THERE'S NOT MUCH I can say about La Lohan's recent run in with The Laws, aka Sweet Sweet Justice, so I'm not even going to try. I'll let the picture below say it all.
But before I do, how has my blog become a source for celebrity arrest jokes and mildly raunchy (slash, totally sweet) makeout stories? What has become of my life? Let's all hop in the wayback machine to a time ("Professor, send us to 1999!") when I worked hard and envisioned making something of my life. Now I can't even manage finding someplace to store my shit (not to mention myself) in the NYSizzle, despite the fact that I'm moving in about two weeks.
Let's hop forward a few years to college. Remember when I was a religion major? A poet? That's interesting right? "Oh! What an unusual combination, religion and creative writing," you'd say, secretly worried I'd end up on the street (which I still might yet if NYC has anything to say about it).
"Not that unusual," I would say, "Just think of the Bible as a long, surprisingly popular piece of creative writing, heavy on the voodoo and the smiting." And then me and the religious fundamentalists would laugh and laugh...
And now business school? That's where unusual uniqueness goes to die. It's a slippery slope to a Bloomberg and coke habit to call my own.
So bring on the Lohan. Say what you will about her, but she's always there, making me feel better about my minor concerns in life. Thank you, Lindsay. Thank you.
[C’s bedroom, 8:15 AM. Sunlight filters through venetian blinds, casting horizontal stripes of light across the floor. C is asleep in his bed. K stumbles into the room.]
K: Okay, two things.
C:[startled awake] Ugh... Good morning. [props himself up on his elbows]
K: First, I don't think I can go into work today - I made out with a coworker.
C: [bursts out laughing] I was wondering where you were last night! What did you do? Were you drunk?
K: I'm still drunk. I woke up this morning in my bed, nude, and found my clothes scattered all over the living room.
C: Wow, that's a hot make out.
K: Yeah. I don't know how I can face him today.
C: I bet. [He nods. They are silent, contemplating her situation.] So what's the second thing?
K: What?
C: You said there were two things.
K: Oh. Number two, your dildo is in the shower again.
My friends, ladies and gentleman! Initials have been changed to protect the guilty.
Shop Boyz - Party Like a Rock Star "On a money makin mission/but I party like a rockstar"
LAST NIGHT T AND I went over to J and M's place for fajitas, and J regaled us with stories of her day in the PACU. She'd treated her very first tranny, a female-to-male, and T was curious what they did with the bits and pieces after the whole transformation is complete.
"I don't know!" said J, a little scandalized. "We didn't study that in nursing school."
"No, but, like, what do they do with the ovaries?"
"I don't know, T," said J, pouring Crystal hot sauce on her second fajita.
"But how about the fallopian tubes?" T asked.
There was a pause as J looked up at him.
"What do you think is in the fajitas?"
LATER, AFTER WE'D ALL had a few fajitas and a few glasses of wine, M told us that our friend D, unbeknownst to her, had posted a fake ad on Craigslist's Casual Encounters and had linked it to her email address. She dug up the ad and, because it was sufficiently raunchy, she said she'd received a shocking number of responses over the course of the next week, which is how long the postings stay up.
We obviously decided we had to post another one right away, just to see what we'd get back. Latching onto the most absurd persona we could think of in the moment, we wrote as Splinter, the rat that has taken up residence on J and M's patio. Behold.
Subject: Alley girl seeking kibbles and nibbles
I've been a very dirty girl. Two new roommates just moved in, need to get away. Looking for a nice, warm place to spend a few hours. I'm sick of scavenging the streets, I need to be fed something hot. Got any suggestions? Don't bring any pussy around, I'm a little afraid. You must host. Have cheese plate ready (it's a fetish). Tell me your wildest fantasy, and make me squeal.
After posting the ad, we still felt like we had a little juice (read: wine) left in us, and wrote a second ad, curious to see which one would receive more responses. Our creative mojo was running a little lower this time around though, so M, T and I decided to post the second one as J, who was in the kitchen doing dishes. This meant, of course, that M was being represented in the Great Casual Encounter Competition of 2007 as a slutty, cheese-hungry alley rat, but she took in stride. Here's the second posting.
Subject: Naughty nurse seeks dirty doctor
I've had a long day a long day with ungrateful patients and I'm looking for a man who will appreciate my services. Hours of spongebaths and changing bedsheets has made me feverish. Looking for someone to take my temp, orally or anally, and who can be my prescription for a night of ecstasy. I want a thorough, penetrating examination to get my vital signs rising. Tell me where you got your medical degree and where you'll put it.
In no time, the responses started rolling in. I won't post them all here (nor will I post the genitalia pictures or the really graphic descriptions), but here's a smattering of my favorites.
To Splinter:
24 year old male that is looking for a women to hang out with, I will have all the cheese that you can think of
Did you hear that people? All the cheese you can think of! I thought I was in love until this arrived for Naughty Nurse:
Subject: I am a clean doctor actually...
but willing to get dirty if that is what it takes. My diploma says Harvard on it. And where will I put it? Well....I'm planning on keeping it on the wall where it is. As for where I might put some other things.....hmmmm...how about a tongue where the sun don't shine. Does that interest you?
I mean, he's a doctor. From Harvard. Swoon, right?
