rabbit blog


Saturday, September 27, 2003


TIME FOR MEATBALLS!

It's that time, again! Time to stand around, chattering awkwardly with people whose names you can't remember for the life of you! Time to balance little plates of meatballs in your sweaty hands, waiting for a long enough pause in the conversation to shovel one into your mouth without screwing up your lipstick! Time to remember how much you hated high school, but sort of loved the friendships you made in the trenches, even though they were always flawed and weird and based on skipping class together and going to the house that was always stocked with string cheese and cereal and tuna fish and those caramel Kudos bars, where you'd inhale everything in sight, then sit around talking about what fat fucks you all were. Time to recall those halcyon days of playing quarters in Michelle's den, even though Ann would always stick to peach wine coolers, that wimp. The most interesting people, the weirdos and the funny ones and the freaks, probably won't be there tonight. They think high school reunions are creepy. And maybe you do, too - who doesn't? Everyone does. But fuck it! You have one life to live and one chance to attend your 15-year high school reunion. Why would you shield yourself from the trauma of seeing people you knew over a decade ago, a few of whom you didn't really like that much, many of whom really, really didn't like you? Would you rather ask some friend of a friend how the reunion went? Why shouldn't you show up? Do you really think anyone gives a shit what you do for a living, or whether or not you've accomplished enough? People get nicer as they get older. Going to your reunion is an act of solidarity. It says: "No matter what we've all been through, we were in the same place at the same time and we can all stand and mumble and sweat and eat meatballs together today to celebrate it." Because life's greatest moments are often marked by standing and engaging in small talk while eating little plates of food, and that's just the way it is, so fucking enjoy it.

9:17 AM

Wednesday, September 24, 2003


OK, OK, OK.

OK, OK. OK. OK. ok. OK. Okokokokok. I know. Ok. I know. OK. I'm here now, it's gonna be ok. I'm here. I'm here now. It's ok. It's all gonna be fine. Everything is gonna be OK.

I said it's OK. Did you not hear me? I said it's gonna fucking be ok, ok?

It's gonna be OK, I already fucking told you it's gonna be ok. Did you not hear that part? Answer the question, did you hear me or not? I don't care, just answer the fucking question!

Oh, you did, did you? So basically you just chose to ignore me, is that it? Do you think that's cool, to just selectively tune me out? What the FUCK? When I say it's gonna be OK, you'd think you could at least just take that at face value, but nooo, you have to keep moaning like you're sooo sure that I'm wrong, that everything's NOT going to be OK. It's so obvious that you don't trust me!

What? Are you kidding me? I'm being ridiculous? Are you fucking joking? What, exactly, is ridiculous about stating the obvious, that you don't trust me and you never have? Everything you do shows that you don't trust me. Don't roll your eyes! You want me to make a fucking list, is that it? You want me to go down the fucking list and prove it? You don't want that, believe me.

I'm being spiteful? Are you kidding? You are blowing this way, way out of proportion, you are just attacking me for absolutely no reason. I mean, I'm sitting here, sticking my neck out, trying to COMFORT you, for christsakes, and you have the gall to number one, not even LISTEN when I tell you everything's gonna be fine, and then number two, when I ask you if you heard me, just for CLARIFICATION'S sake, you don't even fucking respond, so I have to ask you AGAIN, which is just fucking demeaning and sad, and number three, when you do answer you tell me I'M being ridiculous? I mean, talk about adding insult to injury. And now you say I'm spiteful?

Why do I even stay with you? I mean, what am I doing here? This is stupid. I shouldn't even BE here. I go out of my way to take care of you and be there for you, and you DON'T EVEN CARE!

What do you mean, I haven't been here? What are you talking about?

Well, yesterday, I mean, yesterday was crazy. I didn't have time to eat, let alone come here and...

Monday it would've been impossible. I can't even get into it. This weekend? I worked through the weekend! I didn't even get to go to this short film thing I wanted to go to, because... I shouldn't have to explain this to you! You should just take it on face value!

Well, Friday I did relax a little. Maybe I had a little time. But I didn't feel like hanging out. Thursday might have worked. I don't know. I just sort of... whatever. Can we talk about something else?

Why are you looking at me like that?

OK. OK. OK. OK. OK. Okokokokokokok. I know. Ok. I know. OK. I'm here now, it's gonna be ok. I'm here. It's ok. It's all gonna be just fine. Everything is gonna be OK.

