making it all right

RE-INVENT

hello bitches. today is glorious. last day of the exhibit. though i will not say where, how or when, because i've got enough stalkers. everyone is coming in today. moms with their brothers, little kids and babies, aunts and uncles and dogs. tulips and shenanigans. i gave a tour to the co-curator's (aka, man with a lot of money) children this morning, i even gave them cupcakes. "here, i understand that you never see your daddy, here's his name in the catalogue, and here's a cupcake." i am FULL of love. i have opened my arms, put all of my well sharpened knives in drawers and smiled, giggled and danced for your idiosyncracies. DEAR HUMANITY, i love you.

i also love the fact that i have given up on capitalization. it's such a drag. a momentary observation would include recognizing individual's physical "faults" as they were. ie; BUGGY eyes. capitalize THAT for effect. big blue buggy eyes begging to release themselves from the skull that holds them back from their hopes and dreams.

anyways.....i've been keeping a tally of how many times the "gorgeous" flower arrangment is mentioned. we're up to 10 times. but i think that i've lost track somehow. wait, we're up to 11, 12, 13. we had a triple hit.

i'm going to harness something or other in just a moment. LACK OF INSPIRATION. the one and only solution to this has been coffee and love. and gorgeous flowers. i have the coffee, but where is the love? oh yes, it is within me. and flowing out of my eyes and fingernails like lo pan.

LOVE....and lots of it.

it began with pierre robert and ended with cool ranch doritos

a co-worker and i went out for after work drinks. or, after work at work drinks complete with an impressive spread of cheese, fruit, bread, olives and champagne. we then went upper east side bar hopping, thinking that drink after drink we'd eventually bring ourselves to a more glamorous part of town. not that i'm about glamour (because i'm not), but, i'm saying it sort of feciciously.

ANYWAYS. sports bar, sports bar, sports bar. there's really not much to do on the upper east side, other than loathe humanity and drink free drinks and eat free food at a sotheby's auction preview party.

so, the bread and cheese not really providing any foundation for this, and still challenging myself with the four inch heels i thought were a good idea, post 3 rum and cokes the previous evening (note: do not buy shoes while tipsy), i was successfully stumbling around like a drunken fool, and it was only 8pm.

but this isn't really when all of the interesting stuff happened. i grabbed a cab to go back home, to my beloved greenpoint (halleluiah), and steadfastly passed out. i woke up, thinking immediately that it was 1am, and i was correct.

verdict: STARVING. i walked to the local pizza counter. unfortunately it was closed. then i saw the b61 bus careen past me. of course. because it's 1:30 am now, and obviously this is prime commute time, versus 9:30 on a monday morning.

my point is that the out of doors greenpoint at 1am without intoxication, or at least a tiny twinge of intoxication but not skewing my perception is quite entertaining. first of all, it's creeptastic. if you want someone to stare into your soul with a piercing black gaze as though they want to completely bypass divine grace and commit a mortal sin in your honor, now is the time.

also, i witnessed something akin to 8 mile. to refresh you memory:

it was just like that, only no white people were invited. 40's were.

So, then three guys asked me where they could buy booze. after thirty serious seconds of answering their question politely, i realized that one of them looked like this:

i got the feeling however that this was not a kiss tribute, or consequence a kiss theme party, but rather that they had just been burning bibles and sacrificing neighborhood strays (children included) around the corner and now needed a six pack. but hey, who am i to judge?

my goal of attaning the perfect slice of pizza was not realized. i did get a ginger ale and a bag of cool ranch doritos. are cool ranch doritos simultaneously the most digusting and gratifying thing ever invented? that and anything colored blue that is for consumption.

i also got a can of mac and cheese. yes, a can. why are canned noodles like eating wax, and why are they a concerning shade of marigold? because they're canned.

just when you thought i couldn't get classier this evening, i turned on the television. utter disappointment. here's a listing of quality viewing that i found:

1. some unidentifiable crappy law show that has that almost film noir-esque lighting but not as stark a contrast.

2. an infomercial on a portable clothing steamer.

3. another unidentifiable crappy law show.

4. a Z-list movie

Then, enter the amazement zone. I forgot about soul train. Yes, soul train. I was so excited that i took a bunch of videos using my camera to record this. (spare me the commentary of apparent boredom that would illicit this response, besides, i AM meanwhile eating marigold hued wax consistency noodles, you should be over this by now).

