Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Liveblogging the American Idol Finale, Part 2

8:01 - I almost missed the beginning of the show because Dateline's doing another installment of their internet pedophile sting operation. It's hard to tear yourself away from perverts with their blurry naughty parts a-blazing.

8:04 - Video retrospective of Randy saying "dude."

8:05 - Video retrospective of Paula crying and hitting Simon.

8:05 - Video retrospective of Simon touching his mouth. But which will win the Oscar for Best Short Film?

8:08 - Apparently they're bringing back EVERY GODDAMN FINALIST to sing weird duets. Paris and Al Jarreau, whose name I know only because a tape my dad made of an Al Jarreau eight track circulated my childhood home for the first eighteen years of my life. They're scatting. I'm gagging.

8:10 - I've just decided that if I'm ever a finalist they decide to bring back on the American Idol season finale, I'm doing an "Opposites Attract" duet with Paula and I'm totally coming out dressed as that stupid fucking cartoon cat from the video. They'll regret voting me off then.

8:14 - Chris Daughtry and Live. Really? You mean Chris Daughtry's favorite band has a bald frontman with a warbly voice? Really?

8:21 - Katharine McPhee and Meatloaf sing "All Coming Back to Me Now." Meatloaf sounds like Katharine Hepburn and he's carrying a red sweat rag. I'll take back all the shit I talked about Katharine McPhee if she touches the sweat rag. TOUCH THE RAG, KAT. TOUCH THE RAG. I'll mail her a hundred bucks if she touches the Meatloaf's "au jus."

8:23 - Why are they singing a Celine Dion song? Meatloaf sang two of the world's greatest male/female duets, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" and "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)," and they pick this? TOUCH THE RAG, KAT.

8:24 - No dice. Bitch can't sing, and she's out a hundred smackers.

8:28 - Like, ten minutes of absolute bullshit giving out "Golden Idol" awards to the freakshows from the auditions. Because nothing deserves an award more than paranoid schizophrenia and histrionic personality disorder.

8:39 - There's some shtick with Wolfgang Puck and Kellie Pickler. I love this girl, I'm not even joking. She's my American Idol.

8:40 - All of the American Idol guys are singing "Takin' Care of Business." Kevin Covais, the sixteen-year-old in the body of a seven-year-old, and Ace, the penis in the body of a douchebag, are doing some spectacular harmonization. All of a sudden they're singing "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow." How that happened, I'm not sure. I just realized Bucky actually had a good voice. It's a shame the Babysitter's Club hair got him voted off.

8:52 - I think Ryan Seacrest just made out with Elliot's mother via misplaced cheek kiss.

8:52 - Elliot Yamin sings "One" by U2, and I'm sure they're trotting out Mary J. Blige to sing this again, like she has done on EVERY SINGLE TV SHOW on EVERY NETWORK this season. Well, except she's wearing weird Willie Wonka white sunglasses this time. That's something.

8:54 - This isn't a duet. Mary's going crazy in the middle of the stage, and Elliot is swaying off to the side. No one puts Mary in a corner.

9:00 - Carrie Underwood, evil songstress behind "Jesus Take the Wheel," is singing some twangy ballad about leaving home. The song mentions the Bible before the verse is over...and I think I just came up with a fabulous drinking game.

9:05 - Taylor Hicks and Toni Braxton singing "In the Ghetto," and she manages to sing too low even for her. I guess, if nothing else, she's proven she's not a tranny.

9:11 - The girls are singing "I Feel Like a Woman." Now it's that "W-O-M-A-N" song. And now they're singing "Natural Woman." Now it's "I'm Every Woman." Some producer got drunk and lazy in a karaoke songbook.

9:19 - They brought out Clay Aiken. You know how when you see, like, a spider in the shower, and it's totally frightening and awful, but then you get over your initial shock and you're okay enough to finish washing your hair as long as you keep your eye on it, and by the time you're done conditioning it's not so bad and you're brave enough to squash it with some toilet paper? Yeah. Clay's not like that. Still as frightening and awful as the first time I saw him.

9:25 - A tribute to Burt Bacharach? American Idol is excavating levels of disinterest I did not know my heart even contained.