I said it's OK. Did you not hear me? I said it's gonna fucking be ok, damn it. You always do this. You never fucking listen to me.

10:17 AM

Tuesday, September 16, 2003


B. RAB IN THE HOUSE!

Rabbits of the world, your troubles are over! No longer will you strain, strain, strain to name not one or two but eight to ten little ones per litter, four litters per year. It's finally here, The Comprehensive Bunny Name List!

This year, why not name your kids Abbot, Grub, Pepe, Fiona, Piggy, Alice, Gareth, Yosemite, Pez, Grabbit, Raisin Master, Podge, Grace, Hot Rod, Alexander Bunny, Nutcake, Onion, Havoc, Fatboy, Wilma, Precious, Attila, Wolfberry, Nona, Exkimo, Fern, Ollie, Pat Mustard, Zipper, and Fred?

My favorite part of the site: "And please, this is not a list of possible bunny names, so don't just send a name a bunny might have." Those go on the Suggested Names List, which seems to indicate that those who have bunny friends are far more clever than those who don't.

2:19 PM

Monday, September 15, 2003


SNAPPITY SNAP TO IT, SOLDIER!

Clap clap step clap. When you drop a knife, it's best not to try to catch it. Little cups of Jello don't satisfy a big hunger. The more popular you feel, the less clear-headed you'll be. Overcast days demand an increase in nap time. Having an ass that controls the weak-minded and binds the galaxy together is underrated. There will always be those who find you grating and want you to shut the hell up. Who do you feel like pleasing today? An imaginary audience of critics, an imaginary audience of supporters, that little negative fucker in your head, or yourself? Should you take your family's feelings into account? Do children get a whole vote, or half of one? Is this a democracy? Where are the cameras, anyway? Could you page my assistant and tell her they put raw onions on my sandwich again? Who believes in you, and could that person convince me to do the same, or would we run off and get drunk without you instead? What better time to freshen up your look? Have you got time for the pain now?

How about now?

What about now?

Now?

8:14 AM

Wednesday, September 10, 2003


HELLO LA!

Are you sick of crappy Indian food? So am I! But I just discovered a great place that delivers to my neighborhood and, based on the conversations I've had with these guys, it seems like they could use a little business.

Halal Tandoori
401 S. Vermont Ave. LA
(they deliver to Los Feliz, probably Hollywood and SilverLake as well)
(213) 383-9976

I love the Chicken Tikka Masala and the Sag Paneer the best here. Cheese naan is also excellent. Could cheese naan really be an authentic Indian food? Do I give a shit? Cheese and naan, together? It's too good to be true.

It takes about 50 minutes, so if you want the food to get there by the time Paradise Hotel starts, I'd suggest calling at around 6:50 pm, just in case. Tell them "Heather" sent you. That's their little nickname for me. Or, you can go in for lunch, which is much cheaper. They're on Vermont Ave just South of 4th Street.

The first five people who order from Halal Tandoori get a free shout-out on the rabbit blog! Your Crappy Blog's URL Here!

Pot, kettle, etc.,

Rababit Kabab

9:32 PM

Monday, September 08, 2003


A CHAIR! A CHAIR! MY KINGDOM FOR A CHAIR!

An incredibly comfortable chair. One that looks nice. I just want to be able to sit and type without having to use any muscle in my body except my fingers and maybe my brain muscle.

What? The brain is not a muscle? Maybe your brain isn't a muscle, you mental weakling, but mine is. My brain muscle says that your flabby brain doesn't know what the hell it's talking about.

Seeing as how my brain muscle is very large, I'd prefer not to have to hold up my head; I would like my head propped up gently by some soft part of the chair. Is that so wrong? Maybe there could be a downy soft head cushion on the chair. But the back part has to be ergonomic, but ergonomic in that way where you can sort of slouch without ruining your back. I write my best stuff when my spine is curved in a C shape. I'm the slouching genius, damn it, and I want a Slouching Genius Chair!

