I feel like I am on MG's 404 page. You know the one you wind up at if you key in the wrong URL for MT? It says, "You're not supposed to be here. I don't know how you got here..."
See, today was supposed to be the dreaded Moving Day. Which, as bad days go, may be second only to Root Canal Day or Execution Day. We were told to get our stuff out of our abode, put it in storage and then move into the new place after coinciding settlements tomorrow. We had movers ready to move the heavy stuff and a UHaul rented for myriad boxes of stuff. We have 2 wine glasses, paper plates and cups and leftover takeout food in the fridge. We sit on the boxes to eat.
Yes, we held up our end of the bargain for once.
So I get home last night only to learn that purchasers of our house have had a "hiccup" with their financing. This is real estate jargon for "their loan fell through." Which means we're basically living in limbo. As of 5/3/04 our utilities will be cut off. We don't know if they have picked them up or not. Same goes for our homeowner's insurance. With any luck at all we won't wind up homeless. But it wouldn't surprise me in the least.
Anyway, I am tying up the phone lines. Our realtors are probably trying to call with more disastrous news. Our lender may be calling with a convoluted loan proposal that entails us owning both properties and going back to square one, with more competent realotrs and lenders. Or else we could wait it out with those risky homelessness or uninsured fire risks looming large. What should we do?
I realize this is one of those things people sometimes tell you that you can't think of any rejoinder to. Like, "I've got to go feed my hostages" or "My genital warts haven't flared up in months."
Here's a rather disturbing local saga.
In a nutshell, a 15 year old girl accused three classmates of raping her in a school bathroom. One supposedly acted as a lookout while another held her down so a third could have his way with her. The alleged assailants were 15, 16 and 18. The tale has the additional detail of a racial angle in that she's white, they are black and they all live in an affluent enclave known as Howard County. Oh my, fur is going to fly.
Investigators interviewed other students and soon realized they'd erred in jailing the trio and charging them as adults with rape. All charges will be dropped as the girl recanted her story when confronted. Seems what occured on that cold linoleum was purely consensual if a tad tacky.
Now this raises a couple questions in my mind. In Maryland it is considered statutory rape to have sex (or a "sex act" as the 18 year old says he had) with a person under 16. How come no one is being charged with that? Could it be that authorities don't want to deal with double standard accusations when the parents of the 15 year old boy claim she statutorily raped him?
But far more troubling is the girl's mother's reaction. Even after her daughter took back the sordid allegations, she continues to maintain that her original story is true. When you consider that it had to be embarassing as hell for cops to drop the charges they'd so hastily filed, it seems almost certain that the girl did indeed recant her tale to them.
In other words, this mom would rather believe that her daughter was brutally raped by three guys in a bathroom, emotionally scarred for life, than to believe that she is either psychologically troubled or simply of iffy moral character. What kind of mother would think like that? Why wouldn't she apologize to the guys and say she was going to seek out counseling for her kid? Or better yet, just keep her mouth shut?
Somehow this story strikes me as a parable for all that is so screwed-up about modern society. Am I as wrong as the Howard County police were?
Every morn it's the same thing. The battle over the bathroom and sections of the paper. My son microwaving his oatmeal so he can swallow his meds. Him turning on Nickelodeon so loud it threatens to level our house. And that cloying commercial for the religious songs.
It comes on right after I get out of the bath. If you order now they'll throw in the second disc for half price or something. I'm familiar with all the tunes from my post-9/11 churchgoing stint. Our church has a rockin' outfit of bikers who call themselves the Tribute Band.
So I tell Ian I am thinking about buying the tape. He's like, why dad you hate church? I'm forced to think about it. This was my reply: most of the music out there these days is all whiny and depressing when it isn't downright hostile. Religious tunes are hopeful. I am hopeful.
Hopeful. Yes, I am hopeful. As we contemplate our move this week, with all the daunting challenges that will entail, I remain hopeful. Things are going to improve. I can feel it in my bones.
Then again, I've thought that before. Now, where is that phone number. I know I wrote it down somewhere...
by mg at 01:51 PM on April 21, 2004
In High Fidelity Nick Hornby asks:
What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
Who can say, really? I do know that life is music and music is life. The pain, the joy, and the experience of life is incomplete without a soundtrack.
When I was younger, I was very musically experimental. In the dominant days of top 40 radio, and well before listening stations and Al Gore’s invention of the Internet, I would go out and buy a tape (yes, tape) solely on a review or hearing a band name used in connection to a band I already liked. I got burned, and often. I bought so much complete crap, but I also expanded my horizons and found a lot of stuff I’d never have found through any other source.
In college I was an early adopter of P2P software. I had Napster and Scour, and access to a blazingly fast T3 connection. At the time, I worked with and was friends with a lot of creative people who all had diverse musical tastes of their own. On the computer we all shared in the Student Union Board office, I turned them all onto Napster as well. That computer was in use, pretty close to 24 hours a day, grabbing music off the Internet. I’d walk in once a day and burn everything that everyone else had downloaded onto an MP3 CD. I managed to download so much stuff that, to this day (4 years later), I’ve still yet to listen to it all.