This man officiates soul train, and i'm now sort of in love with him. he's really calm and cool, but says the most amazing things like, "alright, now we're gonna warm it up and bring it on in" sort of bordering on sexual innuendo to blantantly sextastic, but in the same cool as a cucumber, i could seduce you if i were locked in another room type way. That guy for president.

you can read about soul train here: (if you don't, you're a racist)

Soul Train, the first black-oriented music variety show ever offered on American television, is one of the most successful weekly programs marketed in first run syndication and one of the longest running syndicated programs in American television history. The program first aired in syndication on 2 October 1971 and was an immediate success in a limited market of seven cities: Atlanta, Cleveland, Detroit, Houston, Los Angeles, Philadelphia and San Francisco. Initially, syndicators had difficulty achieving their 25 city goal. However, Soul Train's reputation as a "well produced" and "very entertaining" program gradually captured station directors' attention. By May of 1972, the show was aired in 25 markets, many of them major cities.
The show's emergence and long standing popularity marks a crucial moment in the history of African-American television production. Don Cornelius, the show's creator, began his career in radio broadcasting in Chicago in November of 1966. At a time when African Americans were systematically denied media careers, Cornelius' left his $250-a-week job selling insurance for Golden State Mutual Life to work in the news department at WVON radio for $50.00 a week. It was a bold move, and clearly marked his committed optimism. By seizing a small opportunity to work in radio broadcasting, Cornelius was able to study broadcasting first hand. His career advancement in radio included employment as a substitute disc jockey and host of talk shows. Radio broadcasting techniques informed Cornelius' vision of the television program Soul Train.
By February 1968, Cornelius was a sports anchorman on the Black oriented news program, "A Black's View of the News" on WCIU-TV, Channel 26, a Chicago UHF TV station specializing in ethnic programming. Cornelius pitched his idea for a black-oriented dance show to the management of WCIU-TV the following year. The station agreed to Cornelius' offer to produce the pilot at his own expense in exchange for studio space. The name Soul Train was taken from a local promotion Cornelius produced in 1969. To create publicity he hired several Chicago entertainers to perform live shows at up to four high schools on the same day. The caravan performances from school to school reminded the producer of a train.
Cornelius screened his pilot to several sponsors. Initially, no advertising representatives were impressed by his idea for black-oriented television. The first support came from Sears, Roebuck & Company, which used Soul Train to advertise phonographs. This small agreement provided only a fraction of the actual cost of producing and airing the program. Yet, with this commitment, Cornelius persuaded WCIU-TV to allow the one-hour program to air five afternoons weekly on a trial basis. The program premiered on WCIU-TV on 17 August 1970 and within a few days youth and young adult populations of Chicago were talking about this new local television breakthrough. The show also had the support of a plethora of Chicago-based entertainers. As an independent producer of the program, Cornelius acted as host, producer and salesman five days a week. He worked without a salary until the local advertising community began to recognize the program as a legitimate advertising vehicle, and Soul Train began to pay for itself.
The Soul Train format includes guest musical performers, hosts, and performances by The Soul Train dancers. Set in a dance club environment, the show's hosts are black entertainers from music, television and the film industries. The dancers are young women and men, fashionably dressed, who dance to the most popular songs on the Rhythm and Blues, Soul, and Rap charts. The show includes a game called "The Soul Train Scramble" in which the dancers compete for prizes. The program's focus on individual performers, in contrast to the ensemble dancing more common in televisual presentation, has been passed down to many music variety shows such as American Bandstand, Club MTV, and Solid Gold.

Dear soul train, i'm going to set my alarm for you.

Anyways, that's really all that i've got tonight. robert pierre, cool ranch, marigold noodles, and soul train.

habitual excellence

'when virtue has slept, it will arise all the more vigorous'.

"Genuine honesty, assuming that this is our virtue and we cannot get rid of it, we free spirits – well then, we will want to work on it with all the love and malice at our disposal, and not get tired of ‘perfecting’ ourselves in our virtue, the only one we have left: may its glory come to rest like a gilded, blue evening glow of mockery over this aging culture and its dull and dismal seriousness!" Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

That's all the heady material I have at my disposal today. It started off right, with an extremely strong cappuccino complete with a beautiful ratio of espresso to milk to froth. I outdid myself really. Yes, this trip to a Parisian cafe, courtesy yours truly. Okay, I can't take complete credit, Capresso was my crutch towards caffeinated divinity.

