i, for one, welcome our new squirrel overlords.

ladies and gentlemen, we have a plot.

it's not like it's original or anything since, well, it's all about me me me, but what isn't really? (i assume my reputation for arrogant presumption has preceded me.)  but i mean, where else am i gonna get a plot in three days replete with character, names and locations? come on, a no-brainer, of which, incidentally, my ex-husband had to remind me. of course, i will fictionalize whatever i damn well please, because i am the author, motherfucker. so, if you are afraid to appear in my crappy, tell all, roman a clef, month-long novel, let me know, and i'll be sure to make you be the biggest fucking asshole prick in the book. i get to do what i want, bitch. no, really, i do. it's my book. gosh, novel writing and novel thinking has made me mean. well, i guess that's what genius does.

so, interestingly, i wikipedia-ed (it doesn't work as well as google to become a verb, eh?) autobiographical novel, and this entry came up. i know how fucking nerdy of me to wikipedia it, but whatever, it's my world, you are just reading about it. the interesting part was that after the definition, there is a list of famous autobiographical novels. something to note was Ballard's Crash is mentioned with this note after it: described as "an autobiographical novel in the sense that it is about my inner life, my imaginative life." two words: holy fuck. that was the sickest book i have ever read, man, and i have read some sick fucking books. i couldn't finish that shit, seriously. i mean, i did, but i was having some serious vomiting issues during parts of that. let's think happy thoughts, shall we? like, look it's blythe!

wonder twins powers, activate. Form of Useless Shit.

not for nothing, but my sister and brother-in-law are raising my nephew like it's the 70s. the dvd of spiderman, schoolhouse rocks, and my sister and my favorite cartoon ever--the superfriends. it's funny watching them again, from the bleedingly obviousness of aquaman's homosexuality to the complete uselessness of the invisible jet, it's amazing what we missed and that what we thought was cool was really worthless and totally absurd. let's take the wondertwins, por ejemplo, they turn into really gay things that are totally useless. i mean, zan can only become water related things. how fucking useless is that! how emasculating! if he becomes water, he needs a bucket and a fucking monkey to carry him, if he is ice, he can melt. jayna on the other hand can only become an animal of some kind. like an elephant or an eagle, which i will grant you can be useful if you have something with opposable thumbs as a counterbalance. i mean, her partner in crime is liquid. useless. impotent as a superhero. completely. anyway, a band called gleek would still be rockin'. or was it jayna and gleek? my sis might remember what the name of our band was. gleek and the smug hussies.

UPDATE: It was Gleek and the Bear.

i hate when this happens

Someone Stole My Scotch After I Passed Out, Man Tells Police
BETHLEHEM

A Bethlehem man who said he passed out after drinking scotch reported to police that the rest of his unconsumed whiskey was missing, city police reported.

Jeffrey Walters, of 8 E. Broad St., told police that sometime between when he passed out at 3:30 a.m. Saturday and when he awoke at 5:30 a.m., a half bottle of scotch whiskey was removed from him, police said.

Walters told police he was drinking with a friend when he passed out and woke to find that his whiskey was gone. 
 
listen, baretta, i think your prime suspect might be the friend. just a hunch.and instead of "stole", i might just use the word "drank" when you were passed out cold from "stealing" your own bit of scotch.
actually, the more i think about this, the more it really is mind boggling that someone would report this to the cops.

as jon secada sings the national anthem at game 4 of the world series (and after announcing the latino dream team with two panamamenos by the fucking way), i am reminded of my friend ken's party circa 1993. a house full of people. ken came up to me in the kitchen and pointed to some dude in his living room.
'is that jon secada in my living room?'
'i dunno, man, but it does look like him.'
'hold things down, ub, i'm going to tell that sappy mutherfucker to get out of my house.'

make the screaming stop

yeah, yeah, it's a freaking awful night out there, and yet, despite it all, there is still a couple screaming at each other under my window. 'go ahead. fucking hit me' she is yelling. in the rain. and cold. on a monday night. she is getting hoarse. and why not? it's pneumonia weather out there. there are some things about the city i will never understand, and the ability to ignore that you are in a city is one of them. i am constantly aware that about a bazillion other people live within earshot of my every conversation. we are stacked like gerbils or japanese over every conversation in this place. the kids from the suburbs have no idea, they ell drunk and pissing in your flowerbeds on friday night. yes, i think, 'quiet, what will the neighbors think?' if this makes me a podunk, then so be it. the irony is if i interfere, and say, yo, do you need help? she would tell me to fuck off. granted, i turned off my music to listen to them, so i clearly suck at life too.

oooooooooooooo, i want an elephant.

philadelphia zoo contemplates giving away its elephants. [kyw3]


me. me. i will name him stompy, and feed him peanuts, and love him very much.