Everybody Loves a Good Wheelbarrow

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Wow.

I actually even like Scarlett Johansson, but wow this is terrible. It's like a big garbage-truck filled with the 1980's ran over Tom Waits.

I mean, well, wow.



There's three songs in a row.
Be sure to stick around for all three.

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Old Guy Neighbor's Shining Moment of the Week

...consisted of him explaining for about ten minutes why he decided to finally stop tuning in to the O.C.

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Maybe I would have been something you'd be good at
Maybe you would have been something I'd be good at
But now we'll never know...

~ Tegan & Sara ("Call It Off")

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Whitman, You Often Surprise Me by Rocking Out

I need some poetry recommendations, 'cause I really need to start writing more regularly again. I know this because, last night, when a character in a movie I was watching quoted Walt Whitman, lines of random poetry started spilling out of my brain. SPILLING out. Those of you who write know what I'm talking about. The kind of spilling out where you immediately have to pick up whatever happens to be nearby (napkin, receipt, cigarette pack) and start jotting away. Hearing or reading a good poem is like hitting your funny bone: there's no way to stop the impulse from shooting through you, no matter how long it's been since you last wrote. And it just feels so good to have that impulse spill over you--so warm, so familiar, so comforting. I read prose like a CRAZY-ASS MOTHERFUCKER, but it never even comes close to sparking the same sort of creative flame within me the way that reading good poetry does.

So: poetry recommendations please. *COUespeciallyfromyoulesleGH* Moreso books of, rather than single poems.

Please and thank you.

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And Out of the Smoke Came Forth Locusts Upon the Earth...

It always is kind of fascinating what makes people think of you out of the blue.

Apparently, for one of my ex-es (whom I haven't talked to in a while), it was the apocalyptic judgment day that descended upon New England in the spring of 1780.

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Old Guy Neighbor Quote of the Week

On the topic of smoking:

"I used to smoke like a canary when I was younger."

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Texting and Of: Why I Now Find Texting Somewhat Book

I must preface this entry with a "Shut up, E and One-F Man."

Now I shall commence.

So yes, I hate all things trendy, especially cell phones. And yes: despite that, I now text message. I'm not too proud to admit that it was the possibility of getting laid (coupled with the fact that I dislike talking on the phone) that sucked me into that blackhole. Perhaps that will help you understand. It was all a downward spiral after that. But yes, I'm now a texter.

My favorite part of text-messaging is the Rapid Entry feature (for reasons beyond just the fact that it sounds kind of naughty). I'm not hip. At all. So I'm not sure whether it's common knowledge how this feature works, so I shall explain: You know how, when you want to type in the word LOVE, you have to hit 5 three times (for L), 6 three times (for O), 8 three times (for V), and 3 two times (for E)? Well, this feature allows you to just type in each number singly (so for LOVE, you'd just hit 5-6-8-3). And as you type each number, your phone begins to pare down which word it thinks you are aiming for and eventually plugs it in for you. The problem is, it's not always correct.

It is fascinating to see what words it favors over others. Sometimes its choices are immensely irritating--the fact that it chooses "of" instead of "me" makes for lots of revisions. But other times it offers up endless fun. For instance, when you try to type in "cool" with this feature on, it plugs in the word "book" instead. My friend P and I have begun referring to cool things as being "book" because of this. (Example: Text 1--"I found myself a really cute pair of shoes the other day." Text 2--"Very very book. What do they look like?") I find it fascinating that my phone assumes it more likely that someone will be texting someone else about a "book" rather than noting that something is "cool." In the land of technology and digital modernity, this somehow seems backwards.

Another such example happened the other day, when I accidentally called my friend Bo a "fork" instead of a "dork," courtesy of rapid entry. Because clearly, there MUST be a higher rate of texted utensil-conversations than there is random name-calling, and thus, a higher need for easily-accessible utensil-related vocabulary.

My all-time favorite, however, happened during an ice-storm this winter, when I texted my friend Mo to tell her "I'll come pick you up. That way we don't slip and fall on the icy sidewalks on our way there." Rapid Entry translation: "I'll come pick you up. That way we don't slip and fall on the gay sidewalks on our way there."