9:42 - Giving out another "Golden Idol." Do we have time for this? I don't have time for this. I don't have time for "Brokeback Mountain" jokes. Next up, a guilty O.J. joke and a quip about Adlai Stevenson.

9:47 - Prince! They got Prince! This is shocking! For this, I took back one bad thing I wrote during the Burt Bacharach medley about Dionne Warwick being half a million years old.

9:55 - Okay, so the "Nobody puts Mary in a corner" joke up there, I swear to God, was in there before Kat and Taylor started singing "I've Had the Time of My Life."

9:57 - Lots of bullcrap, stall stall stall. Can we just finish off this two-hour cocktease?

9:58 - Taylor won! And David Hasseloff is in the audience crying. Yeah, that's about right. God bless the U.S. of freakin' A.

You're Hired, You Sexy Bitch

I've found my new job. Craigslist never lets me down. Dates, real estate, employment--anonymous free posting really attracts the cream of the crop in any arena. Anyway, here's what I think I'm going to apply for, and I'm positive I won't end up being raped for a living. I haven't changed a word, but the bold emphasis is mine:

Young personal assistant wanted to help selling online on ebay,

Its ez & fun job, not under prassure!

Job is for Part/time work that could lead to a full time position. or you can learn very much secrets how to earn money from reselling items without big investments

Currently i would need between 10-25 hours a week or more if necessary.
internet acces is a must
(ebay selling knowladge is a plus)

If you dont know eBay i can do FREE TRAINING!

$7-$12 hr, or for each item you post a small ammount
This is a part-time job. Short term.

====================

if you are interested in commission only, that you want to sell the items on your ebay or any way you want to friends or ads & we will split the commission you can also contact me

Perfect for college girls.
Please send your details,
Phone #,
& your picture
(& resume If you have)

Job location: Your place or if you can have some small office with internet access maybe i can help pay a little the rent.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Liveblogging the American Idol Finale

8:01 - Mandy Moore is in the audience. There really must be nothing but pennies in her pocket.

8:03 - We're watching a video retrospective of Taylor and Katharine's journey to the final. While listening to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." GET IT? GET IT? Do you GET IT? Journey...Journey. God, you're stupid. GET IT?

8:04 - McPheever. "The Soul Patrol." American Idol is depleting our nation's supply of clever word play at an alarming rate. Where's the Al Gore documentary about that?

8:05 - Katharine versus Taylor. "It's girl vs. boy. The west vs. the south," says Ryan's voiceover. Yes, that historic battle between the west and the south, personified here by pre-fab pop starlets. Just like the civil war!

8:05 - Does it bother anyone else that Ryan Seacrest's nose is completely crooked on his face?

8:09 - Chris Daughtry's here. What's that noise? Oh, right, bitterness grinding his teeth down to little stubs.

8:09 - Katharine is singing that KT Tunstall song again. If she wins, I'm going to light a bus on fire, I swear to God. She's dancing all up on the guy playing the washboard. It's insincere.

8:11 - Stupid celebrity sighting two: Christina Applegate. Kelly Bundy's here. Fab.

8:13 - Taylor's singing "Living for the City," in a purple velvet coat. It is with a heavy heart that I break this news to him: Taylor, dear, darling, my little silver-haired love, you are not Samuel L. Jackson. I'm still rooting for you, because you are the unlikeliest motherfucker on the planet to be in the finals for this show, and because I suspect Katharine is a robot and a Scientologist (and in all likelihood both), but purple velvet is never the answer.

8:16 - Taye Diggs. Ha, remember when you were famous?

8:22 - Katharine does "Some where Over the Rainbow" again. I bet her father's already blubbering all over the place. Someone plug that man's face.

8:25 - Dad tears. Did I just win five bucks?

8:26 - Extra! Extra! English escapes Paula's grasp yet again!

8:27 - Katharine says her ear monitor didn't work for the a capella beginning of her song..booo hooo hoo hoo. Go cry like your dad.

8:32 - Taylor's singing "Levon," an Elton John song. Which I had to google the lyrics of. Because I thought it was "Leave On." And that didn't make any sense. ...And the songs over. Oops.

8:34 - Randy declares it "pitchy." I declare "pitchy" not a real word, goddammit.

