Thursday, January 25, 2007

The Best of Craigslist Personals, Vol. I Forget

Ever Fuck A Twisted Genius?
No, but once I blew a hunchback idiot savant. We could possibly get along.

dom - m4w
Desperately seeking DeLouise!

iso SUGAR BABY - m4w
Had a bad relationship with a GOOBER, then a failed fling with a RUNT, followed up by a brief affair with both MIKE & IKE.

******Looking for my kate bush

Looking For A Sexy Girl To Come By Tonight And Hang
Or a MILF to come by this evening and drown in the bathtub. I mean--I like long walks on the beach!

There once was a woman from Mars, ..... - 45 (complete the limerick and win a prize!)
Who met lots of losers in bars.
But the ones on the Net
Were still weirder yet,
So she gave up and, seriously, fuck you.

Office, SEX, Chat, - 35
Kevin Nealon, I know that's you. And Mr. Subliminal sucked.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

How Much Is That Doggy In the Window? The One With the Black Eye?

Up until about an hour ago, I had third and fourth roommates who both answered to the name DJ. They were both brunettes. They were both sleeping on the couch. One uses utensils when he eats. The other licked food off the floor.

One is an intern at the folk art museum for the month. The other was a West Highland Terrier/Cairn Terrier mix. The names are coincidental; though they will both look up when you yell DJ, one is more commonly known as Dan, and the other answered to pretty much anything you like so long as you had a hunk of mozzarella in your hand. I'll let you decide who is whom.

They are both transient fosters, and as of today, they both have a set of permanent parents.

We got DJ Barksalot after Brad applied to Waggytails Rescue, an organization that places the dogs overcrowded NYC shelters can't house in foster care until suitable permanent families apply for ownership. The back story on our dog involved a stoner girl who turned him over to a shelter while she was high. His future story is in the hands of a really nice couple. And after spending roughly a week with the yippiest, most easily excitable dog on the goddamn planet, I'm pretty sure my future story should be childless.

DJ was so adorable when he was asleep on my stomach on the couch, his stupid little feet twitching in the air as he dreamed about peeing uninterrupted on my bed (again). However, when he was wide awake at eleven o'clock and barking endlessly and ferociously at, say, a dripping faucet, or the boiler, or toward the silent, visitorless door, or at moving molecules of hydrogen, or maybe just at the thought of moving molecules of hydrogen, he was significantly less loveable.

After housing little DJ, there are two contradictory things that are true about me:

1. I am completely against cruelty to animals.
2. I have fantasized about punching a puppy right in his fucking face.

Before I end up old enough to have much greater responsibilities than a foster mutt, I should probably just have my tubes tied. I never want to augment that list with something like "3. Believes, under certain circumstances, that drugging a baby can be justified."

Now that DJ's gone we've gotten a new foster named Billy. Or Gadget, or Nettles, depending on whom you ask. He's a little high strung, but he's tiny and I could definitely fit him in at least one of my purses. . I've never once seen the appeal of doing so, but perhaps this is just because I've never been able to wear my dog. Billy is, in theory, like getting a whole new wardrobe and correspondingly gross identity.

The music swells in the background. Does our narrator become the kind of person you see in Starbucks, feeding iced lemon cake to the shaky little rodent dog her big ugly tote?

Stay tuned.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Doctor Doctor, Gimme the News

A hospital is simultaneously way more fake and way more real than it looks on TV. The waiting room to get a bed in the emergency room is so impossibly bright and white you can almost hear the synths swelling in the background, since you're obviously the walk-on mystery virus case on ER. Your eyes are going to roll back in your head any moment. You'll collapse.

Then the Geico gecko will do the robot.

But, on the other hand, you finally get to your partitioned cubicle and you're tying a real hospital gown around your friend, and there's a real old woman separated by just an orange curtain muttering "Ay, Dios mio, ay, ay, Dios mio," and on the other side an old man explains how his even older mother got those bruises on her shoulders, and across the way someone's liver isn't functioning properly, and a few beds down from them a man coughs and coughs and coughs and when he can get a breath explains to a doctor he's not sure why he had heart surgery twice, but he has, and he knows something else is wrong. These are the extras who, if this were actually a fake TV hospital, would be mouthing watermelon cantaloupe silently, over and over, like they taught us in third grade when we had to pretend to talk in the background of the school play about bugs. It's the volume that makes it real, the endless layers of sound you can tune in like the AM dial, all crackling voices and hissing static.