I'd also like a little desky thing where I can put a beverage. Maybe a desky thing with a cup holder. Better yet, I'd like one of those hats you can put beverages in. Then I can sip them through a straw whenever I feel thirsty, but there'll be no threat of my spilling said beverage on my keyboard - a very real threat indeed, when you own a flimsy Titanium G4 and the motherfucking motherboard is just under the keyboard, millimeters away from your grubby fingers. But the real point is, I want to remain in the slouching position - I don't want to have to fucking sit up to reach for my stupid drink. I only want to have to move my fingers and my mouth, nothing else. Don't fucking go down that path, you disgusting perverted monkeys.

I want a peddle that changes the channels on my TV. Maybe one that's connected to my TiVo, so I can fast forward through the dull parts and still type like the wind. I want a robot who'll answer my phone, and also call publicists and make nicey nice with them, and become their friends and take them out to drinks and learn all of the complicated relationships between them, and then exploit those relationships to get advance tapes and interviews with key figures from the entertainment universe. I'm not malevolent enough to do this dirty work; I prefer to spend my time here, in my lair, barely moving at all.

I have a stupid office chair, but the point is, I don't want to have to sit upright at a desk. Sitting upright at a desk makes me feel like I'm working or something. I prefer for my posture to give the illusion of slacking around the house without a care in the world. Otherwise I feel like I'm working, like I have a job or something. I must trick myself, I must never, ever catch wind of the fact that I have a job with responsibilities and obligations. Otherwise, the brain muscle feels weak and won't wrinkle upon demand. If the brain muscle thinks its being forced to exert itself for pay, it sighs deeply and says, "I can't think of anything. I'm tired. I need chocolate to think."

Here are some of the seating arrangements I've tried...


To All The Chairs I've Loved Before

1. crappy expensive ergonomic office chair (not an Aeron chair or anything, I'm not the Prince of Siam): neck and shoulders ache after a few hours, and big knots form in back; boyfriend feels knots and says, "You're so tense! It's ridiculous how tense you are!" with disgust in his voice, and then you feel guilty for being so fucking tense unlike Mr. Fucking Relaxy over here

2. stuffed, shapeless couch: like the extended legs, but propping head up just enough to see the screen leads to backaches, impromptu naps, growing lack of self-respect

3. one of those cheap Ikea chairs, you know, with the wood frames and interchangeable cushions that are so comfy in the store?: looks crappy in apartment, head cushion makes neck hurt, wooden arms chafe elbows, and guests avoid it like the plague, for fear of having someone snap a picture of them seated in such awfully uncool furniture

4. futon with special pillow and less special pillow cushioning back and propping up big head: best configuration yet, but probably not the healthiest set-up, plus, futon is ugly as sin, must sit up with great effort to reach beverages, legs get cramped when folded under body, and, on moving day, futon frame transforms into torture device that's impossible to move without breaking several fingers. You know this, so you busy yourself with some boxes while your innocent friends approach futon, unawares, as you avert your eyes guiltily. Merely considering the possibility of moving to a new place brings on a growing sense of dread over unleashing this demon on the world once more, even if the victims are just those guys who hang out at the Home Depot looking for work, those guys who you have trouble hiring to help you move anyway because you feel so bad that anyone is forced to hang out at the Home Depot looking for work, and even though you'd be giving them work, which would be better than not giving them work, it makes you feel terribly ill to consider how your pathetic brain muscle winces and whines at the threat of cushy, white collar labor which barely requires you to lift your head when you could be an illegal immigrant having your fingers - fingers that you depend on, fingers that do hard labor so you can feed your family - snapped in half by some spoiled chick's demonic futon. Plus, this isn't even your futon, it's your exboyfriend's, the one who's been married for about a year now, amazingly enough, considering you were still going out with him about a year and a half ago. He called recently which means he might just ask for his futon back, which, pathetically enough, you'd prefer that he not do, considering it's the only seating arrangement that's worked out for you, albeit with some help from your special pillow and that other pillow you don't think about too much because it doesn't have its own blog. Still, you have a feeling he doesn't want his crappy futon back, and if he ever reads this he'll pity you and mull over all of your weaknesses for the umpteenth time, which is OK since you occasionally mull over his weaknesses, since that was sort of a little hobby you two shared for a while and old habits die hard.

5. filthy armchair at local coffee place: something about the geeky hipster clientele who, for example, laugh outloud while they're reading a book, not just outloud but loudly in a way that says, "Look at me, enjoying my book so very much!" or the way they bring their printers to the place and plug them in and print shit out with them, something about these increasingly young and sometimes vaguely irritating humans keeps your mind off your aching back, at least until you walk out the door and down the block with your heavy computer and your big bag and then your back hurts like crazy, plus you start to sweat and when you get home, you feel like you really do deserve some chocolate.