8:35 - Constantine just smarmed out from behind Bucky in the audience. He is a pile of slime.

8:41 - Katharine McPhee's "first single" is called "My Destiny." Do they have seventh grade girls write these American Idol singles? This sounds like the kind of thing that would be on a Nickelodeon show about a girl with a single on the radio. She can't hit any of the notes.

8:44 - And now there's a gospel choir behind her. What's that sound? Oh, right, bitterness about singing back-up to HER strangling their vocal chords.

8:45 - Tori Spelling's in the audience, except they fucked up the caption underneath her and it read "Katharine's Family and Friends." I don't believe that was a mistake; her reality show's about being D-list. THERE IS NO REALITY.

8:51 - Taylor's song is called "Do I Make You Proud?" They're hauling out the choir again. This song is so cheesy they probably found it in a Lunchables, but he sounds good.

8:55 - I think Taylor just won. He better have, or seriously, a bus. On fire. I mean it.

8:59 - And so begins the telecommunications war between American voters to elect a pop idol whose albums I will never buy and whose songs will invariably suck. Vive la democracy! Et le capitalisme! Et making up foreign words! Et House, which is a good show and the finale is now!

Check, Please

Because I am the kind of person who likes to spend her free moments retching onto her desk, I've spent the better part of this morning looking up Department of Health inspection ratings for every restaurant I've ever eaten at in New York. Actually, to be fair, the restaurants I eat at most frequently were pretty clean. The worst offender scored thirteen points (the city's average, and far below the 27 you need for re-inspection) for having waiters with insufficient personal hygiene, and, really, I knew that by looking at them. A Dunkin' Donuts not far from my house from which I did, once upon a time, purchase and then consume a shit ton of donuts had a frightening number of violations--enough to put me off my strawberry frosted with sprinkles for a little while.

They make it hard to get to, but the very worst restaurant in New York in terms of health code violations was an epicurean delight on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. The Department of Health shut down poor Danny and Pepper Jerk Express in March, but not before reporting an enticing ratatouille of rats, mice, flies, roaches, and improper sewage drainage.

Surprisingly, there were no McDonaldses or Burger Kings on the list of violators. You're much better off eating a Whopper off the floor there than eating at half the restaurants in LaGuardia Airport. Or anywhere with "Mr." in the name. Or at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where their milk is expired.

Other offenders on the list were the kind of restaurant you wouldn't want to eat in based on name alone. Would you order a ham on rye from Belly Delly Deli? Even if they washed their hands? How about the Chewy Deli, Inc.? Head out for a beer, alone and vulnerable, to the Remote Sports Bar? Have a nice, romantic dinner at Golden Sac? How about a pepperoni slice from Pizza con Vitamins?

I'm not sure why I care, or if I even do. It's unlikely I'd stop eating at any of the restaurants I eat at now, even if I did find out that my croutons were transported to my salad on the thoraxes of giant ants. In fact, I don't even know how much faith I put in the results at all, considering the fact that a restaurant where I watched roaches scamper playfully on the ceiling above my head (as they took away my plate after I finished eating) wasn't cited at all.

I was actually pretty excited to find a few places I'd eaten on the naughty list, because it makes me feel like a gastrointestinal strongman with bowels of steel. Take that, airport Au Bon Pain! Your improperly refrigerated cheese danish cannot strike me down!

When you spend all day researching whether or not someone's close-up photo of severe impetigo (I dare you to Google image search that) is original, it's important to take your tiny, stupid adventures as they come. Even if it's with a side of E.coli.

Monday, May 22, 2006

An Ode to my Living Room Set

Sloth is my favorite of the deadly sins. Ask my couch. We spent a great deal of time together this weekend, jointly earning our spot in the lazy, supine circle of hell.

I think I left my apartment twice between Friday afternoon and this morning. Once to go see Art School Confidential, which was fun, and playing at the Angelika, which means that every once in a while your seat goes all massagey and vibratey when the train runs underneath you. Besides that and a brief MisShapes trip on Saturday night, I was in my green pajama pants and pointed toward the TV until forced out of my house this morning. I don't know that there's any real life thing I need to recuperate from, but every once in a while it becomes unfathomable to put on pants and do anything without a blanket wrapped babooshka-style around my whole head.