What am I reading right now? Apocalypse 2012. I went to the book store, in search of the perfect book. I've tired of the late 19th century classics. I'm not sure how this happened. I did a binge and purge? I am no longer interested in subtlety? All of those books say that society was SHOCKED by the lascivious nature of the book.....and I enjoy that. There's really no mention of sex, or seduction in them. But somehow these people smarter than me, even without the perfect cappuccino were able to pick up on these innuendos and emerge from it with mouth agape. "My! I do say." Maybe I just spent too many days in college picking my clothes off the floor of various gentleman's bedrooms. Just kidding dad.

Anyways, back to the imminent doom of if not 90% of the world's population, at least the Northern Hemisphere. I don't know. This book written by someone I've never heard of before, who has a myspace profile, and all of his "friends" are skanky, scantily clad females, (but I don't know, maybe they're selling cell phones or something), is pretty good. The scientific research is pretty thorough, and he does touch base on many factors that could lead to a rebirth of our civilization, including what is considered scientific fact as well as questionable prophecies and what have you.

I say bring it on. I'm kind of bored. Emerson said that all we need lies within us. I mean, sure. Yes, I believe that. But I also think that maybe our souls or the fibers of our beings and the cells as parts of this universe also react to fluctuating natural changes. It's sort of like how a woman's special time is in sync with the phases of the moon. Maybe our bodies CRAVE change and readjustment towards harmony with nature.

But I really don't care about all of that. I think it's time for the world to see some change. Mother Nature should kick some ass. Time for the Northern Hemisphere to be shrouded in a volcanic winter that results in the next ice age. I'm frightened and curious to see the reaction of humans during the inevitable crisis. I might start placing bets. GW is in a rocket in about 30 seconds. To wherever. Whatever strong hold they reserve for idiots.

In short...this is FASCINATING to me. And we have greatly underestimated our connection to the universe. I think that the flux between the sun and ourselves and the earth's naturally occurring processes are all interrelated, as perhaps scientists have known all a long. A sun storm encourages storms on earth, fluctuations in temperatures and radiation from the sun affects the earth as though it were a living being.

But anyways, I'm starting to sound like I'm on an acid trip, so I'm going to drop it. The high point of all of this of course is the fact that everything that seems petty or annoying is diminished somewhat. As I deal with people at work, and clients that come in with various "problems." They always have a problem, because they can afford to have problems. I just think to myself, It's okay, because the super volcano is going to erupt, or we are going to be pelted by waves of radiation from the sun, consequence an X45 sun storm. Which by the way, has only happened once in history, and if it had been directly aimed at us, there would have been some sizzling and frying.

At which point...those living off of the land will probably survive. And the rest of us, distracted and misguided by all the extra shit will be useless.

You may want to rethink how you treat hispanic delivery men, because there's a good chance you'll be asking Juan if you can stay at his grandparent's house in South America.

Speaking of hispanic men. This morning I was waiting for the bus and I saw the old man I see every day. He's always whistling some creepy little tune, and he always stops in front of me to say hello. So this morning, he walks past again, says hello, and then comes back for another round to which it proceeds as follows:

Old man: "I sorry to interrupt your reading."

Me: "That's okay."

Old man: "But I love you."

Me: "uhhhh. Thank you" (Which is my usual reply to that statement).

Old man: "Maybe you love me too?"

Me: "Um, Maybe" (Trying to be polite).

Old man: "I come to see you every morning. I come back tomorrow morning to see you."

Me: (Thinking to myself), Time to rearrange my schedule.

I can't WAIT to be dismembered in his basement. Hopefully, the sun's velocity increases before 2012, before he finds out where I live.

That's all for today.

Much love and apocalypse.

hatin in 08

In lieu of a promised dedication to a very special friend, I'm going to be writing in observance of the holiday season, before the New Years tidings have long expired and it gets weird.

This post also in observance of my totally self-pitying, shitty mood tonight. It all began with getting out of bed. Rain was falling outside, you could hear it on the window sill, and the bedroom was shrouded in that perfect light that encourages sleep, or at least a lazy day in bed.

I contemplated "taking a personal day," but alas, I am up to my shit in shitty shit momentarily, not to be alleviated for several days.

Not even Hillary Clinton can solve this. It takes more than a village to raise my spirits Hill. By the way...her "choke up?" I can't even come to terms with it. Cannot. Were we all duped New Hampshire? What we need is a, "Political Campaign Tactics for Idiots" book to be published.

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is my hates for 2008, reflecting on 2007. Well, I will throw in some loves, but my sour mood won't allow for the happiness quota this evening.

Here we go:

1. Dear hipster girl that waits for the bus with me every morning. Stop staring at the rest of us in condescension and pity for our mediocre, conformist lifestyles. I get it. You listen to a band with the word dinosaur in its title, and the bassist dresses up like a robot! You still shop at Urban Outfitters, now go make me a latte.

