Thursday, May 29, 2008

Another Two Hours of Your Life Gone Forever

What is this? A new BCS (or whatever channel this is) episode of The Bachelorette Tells Us All Stuff We Already Know! Luckily, I didn’t get home until late (such an industrious worker) and so missed the first half hour. I can’t say that I’ll write much about this particular episode because it’s just stupid recaps and hearing what Deeyawna has to say about the guys and why she sent the robot home and the Chi-town guy and the sweaty dude with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, etc.

Weird to think that last week at this time, I was at Rosemont, watching this with a few of my new bffs. And here I am, back in my life. Had trouble falling asleep last night in part b/c this girl next door kept yelling, then I woke up at 5:30 am. because I was afraid I’d oversleep.

We’re getting an illustration of the lives of the six remaining guys. Jesse’s first. He’s a complete idiot. Please, please, please cut your hair and maybe put some powder on your nose and possibly stop wearing those circus tennis shoes. Here’s Twilley who may have a personality disorder, but he’s still my favorite b/c he’s the funniest or the weirdest and possibly the drunkest. Hmm…A pattern for me is murkily beginning to emerge…His dad was a professional something sports player but he draws. Aw, he draws! And he’s losing his hair, but we will try to overlook that and perhaps wonder if he could spray some on. She will never, never in the world pick him. Will they ever kiss? He needs to tone back on the stories with the crazy voices. This is who will win: the dad. The dad has a hot bod. Look, he’s exploiting his son for TV! He might be terrible in bed; looks like someone who has a diagram on the bedside table: “insert here.” Oh, right and the thumb on the chin thing. See, he’s quite exact. ‘K, here is Invisible Mullet. He owns fifty-give hundred pair of jeans, a five bedroom McMansion, twenty SUVs, works out in Hawaiian shorts and no shirt, uses facial cleansers and has a tanning bed in his house, wears a leather coat and talks to his mother fourteen times a day, and proudly admits that he’s a mama’s boy. God, I can’t stand how he jacks up the Southern accent when he’s talking to Deeyawna. We get to see his mullet disappear as this other dude cuts it, but, when he’s finished, it weirdly looks like he’s still got one. And Graham. He’s the one she totally wants to jump. Me too. Except for the perpetual five o’clock shadow. He’s the bad boy. And Jeremy is the one who is the most boring though he does have a cute dog. He’s playing the dead mom card. And the dead dad card! Good move. Deeyawna likes this because she has a dead mom too.

(Oh, dear, oh, no, crud. The mama kitty just showed up again on the back wall. She looks okay. I am certain she has kittens stashed somewhere. Goddamnit. I will try not to do anything. But I thought she was maybe dead so it’s good that she’s not. I want something something something something good to happen and kittens is not it).

And now. The show. The show that could be watched in fifteen minutes, but will be extended out in previews and flashbacks. She has said “my husband” no fewer than twenty-five times. It’s disgusting that she is going to kiss IM in a hammock (20 minutes of previews).

Our skinny host, Chris, shows up in the guy shack. Fifty percent of them are wearing hats. Shirts are all still on. I give them ten minutes before they start stripping. The men and Deeyawna are going to an exclusive resort in Palm Springs. Will Jesse ask someone to give him “knucks?” Jeremy runs up to give her the first hug. Why do we have to pretend that Deeyawna picks these locations single-handedly? She does not.

First one-on-one date goes to Sean. Gahross. And he has a tattoo on his back. Of all of his clothes, he chooses a tight gray t-shirt that will have instant sweat stains. They’re going up in a lift. He takes the opportunity to grab her ass when she gets freaked out by the heights. Romantic dinner at the top of the mountain. SNOOZE. He’s talking about walking around with a loaded gun. She says, Is it a hair trigger? Does it go off instantly? No, of course she didn’t say that. But I bet it does. “Anybody can say words, but it’s actions where it matters.”

(Date box for second one-on-one. Twilley has never once gone on a date with her. She is going instead with pointy-nosed Jeremy. Twilley is actually disappointed).

Oh, the gd rose petals on the sidewalk. They’re eating sushi chocolate. They need to stop taking these guys to places where they sweat. No fireplace or candles or heat lamps or torches, please. Because the guys are always sweat and it’s distracting. Now they lying down in a giant hammock, my nightmare. He’s trying to think how he’s going to make a move to kiss her without flipping the entire hammock. Side kiss. Those are the worst, oh, shit, he’s saying, “Thank you, baby. Kiss you, baby.” He does have big hands, which is attractive. God, I need to get out more.

Group date. Another gendered date wherein they will be driving dirt trucks or wait, no they’re going four wheeling. She’s taking Twilley alone with her on a helicopter ride. He asks how he opens a door for helicopter. He can’t do it. He will not kiss her and Graham is telling the camera that Twilley gets really bad motion sickness. Oh, great, he’s going to throw up on her. He is so cute. Why can’t she just like him? And now he can’t get out of the helicopter. Doesn’t she see that he’s funny? Maybe I should write him a letter after this? I could move to Tulsa. I wish at least two of these guys would kiss or fall in love or something. Two shirtless men on camera. I wonder how much they worked out before this show? Must’ve been like fourteen hours a day. Now they’re all swimming in the pool. The guys play that thing where they get on each other’s shoulders. Jason realizes that he sometimes gets lost in the shuffle because of his exactness. She pulls him aside to ask him what it would like to do hometown in Seattle with the son. It’s great that he lives in Seattle. He comes Jesse in stupid shorts. She’s hoping that he will kiss her. He won’t. He doesn’t get it. He won’t kiss her, I don’t think. He’s too scared. She can keep on waiting. Graham steals her away to take her on yet another hammock. Backwards baseball hats are not a turn on. (All Emma Carol does these days is sit in the window and meow at the outside world).