Some days I'm just amazed that I own a couch.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Legalese

Last night outside the Annex I watched two large and particularly imposing bouncers confiscate a fake ID belonging to (at my estimation) a nineteen year old girl. If there is any bouncer on the Lower East Side who does not tolerate chalked, photocopied, faked, forged, or otherwise fudged licenses, it is the guy who stands outside the door at the Annex. He's a man who knows his IDetails. I've been legal for nearly three years, and I still feel like I'm doing something wrong when he scrutinizes even the barcode on the back of my license. The other guys who work security there are equally impressive; one is a massive mountain of dude good at being the silent strong-arm type, and the other looks eerily, astoundingly like Ice-T, with the same facial hair and everything, and he always wears a suit like Ice-T does on Law and Order: SVU, which makes me think he cultivates the resemblance, all of which has nothing to do with the fact that they'll take your license and flag down the next passing cop car faster than you can say "the birthdate's on the top...right there...I swear...", but it makes the scene that much more enjoyable when you can add the original Cop Killer himself.

Anyway, so. This girl, this clearly underage girl, would not let things go. If you're caught, leave. End of story. Fork over another sixty bucks to someone's older brother for another ID and do not attempt to get into the place that caught you until your children are in preschool. I used to work the door at a bar (of sorts) and contrary to the belief of many an eighteen year old, I did not suffer a cognitive disorder that rendered human faces an unrecognizable jumble of features. Bouncers remember. The Annex bouncer, for example, will probably tell the story of last night's thwarted adolescent drinker to everyone, and she will become "that girl who kept yelling JUST GIVE ME MY FUCKING LICENSE BACK AND I'LL FORGIVE YOU." And then he'll laugh, because she's probably still mad, and he's laughing, and she might never figure out why the forgiveness of an underage chihuahua of a girl isn't a big enough prize to break the law.

Being under twenty-one at ten o'clock on a Friday night is a drag, broken occasionally by brief a crapshoot for inebriation. I remember that. But when the house takes all, lose with some grace; you'll hit twenty-one soon enough, and when you do, you'll regret telling the guy still guarding the door to the place you still want to enter that your parents are lawyers, and you'll call them. You will. Right here. Now give your fucking license back and you'll forgive him.

The bouncer in possession of the fake ID wasn't without a sense of showmanship. Not the kind to stay silent until the police arrived, he paced up and down the block showing the ID to every interested party of legal age and threatening to get in fights with the girl's companions. I saw the thing, and it was, truly, a bad fake. I mean, not as bad as the military ID an eighteen-year-old once tried to assure me was valid as he bought an armful of Heinekin 22 oz.ers for a waiting band of puberts. But this was bad. And still she kept up with the yelling and pleading for the ID back instead of making a hasty retreat and bitching over a (perfectly legal) frappucino.

It made for some great curbside entertainment, which of late for me has been lacking. I'm getting lots of gross and crazy (man farting on subway giving me a thumbs up; man on sidewalk outside bar yelling, I swear, "So, she's playing with my wang under the fucking table, and that's that!") but very little self-centered and foolish, my favorite flavor of sidewalk ridiculosity.

Inside the bar with the grown-ups was less exciting than all the commotion on the curb, but the Stolen Transmission party is a nice place to hang out. Even when it smells like a foot. Which, mysteriously enough, it did last night. And when strangers aren't accidentally landing punches on my person, which happens more often than it should. Whenever I go to a show, a party, or basically anywhere outside my bed, it seems like other people's fists are drawn to my body with a gravitational force outside my control.

Last night some guy got really excited about something, which caused his fists to come crashing down very quickly into my back, which caused me to yell "ow." He said "Sorry, I didn't mean to punch you." Then I said, "That's okay." Then he said "Actually, I did mean to punch you." Then I said, "Then you better watch it," while making a fist in his face. Then he said "I meant to punch you really hard." And I said, "Ha, okay, I got it." Then he said "Seriously, I'm just about honesty, I was trying to hit you really fucking hard." And then I said "I'm going to go wait outside."

