
I like that song about sunscreen, myself.
You do know that you can listen to it right now, don't you? You didn't know that? Wow. You're not only deaf, you're way behind the times.
Stay tuned for the Mood Disorder of the Week, my pretties.
Monday, June 10, 2002
Does anyone know why my hits are so high right now? Did someone big and important link to me? Why the hell are there so many of you here? Wanna play Scrabble? Anybody want a peach milkshake? Thanks to some crazy alignment of the stars, I've got frozen peaches, Breyer's peach ice cream, and milk, and can make a kick-ass peach milkshake at a moment's notice. Hear that, Emmanuelle? I hear that frogs traditionally drink peach milkshakes to celebrate the days leading up to their birthday. Can you walk a block to fetch one? Because I prefer not to leave the house. Or even the couch, really.
Yer goddamn right it's sexy. So vote for me in that pointless contest already. Make it so, rabbiteers!
Your hoary whoring hare,
HEY, NO FAIR!
Suddenly someone named Raven is winning the Sexiest Blogger contest! I smell foul play! Go, ye dank and smelly readers of the rabbit blog, to the pages of The Blog of the Century of the Week and set things straight once and for all. I know we have the sheer numbers to overpower such a last-minute insurgency. Go, and make your mark on history!
What will you get in return? Well, a scintillating Mood Disorder of the Week, that's what! Plus a whole heap of a hell of a lot more! This week at the rabbit blog promises to be one of the most high-spirited and zany weeks ever, so stay tuned, wretched rabbit rabble rousers! Sally forth, seething sullen scowlers! Plow forward, pious pillow-biters!
Thursday, June 06, 2002
BAD HEAD AND SHOULDERS ABOVE THE REST!
I have the best readers in the world. Why? Because they're the kind of people who go to The Blog of the Century of the Week and vote for Heather Havrilesky just because I mentioned her freakish name on this blog. Have they seen or met Havrilesky? No. So why isn't Virginia Postrel winning, and what about Jane Galt?
Here's the thing. People who read Virginia's blog and Jane's blog and others do so for the latest news and insights into the current events that shape our times. Would these readers follow a link to some frivolous website, and then vote for their favorite female blogger, proclaiming her "the sexiest"? Well, some of them would.
But others, being detail-oriented and focused on the facts, would not. They would think, "Ah, sexy. What an antiquated concept. How would I know how sexy Virginia is? Sure, I saw a blurry gif or two. But sexy comes from within. I can't pretend to know enough to cast a vote. And even if I did, this contest strikes me as juvenile."
I'm proud to say that the readers of the rabbit blog are cut from a different cloth. They see the word "contest" and think, "Ooo, ooo! Contest! What kinda contest?" Then they see a list of names, and recognize one, so they click on it. As soon as they click on it, they are instantly invested. "Heather Havrilesky better win, damn it." Later, they return to the site, to see if Havrilesky is winning. She is! They celebrate with a banana moon pie from the vending machine in the hallway.
You, the readers of the rabbit blog, are seekers of a cheap thrill. You love finding something pointless to distract you from your day. You warmly embrace the asinine. The way you trump up tiny little things is a joy to behold. You rally around the most insignificant, the most worthless, the most absurd crap - and that's what makes you special!
And that is why you're here. Welcome. You truly belong here with us, among the clouds.
The Administrator Of This Facility
Wednesday, June 05, 2002
PERSONALITY DISORDER OF THE WEEK
Paranoid Personality Disorder
A pervasive distrust and suspiciousness of others such that their motives are interpreted as malevolent, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:
(1) suspects, without sufficient basis, that others are exploiting, harming, or deceiving him or her
(2) is preoccupied with unjustified doubts about the loyalty or trustworthiness of friends or associates
(3) is reluctant to confide in others because of unwarranted fear that the information will be used maliciously against him or her
(4) persistently bears grudges, i.e., is unforgiving of insults, injuries, or slights
(5) perceives attacks on his or her character or reputation that are not apparent to others and is quick to react angrily or to counterattack
(6) has recurrent suspicions, without justification, regarding fidelity of spouse or sexual partner
Paranoia, The Destroyer!
I think everyone goes through a paranoid phase at one point or another - or at least that's the only reason I can come up with that you're all out to get me.
I went through a stage shortly after college when I thought that nobody liked me. I suspected that my friends weren't to be trusted, that they insulted me behind my back, that they disregarded my feelings. I was also convinced that my boyfriend didn't love me, that he was going to dump me at any minute.
But I was just being paranoid! It was such a relief when I figured that out!
Then my boyfriend dumped me.
One of the notable rites of passage for a healthy adult is the ability to look back on the difficulties of the past and see how his or her personal melange of personality disorders, mood disorders, and dysfunctional tics contributed to so many of his or her problems.
Looking back, I see the truth so much more clearly: Nobody liked me. I wasn't paranoid. I was narcissistic, histrionic, obsessive compulsive, and antisocial, but I wasn't paranoid. OK, maybe I was a little paranoid, but it's tough not to be when you're crazy in so many other ways, plus, no one likes you at all.