One-on-one date with Jeremy. She wears a sparkly yellow dress and they will be driving to some 50’s joint in a white 50s convertible. Gag. I mean, I love the 50s, but I hate how everything is themed. The date is taking place at Frank Sinatra’s house where he lived with Ava Gardner. They are having cocktails by the pool, oh, no, worse, they are singing Frank Sinatra karaoke songs. Both suck, but he sucks more. How do you not know the words to a Frank Sinatra song? She thinks they make a perfect dance couple. I think he’s almost, if not more, boring than Jason. Back at the ranch, Twilley compares Jeremy to a mutant from The Matrix and does a perfect imitation of him. He is super stiff and fake. They are now in the sauna and he’s kissing her just like someone in a Frank Sinatra movie. Hand under the chin. She doesn’t like him.

Okay, final cocktail party and rose ceremony. More drama because Deeyawna isn’t in the room. What? OMG! Oh, dear god, oh, who cares. It’s just that she’s pretending that she doesn’t know who she’s sending home. It’s clearly Sean and Twilley or Jesse and Twilley. Maybe Jeremy and Twilley. God, I am so disappointed in myself for knowing all of their names. If she gets rid of Graham, I’m going to kill her. Who gives a crap if there’s not going to be a cocktail party? Just get to the rose ceremony.

Rose Ceremony:

First rose: Jeremy. The other robot.
Second rose: Jason. No shit.
Third rose: She is going to give this to Sean and I am disgusted. Am I right? Graham. Thank GOD.
Fourth rose: Please don’t pick Sean, please don’t. It’ll be Sean, I know it. Come on. JHC. Oh, dang, she picked Jesse. Good, we don’t have to go see Sean’s house with the tanning bed.
Going home: Twilley. (I am typing this even before the rose ceremony. She won’t keep him). And Sean. Twilley, it’s you and me baby. Sean is trying to be noble and the clichés are flying like mad. “You live and you learn. Thank you for the opportunity. A rolling kitten gathers no moss.” Twilley is saying how he’s not a super model, he’s just a nice guy, he knows he’s not the handsomest , but he does think he’s a good guy. He reminds me of Bill Murray.

Okay, that’s all for now bitches.

All Apologies

Here's my state of mind for the last several days: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Z!Z!Z !Z!Z!Z!Z! What that represents is me being freaked out and running in five different directions for hours at a time and then falling into a coma-like sleep. My bff and former roommate/co-building manager/confidante/substitute sister, Jodie, came into town on Monday night from way far away in Idaho and we stayed up laughing until maybe 2 or 3 in the morning and then my alarm jerked me awake at 6:15 a.m. so I could begin a new phase of my professional life. Worked all day, returned home to see Jodie, went to dinner at this authentic Italian restaurant where all the waitresses called us "honey" and brought huge plates of pasta followed by a cannoli. Jodie paid, despite the fact that she had already brought me a birthday gift, an artfullly illustrated edition of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales.

After dinner, we went back to C & P's to take care of the kittens and watch TV and then stay up again laughing more. Wednesday: two alarms went off, I ran to the South Street subway, worked all day, then booked it back to meet Jodie at Whole Foods. She made lentils for dinner and we watched TV (including Super Nanny and a terrible show called Bridezilla!) and went to bed at a responsible hour, but I was still a little hepped up and there was the alarm again, still earlier than I'm used to. Jodie told me that I was snoring like a cartoon character: Honk shoo, honk shoo, honk shoo...So, here we are at Thursday already and Jodie has gone away. We didn't get to spend enough time together because of my 8:30-5:30 schedule, but it was still great to see her and we didn't even get into one single fight. Checked on the kittens today after work and felt guilty for not spending enough time with them, but I really really wanted to get home to take off my work clothes and do nothing. While she was here, Jodie, in typical heroic/masochistic fashion, discovered that the reason that my house smells like cat pee is because some cat has been peeing in the basement. Who knew! She put a red kercheif over her mouth and went into the basement to mop up the mess. She soon realized that she had toxified the room by pouring bleach over the pee (I guess ammonia and bleach are a bad combination). In any case, my house has been exorcised of the horrible smell that I thought was just mold or fumes coming in from outside, all thanks to Jodie, who is a hard worker and will do pretty much anything you ask of her.

Missed The Bachelorette update, though I did get to see the first hour of it while waiting to go pick Jodie up at the airport. Here's my summary:

Deeyawna got rid of the virgin, the hyper Greek man with the pointy nose, and the guy I liked the best. She probably ix-nayed him because he did a terrible job of singing the national anthem and couldn't hit one single baseball even though he's supposedly a professional athlete. I kind of hate Deeyawna for this. Who cares if the guy is athletic? I'll take mine soft-armed and funny, thank you.