Because the only thing funnier than punching a stranger is prolonging your weird, borderline threatening jokes about it. What's the moral of my story, here? I don't actually know; I got in late, it's 4:15 on a Friday, and coherent thinking is falling far below breathing and keeping my eyes open on the list of tasks my body is trying to accomplish. Strangers, please keep your blows open-palmed as I somnambulate my way home.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Who Got The Keys To My BEEP?

Has anyone else heard the latest Pussycat Dolls song? The one with all the beeps? I think it might be called "Beep" or "The Beep Song," or something equally pragmatic ("Pop Song With Beeps Instead of Curse Words Sung by a Sorta Stripper"). The lyrics to the chorus go I don't give a BEEP if you're lookin' at my BEEP / 'Cause it don't mean a thing if you're lookin' at my BEEP...etc.

Okay, here's the thing about this song. We all know she means "I don't give a fuck if you're looking at my tits." There's also the possibility she means "ass" or "ladyflower," even though the syllables aren't right on that last one. But the whole point of the song is that she's not actually saying either, and that the whole thing is a play on the beep, and then wil.i.am comes in and does some rapping that's all Black Eyed Peasy and redeeming (You got a real big heart but I'm looking at your BEEP...) and everyone feels good about hearing a clean dirty song, or a dirty clean song.

I think that if you're gonna do this, you should do the damn thing. My suggestions:

-Oh my god, is that BEEP? / That seriously smells like BEEP.

-I don't give a BEEP if you've been diagnosed with B.E.E.P. / I'll still let you BEEP me without a BEEPBEEP on...

-I don't give a BEEP if you stick it in my BEEP / Or you stick it in my BEEP or my BEEP or in my...BEEP?

-BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP hole BEEP BEEP BEEP / BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Lovitz.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

MySpace Cadets

The freak parade that is my life continues to trudge past, with a line of bizarro marching bands and hunchbacked, drooling flag twirlers stretching to the horizon.

About once every two months I'll get a MySpace message from someone e-propositioning everyone in my zip code for what I can imagine would be illicit, smelly sex. Last time it was a marine looking to schedule in some action for his few days on leave. Fine, whatever. I wouldn't have called him out just for trying to pack his days with as much vagina as possible--except for the fact that one of his pictures was him in a big gym shower, all wet with no clothes on, and he clearly was not the one taking the picture. I mean. Really. You may think the sight of your glistening, dewy manmaries is enough to make any woman drop her drawers, but no one is attractive enough to get away with passing off a camera to the dude soaping up at the next shower head and being all "Hey, you mind?" like you were both standing in front of the goddamn Liberty Bell.

Anyway.

Today, I got a message (subject: "wuts good") from a nineteen year old Brooklynite with a bare bones profile. He is an Aquarius, and he does not want children. What more do I need to know? What he lacks in written details he more than makes up for with photos, though. He includes four pictures of himself in his profile. In every one he is making the exact same face, sort of a halfwit L.L. lip pout, but he wrote radically different captions for each. Looking at his photos made me feel like I was failing some cognitive psych test. What's this face? Happy. What's this face? Happy. What's this face? Happy.

Anyway, on this profile, halfwit lip pout number one is entitled "FROM THE HOOD YALL NO." Pout two: "LOL ME BEING STUPID." Identical pout three: "ME LOOKIN LOST." And the final pout: "LADIES GET BAC AT ME."

Oh my dear child, I think I just did.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Liveblogging the David Blaine De-Bubbling

8:24: Watching David Blaine work out is not magic. Or sexy. But especially not magic.

8:26: Card tricks piss me off. People who are amazed by card tricks piss me off.

8:27: We are meeting David Blaine's personal trainer. How is it possible that everyone associated with this man is the shadiest individual in their respective field of expertise? Why do they all use so much hair product? Why does David Blaine never wear a shirt?

8:30: During a Red Bull commercial, I wonder: who is paying David Blaine to do this?

8:30:30: I bet it's Al Qaeda.

8:31: I FEEL TERRORIZED.

8:32: A fan has created a snow globe of David Blaine in a bubble. The real magic? Topical arts and crafts.

8:38: David Blaine is coaching women at a casino. The real magic? That their boobs are staying inside their tops.

8:44: The announcer is boring and even he can't make this thrilling. The real magic? His eyes are two different colors.