Now, over the last couple years I’ve not had the cash flow to be going out and buying a new CD every week. I also only have dialup, so downloading music is pretty much out of the question (plus, it’s illegal and immoral and just plain wrong!). My music listening habits have pretty much settled into a routine that I’m not very happy about. I don’t want to be one of those people whose musical knowledge stops at high school or college, and 30 years later is still listening to Steely Dan and Jethro Tull.
Which brings me to my point. Yesterday, the “On this day” feature reminded me that I once participated in a project called “Burn Baby, Burn.” Someone had the brilliant idea of getting together a group of webloggers and having them send each other mix tapes (I refuse to say “mix CD”). I put together a collection of songs, burned them to CD, and sent them to five complete strangers. In return, I got five CDs in the mail and had the chance to expand my musical experience to bands I’d have never have heard of otherwise.
I happen to know that a lot of the people here are very diverse. Different ages, races, nationalities, regions, and personalities. I also happen to believe that anyone who’d make it a point to read a website like this probably likes music. I personally believe anyone who doesn’t like music (or boobs) have something seriously wrong with them. Would anyone be interested in a Bad Samaritan CD Exchange?
How could one single place make me…nay so many of us, so invariably angry? It’s not the long lines. It’s not the smells. It’s the idea of the post office that can put me on edge. The designed inefficiency and pit viper-like venom in the room can just rob you of breath, as can some of the key players. Stage left:
The stamp lady. It doesn’t matter how long the line is, and no matter how rabid…it could be that the whole staff is on break (meaning either lunch or government subsidized hand jobs), or maybe someone was sick that day, but this lady will not take any postal customers except for those who need stamps. And of course, with stamp machines galore, who needs a human to deal out stamps? She sits alone, at the end of the counter, while people like me sweat it out with the guys around me.
The guy around me. Today the guy right behind me was a creep. He was the tall, small-eyed, shifty type. Today he badmouthed the in-line postal helper (read: employee who helps out clueless zombies in queue. Not some trashy lady on skates). She approached him, as she approaches every sucker that’s lined up and asked if she could help him in any way. Now in the rougher parts of my neighborhood, this offer can accompany a wink and an invitation to hop inside an El Camino. But here she’s paid, she’s taxed and she’s sincere. Yet with all of this, my soul-less line mate would not make eye contact with her. When she asked again, he belched out (in a sort of military/mommy’s little asswipe tone) “I don’t talk to strangers! People on the street, they say hello, but you…just please GO AWAY!” This struck me as perhaps a little bit more than unsolicited. The helper though, she took it well.
The in-line postal helper. She’s one of the few examples of postal efficiency, likely borne from some socialist strain of backroom western postal philosophy which realized early on that most people who make it to the counter have no idea what they want, how they’re sending it and in some case… exactly to whom they are sending; thus, the in-line helper. She asks what you’re sending and how you’re planning to send it. Need insurance? Well, here’s this little slip to fill out. Need tracking confirmation? Excellent, fill out this little guy right here. For me, she’s the lone bright spot in Hell on Earth. She’s quick, attentive, knowledgeable, and dammit she tries hard! In my humble opinion, anyone who fucks with the in-line postal helper is asking for fists. Yet in this actual case, all the justice that I managed to mete out to the guy behind me was a dirty look, and a little snicker at his white van, serial rapist mustache. No offense Anna.
The guy at the counter with the speech impediment. He’s the smart and sassy type. He can be intentionally funny, but mostly he’s bossy. If you’re lucky though, you can force him to say something with an “R” in it. “Hewe awe youw stamps. Any delivewwy confiwmation on that?” I actually have no problem with this guy either.
There are more characters in this play of misery, but I can’t really bear to keep going. It’s all too real to dredge up my experiences there. I could tell you about the guy in line with the bank robber style bandana around his face. He showed up a while back when, after many months of tireless work on graduate school applications resulting in my presence at the post office to mail them all out right then, he showed up, freaking us all out. I could tell you about how I thought about leaving (read: running, knock-kneed out of) the post office (screaming) with a plan to watch the nightly news for word of a suicide bomber erupting in the post office downtown. Many innocent dead. Hopeful school applications with embarrassing spelling errors strewn about..... But what’s the point? I’m sure everyone has their own least desirable place to be in the world, and in all of our collective dread, why take us there more if only through remembering? Best to leave it wedged back there, in the nethers of our minds. Comfortably nestled in between the other dark places.
Once I met a girl at a party. We hit it off a little so she suggested we go back to my house for beverages. Against all better judgment I agreed. Her name was Diane. I poured two glasses of wine and settled in on the couch. She said she'd forgotten something in the car. I wondered what it was.