Sunday, May 25, 2008


For those of you who have been paying attention, today was to be the day that the mama kitty would go to the vet and have her reproductive organs removed so that she wouldn't continue to give us more and more kittens. This morning, Mr. D. and I attempted to get her from the big dog cage into the little cat cage. I did about five things wrong, beginning with freaking her out by putting the little cat cage inside the bigger one, thinking she would just run into the safety of the smaller one and I could shut it. Instead, she got out and jumped on the windowsill to wedge herself between the screen and the window. Mr. D, with towels swaddling his hands, tried to grab her, but it was like trying to catch hold of a live wire or a firecracker with claws and teeth. He got bit but soldiered on. She fought and flattened herself further against the screen, like, she appeared to change forms into something more like liquid than cat form. Finally, she pressed so hard against the screen that it popped out of the window and she bounded away across the roof, free at last, god almighty that fucking cat is free at last, again. The wild kingdom rejoiced. And so she will not be fixed. Or caught again. After over a week of captivity, she can roam around without impediment and have tens of thousands of kittens. I actually stomped my foot in frustration, more than once, like Eloise at the Plaza. But damn it, what a waste of time and energy just to have her get away at the last second. Mr. D. has suggested that I never ever ever do this again. He said I might as well try catching squirrels or possums or other wild animals because she is a feral cat, not unlike other wild things. DAMN IT though. Later, we joked about how I should try catching feral ponies to keep them from having kittens. He asked me if I knew where I might a trap big enough to catch a pony. I am sure there are and so I am off to Assateague Island in Maryland to begin my next save-the-universe-one-pointless-animal-at-a-time campaign. Did see the kittens today at Padhraig's and that made me feel a little better. They're friendly and fluffy and kittenish.
I also did some laundry and watched HBO's Big Love. Consequently, I've decided not to ever be a polygamist. So that's two things I'll never do in my life; marrying a man with other wives and save feral cats who would much rather be living on the streets.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

It's Nineteen O'Clock

I am fortunate to live near a church whose bells peal once an hour. I seriously do like this sound, but the funny thing is that this particular church often seems to go above and beyond the number of bells required. I was walking home the other day around six p.m. and heard the bells, registered the sound absently, and then realized that it didn't stop after what would reasonably be six dongs. I started counting and reached nineteen before it finished.
Other sounds on or near my street:

1. The previously mentioned, incessant ding-a-ling music from the ice cream truck.

2. My neighbors screaming at one another (this doesn't happen often; I called the police the last time they were arguing and nothing much happened. The cops did show up but they didn't stay long).

3. Mexican music at all hours. I can often only hear the repetitive bass sound.

4. The little kids riding their big wheels and bikes up and down the street and yelling and laughing. I like this sound too.

5. Pigeons cooing as they land on the wall in my backyard to eat whatever cat food is left over.

6. The pitiful meowing of the mama cat trapped in my second bedroom. Little does she know that she will soon go under the knife. For $20, the Philly PSPCA will fix any feral cat and will also give them their shots. My mother is worried that I will keep the mama cat instead of letting her go out into the wild. This is increasingly unlikely. She won't stop hissing at me and I have another wound on my hand from trying to pet her after having 14 glasses of wine. Bad idea. Owie. Her kittens have been adopted out including the two that Padhraig and Carrie are keeping, Piper and Paul Skoles. I get to check in on them this up-coming week as C and P are travelling to foreign lands, France and Ireland, to be exact.

The other picture here features my pretty-pretty friend Celia and the profile of my other pretty-pretty friend, Irina at Devil's Alley where you can get sangria for a mere $3 during happy hour. The other photos I took were blurry, of course. I need to take a class in digital photography.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Flowers in the Attic

Remember that book by V.C. Andrews? She wrote these ghastly horror stories like that and My Sweet Audrina and If There Be Thorns (a sequel to FITA) and a bunch of other pulp-ish paperback novels that had those "reveal" covers...The book covers with the hole cut in the middle so you just see someone's face but then you open it up and an entire scene appears, often a family portrait where everyone looks like the undead, spooky and doused in velvet and lace. I didn't read too many of her books growing up, except for Flowers in the Attic. I remember being stunned and slightly titillated to read how the brother and sister end up having sex after having been trapped in the attic for five years. Of course, in this attic, they had things like a ballet bar and tights and leotards (hence, the inevitable seduction) and perhaps dollhouses and china tea sets; I can't remember now. I just remember that I felt slightly sick to my stomach while reading it (my first visceral reaction of lit snobbery). The other shocking thing was that the little girl, Carrie, died. In my previous reading experience, little kids never actually died (well, save Beth from Little Women, but she was always such a sickly thing). You could count on the animals to meet an untimely end (Old Yeller, Black Beauty, Old Dan and Little Ann from Where the Red Fern Grows), but not children.

All of which is to say that I feel like a mean captor because the mama kitty is living in a small cage in my second bedroom and she does not like it even a little bit. I go up to visit her about four or five times a day and, each time, she lets me pet her for a second and then she hisses at me and backs up. I keep waiting for the day when I go up there with the food and she's rigged some kind of elaborate escape mechanism such that when I open the door, a pail of water falls on my head, I slide on marbles she's scattered on the floor, land on a roller skate, and am dumped into the laundry hamper, knocked out cold. She is getting fixed on Sunday, so this captivity is finite, assuming I can get her from the dog cage back into the cat carrier without too much bloodshed. She may be one of those cats who will have to be let back into the wild after she's kitty-proof; I don't know that she can be tamed.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

F the New Sex and the City Movie

Why is everyone so excited about this movie? I caught part of an old episode of Sex and the City the other night and was reminded how much I don't like any of the characters very much, especially Carrie Bradshaw with her fake coyness, expensive shoes, and not so interesting voice over narration. The show I saw was one where Carrie visits her Barishnikov in Paris and she's wearing this ridiculous dress and a tiny little straw hat perched jauntily on her intentionally messy curls. Mary Beth told me recently about a friend of hers who wrote a paper claiming Golden Girls was actually a more progressive, feminist television show than Sex and the City ever was. I don't remember anything in particular about GG, but I have to agree that SATC never struck me as particularly ground-breaking. And yet I confess the we watched it almost every week at Julie Vedder's, the only grad student we knew who had cable.