8:48: David Blaine is interviewing that guy who cut off his own arm with a pocket knife when he was pinned beneath a boulder. They're out in the snow in the middle of the woods, and Armless Joe or whatever his name is is wearing a big parka. David Blaine is wearing a t-shirt. Magic is hard nipples.

8:53: There's a sign in the audience the cameraman zoomed in on:
Again
Blaine
Cheats death!
My questions about who is paying for this are answered. ABC TV IS MAGIC.

8:58: They have sent David Blaine to prison, to the top of a mountain, to the streets of Brooklyn, to a casino, and to swim with 27 sharks. The real magic? That they've managed to stretch NINE MINUTES of television into two hours.

9:00: David Blaine is chewing glass. The real magic? That I am not throwing up.

9:06: A police department diver is entering David Blaine's bubble to chain him with handcuffs. The real magic? That there is no real crime to fight.

9:08: Brad is doing some kind of samba. The real magic? That I am not throwing up.

9:13: Now he's a Navy Seal. The real magic? His unbelievable wedgie.

9:17: If I have to see David Blaine's disgusting gray nightmare wrinkled pruny hippo feet one more time, I'm going to make him disappear with the magic that emanates from my remote control.

9:23: I was just warned that I should not try this at home. I should not, under any circumstances construct a sphere, fill it with water, live in it for a week, then chain myself to the bottom of it with handcuffs, then escape the chains, then hold my breath for nine minutes, then collect a fat fucking paycheck from ABC. Don't try that. Don't.

9:29: "In my dreams, I can live underwater forever." In my dreams, I date Adam Brody.

9:35: It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN. This needs a wicked guitar solo, but all I'm getting is the Blaniac's greasy doctor talking about how we know if he passes out. He'll pass out if he doesn't get some serious shredded guitar badassery, you little bitch.

9:41: Oh boy, he's breathing in.

9:42: Now he's not breathing out. The real magic? David Blaine stops breathing and Brad gets dumped! At least he has still has the samba. And potentially David Blaine's lifeless corpse...we'll see how the next eight minutes go.

9:44: Yeah, he's still not breathing. You know, I not breathe all the time. In between all the breathing I do.

9:46: No breath. Wheeee.

9:48: The opposite of breath. And removing handcuffs. Now he's making me feel like a loser for breathing and not escaping the entrapments of our good law enforcement agents. David Blaine sucks.

9:50: Aaaaaand he almost drowns. Two hours and he doesn't get the chains off, and he doesn't break the record. This is a far better ending than they planned.

9:52: There's all kinds of convulsions and tears. And they keep zooming in on this one pretty girl in the front row. Those people at ABC are smart. Model plant, or David's back pimples? Model? Pimples?

9:55: Now hes addressing the crowd and crying. This is like Miss America, but with a naked wet weirdo who only sucked in his stomach for seven minutes.

9:56: "I think you're seeing some history of its own right now," says the announcer. Where they would file this in the Dewey decimal system is unclear. Where does weird douchebaggery fall? Before or after psychology?

10:01: I'm gonna go fill a ziploc with water and see how long my hamster can hold its breath. They only said I couldn't try it at home.

Monday Bloody Monday

I'm not sure what I'm watching, but Balki is trying to sell weapons to Eddie Murphy. I'm not sure of many things, but I'm positive that this is not the recipe for entertainment. Basically I'm just killing time here until they haul David Blaine out of his bubble and, according to the New York Daily News, he passes out because his plasma is all diluted. I want to see that moron unconscious and drippy like a hooked bass.

It's Monday, and I have a taste for blood.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Blaine in the Ass

Right now, as I type this, there is a big plastic sphere in the middle of Lincoln Center, the nexus of New York City arts and culture. Where the sopranos sing heavenly arias and ballerinas dance impossibly lightly across the stage, there is a half naked magician hooked up to a catheter and feeding tube and smashing his pruny face against the glass so Fox Five News can get a decent clip.

I have seen many stupid things. This might've been the stupidest.

As Brad has written and documented, the antidote to yesterday's crappo day was obviously to truck seventy blocks north to see a wiener in a bubble. David Blaine is spending a week or something underwater, and then getting out, and then going back in with 150 pounds of chains locked around his body which he has to escape from, but not before he spends something like nine minutes under water because then he breaks the world record for not breathing.