Minutes passed and she hadn't returned. I wander outside and she's gone. More disturbing still, so is my car! This isn't good. But I'm thinking it's late and she probably had an errand to run. Surely the car will be back by morning.
Wrong. Morning comes, no car. I'm too embarassed to call the cops so I call my ever resourceful dad instead. He says, "No biggie. What's her name? We'll just look up the address and go over there and confront that bitch." Except all I knew was Diane. We'd gone to high school together so I pull out old yearbooks. Alas, not a trace of the mystery girl. I start quizzing my friends to see if maybe they know her whereabouts.
Nobody seems to know anything about her. Nonetheless Matt takes out his guitar and begins to strum the chords to an old John Mellencamp song. This is a little ditty about Anna and Diane. Anna's gonna be an insurance star. Diane's just some hosebag who stole Anna's car, he sang. Everyone but me got a huge kick out of that.
My dad and I eventually hunt the thief down. We bang on the apartment door and are greeted by her bleary looking mom, dressed in a shabby bathrobe and reeking of stale smoke and alcohol at midday. She invites us into this filthy hovel strewn with empty liquor bottles and bare matresses. On one lay Diane and some dead cockroaches. I wake her ass up and she searches groggily for my keys, which she fishes out from under an old pizza box. She says the car's at her boyfriend's house but it isn't. We proceed to the impound lot. Dad forks over $160 and there's my car, with its windows open and half full of rainwater. Dad's less than thrilled.
You know how sometimes your instincts tell you not to do something that is seemingly innocuous, but your rationale mind overrules them? It always turns out disastrous. Take dancing.
Years pass. I get married. My wife and I go to a Halloween party. Lo and behold there's a drunken Diane. She is wearing this skimpy squaw getup festooned with feathers and fringed buckskin. The fact that she really is an Indian completes the effect. So I'm sitting there drinking with my 6 months pregnant wife who is stone cold sober. Diane approaches me and asks me to dance, as if she'd never stolen my car (or didn't recall.)
We dance to AC/DC. It's like a scene out of Saturday Night Fever where everyone clears the dancefloor to watch a pair. Not because of my awkward, white-guy shuffle, mind you, but the bump n' grind spectacle she was making of herself. The song ends and a slow number comes on. Before I could escape she nestles herself against me. I hold her in that same ginger way my boss held the Cat Woman. (Peruse my archives under "staff" if you're interested, the link didn't work.) Out of nowhere she leans forward and kisses me full-on, cramming her fleshy tongue in my mouth. I peer over her shoulder and see my wife glaring a hole right through me. I extricate myself and chase after Nan to no avail. She's already hopped in a cab. I check my pockets to ensure that Diane didn't snag my keys again.
I go back inside and she's already pulling the same number on the host, a guy who's married to a very close friend of ours. She eventually ruined their marriage. I was a little more fortunate although I did have to fly up to New York to grovel to my wife. I've never seen someone so angry, hurt and mistrustful all at once. We drove home to Virginia in abject silence. It took time but I was able to mend our relationship.
Seems to me that some people in your life are simply bad news, like curses, and not just our stalkers and psycho exes either. Sometimes it's just random people you meet. Am I all alone or has anyone else endured a similar nightmarish scenario with these misery-mongers?
by mg at 12:28 PM on April 19, 2004
A couple weeks ago I dropped the minor bomb that I’m now married. I’ve yet to mention a word about it since. As (m)Anna noted, I can be pretty ornery that way sometimes. In the old days of the site, I could blow up a simple story about finding a dollar on the street into a three-day, 2000 word epic.
I like to think that I’m a little more straightforward now when revealing details. When I do reveal details. So, here is the story you’ve all been waiting for with baited breath. And here I was wondering what smelled wormy all this time.
The reason I waited so long to mention being married had more to due with not wanting to hurt people’s feelings than not wanting to share my joy. As the wedding itself was a secret to all until after the fact, I was waiting to talk to my friends, in person if possible, before I could reveal it here.
EvilTom, for example, whom I consider to be one of my oldest, dearest, and gayest friends, didn’t find out until the wedding until 3 months after the fact, and still not in the way I’d hoped. That is mainly his fault, for never wanting to leave his house, but for whatever reasons, I didn’t get to tell the people I wanted to tell in person, and thus had to put off the big reveal here for almost 5 months from the happy day.
Another big reason I put it off is because I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of certain people who may or may not continue to read the site. I really don’t want to get into all of that, but needless to say, I can be, and have been, a complete ass. I will likely continue to be the occasional ass in the future, but I didn’t want to compound past assiness by the way I handled things here now.
I guess I finally decided that having hurt someone in the past, if they choose to be hurt by my happiness now, no amount of time will change that or make things easier. I wish that I had handled things differently, but I didn’t, and I can’t let that effect sharing my joy with others now. I am sorry, and I hope one day I can be forgiven, and that is all I’m going to say about that.