Most of the shows center around the women lamenting the state of their relationships and wondering why they can't find a man or why they can't love the man they're with or why they can't help but buy yet another pair of $300 shoes. And then the whole thing wraps up with Carrie finally capturing the guy who has treated her with the most disinterest--the caddiest of cads. To be fair, I guess the elusive male is attractive to lots of women, but I prefer the Mr. Darcy kind--the man who is secretly madly in love with you and only appears aloof b/c his heart is pounding every time you're in the room wearing that low-cut, empire-waist gown and he gets tongue-tied and stupid until he eventually can't stand it and must kiss you. Not someone who's checking his Blackberry seconds after hopping out of bed or who appears only every once in a while to see if you'll still let him in your pants. Though I guess I did like those kind of guys when I was in high school and college. And when I lived in Chicago. And in State College. And...But I'm a total adult now and do not fall for that sort of rapscallion any longer.

Have been sending a bunch of some e-cards out today and I have decided that I want to work for them. They have one that's something like, "Your lack of interest in me is compelling." I saw a group of Downs Syndrome kids at Target the other day and everyone was giving them side-long glances like, Look! Retarded people! Hope they don't do anything weird! I wondered if it would be inappropriate to give the kids t-shirt that read, "I Have Downs Syndrome. What's Your Excuse?"

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Parties and Such

Realized that it has been almost a week since I posted and I have no good excuses, except lots has been going on such as birthdays, reunions with high school friends, presents, cat-capturing, animal bites, parties, the usual. Here are just a brief list of 5 things from last week:

1. Got to see one of my bff's from high school last Wed., Jen, as she was in for an interview with Free People. She's a designer and does these awesome handbags and scarfs and shoes and displays for Anthropologie and has traveled all over the world and wears great clothes still. She always had good clothes and would sometimes let me borrow them, even though she's smaller than me and they often didn't fit right. I took her to Reading Terminal for lunch and then we walked to Rittenhouse Square and reminisced about high school and how dorky we were (but secretly, how we thought we were kind of cool).

2. The kittens have adjusted very well at Carrie and Padhraig's and now will frolic with you. Padhraig actually sent me a link to photos of them yesterday, so he's clearly lost his mind.

3. Speaking of cats, I managed to catch the mama kitty on Saturday night. We found her trapped after getting home at like 1 a.m. Thank god I remember we had set the trap and she wasn't out there all night. I had just picked up a larger cat cage that day so we were able to bring her inside and stuff her into a bigger cage. She bit me and I bled all over the place and felt proud of myself for being hurt in the line of cat rescue, and have since had to have my pointer finger amputated, which makes me even more holy and good.

4. Had a birthday and got many lovely gifts including new 350 thread count sheets (in pink), a cheese grater (I asked for it), a notebook, a new dress, a bracelet, two generous gift cards, a bike helmet (pink again!) and a beautiful plant that I will likely kill in less than a week. I have whatever is the opposite of a green thumb. We went to dinner at Cochon, a French byob and then back to C & P;s for chocolate cake and kittens, and then out for drinks where we were joined by City Liz and my new bff from Temple, Mary Beth. More celebration to follow once Celia returns from Seattle. I think one should stretch out one's b-day as long as one possibly can. FYI, the photo in this post is from an archive of pictures from Grand Island, NE, near my hometown.

5. Liz and Luke visited from Brooklyn and I swear to God, when I was driving them back to the bus station on Sunday, I was laughing so hard that I had to slow the car down. I could hardly breath and it was the best. I can't even tell you what we were laughing about (well, I do remember but it's not fit for public consumption), but part of what was funny was that Liz kept burping b/c she had an upset stomach and a slight hang-over and so I'd be laughing about something and then she'd burp and, like a ten year old, I would get hysterical again. They are awesome.

