SAN ANTONIO, TX mayoral-candidate/twin-switcheroo!!! y'all heard about this right? Twin running-for-mayor can't make an event...SO, who to send? photo opz x 2 when you are an identical twin on the campaign trail! because I plan on moving to San Antonio in the next 6 years of so, I enjoyed reading this Stanford Daily (?!) thang 'bout this Julian Castro! dawg, in San Antonio, I GOT OFF OF SCHOOL for Fiesta/River Parade/etc!
were Labour-weary school children BOOing Tony B., or were they BOOMing him??? fuck your BOOM-urns joke!
Tony Thorne, the head of King's College language centre in London, who has compiled the Bloomsbury Dictionary of Contemporary Slang, confirmed "boom" was a exclamation signifying "approval or delight". ... He explained boom originally meant party or big celebration in black Caribbean language, adding: "It has been around in black British for some time."
Look for Patois Labour ads, Grime-Eski Blair shoutouts, etc. coming down the pipe, bwoy! BOOM, FOR REAL!
"Two traveling penguins from Seaworld in San Diego went
through regular airport screening at Denver International
Airport recently. Pat and Penny were asked to be removed
from their carry-on case so they can walk through the metal
Tonight I'm supposed to be drawing a Charlie Chaplin/City Lights-style boxing match between anthropomorphized maps of Persia and Greece. Instead, I've spent the better part of the last two hours one-way flirting with this sassy chick, whose URL Katie mentioned today:
I haven't used any of my three free "FULL DISCLOSURE" passes on this blog yet, so let me clip and redeem one right now: I have a fake-real (in the A. Journalism sense) powerbook crush on Anna Broadway, aka "Sexless in the City." I met her in person once, but did I leave an impression?
"Anna" (whatever -- you'll figure out that her real name is Christi if you earnestly read her) and I met at the church/coffeeshop I attend and patronize with an overlubricated grip. She came to the Sunday service this past March, a couple weeks before Easter, taking a break from her normal spot up the block. With Katie beside me, I met Anna. Two things I remember are her lankiness and her making a blasé, semi-acerbic comment about "men." We didn't meet by saying "hi." I said something in response to her male-incompatible banter that drew her laugh. I think it was a real laugh. "The male perspective." She and I didn't directly address each other. I forgot her name until she ate pizza with Katie and some other people yesterday and I heard about it. Does she remember me? Does she know I'm glad my wife doesn't wear makeup? I hate the smell of makeup. Plus, makeup usually looks bad. Don't feel like all men expect makeup from you, Anna/Christi. Can you tell me some of the salacious "Corpus Christi (TX)" jokes aimed at you over the years?
Anyway I just did the information-superhighway equivalent of eating a full bag of Oreos in the light-carpeted bedroom of the boss's 11-year-old daughter, in secret, during a party, without a napkin or plate: I left about 13 comments on Anna's blog, with links right back to ground zero (here). That's kind of an anticlimax. (I've done so much revising, Anna, hoping to amuse or at least not offend you.)
Dear Anna: Why would you post that you want to run a dildo factory? I like your 84-yo grandpa's suggested title for your memoir: Marching Single File. I like how we're the same age (26). This fact makes me feel like your automatic friend. We're on the same age-team. I am eager to keep reading. How long will that provocative foot-on-the-ledge pic be on your homepage? We at Crude Futures might like to get in the habit of asking you a weekly love question. (Can our blogs date?)
Hi Guys I Can Totally Make It Tonight. Seven Oak-Lock. A bit later? If Stiii need to pat the moist washcloth upon her brow, which is sad but sweet, I'll come over solo?!?! Otherwise I'll hitch my ambulatory star to an Eastern Wind with Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii (I hated it once when someone said, "Oh, Droooooooo" on the phone, as if I had made a mistake)
The THC crystals remain DECIDEDLY optional. I just ordered a tuna melt from Mike's Coffee Shop and was served an open faced sandwich, each face halfed, with an obscene amount of american cheese melted on top, with a pickle for garnish. This surprised me -- I thought I was going to get a ... more standard... sandwich. It was so easy to add a chicken noodle soup to my order. The iced tea was fresh. There are coffee shops like this in San Francisco, but they're not fecking UBIQUITOUS like they are here. And the bodega had no chili cheese Fritos, no 3-D doritos -- just Cape Cod Salt and Vinegar potato chips. Huzzah!