The third major reason it took me so long to mention my marriage is because my wife, Amanda, is someone who has received the focus of a fair share of words here. Now, that normally wouldn’t affect things, but many of those words described, in often painful detail, how she broke my heart. Don’t bother going back and looking for those old posts, the vast majority have been removed (though not all, so if you are into that sort of thing, enjoy you heartless, unromantic bastard).
You can say that it is untruthful of me to “erase” the past, or whatever. But I’m not forgetting, I’m forgiving, and those are two very different things.
She never asked me to remove that old stuff, which I appreciate and respect. I probably never would have removed it if I couldn’t have forgiven her, and part of that whole process of us getting from “we’re never going to see each other again” to “hey, we’re married!” was being able to say “This stuff was in the past, and is not part of our lives anymore.”
I do feel slightly uneasy about retroactive editing of my life, but removing certain specific posts about our past was a necessary step in me being able to move on. And move on we have.
At the beginning of this I mentioned the Bad Samaritan tradition of three-part tomes, and with much more to tell, this story is well on it’s way to epic status. Join me tomorrow(ish) for part two.
As many of you may have noted, many of my entries are about the more sordid aspects of some people's lives and how I interact with that.
Earlier this week I had occasion to run into a situation that combined my personal life and a drug addicts life that I found rather ... different.
First a little background...
My best friend, for many years now, is a fellow named Sean. Sean was my roomate through much of my university education. We keep in touch, despite living in different cities, and meet / do things together on a fairly regular basis.
Sean's father (61 years old) is Bob (Robert). To my knowledge Bob is still married to and living with his wife, Sean's mom.
Terri-lee (22) is a local drug addict here in my small city. A couple of years ago (April 2002) she robbed a gas station with a syringe filled with blood. Told the clerk that he really didn't want to be stuck with the needle etc. Wanted money for drugs of course.
Because Terri-lee is a druggie, she convinced the judge that sentenced her that she should be a given a lenient sentence where she stays under community supervision (as opposed to in a jail cell) so that she can try and get off drugs. Sure, sure.
Anyway, Terri-lee has been consistently breaching the conditions of her sentence over the last couple years, and since the spring of 2003, I've been trying to get her locked up for the remainder of her sentence. She's basically been on the lam since last June, when she showed up at the treatment centre she was in high as a kite (probably on morphine, her preferred drug). She got kicked out of her treatment program, and had a older gentleman by the name of "bob" come and pick her up there.
From there she failed to turn herself in, and she's been gone, gone, gone.
Anyway, we finally caught up to her a week or so ago, and she's been sitting in cells since then, all 87 lbs of her (normal weight 115). Looks like a white version of one of those people of the infomercials for starving people in Africa. Eek.
So I dealt with Terri-lee in court Wednesday, and lo and behold who's there, but Bob, my friend's dad. Seems that he's been "involved" with Terri-lee, (and her family) for quite some time now. Helping her out etc. Not too specific as to what "involved" means... Pretty sure that he's the guy who picked her up from rehab last june too. Neither confirmed nor denied...
Then I looked at her original order from April 2002. It includes a condition that she's to have no contact with Bob, so he's been involved with her since before then...
The best part is that Terri-lee told her lawyer that she thinks she's pregnant, and if she is, that it's Bob's. Of course she's probably just ignorant to the fact that if a woman drops under a certain body fat percentage, that her menstrual cycle shuts down, mimicking the early stages of pregnancy. I would think (and hope) its just that.
The world is too small.
P.S. I'll try and find some more upbeat things to put into posts for some of the future, as I realize that much of what I post is thinly disguised black humour.
Every so often some shit like this pops up and pisses me off to no end. Who the hell does this guy think he is? A freaking truce? I'll get back to that.
Everyone despises Osama and his ilk for their involvement with the attack on the USS Cole, our embassies, 9/11, Bali and Madrid among sundry other atrocities against mankind. I won't belabor the obvious by rehashing all that.
But what really gets me about him is his smugness. Here's the spoiled rich white boy who never had to work a day in his life, talkng about how the masses are oppressed. Yeah they are oppressed alright, by people like the bin Laden clan.
There he is in his immaculate flowing robes, pointing his elongated, Arsenio Hall-like fingers at the camera. You half expect his lackeys to start that whooping and hollering Hall's audience used to do. Sitting there cross-legged on the dirt floor like some all-knowing swami, dispensing his pearls of wisdom in that calm, articulate voice of hatred.
I just hate that quality in anyone let alone a bloodthirsty mass murderer. But what's the worst of all is his cloaking what is a transparent political power grab in religion. Look, this shaman doesn't have a religion. The one he claims to be so devoted to, namely Islam, specifically prohibits the blatant killing of women, children, fellow Muslims and non-combatants in general. Osama's henchman do all that every chance they get. Hell, for all I know, they chop down fruit trees for firewood to heat his caves too. (Also prohibited by the Koran.)