Skip It, Mom

Hi, and welcome back to another season of bad reality TV, except this time, it's The Bachelorette...It's poor Dee-yawna, who was rejected by stupid, always-has-a-five-o'clock- shadow, jerk-off Brad Wormrat. She's telling us how her heart was broken and so was the heart of 'Merica. She is so excited that she gets to fuck someone over the same way that she was fucked over! She truly feels like the luckiest person in the world and she can't stop spinning and looking at herself in the mirror. She has been through so much in her short 26 years, like...I don't know what--having to fire her cliché coach? This time around, she's going to be the one who makes the decisions for herself for the fairy tale ending that we have all dreamed about since we first learned that we might be able to find love on a reality show. Oh, dear, I already hate every single one of these guys with their shirts off and one of them is actually shaving his chest!! They are all gross macho jerks. This guy has a mullet! Guys have absolutely no clue what women want. They don't care if you can chop a piece of wood with your foot. They DO care that you can give a good haircut, but not if you are de-vorced. Why do all of these guys have such huge ears and so much hair gel. Oh, Jeremy has a dog and rides a motorcycle. Oh, no, someone is singing and he is probably, yes, he loves Jesus and he's a 28-year-old virgin football player. Knew it. Excuse me, but they never have divorced women on the show for The Bachelor. Never. This guy is French-kissing his son. The token black guy is a math teacher and will last exactly two episodes. One cool thing is that they at least sort of know who she is because she was on TV before. Dee-yawna has a great rack. She wears a gold sparkly dress. Mr. D astutely observes that Dee-yawna is Greek. This is not how I remember Dee-yawna. She seems very scripted and fake. She totally believes that this could happen. She keeps saying how everything happens for a reason. Just as an aside, what's the reason for children with cancer? Not to be a downer. I wonder how many times this season we'll hear a guy say, DUDE! I wonder who will be the first person to say "dude" to Dee-yawna...She's looking for a guy who knows what he wants and who stands out in a crowd and who will give her a baby or ten. I wonder how many times she will say that it's a "fairy tale?" So far: 10. Here comes the parade of freaks! First out of the limo: big tall guy, Brian, TX football coach. It wasn't until this moment that I knew why I was doing the show. I can't wait to get to know you better." Rapul sales manager from Edmonton, he spins her. He has bad grammar and he's shorter than she is. Graham, dishelmed basketball player. He could've shaved before he came in. Sean, with the mullet, is hurrying along to get to the booze. Richard, he looks like he's had plenty of plastic surgery. Jason, account executive, speaks Greek to her because he's practiced. Spero, an actor who’s wearing the worst glasses in the world. Jesse, pro snowboarder, what is he wearing, sneakers and the worst jacket I've ever seen with doodles on it. She says, Gee, thanks for dressing up. Jon, old guy, resort manager. These guys are just running inside and sweating. Chris from Texas could be better if he wants speaking with his nostrils. Brian, a little too polished, Oh, he's kind of cute, he just stuck his tongue out and he said, I do, show's over. He spins her too. Token black guy, Jeffrey from Orlando. He is like, please keep me for at least two episodes! Donato, with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He spins her and she spins him and it's terribly awkward. Ryan, the virgin almost bowls her over with his hug. You won't catch me without a smile and secondly, he loves Jesus and he loves smiling and he especially loves a smiley Jesus. Twilley is sort of cute and sweet and tells her that she's sparkly. Ron, barbershop owner, forgot his coat in the car for no reason I can imagine. Cheers! Patrick, adorable, scruffy from Chicago. He also could have shaved. Luke, oyster farmer, also kind of short. He says it's nice to meet you and she says, Tell me something funny and he says, "You look great. Just kidding." Eric will have her whacked if she doesn't pick him and he can't stop saying absolutely! Robert, broad shoulders, chef, should maybe stop sampling his food so much. He spins her around and grabs her ass. He has flare. Chandler, he's not even looking at her, they're both digging on each other's accents. Greg, introduces himself as a personal trainer from New York and calls her sweetheart. Fred, possibly a dork, possibly nice, has a total Chicago accent and won't shut up. Patrick, he's huge too, and appears to be wider than he is tall. Jeremy, a little too smooth, a little too slimy, but I may be prejudiced because he's a lawyer. I think he just spoke Italian or Pig Latin to her, saying, "I love your breasts and I would love to squeeze them like two melons, but don't sue me because I will win." Who's dream of marrying Dee-yawna will end tonight?? She gets three first impression roses. Why? The guy never does in The Bachelor. Okay, now they have to all pretend to like her. I would hate this. I would never ever do this. They're acting like it's a press conference, asking her questions. She gives the first first impression rose to the slimy lawyer guy, Jeremy. One of the guys just pulled her away--the guy who has a kid, the pedophile. She sort of seems like she's being honest and she talks about how her mom died when she was twelve. The virgin is going under the blanket. Dude. Dude. Dude. He's of indiscriminate ethnicity. Dude, dude, dude, dude has been said no fewer than fifty times. Spero went out to give her his coat. Dude, dude. Crash and burn! (first Top Gun quote). This guy from Kansas City just admitted that he's been divorced and he thinks that this is a plus. She clearly does not. The Chicago guy MUST be faking this accent. She's asking the guys if they've ever cheated and one guy said that he has and he's admitting that he's cheated. Whoops! Robert, the chef, is going to cook something out of mint. Uh, where did this food come from? I actually think it's kind of hot that he can cook and also obnoxious. Someone is giving her a fake pearl necklace, oh, sorry, a fake pearl necklace. She will not pick him because he is poor. But he does surf and cow tips (that is what Mr. D. has suggested). He has about as much energy as an oyster, truly. The chef from San Francisco is giving her a cup of tuna. Oh, darn, she's allergic to tuna and plus it's going to mess up her lipstick. The other dudes who are so wanting to kick someone's ass, anyone's, even Dee-yawna. Jenny is here and she is now engaged to someone she must've met the day after the show. She's going to ask some questions and take notes with her fake nails. The scruffy Chicago guy dances skinnily (new word) to show that he'd do anything to get her attention. One guy brought her a fake diamond that she can turn it into a real diamond someday. Jenny is asking questions too fast, one of the guys has asked her if she would sit on his lap. Eric is fully Greek and has the pointiest nose I've ever seen. He thinks he's a shoe in. They are all showing their abs. I can't keep up. The bad jacket guy explains that he wore the jacket b/c he is a triangle and not a square. That doesn't make any sense. He's now jumping in between her and the big, wide guy. He's so psyched to get one on one time with her. He now has a confession for her..."I am the type of guy who doesn't want to go on the Internet and learn about you, I want to sit next to you, dawg, and give you a knuckle pounce." The mullet guy is going to kick the other guy in the head and knock an orange off his head. Why not just take his pants off and show his penis? She hates him. I hate him. He says, "I may be a martial artist but I also have a sensitive side. DUDE!" She gives the second impression rose to Jessie with the bad jacket. Greg, the personal trainer, is a little too intense. The guys are getting a little too drunk. One guy is doing a turkey call to get her attention. Yes, all women love to be called over like you would an animal. The other guy is showing off his abs and making her feel them. They are all acting like dicks and the one guy is upset because she didn't shake his hand. The Canadian guy is explaining about how he's a small town guy and now he's jumping into the pool and is dying of exposure. Now he's taking off his pants to show her his underwear with her name on the back of it. I think that's kind of sweet and he does have a good body, though he's still way too short. Every guy has given her his jacket. Maybe she could've just brought her own jacket (momentarily distracted by Ernesto and Emma Carol grooming one another). The last first impression rose goes to not-Paul...It's going instead to...Richard, one of the shy guys who teaches--the one with the plastic surgery who admits to the camera that he was a geek in high school (uh, I have news for you...).

