Saturday, March 15, 2003

Don't forget the liquor...

The Washington Post today had a special insert on how to survive terrorism--or at least how to prepare for it. There was a hilarious line...something like "the chance of fatality in a terrorist attack is due to one's proximity to the deadly object..." They reassure you with the fact that someone else is more likely than you to be close and therefore to meet an untimely death.

And that driving is more dangerous.

So what do they tell you to do? Have a few extra days worth of food, some flashlights and some maps. Yeah, OK. What are the maps for? I guess for when you flee the city in terror? That's reassuring, alright.

Here's my list: Candy and liquor. Beer nuts. Buy at least a pound of cocktail snacks. I recommend red wine rather than white (it doesn't require refrigeration.) Lukewarm martinis are never tasty (refrigeration may not be possible.) Rum isn't horrible when lukewarm but only if it is very high quality rum such as Barbancourt...Obviously, sushi is out of the question. Don't even bother to stock up on that. While I eat a lot of beans and rice (actually, that's almost all I eat) these might not go over well when several people are crouched in the bathroom or during long car rides. But mostly--don't forget. This is the most exciting time in your life. You've waited a long time to be scared for real. So although you won't enjoy it--at least appreciate the moment of disruption. Don't drink yourself into such a stupor that you are ineffective in a moment of crisis.

I think...Well, for me I'd have to stock up on that evil substance Red Bull. Again with the advertising, I guess. I was so appalled by the fact it cost $1.99 for 8 oz. that I had to drink it. If you've never had it, this is the taste of it, essentially: 100 sweet tarts dissolved in a small cup of 7-up. Perhaps by association with the quick energy I have come to, need...that taste.

I recommend this or the new caffeinated gum they are selling. To counteract the liquor.
What is it about bellybuttons anyway?

I hate to give free advertising but I suddenly realized I always find myself staring at this picture. Is it some kind of turn on or something?

But it's for women...It's like this secret plot to turn us on with each other?

I'm just foolin'...Anyway, I was thinking today that gay men come up with all these varieties of sexy men to be that includes fat men, old men, etc. 'Bears,' 'Daddies'...But there aren't all these varieties of sexy women to be if you are straight. Why do gay men want all this variety and straight men seem to go for pretty much all the same thing? Lesbians have a bit of a variety thing going too. Well, there are those straight men who have a thing for fat girls (or so I've heard). But it's so few and far between. There are whole clubs devoted to gay men and their sexual creativity. What do straight men go for? Flat stomachs...That's it for sexy when it comes to us. And then straight women aren't too creative either. We have either totally invisible or totally anemic taste. No clubs for us! No fetishes for big fat men with beards or little short men with tiny feet or nothin' Where is our creativity girls?

It's kind of embarassing, actually. I read the other day that 'gay is the new straight.' I do so wish straight people would get with the program and think up something new. C'mon you straight people! Must we all be so damn boring? If we try and spice up the menu it all of a sudden seems kinda creepy. When gay people say things like "I found me a daddy..." it seems fun and playful and adventurous. If I had some kinda daddy thing my women friends would recommend psychological counseling. It would be years of therapy for me.

As I mentioned previously, I really feel the lack of a fetish. All the sudden I think: I'm so uncool! The fetishes that seem open to me are also boring as well. Boring 'cause they aren't funny enough. I want a funny fetish! The 'bear' thing--that's funny! The best I can do is say: I have a thing for this stomach. And that's merely a product of indoctrination and advertising.

Oh, being end up feeling so left out.

Friday, March 14, 2003

Don't be offended

if I say right here and now that this shit we write really doesn't matter...
Not just in the sense it's a hill of beans in this crazy world
But in the sense that it's not worth getting worked up over.
I mean, mostly, me. What I write. But also I mean: Lately, I've been reading things on these fucking forums that would get me truly annoyed...Except I take a breath and remember: My bla bla don't matter. Nor does their bla bla. In fact, I'd be willing to say...that the ratio of insignificant bla bla to significant bla bla is a million to one.

Now, you take a lot of frivolous, pointless things and you add them all together. Maybe as a whole they carry some weight. Or maybe not. Add up all the pieces of kleenex in the world, used and unused...add up all the TV guides ever published, combine that with every technical manual written between 1940 and 1986. They still lack significance. It's not worthless, strictly speaking. It's simply that if they never existed there would be little to mourn.

Surprising that one could ever forget that. Now I know why people devote their lives to building model trains and collecting beanie babies and trolls. Going to Star Trek conventions. It's all making sense now--and that's good because I've always been so puzzled by that kind of thing.

Uh-huh. That means someone I link to. Some of these people I link to write stuff that is annoying as hell. I take comfort in the thought that what they said annoys me but people who walk very slow and kind of weave around on the sidewalk so you can't pass them also annoy me. And it would be foolish to get worked up over an object merely because it has the effect of being wrongheaded, inconvenient and downright irksome.

No, I don't mean you. Oh, honey, no. You I love. No...It's them. Don't they bug you too?

Wednesday, March 12, 2003

Remind me to tell you though...

About how a crazy girl I knew got famous...
And a 'name that brain tumor contest...'

Oh, I'll tell ya later. you care

Tuesday, March 11, 2003

I came back to say

that I'm not coming back yet.

I realized that this shared bla bla is pointless and frivolous.

Yet this also brought the realization that this the very thing I like about it. In fact, that is why I do it: Because I don't have to; because it means nothing; because no one cares.

At the same time--although it's utter lack of significance requires me to believe it should take up at least as much time as those things which my livelihood and social standing depend upon--it's light and fluffy nature does sometimes cause it to sink under the deep and portentious.

Like now.

Don't be too sad. I have nothing of any import to tell you. Well, I never did. Plus, this can't last long because the absence of foolish time wasting is causing me to think far too much about what has become of my life...and that simply must not happen. On any regular basis.

Oh yeah: That's also why bla bla lacks a purpose--if it vanishes no one ever missed it. So no one can be sad. Which is the very reason I want to bla bla. I'd rather do something that would have no effect on the sadness of others than in fact do anything to alleviate sadness. This could involve something being at stake, counting, mattering.

And by all means that is to be avoided.

So: Did I tell you that I was stuck in traffic today? And the truck in front of me had the word 'Schwing' on it. I don't think it was the brand name of the truck. I think it is the name of the cement mixer thing. But anyway--is that someone's name? Isn't it embarrassing to work for the 'Schwing Corp.'....cough, cough.

OK, you don't get it, never mind.

Well, I saw something funny on The Onion. A quote from the man on the street part: "How many people have to die before no one ever dies again?"

I laughed although it expresses a terrifying cynicism if you truly reflect on the explanation it is funny.

Well...never mind again.

Uh...I'm going now. See you next...uh. I'm not sure when. See you next week. Yeah, that's it! Next week.