Fact is Islam is as practiced by a billion or so peaceable, mainstream Sunnis and Shi-ites. It is not the virulent strain known as Wahibbi, which Osama and the Saudi royal family espouse. Strife is undesirable. These Wahibbis love strife. They foment strife. They thrive on strife. Unrest is their lifeblood. Thus, by extension, they are unwelcome in the general gene pool. Certainly the world would be better off if Osama and all his associates were forced to bathe in smallpox.
But I am not a violent man. Violence only begets more violence. Hence my modest proposal: Osama et al want us to vacate all Muslim lands including Iraq, Afghanistan and Palestine (which last I checked isn't home to a big American presence and has no usable resources anyhow.) They want us to stop propping up corrupt Arab regimes that prevent them from establishing hegemony over the oil-laden Middle East, their goal. They want us to stop supporting Israel via $4 billion of your money every year.
Fine. Agree to all of it and leave immediately. Never to return. Cut off foreign aid to everyone, including the $3 billion you fork over to Egypt's tyrant Hosni Mubarek. Return all that money to American taxpayers. All we ask is that people from the area refrain from visiting ours. If they have a pressing business need we'll review it on a case by case basis and summarily deny all requests for visas. Ever heard of teleconferences?
There's your truce you bearded freak.
Oh, there is one more minor detail. Y'all better start policing yourselves under this new arrangement. Root out your extremists (you know where they are!!) and snuff them or cage them. Because if they ever cause another calamity for the now separate West, man, there will be indiscriminate Hiroshima-style hell to pay. But so long as there's no 9/11 redux, Western civilization and Osama's medieval vision can co-exist how ever uneasily. Y'all stay over there and we'll stay over here and never the two shall meet. We'll see who prospers and who withers on the vine.
Well actually two: Hey Osama, don't suppose you've heard from Sabiha lately, huh? What, you've already forgotten about your 1st wife and mother to almost all your kids? Why was it she left your pious ass? Oh that's right, you bringing that nubile teen young enough to be your daughter into the marital fold.
Just drop the religious pretense, you horn-dog, and then maybe somebody might take you seriously. Be who you are without shame. Like Tony Soprano.
by mg at 01:27 PM on April 14, 2004
I went to visit my mom for Easter. I left shortly after my last post was uploaded, and didn’t get home till 5pm yesterday. Luckily the wife didn't get freaked out driving in four straight hours of torrential downpour, because even leaving as early as we had, I still had just enough time to eat a very unhealthy dinner (cookies), before heading out to my Tuesday night class. I wasn’t able to touch a computer while I was away (about 6 days), and am now buried in close to 1,000 email messages on top of the end of semester work-load of stuff that I should have done at the beginning of the semester, but was too lazy. I won’t even ask how it could possibly already the end of semester, but, as the calendar insists, it is. The point of all this is that I am alive, I am back, I will be around, but not completely so for the next couple days. If you happened to send me email over the last week, please send it again, since I will likely delete it rather than having to wade through all the spam. Also, if you’ve happened to forget, my birthday is less than a week, though there is still plenty of time to buy me something for my birthday.
If you knew how to identify what's hot and what's not, you'd be rich enough to buy off the entire Saudi royal family and make them start pumping mad oil instead of their Palestinian nannies. But Hollywood bigshots have been trying to do just that for years, mostly in vain. Even porn ventures can be strangely sterile and unsatisfying.
Perhaps one of the hottest scenes in mainstream cinema was the one on the yacht in Some Like It Hot. The only reason Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis got away with all that heavy breathing in 1959 was that they ostensibly played it for laughs. A close runner up came with that scene in Wild Things where Denise Richards and Neve Campbell locked lips and more. And despite the fact that she's a model not a trained actress, Rebecca Romijn-Stamos managed to generate major heat in Femme Fatale. I think it had more to do with the film noir, who's-fooling-who atmospherics than any outright erotic content. Same goes for that attempted rape vs. seduction scene in Disclosure. Conversely, some films seem to be trying to hard. Eyes Wide Shut, 91/2 Weeks and Cruel Intentions come to mind.
It's the same way with musicians. Watching Christina Aguilera writhe in a mud pit in her video for Dirty was more disturbing than sexy. Ditto for Britney prancing around the stage with her Burger King-style microphone and oddly bossy personna. I'm more taken by the raw passion of Janis Joplin belting out Take a Little Piece of my Heart, Stevie Nicks' mystical dances or even the wholesome Shania Twain doing I Feel Like a Woman (but not not that guy in the truck comemrcial.)
Ellie Mae Clampet: hot. Elizabeth Montgomery with both her Dicks in Bewitched: hot. Mary Tyler Moore: not. Naive Golden Girl Betty White: hot. Mannish Bea Arthur: not hot. The Facts of Life's spunky Jo: hot. Blair: not. Winnie in the Wonder Years: hot. Winnie Mandella: not.