I thought so too, until Pierre showed up in the blue shorts, looking for some ratty lovin':
Friends, let's pull up here for a moment. In one night, after posting fake ads as a rat and a cartoon of a nurse, we were propositioned by a hot beach god and a Harvard-educated doctor. What kind of world is this? Why do people even go out at night? When you're out, your chances of meeting someone of that caliber are slim at best. Most nights, its a matter of looking at the guy, looking at the empty glass in your hand, and saying to yourself, "Well, if I have one more drink, maybe I'd lose my better judgment."
And if you're already saying that, you already have.
I'VE BEEN SPENDING THE weekend looking for places to live in New York, and most of the places I've been looking have been in Upper Manhattan, in the Harlem/Morningside Heights area. The neighborhoods up here are fantastic, a bit quieter, and the rents are cheap(er), which is a plus. I'm really glad I decided to go to school uptown instead of downtown.
Upper Manhattan has a bad reputation among some people for being unsafe, which - as far as I can tell, and from friends who live in the area - is no longer warranted. Still, when I went online to look up descriptions of neighborhoods, everything I read talked about how Harlem is a neighborhood in transition, an up and coming address, and all about how "vibrant" it is.
Let's add vibrant to the list of words we don't use. Here is the deal: vibrant = black. It's a code word that white people use to tell other white people where the black people live, while still trying to sound like they value "diversity." It's like the word "articulate," which white people use to describe black people like Barak Obama, who they are inexplicably surprised to hear can throw a few nice sentences together - a skill they apparently believed was reserved for them. Vibrant is to black as cozy is to cramped windowless hovel.
Furthermore, how absurd is it for people to say that a neighborhood like Harlem is "getting better," and that you can "actually live there now"? Hello! There are people who live here already who may like it just fine, vibrancy and all!
What the neighborhood description was really saying is, "Harlem is still distressingly 'ethnic,' but fear not: in eight years, college interns, Jersey trash, and East Village hipsters will be stumbling all over Frederick Douglas Boulevard, and you'll be able to get a low-foam latte whenever you like. Move in while rents are still cheap! Manifest Destiny, honkies!"
THIS WEEKEND I'M HEADED up to New York City to look for an apartment. I'm sure it's going to be a treat and am fully planning to traipse all over the West Side of Manhattan. If that woman from my school's off-campus housing office is correct, my goal of finding a place to live is sad, absurd and laughable, so you all need to cross your fingers for me.
What is it about an impending move to New York that makes everyone feel like they need to tell you horror stories about apartments and moves? Over the past few weeks I've heard more stories about moving back in with your parents, the untold pleasures of living in converted closets, and weeks of couch surfing. I've gotten advice on how to deal with corrupt brokers and the best places to store your belongings in the inevitable occurrence that you wind up homeless for a few weeks. All of the conversations inevitable end with a chipper, "I'm sure you'll find a place, though!"
If I do wind up finding an apartment, I'll flat out dance for joy. I'll bust a joyful Gwen Verdon.
[Thanks O for suggesting this brilliant YouTube video mashup.]
THERE ARE A LOT of things you can call me that I'll grin and bear, but the one adjective I will not abide is "nice." It's not that it's bad to be good hearted or kind. Its just that nice no longer means those things. Nice is what you say about people when you don't know what else to say. Nice is utterly unremarkable, totally inoffensive. Nice is Gap pants. Nice is a light blue Honda Civic from 2004. Nice is teriyaki chicken, cooked a little too long just to be on the safe side, over white instant rice.
You don't dislike nice people, you just don't think of them. That girl from your Junior year English class was nice. You know the one I'm talking about, third row, second from the wall? She got decent grades, went on to State after graduating? She had mouse brown hair and clear, but sort of sallow skin? You probably don't remember her name because because no one ever thought to bring her up before.
Take the following video. Everyone in it is obsessed with being nice, but in the process of joking about some of the most offensive things possible, they stop being nice and start being real. And by that I mean real awful.
AFTER POSTING THAT I had body dysmorphic disorder, I thought it would probably be a good idea to make sure that I don't, in fact, have body dysmorphic disorder. I learned two things.
1) I don't, in fact, have body dysmorphic disorder.
2) The disorder where you think you are skinnier than you actually are is called Muscle Dysmorphic Disorder, or alternatively, Bigarexia.
It's like in ads where they combined two words to make a new word, which "automatically" makes you want the product more. Like "Scrumptoulicious."
Bigarexia! Get one for your friends, and while you're at it, get one for yourself. You deserve it.
A FEW WEEKENDS AGO I spend the night with a very cute guy (pride!) who, upon removing some not-to-be-disclosed number of my garments, told me that I had a "nice body."
"Thanks!" I said, surprised as usual to be complimented, as my body dymorphia generally leads me to believe that, if knocked over by a mild breeze, I would shatter into a thousand pick-up sticks.
"Yeah," he said. "You have, like, a nice gay body."
"Well, I made it myself. Lets make out more!" Note the self-deprecation and the change of subject. I wasn't sure how to feel about having a "Gay Body," but I decided to go with "Pleased." After all, it wasn’t like he said, "You have a nice 'starved greyhound' body."
I hung out with him a week later, this time at a beach.
"The guys here are in pretty good shape," I said at a pause in our conversation.
He looked down the beach. "Yeah, but they all have gay body."
My ears pricked up. "Gay body?"
"You know, like, they look strong, but their muscles are all for show."