2. People that melodramatically express their distaste with smokers. The hand wave in front of the face, the scrunched up expression of disgust, the pathetic "cough, cough." You're cramping my style.

3. Academics that over use the word "convoluted." Your use of the word convoluted is making me want to convolute you and shit.

4. Girls. Ladies. Bitches. Stop taking that girl group picture that you all take that looks exactly the same, consists of the same people, in which you all have the same expressions. We get it. You're wild and wacky! A quirky crazy bunch that lives for crazy girl power awesomeness and pictures where you're doing crazy wacky stuff that only you would do!! Can you at least be entertaining and wear shirts that detail the stds that each of you has?

5. Vampires. I still like them. Where are they?

6. Dear B61 bus. It is obviously VERY over between us.

7. John Mayer. I don't understand you. Perhaps I never will.

8. Harry Schwartz. I think that's your name. You're the president, director, master henchman, owner, general or whatever it is they call you of Starbucks. You made your employees work on Christmas Eve...and Christmas. My barista crush and I discussed this at length, for several days. He's the only reason I go to Starbucks. He says that it's 21st century slavery. And he's black, so he knows what he's talking about. Dear Mr. Schwartz. You're kind of an asshole to me now, while previously I had at least respected the fact that you provided good health insurance to your employees. I can't even imagine the type of person that goes to Starbucks on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I bet they are all douchebags, dipshits, and assholes.

9. SIGH. Why do you go to a bookstore to talk on your damn cell phone? I am not in the poetry section to listen to your conversation to your friend about the date you went on, and how you're going to go to dinner again, and how he was gently chiding you in a flirtatious way about you were in his neighborhood and didn't even call him. First of all....maybe you didn't call him because he's a douchebag, but probably not because you just said you were going on another date with him...which is a big mistake. His oh so coy! tactic of making you feel like you were missed is boring to me. I'm done with him. You should find someone new.

10. Dear champion coffee. I love you. Your baristas are nice and slightly hipster but not in that obnoxious way. Also, one of you is from Wisconsin, and I can respect that. Your coffee really makes me feel better. The only person I don't like that works there is the curly haired guy that I heard arguing with the owner of the liquor store about wanting to return his already opened and half consumed bottle of wine. You are either exceptionally rude and deceitful, or just really dumb.

11. I love my bitches. Dear bitches near and far, you make my life complete. You are not feminine to a degree that makes me want to slice and dice you. If you are feminine, you are still reasonable. Despite your tendency towards appreciating blood, gore, death, hatred (that means you nichole), and general distaste for humanity, I know that you are good people that have my back no matter what.

12. Crap television, smut internet "research." I'm lumping this into one lovable category. I love crap TV, kitschy websites and really hilarious websites that don't mean to be. I love you. You are like a circle to me, no beginning and no end. I want people to stop saying, "kill your tv." There is a lot to learn. I promise. As long as you know that it's this crazy fun fantasy land of bull shit that brain washes people. Kudos to you Fox News. You make me laugh.

13. godhatesfags.com I hate you. I loathe you. I am sort of ashamed that you make me hate. But at the same time, it feels kind of funny to me. The antithesis of what any sort of higher power would teach is exactly what you are. Congrats. Thumbs up. Keep on a keepin.

14. This is sort of an ongoing pet peeve. Grammar nazis. Okay, if you're working on your thesis or dissertation....yes, it's time to call it out. Don't get me wrong, I'm just as off put when someone mistakes your for you're or its for it's or whatever. But give me a fucking break. You're not a Pulitzer prize winner. Get over yourself.

15. Swearing. I love it. Fill that swear jar up with quarters and dollars please. There is nothing like a swear word to really add a period to the end of a sentence or just...well, extend a lovely fuck you and fuck yourself and fuck it and .... It's almost as good as Vampires.

16. Dearest darling jobby job. You put wrinkles on my face this year. You've probably grayed my hairs, but I wouldn't know it, because it's been too many shades of pink to black to purple since 1999. I owe a premature death to you and the landmark.

17. Home sweet home. I don't want to leave your confines. Why would I go out there?

18. Karma. I believe in you. I can't wait for you to deliver the bitch slap x10 to those that need it.

19. Champagne. I love you. I want you now.

That's all I have for now. I may need to continue later. I have cocktails to concoct and voo doo dolls to stab.