Despite their hairy butt cracks I'll concede that guys too can be hot. Clint Eastwood reprising his reluctant warrior shtick in Unforgiven: hot. Clint playing a sensitive loser in Bridges of Madison County: not. Dashing Russell Crowe in Gladiators: hot. Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind: not. Joey: hot. Ross: not. Randy Jackson: hot. Ryan Seacrest: not.
Tommy Lee pounding on his drums with Motley Crue: hot. Tommy Lee pumping Pam Anderson full of hep C: not. The onstage interplay between Axl Rose and Slash: hot. Onstage interplay between the Backdoor Boys: not. Eddie Veder fronting Pearl Jam: hot. Creed lead singer Scott Stapp: not. Prince: hot. Prince Charles: not.
Consider how both Lady Chatterly's Lover and Fear of Flying generated considerable heat in their time. And what 70s boy didn't have steamy page 27 of The Godfather memorized rote? You know, where the well-endowed Sonny satisfies his too-big-down-there bridesmaid Lucy for the first time in her life. Many pages of that book are stuck together at that juncture. Yet the movie rendition wasn't all that memorable.
I can't put my finger on what makes something hot or not any more than those Hollywood hotshots can. But I know it when I see it.
Does anyone have a clue about this seemingly elusive quality? If so please speak up, I'm getting hoarse here.
by mg at 10:51 AM on April 08, 2004
So among you might say I’ve given too much bad advice recently. At any rate, here is some more.
hi, my name is joanna and i really need some advice on how to be bad! a bunch of friends and i r going to bush gardens. one of my friends is really annoying and bringing her mom with her and her mom is going to be going around with us in the park. i need some good advice on how to ditch this girl and her mom and a good excuse on why we did ditch them. could u please send this back soon! thanks ~Joanna
Boy. That is a tough question.
When I’m faced with a problem I can’t immediately answer, I find that free association sometimes helps. Lets try it now. Busch Gardens. Busch. Bush. Female pubic hair. Vaginas. Lesbianism. Hmm, lesbianism. Damn, it always comes back to lesbianism. That isn’t helpful! Or, wait? Maybe it is…
The best way to get away from someone is to make them want to get away from you. And I’ve found from years of personal experience that the best way to make someone want to get away from you is to make an inappropriate sexual overture. I’m guessing you’ll all be driving to Busch Gardens together. Even if you’re going in a minivan, you’ll probably be packed in tight. Make sure you get a seat next to this girl who annoys you. A couple minutes into the trip, place your hand on her knee. A couple minutes later start running her knee. A couple minutes after that, start moving your hand further up the inside of her thigh. While you are doing this, start whispering in her ear about how you can’t wait to get to the bush and taking a ride. By this point, your hand should be on her crotch. If she is wearing a skirt or shorts, put the hand underneath, but over the panties (you are in public after all). Compliment her on how pretty her panties are. If she is wearing pants unbutton them.
Wait, what were we talking about again?
Oh, right. When you get to Busch Gardens, this girl will probably want nothing to do with you. She will likely go to her mom and tell her what the problem is. Her mom will either a) keep herself and her daughter as far away from you as possible, or b) pull you aside to have a talk about your “inappropriate” actions. This is where you must go in for the kill. As the mom is talking about good touches and bad touches, you start touching your bad places. Start moving yourself closer and closer to her, until you are able to start grinding your bad places against her. Likely, she will be too embarrassed to tell anyone, if you think she might tell your parents, suggest that if she does, she’ll say you were the one touching her. At this point, she will do anything to get, and stay away from you for the rest of the day, and forever after.
And, in the unlikely event that either the mom or the daughter are into your advances, please take pictures and send them to me.
What happened to Linz's post? I could have sworn I saw it here yesterday.
Anyways, I'm riding home. The Foo Fighters' Times Like These comes on the radio. I love that song. It's got a rocking riff and oblique verses. But when the chorus comes along there's little mistaking what it's about:
It's times like these you learn to live again.
It's times like these you give and give again.
It's times like these you learn to love again.
It's times like these, time and time again.
Yes, it's about the defining moment of our times. And sure I realize there are other Sept 11-inspired tunes. Bruce Springsteen wrote an entire album about it called The Rising. But that's a wimpy-sounding set of tuneless tunes that I can't even listen to, it's too depressing. Then there's that Toby Keith number and other flag-waving, we're gonna kick some major Arab ass country ditties. That simply doesn't do the tragedy justice in my mind.
My son and I were at Ground Zero Thanksgiving 2001. This was before they set up bleachers and shuttle buses for convenient viewing. There was a makeshift fence around it, plastered with hand-lettered calls out to anyone who might have seen their loved ones. We stood among a teeming crowd of gawkers in abject, reverent silence. If someone's cell had rang it might have cost them their life. There was simply nothing you could say. Strangers hugged one another. Acrid smoke wafted by. It was the most moving moment of my life, one seared forever in my soul.