Time for the final rose ceremony...Get on with it. Dee-yawna is talking to Chris about how the guys were trying to impress her. I wish that 75% of the show wasn't instant replays of what we just saw (or, as Mr. D. says, scenes of what we are going to see). That's why the show only really needs to be fifteen minutes long. She is saying that she doesn't need for them to be doing so much to impress her. And she wishes they weren't so full of testosterone. Mr. D. points out that the cabinet full of their headshots lit by candles is creepy. "Totally creepy."

Okay, now it's really the final rose ceremony (fifteen minutes later).

First rose: Ron, the serious guy who admitted that he's still married. She pins it on his lapel.
Second rose: Grant. She thinks he's hot and he won't take his hands out of his pants. Look out.
3rd rose: Eric. Nose comes into the frame twenty seconds before the rest of his face.
4th: Robert, the cook who slipped a roofie into her tuna (Mr. D thinks this is a dirty joke).
5th: Sean. Please cut your hair.
6th: Ryan, the virgin. He just came in his pants.
7th: Chris. I like him the best so far. I love his dorky ears and his calmness.
8th: Paul. Yes, fine, he jumped in the pool.
9th: Fred from Chicago. He absolutely said absolutely again.
10th: Twilley. I like him too, though I don't know why, guess cause he's awkward.
11th: Jason. He is a dork.
Final rose: Bryan from Texas, the tall glass of water. The other Bryan almost went instead. Black guy did not even make it past the first ceremony.

Bye, dudes. Bye, Spiro. Bye, oyster country boy. Bye, turkey call who acted like a jerk. Aw, he's being hard on himself and actually crying. The intense guy is telling her that he holds her in the highest regard and he will not compromise himself by beating her up like he wants to. He will rise from the ashes and dust himself off piece-by-piece and howl at the moon. He is a total idiot.

That's it. Aren't you excited to see the many instant replays and previews for the next ten weeks? I know Mr. D. is. He is a good sport. I would give him a rose. Or two.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

For All You Ladies

There is nothing sexier than a man dressed in 1970s clothing and wearing roller skates. If you don't believe me, check this hot video from Flight of the Conchords: (courtesy of my good friend, Cecilia).

In other news, I found out on Monday that I got a full scholarship to attend a writing retreat at Rosemont College, thanks to the generous women of Philadelphia Stories. They are paying for the tuition and for room and board, a bill of $900 that I could never afford on my own. This means that I get to spend an entire seven days in the wilderness of Rosemont and can also take yoga classes. If you feel generous, please give to Philadelphia Stories, as they truly do support the arts and me.

Art Attack

Have been exposed to a lot of art over the last few weeks--not on purpose; I just happen to have friends who know the scene.

For instance, saw an outdoor photography show put together under Interstate 95 a couple of weekends ago. The photographer is named Zooey or Franny or something and LM doesn't like her because she finds her work to be exploitative. You might agree. Her subjects are primarily the poor people in Philadelphia and New Jersey; photos of drugged out fifteen year old boys sporting badly done ink tattoos and holding babies with dirty, sad faces, little girls with fat tummies filled with Ho-Ho's, Arctic Ice lemonade, and Wonder Bread, those same little girls all grown up with badly done roots, missing teeth, and black eyes, fat naked men lying on sheet-less, stained mattresses, and dozens of outdoor shots of the bleakest buildings and parking lots you've ever seen, crack vials strewn over used condoms over feces. Something like that.

Then, last Friday, LM and I went to a film festival featuring undergrad and grad projects from Temple students. Nothing really arresting or interesting--it's mean and small-hearted to make fun of movies made by eighteen year olds, but seriously: a film about the dangers of drinking Coors Light? A black and white film featuring a young artist girl all in white who regrets selling one of her ugly original pieces because it gets mass-marketed by another college student in a suit and a bluetooth...Another with a beautiful though shy and introverted young girl jealous of her more accomplished sister, but who picks up the viola one day and is able to play it like a virtuoso. Not that I could've done better at that age (though secretly, of course, I believe that I could. Not many of them had a sense of humor or play...Most were very serious and dramatic).

This weekend, went to see an art opening at Fleischer with Mary Beth and her boyfriend and her boyfriend's friend who had long fingernails and a droopy moustache (he plays the guitar; hence, the scary long nails). Can't remember his name--Carver, Carter, Carla? The best thing about art openings is the free cheese and grapes and wine or juice. Maybe I should think about making a career out of attending openings; grazing at the table and occasionally browsing the art and make snap judgments about it based solely on personal opinion.

By the way, why is that when you do a google image search for "art" you get a few paintings and then like photographs of naked women? I guess pretty much every google search yields at least a percentage of nudity? And I don't mean work like this. You could probably put in the words "Peanut butter and jelly" and find yourself faced with nubile young girls dressed in nothing but some Smucker's grape jam.

Monday, May 12, 2008

The final show...

I can't believe it's only an hour long...I thought we would at least get a full two hours of awkward kissing. First date, Chelsea shows up to meet the parents, speaking in a monotone. Here's dad, Hello, mate! That's the brother, Simon, the dad wears a full white turtleneck. They're having crumpets. The brother is less attractive, much. She sounds like a cheerleader. She doesn't know what wellies are-oh, wait, yes, she does. I don't think I've ever seen Chelsea without a ponytail. Oh, dear, I hope she doesn't get too drunk. Chelsea is telling the mom that she's falling in love with him. I don't know that the mom wants to hear this. She's telling the mom that she really wants to give her son a blow job. London style. (Mr. D, our guest watcher, is wondering how scripted everything is. He does not believe that ABC doesn't set all this up. He also won't shut up and I have to keep going, Uh-huh, whenever he makes an observation). The mom keeps talking about how lovely everything is. Why is mom wearing that gigantic necklace? I don't think Matt likes her in the same way that he likes the sex kitten. He looks really tired, circles under his eyes. I can't really understand their accents. This was too brief. She's not going to get picked. He just said, I adore you, honey. I adore you, honey, you're lovely. You're really lovely and I want to kiss you loudly on the mouth. He is faking it.