OK, maybe some people liked me. My mom, my roommate's cat, some of my friends who lived in other cities...
Anyway. Let's see. What's the lesson here? Um. If you think people don't like you, you may be right. Or maybe you just have Paranoid Personality Disorder. Either way, you're pretty fucked. But don't worry, because one day, you might be able to parlay that infamy and misfortune into... a popular but utterly purposeless, unpaid blog, where you'll air your dysfunctional tics and wildly inappropriate thoughts on a semi-regular basis, drawing the ire and pity of friends and strangers alike! Woohoo!
It is to dream, no?
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
SHE'S MIGHTY MIGHTY!
That's right, folks! You, too, can cast your vote in the Sexiest Female Blogger Contest, hosted by your friends at The Blog of the Century of the Week.
As an overweight rabbit, I don't have much of a stake in this thing, but I will state my firmly held belief that women with first and last names that begin with the same letter are almost invariably much, much sexier than other women. This means that either Joanne Jacobs, Kathy Kinsley, or Heather Havrilesky will win. It's impossible to say which of the three has the best shot at it, though.
Or it would be, if not for the fact that women with Russian last names are almost always more alluring and provocative (in their own little snarly ways) than are women with kinder, gentler American Waspy names. I'm figuring this Heather person, whoever she is, will win it quite handily, even though her parents should've known that she stood a better chance with a name like "Natasha" or "Anastasia." That would eliminate the power of alliteration, of course. But she'd still make up for it with that last name, which hints at the fact that her grandparents were second-wave, Eastern European or like, probably somewhat old-fashioned, probably Catholic... I don't think I need to connect the genealogical dots any more for you to know that this lady is a live wire. Think Nastassja Kinski, without the snake and the annoying accent. Plus, everyone knows that people named Heather tend to be in excellent shape, and they generally have good bone structure and strong, healthy nails. What's sexier than good health, right?
A quick wit and a hot temper, that's what. And I'm guessing the Havrilesky girl has both. Remember the movie Heathers? They were all ill-tempered hotties. What's sexier than an ill-tempered hottie, I ask you? That Madonna-Whore complex doesn't get a whole page in that Women's Studies anthology for nothing, kids.
Anyway, I'm just a foul-smelling rabbit with muddy paws and mites, so I hardly care. But I do wonder what that Heather person is doing right now, as I slog through my day, slumped on my misshapen couch, longing for peanut butter cups. She's probably washing a cherry red '57 Chevy in cut-off jean shorts, playfully tossing bubbles at curious passers-by. Or maybe she's out playing pool with the boys, wearing her favorite miniskirt and leeeeaning over to get that 8-ball into the corner pocket. Or perhaps she's just drinking a glass of red wine while soaking in a sweet-smelling bubble bath. Teehee! Turn ons: Bubbles! Turn offs: Tubs that need to be re-grouted!
WHERE TO TURN?
What's up with Modern Humorist? My google dexterity has been slipping as of late, so I and can't find any info myself. Because they lasted ten minutes longer, we won't see the lucid scathing prose of your old stablemates. I know this isn't about relationships, but I don't know where else to turn, and I wander the world thinking we are destined to an all-Eggers, all the time, future. Illuminate me.
PS: And what's up with Jack Purcells? Are they still made? I saw a sign in one of those scammy shoe stores where all the display models are inexplicably wrapped in plastic about getting them while they last, perhaps some blather about 'Made in USA.'
Dear The M.C.,
Why would you think for a second that I know anything about anything? If you want information, why not check in with someone who knows a lot of stuff, or at least someone who occasionally reads the paper, or even someone who occasionally drinks a bottle of wine with a guy who sometimes reads the paper.
I have very few facts at my disposal. I am reading some books right now, but only because someone is paying me to write about them.
Does anyone with ideas and opinions out there, who reads the paper occasionally, have any information about the Modern Humorist? Or should I say, does anyone out there know what's up with the Modern Humorist?
I must be getting really old and crusty, to be mocking the use of such a common phrase. I am older and crustier, that is one fact I can offer you. I just had another birthday. Instead of celebrating, I vaguely dreaded the day - not because of my age, but because I was stuck in some foul indecisive mode about whether or not I wanted to celebrate, see people, or do anything at all to mark the occasion.
Instead, I ordered pizza and willed the Lakers to win - and win they did, since it was my birthday and on my birthday, God has to do what I say (which is also why India cooled its jets, by the way). Kings fans have me to blame, I guess. Sorry guys. In fact, I think I've been Chris Webber's personal El Guapo since, oh, say, about 1992, when we (Duke) beat Michigan for the national championship. Don't get me wrong, I love and relate to C. Webb as much as the next oversensitive lunatic does. But see how "one shining moment" leads to a dull lifetime of scarfing down pizzas on the couch while watching televised sports? Birthday be damned, I want my game 7 overtime action!
Anyway, that all-Eggers all the time future is looking a little brighter right about now, isn't it?