Which I suppose is why it pisses me off so much to see Sept 11 being kicked around like a can in Congress. There's all this partisan finger-pointing about what was or wasn't done to avert it. This misses the point entirely. It's not why it occured, it's that it did. And immediately afterwards we found out what we as a nation are made of. People came together. Flags appeared everywhere. No planes overhead, no sitcoms, no dramas, no commercials, no songs on the radio. Nothing but non-stop coverage of what was happening in lower Manhattan and the at the Pentagon. That and silent nods.
What they ought to be debating is whether Sept 11 should be designated as a national day of remembrance. The trick is how to avoid it being commercialized in a free society such as ours.
I drove by the Pentagon recently. It is surrounded by armed soldiers and antiaircraft batteries. Maybe it's a little late for all of that. And maybe it was a little too much to expect that fleeting bit of unity and genuine emotion to live on.
Problem with political speech is that it varies too much. This causes people to listen to it or worse, to analyze it. This in turn squanders valuable time better spent watching According to Jim. To solve this I have devised a standardized format for candidates to use going forward.
Good evening my fellow (insert constituency.) Tonight we'll be discussing the scourge/blight of (insert supposed threat, crisis or epidemic. Choose from Big Terror, sundry maladies, indecency, urban sprawl or any other ill-defined difficulty that people irrationally fear.) Employ Straw Man tactic. Belittle rivals' hand-wringing over the dearth of workable strategies to combat the illusory problem. Dismiss their arguments out of hand. Present your own lame approach in the best light possible.
Make Sweeping Generalizations. Sprinkle with a dash of Bandwagon. Use phrases like "There is no longer any meaningful debate about" or "Experts agree" or "The time has come."
Reduce a complex, thorny issue to the personal level. If possible, demonize one individual villain like Osama, Saddam or Ryan Seacrest-out.
Take note of caveats for future backpedaling. Leave yourself wiggle room in case some ninny actually checks your facts. If you're talking about fanatic Muslims' propensity for random violence, be sure to add that overall, Islam is a peaceable faith. If you're trying to deny gays the right to marry, add that you deeply respect persons of all lifestyles.
Declare that you're perfectly willing to debate your opponent on a wide array of topics so long as it's limited to his former career in the kiddy porn industry.
Next turn to something vague and nebulous that just about everyone favors, such as motherhood, a robust economy or less behind bars lovin'. Speed up your cadence as you rattle off a bunch of skewed statistics to support your viewpoint. Refer to a colorful chart. It doesn't matter what it's purported to show.
Concede some meaningless points. In the passive voice, acknowledge some shortcomings. (Wrong: I really blew it this time. I accept full responsibility. Right: It's conceivable that mistakes were made.) Here it's useful to lapse into the Royal We: "This administration..."
Introduce Special Guests of varying ethnicity. Trot out a charming anecdote about how one overcame tremendous adversity to pull herself up by her boot straps. Again, it doesn't matter if it's true.
Make Grandiose Claims. Assert that intractable problems can be solved with a little creativity and accounting sleight-of-hand: "Some still insist that the government needs to live within its means like you fine folks. But this simply isn't true in today's global economy. With economies of scale and certain assumptions,..."
NOTE: Unless you want to turn your audience into a moribund bunch of Ted Williamses hanging from meat hooks in a freezer, steer clear of campaign finance reform, stem cell research or telecommunication minutia. Above all, make no mention of the fact that for every dollar lavished upon the elderly that is one less for the young. Old folks vote in droves. Youngsters are too busy boffing one another to bother.
Close with the Big Lie followed by some vaguely religious platitude and a reference to support for our troops. Voters love that kind of thing.
If all candidates adhere to this formula maybe we'll make it through this election year with some semblance of sanity left. That is, unlesss you happen to reside in one of the 17 "swing states" not solidly red or blue. You guys are screwed. So sorry.
All this talk about gay and gender issues has got me wondering about just that.
I wouldn't let guys do me in the ass unless we were real close, like knowing siblings' names close. I might blow them but not to completion. I wouldn't wear stiletto heels or thongs or fishnet stockings to please men. Nor would I get breast implants. I wouldn't be a slave to fashion. There's no way I'd endure a bikini wax. I wouldn't dance for my man no matter how much he grovelled. Belly dancing for a man carries a serious risk of humiliating laughter.
Nor would I let him rope me into hard-ass labor like moving furniture or hanging drywall. If I cook he does the dishes and vice versa. I wouldn't feel a need to feign interest in football any more than I'd expect him to sit through Trading Spaces or Queer Eye. If I did just as good a job as a guy I'd expect equal pay. But I'd also expect male coworkers to open doors for me and pull out chairs too. I'd go ape-shit if they ogled my cleavage or bared legs though---the exception being if I dressed real provocatively---then I think I'd figure I had it coming. I know I wouldn't get along well with other girls. They'd hate me. I'd shamelessly steal their boyfriends.