Here comes Shayne. The dumb blond. She's wearing shiny tights and a satin skirt. I hate her so so much. They're on a double decker bus and she's getting dizzy just being in person. How much lip gloss does one girl need? Oh, mom and dad are hugging her. Dad is wearing a jacket that's giving me a huge headache. The brother doesn't really like her, but he does want to fuck her. The dad asked her how old she is. She cleverly says, I'm twelve. HAhahahaha. The brother asks, What about the bachelor, have you seen that as a challenge? She volleys back, I met Matt and I liked him too and I hoped to be on TV longer. The brother is confessing that he doesn't really understand why his brother is love with, but over lunch, she has proven that she is imminently doable. She's sweating. God, she looks just like a Malibu Barbie. Nice roots. Now Shayne is talking to the mom who wears another giganto necklace. Shayne is holding it together and pretending to be a real person with real emotions instead of a marionette. She's definitely going to win. Most certainly. Mom says that she doesn't know which way Matt will go. We do. He's totally in love with her. (Mr. D lovez Shayne. I will never talk to him again after this evening). Mom's gut instinct is that Shayne is more genuine than Chelsea. Fucking idiots.

For some reason, Matt and Chelsea are in a helicopter together. Or "copter-port" as the British call it. Both of these women are horrible. Is that a bottle of Smirnov in his basket or is he just happy to see her? Now they're sitting lotus style on the beach. This show is not PG 13. More product placement. Loud kissing. Fake flowers. Did she use air quotes? She's giving him a present, sex wax, a map, and a jock strap. She says, I'm like, kind of this person, I'm like a brochure, and like, maybe a placemat or like a flyer. My whole thing is like I'm drunk and I'm also falling in love with you. He says, I'm falling in love with you too. Liar. I do not believe him. She says, I'm going to miss you like crazy (isn't that a song?). Don't have any fun tomorrow. He says that she's absolutely incredible, for a man. What a charade. I am so so mad already that he's not going to pick her. But they both suck, so whatever.

Here comes Shayne, wrapping her legs around him like a monkey. He just wants to have sex with her and her huge sunglasses, his little camera monkey. (Mr. D says, The final roast? Why are they have a roast? Rose, dude, the final ROSE). He has more fun with Shayne. She loves parasailing and changing outfits. Why didn't he do this with Chelsea? Does Matt realize how much we, the American public, hate Shayne? Shayne is talking about how she loves floating and being an angel and a floating angel in the sky of American television. He's holding her and she's telling him how it's ultimately the best present he'll ever get in their entire relationship. I'm hoping it's a picture of her as a child. No, it's her as an adult on the beach. Who gives someone a present that is a photo of herself? (With the exception of someone who gives a person a photo of herself in high school with her grandparents. That's totally okay and NOT stupid).

Now Matt is picking out diamond rings that symbolize his ambivalence. Shayne, in another pair of sunglasses, surveys the scene. Chelsea is dressing like a Greek goddess and Shayne wears another one of her many baby doll dresses, this time in yellow. Chelsea's hair has been done up so hard that she could totally have a good look even in the midst of a tsunami. She's awkward. I can't believe we have to watch this stupid moment. This moment where he tells her that he doesn't want to be with her. I will totally pee on my couch if he picks her. He won't though. She's totally overdone, way too much make up. He's not picking her. I KNEW IT. Fucker. If I were her, I would be like, you know what, you're a dick. I hate you. I can't believe I spent this much time putting on my false eyelashes. He can't be with her because her hair is all over the place. He's telling her that he thinks she's amazing and he hopes that she finds the woman of her dreams. She's saying how she can't believe he would fall for Shayne's b.s. You know what, I don't care. I don't like her either. She's saying that he's a fool. He is. As are all of us who are watching this fucking stupid fucking show. If I could growl, I would.

Here comes Shayne. She is the warmest, most genuine person in black eyeliner that he's ever known and he can't wait to tell her. Cue the music. Cue the foot stepping out of the limo. I hope she tells him no, she can't marry him. I have never had my heart in a man's hands like this, she says, reading from the script. What an amazing way to fall in love, she articulates clearly to the camera. She keeps saying how she has given him everything and how she's amazing, and how she's amazingly given him everything in her heart. Now he's saying some drivel about how he's liked her from the first second he saw her boobs and her audition tape. He keeps talking about her brown eyes/contacts. Now he's getting down on one knee, and she's pretending to be surprised, like a girl in a porn movie who is shocked to see that she gets to be triple teamed by two guys and a poodle. She accepts. She will marry him or do the porn movie whatever he prefers. She says that she will marry him under one condition, That he never star in a film with Cameron Diaz for the rest of their lives. Now they are smooching and we get a montage of her hats and clothes and sunglasses and scripted moments. Oh, awesome, whatever, this is supposed to be a dream come true, right? I hate the dream.

Friday, May 9, 2008

Don't Wake the Lion

Okay, no headache this morning so that's good. Could it be from having a slight cold or something too? I've diagnosed myself twenty different ways through the Internet. I may actually have a rare form of gender identity headache caused by being scratched by one of the feral kitties (watched ER last night for the first time in years and that was one of the side stories. Sort of).

My life-style column article for Philadelphia Maven is out. If you want to read it, go here. It's not earth-shattering and there's a typo at the end that makes me crazy, but oh, well. I'm a columnist, people. Look out. I sent my other piece in this week and I want to work on one for July that's a modern day version of Dorothy Parker's "The Telephone Call." In the new version, she'd be wondering when he's going to email her back or IM or send a text message or respond to her request that they be facebook friends. All the many ways one can now be reached or ignored.