I took the front section of yesterday's paper along, didn't make it too far in, didn't pay that much attention. There is a weird non-stereroid stereriod that comes in powdery white pills that is somehow legal and related to basketball. George Steinbrenner is doing something with horse racing in... Florida? Marburgh virus is a cousin of Ebola and is fucking people UP. In Africa. Transmitted through semen, blood, saliva, sweat (??) etc. But even a few stray flecks of spittle from an ill-timed cough can infect you. Pieces of looted factories in Iraq are showing up at garage sales and border crossings. [awesome pseudonym] punched David Shernoff so hard that he broke 'Noff's glasses. Dave Shernoff punched [awesome pseudonym] so hard that it gave [awesome pseudonym] a black eye. [awesome pseudonym] said, "Hey, Dave, try holding your breath and pinching your nostrils." Thinking he would outsmart [awesome pseudonym] by following this suspicious request, David complied. [awesome pseudonym] boxed Dave's ears, causing his eardrums to burst. David howled deafly, sounding like a tortured orangutang, or Chewbacca. David sharpened a Snickers bar down to a lethal point and jammed it into [awesome pseudonym]'s eye, blinding him there
-- in that eye --
[awesome pseudonym] snatched the sweatshirt tied around Shernoff's waist off of him, dangling it away and taunting him. There was a bowl full of cherryvomit nearby -- and [awesome pseudonym] -- Dunked Dave's Sweatshirt In!. China allowed a rare protest of Japan. People threw "missiles", including chunks ah hunks of pavement. There is a guy who used to work for Fanny Mae who is now a diplomat - not a diplomat, he's like a Secretary of... Treasure!! ?? I don't know. He deals with money. He is organized, has long press conferences, writes meticulous notes on index cards. Sherpas don't get enough money or respect. One Sherpa has climbed Everest more than anyone else - 15 times - but is still relatively poor. One guy slept on the summit of Everest. Another guy snowboarded down from the summit to the base camp.
Last night Katie fixed herself a bowl of feta cheese and fresh boiled beets: two of the few foods with odors I hate. As she gobbled, we watched the last half of Manhattan, which neither of us had seen.
This reminds me: Katie has fixed beets only twice in our 2.5 year marrage. Last spring, she and I rode our bikes in Bike New York, the annual NYC bike tour encompassing all 5 boroughs. Somewhere in Brooklyn, at a rest stop, Katie pulled out a drippy baggie containing a whole boiled beet and proceeded to "nosh", staining her teeth purple for the rest of the day. It looked like she was eating a human heart.
(ps: On interstate car trips, Katie "has been known to" buy and eat the occasional gas-station-purchased ham salad sandwich. Yuck!)
META: fetishizer, feta shizer, sheiss, scheisse kopf, "keystone kopfs", "keystone at the crossing" cops Indianapolis, crops duster, bust duster, dustbuster, feta scheibe, earl scheib scheibe shibe, Maaco Polo, scheibe = disk but scheiße = Brown 25
It's spring break and I'm on my way to a patch of woods off the side of the highway near Mansfield, Ohio. I drove there once before, four years ago, from my apartment in Ann Arbor, Michigan. My goal was to fantasize in solitude about a girl I loved in middle school. I didn't focus well. I bought about twelve meals on a credit card (all but one at Brant's Bistro) and at the time I didn't think the trip was a waste, but it was a waste.