I guess I'd be a pretty shitty girl. How 'bout you?
by mg at 12:50 PM on April 01, 2004
Back in the day, this site had a helpful regular feature called Bad Advice. I solicited questions from people who read the site, and then provided them with ridiculously bad advice. I’ve not written a stich of bad advice in over a year, yet I still get regular questions. It is negligent of me to receive these emails and do nothing about it. There are people out there that need help getting even with ex-girlfriends, are searching for reasons to stay alive, or deciding whether or not to have sex for the first time, and they’ve come to me as their last resort for comfort, and I’ve ignored them. This makes me feel horrible. Well, not so much horrible as completely indifferent. Still, in honor of April Fool’s day, here are several examples of bad advice to some very real questions.
Do condoms work in the shower? I want to know because I would not want to have a baby right now. Please tell me if it is ok to have sex with a condom in the shower. Will the condom still work?
If you've seen Fight Club you must know that one of the main ingredients in soap is fat. What you may not know is that one of the other ingredients in soap is Lye. Lye is a chemical that is 99% effective in killing sperm. So the shower is actually the best place to have sex, even without a condom. All you have to do is soap up yourself and your partner real well, which in and of itself can be a sensual experience!
Even better, you should use straight lye. Go to your local store, the lye should be near the drain openers like Liquid Plumber. If you can't find it in the grocery store, try a hardware store. When you get home, just rub lye on you and your partner's genitals, hop in the shower, and let the pleasure begin!
i think i have herpies but im afraid to tell my mom or dad and especailly my doctor!!!! what should i do?
The great thing about herpes is that if you don't want to tell anyone you have it, all you have to do is wait a couple weeks and the sores all over your body will do the talking for you.
If you don't want to wait that long, here is another solution. You're probably afraid to tell your parents because then you'll have to get into the whole "sex" discussion. And seriously, there is nothing more uncomfortable than talking about sex with your parents than actually having sex with your parents. How can you tell them in a way that won’t necessitate the "sex" talk? Have something other than sex to blame it on.
Here is what you do: wait until your entire family is out of the house. Sneak into your parent's bedroom, open their dresser drawers and rub your infected area against every pair of your father's underwear. Remember to rub yourself against the inside of his underwear, because unless he puts them on inside out you'll have completely wasted your time. Do your parents use sex toys? If so, find your mother's vibrator or dildo and insert it in your no-no spot. In a few days, your parents will be coming down with a case of herpes themselves.
This still may not be enough. If it is just your parents with Herpes, they may too be too shy to mention it in front of the entire family. How do we solve this problem? Well, if the entire family comes down with Herpes this is surely not some sexually related outbreak, but maybe dirty toilets, or something.
Speaking of toilets, the best way to ensure a house-wide outbreak is to rub your Herpes sores all over each toilet seat in the house. Then, sneak into the bedroom of everyone that lives in your house, brothers, sisters, uncles, and grandparents. Again, rub your Herpes sores against each pair of their underwear. If your sores are already starting to get pussy, you should pierce the sores and squirt out a little puss into each pair.
Now, all you have to do is wait. The whole "Mom, Dad, I've got Herpes" conversation will go much easier if you can amend it with the phrase "but so does grandma."
I am feeling shy to ask this, but I wonder if you can help me in this: my boyfriend is asking me to practice sex together before getting married, but I am feeling afraid of this as I don't know much more about sex and how we should make it, and I am afraid to tell him this because I love him and love to be with him always. can you please illustrate to me
Awh, isn't that cute!
There is a saying that the only way to Carnegie Hall is practice. The only way to get to mind-blowing sex, is... yes, you guessed it, turning to a life of prostitution. Now, I'm not suggestion you run right out to the red-light district and start whoring yourself out. First, you and your boyfriend should make hot monkey love. If you really do love each, than it can't be wrong. If I'm guessing correctly, you are both relatively young, he should want, and be able to "perform" often. It probably won’t last very long, which is why you should let him do it whenever he wants. Remember, the only way to get good at something is to do it often. Now, even the libido of a teenage boy is probably not going to prepare you for making good sex. So, you should start letting his friends have sex with you too. Remember, you are doing this for him, so if you truly love him, it can't be wrong.
Unfortunately, you can only get good at something by doing it with someone with experience. And while teenage boys certainly have experience, they likely aren't very good. You need to look for older, more experienced partners. Your father's friends would be a good place to start. Sorry to say, but as men get older their refractory period increases, and they aren’t as able to practice as often. This means you will have to find more partners to practice with, several each day. Think of your boyfriend, and how happy he will be to know how much you are practicing the sex for him. If you two truly love each other, this can’t be wrong.
Eventually, you will run out of partners, or maybe their wives will get upset and not let you play together anymore. Now, this is where the prostitution comes in. There is another saying that nothing good is free. If you want to really get good at making the sex for your boyfriend, then you have to start charging people it. How happy will your boyfriend be that you are having sex for money! If not, he never really loved you, but at least you’ve made some cash, and have begun a rewarding career in a particularly tough job market.