The Chair Solution?

This genius guy I met once who writes for "The Simpsons," he had a chair that looked perfect: black leather, very low to the ground, kind of scooped and Aeron-looking, slightly adjustable with a metal frame, but also sorta slouchy. I've never seen anything like it since. Does anyone know what I'm talking about, and if so, where can I find it? This guy is probably richer than God and thus, I might not be able to afford a chair like his, but I'm willing to travel to a pretty high price range in order to feel comfortable and avoid moving a single fucking muscle for most of the day.

8:13 PM

Thursday, September 04, 2003


WILL WORK FOR MOOD

My band hazel motes has a new CD that you can listen to (or buy) here. My brother Eric did most of the work on this one. Eric lives in L.A. in a house with a massive backyard, which he bought when houses with huge backyards were still affordable around here. He's been building stone walls and growing massive tropical plants back there, including a banana tree which won't grow unless you feed it a steady diet of chicken shit. I shit you not.

If you have a fast connection and RealPlayer, you can play the song "scapegoat" or "unbirth" or even "after prolonged exposure" (from the last CD) by clicking on that hi bandwidth link on the site.

If that doesn't work, at least you can look at this picture of my brother's dog, Tool. I know that stooping to pet pictures marks a new low in rabbit blog history, but Tool is one of the coolest dogs I've ever met. I'm a huge fan. With a face like that, he should be a dog character actor. His name is easy to remember, too. Phallocentrism runs in the family, I guess.

12:38 PM

Wednesday, September 03, 2003


PACK YOUR BAGS, ZACK, YOU LEAVE TONIGHT!

Apologies to those discriminating humans who refuse to watch frighteningly trashy television, but Drunk Asshole Hotel has sunk to new lows, and the votes have been counted! I didn't crumple up any votes and sneak them into the trash, either. I counted all of the votes, and those who want me to ruminate about P.H. are in the majority. The rabbit blog is a democracy, after all, or at least it is until I get sick of listening to what you fuckers have to say. Since The RB is a democracy, that means every vote counts, and recalls threaten the democratic process... that is, unless I happen to dislike whoever is being recalled.

Luckily, tonight on PH, Zack got booted out once again, this time for threatening Keith with violence. Zack is gonna kick Keith's ass, see? But not right now. Later. Much later. When the hoopla has subsided. Later, see, Zack's gonna get together a bunch of thugs with waxed chests and they're gonna rearrange Keith's face, yo! Until then, Zack will have to wile away the hours hurling insults that would make a six-year-old sniff condescendingly.

Toni took some time off from the Bears' preseason schedule to jeer at Dave and call Tara a liar. Perhaps she feels slightly ashamed of those last televised moments when she retreated from paradise! in that skin-tight, sweat-soaked red jumpsuit. Or maybe she's just realistic about Chicago's chances against a tough NFC North. I mean, let's face it, Toni is one hell of a linebacker, but her offensive line lacks depth, and if Coach Jauron doesn't find some answers, this might be his last season with the Bears.

With the shit hitting the fan left and right, Charla wisely spent most of this episode in bed, hallucinating about herself as Dorothy and Dave as the Scarecrow. Those delusions must be a welcome respite from the nightmare unfolding in paradise!,where Charla is suddenly everyone's favorite whipping boy. What the fuck has Charla ever done to any of those sweaty wildebeests, aside from not bloating up like a cow and breaking out into massive, pus-filled zits like the rest of them?

Most of all, though, I regret ever calling Dave moderately unattractive in my Salon article about paradise! (which you can read if you look at a few stinking ads, you cheap chickens). With his brains and strength of character, Dave is slowly but surely becoming far more visually appealing than those snarling fuckwads, running around with their meat Chiclets in everyone's faces. Sure, Dave is a little insecure sometimes, but who wouldn't get a little unglued when surrounded by enraged, gel-headed morons? And where does Alex get off, making fun of Dave's big ears to his face like some dick you went to high school with?