Until fifteen minutes ago I'd been thinking for a month or so about how I'm better prepared for this trip now. What happened when you told me about your ex-boyfriend, who does charity comedy shows? You watch TV with him and he says, "Hey, there's Todd. I know him from this show I did." Why did I lose confidence?
It would not have been impossible, in middle school, to have actually gotten the girl I loved out into the woods off the side of the highway. In general, I regret my weakness as a planner. After I finish this cup of coffee I'm turning around and going home.
Five years ago there was a gap-toothed 60 year-old whose name was Diane. She would videotape herself pretending to be Lauren Hutton and then Express Mail copies of the tapes to herself, keeping the packages sealed in case she ever needed to prove, in court, the exact dates of her impersonations. She was the kind of woman who would infuriate my dad. "Disgusting."
The post office was the only public place Diane ever went. Home, post office, home. That's it. Diane was cruel to all the postal clerks. Huffy, yelly, grabby. They called her "pawsy bitch" and "Auntie Tyrant." Sometimes she'd invite a group of postal clerks home with her to watch videotapes of the Hutton impersonations. They'd often take her up on it, swinging by after work for half an hour or so. It had become a running joke, or something funny to look forward to: "let's indulge Diane."
Though the postal workers packed her screening room two or three times a week, Diane sensed that almost everybody ignored the contents of the videos. The Hutton impersonations. It's not that Diane wasn't sexy. It was her attitude at the post office, during business hours. It got in the way. Diane semi-knew she was a laughingstock. She wasn't dumb or weak, but too tired to argue that "there's no such thing as ironic appreciation."
Her home was full of interesting nostalgic objects. Other people's nostalgia. Lots of prayer shawls. She lived in a fine "coastal" neighborhood with partial sidewalks attached to unused gazebos. Years before she had alienated the last of her genuine penpal friends from her days at Union Carbide, where she used to answer the letters of children and crazy people. "What makes a battery work?" This was before computers. Everyone around her kept getting fired. She had to leave her kids in kindergarten all day long.
Diane's rich dead husband had recently become an eBay addict, and now Diane was one too. She was waited upon by a host of servants who were always ready to "do her bidding." One of these servants/part-time lovers, Dame Oakleys, said to her:
"You must be happy! You can have anything."
"Maybe you'd like to trade places," said Diane the tyrant.
"Not forever," said Dame Oakleys; "but I'll do it for a day."
"I am not happy. I am paranoid and sad," said Diane. "But you can be me for a day, fine."
And so, the next day, Dame Oakleys got the front door key and had to spend at least an hour videotaping herself doing Lauren Hutton impressions. All the servants were bidden to treat Dame O. as their master. She sat down at a table inset with a plasma TV and costly wines were placed on the table, and beautiful flowers, and rare perfumes, and the offer of sexual stimulation if and when she wanted it. She rested among soft cushions.
Then she chanced to raise her eyes toward the ceiling. What was it that was dangling above her, with its point almost touching her head? It was the strengthening Euro. What if the dollar collapsed? There was danger every moment that Alan Greenspan would die. Maybe that would be the Gladwellian tipping point. The moment historians would later recall as the moment America lost its grip on the world. This wasn't frightening to Dame Oakleys, just mildly entertaining. Someone else's C-SPAN problem.
The smile faded from the lips of Dame Oakleys. She pretended to try to read poetry. Her hands trembled. She was making them tremble, consciously. She had been looking forward to impersonating Lauren Hutton but the idea was now nauseating. Lauren Hutton. How to be her? Does Diane keep J. Crew in her closets? Something scoop-necked? What to say to the camera lens? She had to get out of the commitment.
"What's the matter?" said Diane over a hidden intercom. She had been watching Dame Oakleys the whole day via iSight.
"I am kind of sick," said Dame Oakleys.
"Yes," said Diane, "Stage fright."
"I think I'm gonna take off for the day," said Dame Oakleys. "I'll leave your key here."
"Go," said Diane.
Diane's Lauren Hutton impersonation videotapes are a part of the permanent collection of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.