SHITHEEL

We are bringing it back, by the suggestion of NMH. I had a discussion today, regarding the origin of the term "shitheel." I looked online, but I cannot find a definition that is satisfactory for my own purposes, so I am eliminating those options and just going with my own, as a spin-off of douchebaggery, with just a sprinkling of evil bastard. Less clueless than douchebag and dipshit, I think that shitheel is a tad more malicious that its cousins. Out of curiosity, I also did a google image search for shitheel, and this is what I found.

Keepin the little shitheel dry and warm!

Which leads me to believe, as was earlier discussed outside the confines of bloggington, that the term shitheel definitely originates with the emergence of canine domestication, and consequently, the emergence of shit, all over the place. Thus we find that the term shitheel is related to karma. As the people who are finding the shit on their heels kind of deserve it. But that's not really all that interesting.

So now let's talk about abortion. I was going to dedicate a singular glorious posting just for this topic, but I am so excited about it that I can't wait another day.

Point number 1: I LOVE abortion

I think it's a spectacular solution to a potentially catastrophic mistake. Insert here: GASP! But it's a CHILD not a MISTAKE!!! Oh, spare me. These words are most typically uttered by a white middle aged soccer mom that will never really be affected by the issue and if she is, it's because her daughter popped one out on the volley ball court after concealing it for 9 months. Some ladies find themselves pregnant with an "unwanted" child, because their school opted out on or couldn't afford sex education, so you thought that if you were on top you couldn't get preggoed. "Whatever shall I do?" Those afflicted with a surprise order of preggington special may ask themselves. Chippy Chuck, football team quarterback, is long gone. He is already screwing Zippy McBoobmaster and he doesn't even remember your name. When he sees you in the hallway at school, his only thought (which by the way results in his flunking mathematics), is: "That girl should lose some weight." Of course, I am relying upon stereotypes, and that is wrong, but oh so fun. So back to the story, you're lonely, you've caught the preggers, and you've got nowhere to turn but here:

This is a "Hanger Chrome Three." Which means that you're actually spoiling yourself. Girls in the ghetto have to use items such as this:

It doesn't have a schnazzy title, because it was constructed by your great grandmothers and grandfathers and forefathers and apes using discarded barbed-wire. So stop complaining. The Chrome Three is like the Waldorf Astoria of Abortions.

Anyways, I'm getting off topic. You will also need a lot of moonshine and a friend. The friend can be like the person that you would have at your wedding that makes sure that everything runs smoothly. But push all of those silly thoughts of marriage out of your head. You are tarnished, a spoiled woman, the rotten apple in a bushel of shiny ripe apples, and you probably won't live through what's about to happen anyways. Among other supplies that you will need are as follows:

Plastic bags, a lot of them, or just a few rolls of saran wrap. It's always good to have duct tape. A picture of Chip to get you through. Wear a skirt! And bring a bucket. But the best ingredient for your successful abortion? PASSION. You are lost without motivation and that get-em-go attitude!!!

SIGH. As I don't have anyone to bring the reigns in on me, I think I have to do it myself and say, you should abstain from sexual relations before marriage. Not only is it a sin in the eyes of god, but think about what all of your friends will say. However, I am going to go out on a limb and say that abstaining from sex IS another form of abortion. Think of all of the babies that died before they were even given a chance to be sperminated.

Next up: Rollerskates, why don't I have any?

Breaking News

This, my friends, is AMAZING

http://stitchymcyarnpants.com/moks06/index.php?paged=6

LOVE SURGE

As promised, today's discussion is entitled "love surge." At this point, I don't know why. Unfortunately, the love surge was perpetually challenged en route this morning, beginning with a harsh wake up call in the form of my alarm clock, cold winds, and a bitter commute across what I now fondly refer to as "that fucking bridge." Again, the bus is partially to blame for this.

Love Surge: My pillow, my warm bed, cozy times

Insert alarm clock here followed by wind, just enough rain to piss me off, and then finally, my favorite bus line, careening past me, leaving in its wake, also my path, also my face, a large gust of dirt, garbage and moisture. Which just made my surge of love crusade of the day go, er, "limp." This is when I turned on my i-pod. I didn't join the revolution until New York forced me to mind you, because it's times like the above described that everyone needs a pitiful soundtrack to accompany them. Also in the presence of the multiple pedophiles and insane folks I get to sit next to on the subway. ANYWAYS.



THEN MY I-POD WENT DEAD.



I was loving the world, and it was not loving me back. SO IT GOES.





Chin up little soldier. This day will improve with time.

On that note, I'm going to sign off, and leave you with a picture of my favorite place, Staten Island.

Next up: Afghan Hounds, Man's Best Friend?