The waiting room was the better spot, however purgatorial. When Brad puked something suspiciously sanguine we decided it was time to make a visit to the hospital. Though the phrase "emergency room" may conjure blaring sirens and paramedics running gurneys back and forth and all kinds of medical action happening STAT! or whatever, the truth of the matter is that unless you come in with vital parts of anatomy on ice in a Ziploc, you're going to sit there for a pretty long time. In our case, long enough to watch Miss Congeniality, then Miss Congeniality, then that astoundingly crappy Salma Hayek/Matthew Perry movie.

The waiting room is a mix of the frighteningly sick and the merely bumped and bruised, which makes it on the whole less intense than the real emergency room. Yes, there's the baby with glassy fever eyes and the tired, worried mom wiping something green off her chin, but there's also the family who rushed in because one year old Jabez smacked his mouth on the ground trying to do the Chicken Noodle Soup dance. His mom called him Papa Bear. His grandmother arrived halfway through doing her hair, and she looked like a fifth grader had drawn her head with a marker too thick to do more than just suggest curls.

Jabez proved broken baby tooth isn't worth not clapping your hands and dancing on germy linoleum.

Everything was okay when Brad was discharged at five in the morning. Okay for Brad, anyway. The thing about hospitals is that other machines keep beeping even when you're not around to think about them.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

The Schizophrenic Goes Shopping

Or what you come home with when you go to the little grocery store a few blocks up with a very specific purchase in mind and then have to go to the ATM and take out cash anyway so you might as well shop around because you have a few extra dollars in your wallet, but you don't want anything in particular so you pick up and put down a whole bunch of items and realize, after five or ten minutes, that you should just buy what you've got and call it a day.

1. Captain Crunch's Crunch Berries.
2. Feminine hygiene products.
3. "Siete potencias Africanas" (Seven African powers?) scented religious candle.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Groundhog's Month

Turns out that in my neighborhood, the second week of January is when everyone drags their Christmas trees to the curb for some garbage truck that has yet to come through and devour the holidays. They're just growing in numbers, these stupid, sad Christmas trees, with tinsel still stuck in the branches like broccoli caught between bicuspids.

I've been working nonstop. My desk at work is an experiment in geology: 8.5x11 dated, stamped sediment covered by newer layers of detritus, compressed under shipments of books and binders of photographic research, combined with the heat of my CPU and the occasional cup of coffee teetering precariously on top, forming some metamorphic compound that will result in a nervous breakdown.

Lately I don't even know what day it is. It's too warm to be January at all, so where's the cue to know it's the sixth, or the fifteenth, or a Tuesday, or a Sunday? The other day I came up out of the subway and it was snowing. By the time I got to my desk, it had stopped.

Trees lined up along the sidewalk like dogs tied to the bike rack outside a deli at least prove time is moving by.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

What? (...What?....What?)

The sort of thing you see in Park Slope on your walk home:

A bicycle built for three, except the second bike is child-size, and the third bike is basically a tricycle, and there's a dad and a dorky kid riding the first two, and they both have matching helmets, which would be enough, you know? But there's also a lightup Spongebob windsock tied to some kind of antenna on the tricycle, which means the tricycle has, like, a radio or some shit built in, which is probably piping James Taylor into their dorky, yuppie helmets.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007


New Year's Resolutions 2007
1. Lose weight, exercise more.
2. Get promotion at work.
3. Find love of life.
4. Travel more.
5. Take time to smell the roses.

New Year's Resolutions 1007
1. Loseth mine girth by shedding babe from mine quickened belly.
2. Switcheth to mead light to maintaine girlish charme.
3. On God's thumbs, two baths this annum! Allow thyself pleasure of good goose-fat and lye soap.
4. Convince Lord and Master to barter fur cloak from invading Barbarians. I deservest one nice thing aroundeth here.
5. At long last, undertake voyage of mine reverie: venerate Christ's foreskin before Michaelmas!

New Year's Resolutions 3007
1. Move into bigger MySpace.
2. See Cher's head in concert. Hear it's her final tour!
3. Rent pod on nuclear tundra, learn to ski.
4. Upgrade iMate? Wait for HottiePac 3.1.7, re-eval.
5. Make fat clone drop 20 Richies.
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