I also love Keith, because he's managed to maintain his dignity under pressure on one of the most debasing shows ever created. Also, he's hotter than god. OK, so I'm shallow. The kid has bedroom eyes, an insane body, and his jaw flickers when he's angry. So sue me, I'm a wizened old lady, I'll get my kicks where I can. Plus, Keith started the fucking fire by brazenly booting Zack. The CEO of Fox TV should write a personal check to Keith for making Drunk Asshole Hotel the vengeful pit of hell that it is today. Imagine if Keith had played along with the group's wishes, like every other cowering newbie did? Charla, Dave, and Tara would be long gone.

I still like Tara, too. She has as much fun as humanly possible while still playing the game and refusing to stoop to Springer-esque behavior. Isn't that what we all pretty much aim to do? Have fun, play game, refuse to stoop? Plus, I'm pretty sure she can bend steel with that ass. In fact, I'm fairly certain her ass binds the galaxy together.

OK then, I have to post this before the clock strikes midnight, because I'm a rabbit of my word and I owe my fair citizens a post! Those of you who hate paradise! will find me waxing pathetic on an entirely new topic tomorrow. Unless I can't stop thinking about paradise!

What do you suppose "the ultimate prize" is, by the way?

a) A blow job
b) A platter of nachos the size of your head
c) One of those cars that doubles as a boat
d) The governorship of California

Answer: d

11:36 PM

Tuesday, September 02, 2003


BEWARE OF BLOG

Be careful what you ask for, tender chickens!

I've been blog paddling for days now, and I haven't made it through one fifth of what you everlasting blogstoppers have sent my way! Who the fuck are you people and what are you doing, reading my filthy blog and complying with my most taxing requests?

Sincere thanks to all 154 of you who've written to me thus far with your lists of blogs. I'll have more to say about the specifics once I slog through and check some of these things out. In the meantime, I have a book review to write.

"Ohhhh no you don't!" you're saying. "You promised to post every damn day of the week." Now, now. If I had forgotten that, do you think I'd be posting at 10:45 pm on a Tuesday? Don't talk to me about Monday, you know perfectly well that it's a national holiday and a day of rest and a day for eating brownies covered in ice cream and as such, is custom-made for breaking promises. I'll post twice in one day to make up for it.

Now that I'm actually posting something, it's sort of hard to remember why you gave a shit in the first place, isn't it?

The real problem with long delays in posting is, I accumulate too many different subjects to write about. Some possibilities:

1. Joshua Tree: The Lax Hippy/Quaker Private School of National Parks

2. What Rock Has Jessica Simpson Been Living Under That She Thinks That A Can of Tuna Is Actually Chicken, Since It Says On The Can, According To Her, "Chicken By The Sea"?

3. Will The Lesbian Experts On "Queer Eye For The Straight Girl" Make Me Throw Out My Outdated Sundresses, And If So, What Will I Wear In The Stinking Hot Heat of the Summer?

4. Why Do People Wince Visibly When I Tell Them I Do TaeBo To A Tape, And Shouldn't Billy Blanks Include Some Words of Inspiration For Coping With Such Discouraging Moments?

5. My Upcoming High School Reunion Will Be Better Than The Last One Because, Even Though I'm Older-Looking, Fatter, and Poorer Than I Was Five Years Ago, Most of My Classmates Have Teenagers By Now, Which Will Make Me Feel Young And Carefree In Comparison

6. My Upcoming High School Reunion Will Be Better Than The Last One Because Some Of The Teenage Sons Of My Classmates Will Be Extremely Hot And Maybe Some Will Have Rented "Class" Or "Private Lessons" And They'll See The Obvious Appeal Of Fooling Around With A Woman Twice Their Age

7. No, I Don't Really Think My Classmates Have Teenagers Yet

8. You're Not Supposed To Bring Your Stupid Kids Anyway

9. How Absurd Has "Paradise Hotel" Become - Do The Show's Producers Have Any Scruples At All? And Is Keith A Total Fox Or Am I A Horny Old Woman Who Watches Way Too Much Shitty TV?

No, that's not a question for you, tender tiny peas. I know what you think already, you judgmental bastards. But send me your votes pronto or fill in your own suggestion and I'll write about the topic of your choice.

Gosh, you guys have much more power than you used to. Needless to say, I don't like it one bit.

Keep sending those blog suggestions, though. The stranger, the more depressing, the more confusing, the better.

11:07 PM



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me
staff writer at salon.com, co-creator of filler, author of the memoir disaster preparedness due from riverhead press in fall 2010


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