It is at this point, when I have stopped laughing uncontrollably, that I'd like to point out to David Blaine that Harry Houdini has been not breathing for almost a hundred years.

Now there's a goal, David Blaine. Give that a go.

We came up out of the subway at Lincoln Center and only had to follow the crowd to find the Blaine bath. I honestly expected a few people snapping a couple of pictures, not a line an hour long to press your hand against his through the stupid bubble. I pictured him quiet and meditative, not thumbs-upping in a diver's helmet. Everything about the scene was unbelievable--and hysterical. Who waits on a line to see David Blaine floating in a bubble of his own sweat and skin cells? David Blaine has fans? People like magicians? Lincoln Center said yeah, please, come do this here, while we have fancy receptions on the balcony right above his stupid head? David Blaine has fans?

I hate magicians. I'm not stupid, and I feel like the basic premise of a magic act is that I'm stupider than a guy with a pigeon shoved up the arm of his coat. I don't want to be your volunteer, I don't want to pick a card, and I'm not mystified by your two totally solid rings that [bing] can't possibly [bing] be joined [click!] TOGETHER! Add on top of that the fact that being wet for a long time isn't magic, and also that David Blaine always sounds like he's high, and I'd sooner wait on line for a public Pap smear than watch that turd float around.

But seriously, you guys should all come out for my magic act. I'm going to magically make twelve death-defying inches of a Subway Veggie Delight sandwich disappear at around 12:30 today. You'll be amazed at my feat of prestidigitation! Or, I guess in this case, prestidigestion. But who knows! A magician never reveals his methods.

Abra-freakin'-cadabra.

Monday, May 01, 2006

I Am How the Terrorists Win.

The other night Brad and I were headed out on the train, probably around midnight. I can't remember what night it was, so I can't remember where we were headed, but the point of all this intro was that it was late enough for the D to be nearly empty. We got on in Brooklyn and Brad hooked himself up to his iPod like it was an IV dripping the antidote to irritating train conversation. I didn't have mine with me.

Halfway down the car two Chinese guys were having a conversation back and forth, but I wasn't paying much attention because I don't understand the language and couldn't eavesdrop. The other thing I was trying not to pay attention to was the crazy, or drunk, or crazy and drunk man sitting a few seats away from the guys having the conversation. When I got on the train he was sort of mumbling, but by the time we hit the Manhattan bridge he was full-on yelling crazy stuff and I was trying to will Brad's eyes open with psychic laser beams to communicate, through winks and wriggling eyebrows, that we would be relocating to a different part of the train at the next stop.

I was afraid to look over at the yeller because the last thing you want to do is catch a crazy's eye and make them think they've found a sympathetic audience. I've made this mistake too often, usually when traveling alone on the train. I hear someone talking to, say, God, and then I absolutely have to look over, and then they notice me, and then they're all, "You know what I mean? You love the Lord? The Lord loves YOU, white girl!" It's a bad situation.

So I didn't look over when he started yelling at the two Chinese guys to shut up because THIS IS HIS COUNTRY. HE WAS BORN HERE. To their credit, the guys took it totally in stride and just ignored him, but that didn't stop him from telling everyone that he had BEEN TO CHINA, FRANCE, EUROPE, RUSSIA, CHINA, AND FRANCE, and he WOULD STAB EVERY FAGGOT ON THIS TRAIN.

When the train finally hit Grand street Brad and I slipped into the next car and got to our destination in relative peace.

It wasn't until last night that I realized I totally sacrificed a car full of potential stabees to get to, like, Lit on time. Here is a man, clearly expressing his desire to inflict harm on the delicate flesh of D-train passengers, and my first impulse was to switch cars and let Crazy carry out his blood orgy sans my annoying disapproval. Telling the conductor was about as wise an option to me at the time as sitting on Crazy's lap and asking him for a bedtime story. They would stop the train. I would have to wait for another train.

"If you see something, say something." How many times have you seen that poster? I saw something. Then I hissed, "We'removingtothenextcarthisguyispissingmeoff." Homeland Security must want to punch me right in the head.

But whatever, I'd like to see them try. If I saw six guys in suits all sitting together in one car, I'd probably move.
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