Friday, February 25, 2005

Profound, Like I Promised

To the gentleman (gentlemen?) who discovered my site by searching for "circle jerk cleanup": I suggest old towels, and either carpet shampoo, Windex, or a good laundry detergent, depending on your particular situation. I do hope it is gentlemen and not gentleman, also, as I consider it a breach of etiquette not to at least offer to help the host tidy up after the party. Thanks for using Google for your circle-jerk-sanitation-related needs. Please drive through.

Speaking of cleaning, and providing still more information than any of you needed, I'm down to my last pair of underwear laundry-wise: a sparkly black fishnet G-string which was originally part of a costume. Normally my taste in clothing runs less to the High Maintenance Stripper line (more to the Eight-Year-Old Meth Addict Raised by Cans of Paint line), but this G-string is the most comfortable pair of underwear I've ever worn. No weird elastic, no scratchy decals or sequins, no chewed-up-by-psychotic-dog-with-laundry-fetish patches. It's even resizable. How many pairs of resizable underwear do YOU own? None, sucka, because you're not part of the Revolution. Good thing I live by so many, many sex shops so I can invest in more of these. (Must work this into my Philadelphia marketing campaign as well. "Philadelphia: won't ride up!" The Board of Tourism is going to hire me any day now, I can feel it.)

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Wednesday, February 23

Is this Meta Enough For You?

Everything I've experienced worth relating today came from time spent on public transit. This is the third or fourth time this has happened in just a month of blogging, which means that I'm in danger of turning the site into a lame SEPTA spinoff of the London Underground Tube Diary, only exponentially less informative and with more gratuitous references to orchestra music and fucking. Possibly I ought to spend more time skydiving or saving whales or reading the Nation or something, instead of spending so many precious, precious hours of my fleeting youth watching the rats play on the tracks of the Broad Street Line.

But in the meantime, I'll just tell one more little tiny public-transit story, and I promise I'll write about something profound and enlightening and totally unrelated to SEPTA tomorrow, as soon as I think of it:

You are a graduate student on her way home from school. Another college student reaches the gate at the same time as you do; he jumps the gate, but misses and struggles clumsily in the turnstile for a few moments. You do not understand why he and his nearby friend do not find this riotously funny, nor why, when confronted by the SEPTA token-counter worker, they proceed to scream obscenities at the man for five minutes because he "WORKS FOR THE MAN, NICE GOING, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CARE, YOU FUCKING DOUCHEBAG, PRICK, I'LL TAKE A FUCKING CAB NEXT TIME, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, JESUS, THANKS!" as they purchase their tokens, which come to two dollars and sixty cents.

You spend the next twenty minutes coming up with good ways to tell these boys that they are Utter Wastes of Amino Acids, Disgustingly Spoiled, Self-Centered, Generally Worthless Human Beings With No Sense of Humor or Dignity or Basic Life Skills, and Even if You Had A Cigarette By God You Would NOT Give Them One, So Just Have a Nice Fucking Night, but you don't manage it, nor do you find a way to squeak out an apology or even a sympathetic wince in the token-counter worker's direction.

Is this because a) hating strangers is not worth your time or b) you are a passive-aggressive wuss?

Discuss.

(Edits: did that thing with the links again. Fixed again. Rrrgh. Also for some reason older browsers don't recognize some of my numerals. Film at eleven.)

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Monday, February 21

Something is Wrong Here

Why is it that there are four sex-toy shops and five liquor stores within walking distance of my house, but in order to buy a box of clarinet reeds I have to take a train for an hour into the suburbs? Are you trying to tell me something, Philadelphia?

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Sunday, February 20

Look at All These Worms! Where'd I Put My Can Opener?

1:30 am:

Overheard tonight on the subway:

"And I said to him, 'I think it's funny how you and I are friends.'

"And he said, 'Why?'

"And I said, 'Because I'm white and you're Asian.'

"And he said, 'Well, that's because I thought you were part Asian when I first met you.' I guess I do look a little bit Asian."

Twenty-first-century race relations in America! Mm, mm good!

12:45 pm:

I just realized that a lot of my links on the previous weeks' pages don't work (Macarthur Genius Grant Moment #32530.5: neglected to add "http://" to links, over and over and over again), and now I've archived the pages so I think that means I can't go back and edit them. Er. Possibly more investigation of Pita-Land Inner Workings warranted later.

In the meantime, if you want to see the Flash animations about muffins, check out this fabulous animation of Radiohead's Creep, get yourself a custom waist-training corset, look at vegan porn, read Modern Drunkard Magazine, check your Death Clock, explore the Parents' Television Council, or do something or other with South Park, I got you covered. I think.

Ugh, why didn't I just use Dreamweaver like everyone else?

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