Seriously: endless fun.

And again: Shut it, E and One-F Man.

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It's What I Get for Thinking I'd Like to Be a Gangsta

So yesterday, I got to thinking, if someone were to ask me: "If you were to pick any fictional character whose life you could inhabit, who would it be?" my immediate response would be Omar Little from The Wire.




And you wanna know why? Because I love the way he slides up on someone with that unerring nonchalance, that cool cold collectedness, slides a shotgun out from under his jacket, cold metal pressing itself against his dark skin, click-clicks it into place, and then, smooth as a ball-bearing, smooth as a baby's ass, smooth as the fucking barrel humming at the end of that shotgun, plugs someone in the chest once-twice, and then, without batting a motherfucking eyelash, without even BLINKING his fucking eyes, slips that gun back under his jacket and, with the crisp sound of trenchcoat clipping through the air, sinks back into the shadows. He is smooth as a piece of beach-glass in a world of gravel-pebbles. Oh, to be so calm, so in control.

And then I thought, that's really fucking disturbing, Lindy Loo.

So then I decided I would look on youtube to find a video clip of him pumping a couple bullets into somebody's chest, so that you, dear readers, could watch it and say, "Oh fuck yeah. He is a smooth motherfucker, and I totally feel you, Lindy Loo."

Which in turn, caused me to stumble across someone's fucking Omar-Little-related youtube spoiler.

Which is clearly my punishment for wanting to be a gangsta. *Sigh*

Nonetheless, no shotgun, but still bad-ass:

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God Bless America

It always warms my heart when a newscaster, who has clearly undergone elective cosmetic surgery on her face, comes on the television with nauseous and heartwarming seriousness to advertise a newsstory about a cheerful young girl who was disfigured in a roadside bombing but who has been nobly "rescued" by the Cleveland Clinic and is being provided with a series of surgeries to reverse the damage done to her face in the aforementioned roadside bombing. All this mentioned with no sense of irony. In any of it.

*Cue the Star-Spangled Banner*

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Prom

I am going to the prom this weekend.

Prom goals:

• Slow-dance with my head on someone's shoulder and an inappropriate amount of space between our privates.



• Makeout in the back of someone's ratty 1969 Plymouth.



• Use my telekinetic powers to set the building on fire.

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Ain't nothing can improve a morning more than a) waking up to the realization that you passed your final harrowing exam with a 96%, b) winning the "Early Morning Coffee Game" for the first time by not at some point spilling hot coffee onto your crotch, AND c) coming into work to find that a boy you work with was kind enough to surprise you by leaving a new zombie flick on your desk.

Hells yes.

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FADDUHBADDUHBLAT!

Last night, I sat out late on my roof. It was beautiful out, the kind of temperature where you don't notice the temperature because it feels exactly in harmony with your own. A few houses down, sexy subdued notes of a trumpet slurred themselves from a neighbor's window. I listened quietly, feeling as though I should be in New Orleans, sitting out on my roof in the sweltering heat, beads of sweat trembling their way down my bare thighs. It was lovely.

But I've gotta admit, even better was about a week ago when I was sitting out on the roof in the afternoon, and suddenly the same trumpet started loudly blatting "Be Our Guest" out the window from a couple houses over, DIRECTLY out the window, as though performing for the neighborhood. This then mutated into a theme song from some TV-show that I couldn't quite pinpoint. And then the song from Super Mario Bros. And then the trumpeter began punctuating the end of each song with a guttural YEAAAAAHHHH, as though he'd just SLAM-DUNKED some rockstar performance at a sold-out venue somewhere, when in reality, he'd just finished yet ANOTHER horrendous Disney-song, which this time was accompanied by the original version, playing along tinnily in the background on some shitty cassette-player or another so he could try to match the rhythm.

After about 5 minutes, I had to excuse myself from the roof for fear of embarassing him with my uncontrollable laughter. And also because I was afraid that I might try to throw my bra at him in appreciation.

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