Going to a film festival tonight to be cultured. That's if I can finish this philosophy paper and if this animal headache doesn't roar back to life.

Speaking of animals, Carrie took all four of the kittens to the vet and spent over $300 on them while I stood by, whistling. So, if anyone wants to give a donation to Carrie, she deserves it. She and Padhraig will keep two (Padhraig named one Paul Skohls. I guess that's some rugby/soccer dude). The other two may have home soon. Turns out there were three boys and one girl. The mama kitty keeps coming around crying still. I thought she was supposed to get over that and forget? I have a vet appointment to get her spayed on Thursday, but that will of course be contingent on whether or not I can catch her in this feral cage I don't yet have.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Achy Head

I really want to write a post about the fabulous Flight of the Conchords concert on Monday wherein Irina was so excited she kept clapping her hands and bouncing in her seat and wherein I still couldn't make up my mind which of the boys is cuter and I'd like to recount all of their witty quips, but I have seriously had a headache for a week, and it's not going away. I took several photos and none of them turned out and watching them was sort of like seeing them on a TV with bad reception. Couldn't see their expressions at all. They kept giving out their room number and hotel name (though I'm sure it wasn't really where they were staying) but Irina was like, well, maybe? I would've gone with you, Irina. The Hotel Sofitel near Rittenhouse. Room 901.

The headache got worse last night and I've had it all day today. I went to the grocery store and took their blood pressure test and I guess it's b/c my blood pressure is high or my blood pressure is high because I have a headache or I don't know. Reminds me how at GOL, every story of brain death starts with "He was complaining that he had the worst headache of his life..." If it's not better by tomorrow, I'll go to a clinic. I think it's a little better than it was last night. It has moved to the right side of my head instead of all over. I don't know how I'm going to finish this paper for philosophy class either.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Cat Trauma-Rama

Have not mentioned the litter of stray feral kitties in awhile, but they did return. The mama kitty decided they were best suited to live in the rough and tumble chaos of the abandoned yard next to mine. I woke up one day to discover that they had taken up residence there and have spent the last two weeks feeling like I should rescue them, but hesitating too, since they were still too young to separate from the mom. So, I checked every day, often more than once a day, to be sure they hadn't been slaughtered or fallen down into the cracks in the backyard or been otherwise hurt. And the nine year old who lives next door to me (Avis) has been pestering me to save them. She kept volunteering to climb over and save them, but I wasn't sure what that meant--what we would do with them if we had them, but not the mommy. Today, I was out with Carrie and Padhraig and Carrie seemed determined to rescue them too, so we climbed over into the adjacent back yard and I caught them, one by one, and dumped them into a kitty carrier. It was traumatic because they didn't like being held. They fought and carried on. Both Carrie and I sustained scratches and will likely die tomorrow of cat scratch fever or rabies or scabies or some such disease. For some reason, after I shoved the last one into the carrier Padhraig was holding on the other side of the wall, I started to cry. I felt so bad about taking them away from the mama who was hovering nervously on the brick wall, listening to them scream as though being torn apart limb for limb. Carrie reminded me that you can't reason with a cat; you can't explain to her that what we're doing will help all of them, but it still bothered me to think that the mama kitty wouldn't know what happened to her babies. They were here and now they're gone. The mama kitty is still around and I gave her some tuna in compensation for stealing away her babies.

Carrie generously offered to take all four of them to live in her basement which is a huge relief to me because I have enough worries without taking on additional animals. But what if they won't eat the food? What if they all have feline leukemia? Then we will have to drown them in the river. Can't someone please lend me a feral cat cage to catch the mama? Plus the whatever amount of $ it will take to get her fixed so I don't have to go through this again in another two weeks? Please?

Friday, May 2, 2008

Girlfriend in a Coma

Do you really think she'll pull through?

Here is the winner of "The Biggest Flyers fan in South Philadelphia" contest. As I said in a previous post, it seems clear to me that no woman could live at this house. Later, we might learn that the owner is actually a lady. But I sincerely doubt it.

On another subject, I had a conversation with this girl in my philosophy/pop culture class who has cerebral palsy. She gets around with a walker but if you were to just look at her sitting in her swivel chair in the classroom, you wouldn't necessarily know that she has a disability. She was telling me on Tuesday that she's had several people approach her on the streets and ask her if they can pray over her. She says, Sure. They lay their hands on her and pray for the Lord to heal her and, when they're done, they ask her if she feels better. She says, Well, I know I'm never going to walk again, but thank you. Hearing this made me realize that if I had a disability, I would be a total bitch. I would not be patient and kind and tolerant. I would say, Hey, fuck you, I might never walk again but at least I wouldn't have to go around with your ugly face. I would spit and growl at people for feeling sorry for me. I would be infuriated all the time, I'm sure of it.

Have been thinking lately about how great it is to write and receive letters. Because of the Internet and email and cell phones and whatever else, people don't write each other anymore. Stamps are used for bills (which you can also pay online) , but not for writing people you love. Just got a great, great, awesome letter in the mail today, one that made me pause and wish I could go back in time to a day where letter-writing were the norm. When was the last time you wrote someone a letter or received one? It's very gratifying. Now it is my turn to write back. I have to say that I prefer the pen to the computer. I always write my stories in long-hand first and then transcribe them to the computer. On the page, you can see all of your flaws and missteps. There is no delete key. It's more honest somehow. Remember how your mom used to make you write thank you notes to your grandma for the rabbit bank she sent you? And how you hated it? But also how you loved getting a letter from your pen pal or your cousin or whoever else. This is me telling you to send a letter to someone right now. That's what I'm going to do.