Tim Russert dead, 58

Sad day.

Sammy the cat–a true American patriot

My friend Dan’s cat, Sammy, is, in the most polite terms, a bit of a hellion. To illustrate this let me Sometimes, because it’s funny for someone slightly sadistic like me to make a grown man sound like the theoretical cat voices on I can has cheeseburger.com, I ask Dan to imitate Sammy.

Today I asked him, “Dan, what would Sammy say if she met George Bush?”

Dan: Oh, to GWB? She’d be like, “ohai! you a fuckface! i no lieks you!” Then George would reach to shake her paw, and Sammycat would bitchslap him and the secret service would try to tackle her, but she’d be too quick and get away so they’d catch Danny and send him to Guantanamo Bay.

Ciao, America

I’m going to Italy in the fall via air Italia!

Hopefully, lots of eager Italian men will say beautiful things to me in a language that I cannot understand.

If whiskey were the blues

Yesterday at a dark, Irish bar in Wicker Park….

Man (to a small and meek looking young woman drinking a gin and tonic, while he is nursing what looked to be whiskey on the rocks): You better watch it lady, that stuff can be hard on you.

Woman (looking sullen): It’s ok, it’s going to last me all night:

Man (drunkenly putting his hand on her shoulder and almost losing his balance on his stool): You got some troubles or something? I can help with troubles, you know.

Woman (growing slightly disgusted, and moving away from him): No, that’s ok…you can just drink your whiskey.

Man: Whiskey? Lady, I can’t handle whiskey.  I don’t drink, you know. This here is apple juice on ice.

Woman (quizzically): Oh, so you’re just like this?

Nachos, bella?

Sometimes I think I spent my past life as an Italian stud.

I think I must have prayed on lonely women who visit Rome in an effort to forget their abusive/closeted gay/simply not interesting enough middle-aged husbands.

I think this because I often find myself invading my male friends personal space when I sense that they are in emotional distress. I don’t consciously do this because I want to sleep with the, but perhaps there is some sort of inner skeaze I haven’t fully reckoned with who hopes to get, at the very least, some sort of monetary reward for the gesture.

Perhaps, another reason I question my former position on earth, is because during such interactions (which more often than not take place at sports bars, pubs or any other place where liquor is cheap and isn’t considered poor taste to purchase alcohol at ten in the morning) I usually comfort them by saying banally worded, yet somewhat toughing in their emotional simplicity, nuggets of pseudo-wisdom that would cause any woman my age to roll her eyes in the back of her head.

For instance, when my males friends say, “god my shitty car SUCKS so bad and I need to get a new one.  SHIT!”

I say, “Emotions are what separate us from robots, go on cry.”

And when they look at me like, what are you talking about you crazed woman? I respond with something like, “Say it like you eat, put it plainly! And lay your head down if you must!”

Usually they don’t understand my simple heart or my philosopher and poet nature.  Most likely I get  a strained stare, questioning whether or not they have been friends with me out of stupidity, desperation or simply plain, tragic oversight.  Sometimes, they offer me nachos.

Me and John Adams.

I’ve been watching the HBO miniseries John Adams.

Don’t ask me why, but I’ve been having these…fantasies…lately about Mr. Adams. Sadly, these aren’t of a sexual nature. At the very least I could explain those away by saying something like, “I’ve always been attracted to powerful men…” You know, the same kind of schpeel supermodels and actresses used to give after professing their crush on Bill Clinton in the mid-nineties.

But no, these fantasies are of a “Back to the Future” or “Bill and Ted” nature. Yes, my 1980’s childhood has had a bigger hold on me then even my early Madonna and Cyndy Lauper mp3’s had led me to believe. I actually have fantasies about important political figures being haphazardly transported to 2008.

Generally, such story lines involve some sort of half-crazy scientist or Doctor who’s experiments cause a rift in the time/space continuum. So, John gets her by way of Ben Franklin’s ambitious science experiment.

He lands right outside my front door. My kitty is startled. I go to look…who could it possibly be???? Why it looks just like John Adams, America’s second President! But no! It couldn’t be.

I let him in, make him some brisket. Thus begins a whimsical, and wittier than humanly possible exchange between me and one of the greatest political minds of the 18th century. He queries as to where my slaves are and why a woman of my age (26!) is not with a protector and husband. I laugh at his environment influenced shortsightedness and calmly explain that in the 21st century all ethnicities and both genders are considered completely equal! He calls me a heretic and a witch and threatens to have me hanged. I call him a self-indulgent republican and rub in the Jefferson defeat of 1801. He screams for the lord to save him from the “devil’s minion who lives on earth in the shape of a woman.” I tell him that thanks to him and his dear of friends at the Continental Congress who didn’t even stop to consider the idea that “all men are equal” could possibly include anyone who didn’t look like them, white men of my generation must look awkwardly at the ground and say things like “You know, he was…of African-American descent” when asked to describe what someone looks like.

“Stuck in the middle with you” by Stealers Wheel begins to quietly play in the background.

Thus ends episode one.

I’m not bitter, just disappointed.

There’s a reason I don’t tell men I’m interested in about this site. The reason being: I fear I will one day write something about them.

New blog! (written by moi)

Uncanny Curiosities

I wish I had written this (although part of me wants to gag at it’s sometimes psuedo-pretense, I’m sure alot of people feel that way about me too)):

Inner Child: Yay! A new friend!
Inner Misanthrope: (Jaundiced eye-roll) Uh-huh.
I.C.: Wait, what’s that about?
I.M.: Nothing. Just, you know … friend? You really think he’s interested in being your friend?
I.C.: He didn’t ask if I was single, we didn’t talk about anything romantic, I mean …
I.M.: Oh, please. Wake up. We live in a misogynist patriarchal society.
I.C.: Yeah, but he’s not the Patriarchy. He’s just a dude who shares some similar interests with me.
I.M.: Haven’t you seen “When Harry Met Sally”?
I.C.: Uh … I think that’s PG-13.
I.M.: OK, well, I don’t want to be that guy — er, that girl — who ruins the ending, but men and women can’t truly be friends. He views you as an object, that’s all I’m saying.
[Enter Inner Critic]
Critic: An object? Like a sexual object? You’ve got to be kidding.
I.M.: Pardon?
Critic: Don’t flatter yourself. I think we all know you’re in no danger of being offered a modeling contract. Today, especially, you were really looking … I mean, “bad hair day” does not even begin to cover it.
I.M.: That’s not really how it works — I think it’s more –
Critic: Not that you’re some brilliant conversationalist, either. But I think we can definitely rule out physical attraction. Maybe he was just trying to be nice. He probably felt sorry for you.
I.C.: Never mind, never mind! Forget it! My head hurts. Can we go get ice cream?
Critic: Better make it frozen yogurt.

Dear Mary:

http://www.latimes.com/features/health/la-et-skinny30nov30,1,7324159.story?coll=la-headlines-health

Please save your idiotic ramblings for your self and your fellow L.A. tan-o-bots.