the session is NOT going well

Maybe it's the best thing for you, but it's the worst that could happen to me.


PS Honestly, how is this man not my best friend?

PPS Dallas or not, I'm still totally naming any boy-child I raise Sean Avery. Get into it.

it's OK, I know nothing's wrong

Why does the world hate me? I am a nice lady. Why is it that I must get terrible Sean "My Soul Brother" Avery news (which, for 20 minutes there, was basically, "He got a heart attack and probably died.") after a terrible loss, followed by a terrible episode of "American Idol" that I had to watch in the midst of other terrible times. No, really. I had to watch it. Like, for serious.

Also, why are people who are supposed to be my friends waging some sort of imaginary feud against me? Don't be mean to me. I am good! Where did I go wrong? I am at a loss. Honestly, I deserve better than this.

Do you deserve this video? It's hard to say. But I offer it to you anyway:

bleh

Another beautiful child gone too soon. I hate when people die so young.

SERIOUSLY, who is going to bankroll my home for wayward celebrities? I have lives to save.

PS: The Los Angeles Times, you disgust me. A photo in handcuffs, really? That'll come back to you.

I love your dress

OK, so the hockey game SUCKED (I blame myself; clearly wires were crossed and Matt Cullen and his teammates made off with my good wishes and luck) — but there was a big Theory sale, and Dollie went and picked me up this great perfect dress. It is my first Theory dress! And it is great, perfect and great. Hooray!

she sits in our old place all day long

Sick days? SICK DAYS?! You know how I feel about sick days. In my mind, I am very ready to get back to work. My body is not cooperating. I woke up, somewhat disheartened by the rain (Ugh, I guess I better take the bus -- not a good idea to be walking that golden mile in the rain when you're sick), only to be hit by a 15-minute cough fest that produced something too gross to describe (but awesome) and utter swooning exhaustion. I am not ready to go back. Bleh.

I got sick, then I got sicker

The flu? Seriously? But I felt fine yesterday. Apparently that's how it works with the flu. I woke up this morning and couldn't move from the aches and pains. Now I am exhausted, aching, fevered and bleh with a sore throat. Please God, that I didn't pass it on to anyone yesterday.

binary solo

Ugh. All mechanical things are not cooperating with me. First it was the food processor. Then the HD-DVR (by the way, if I could do it all over again, I'd stick with the regular one) and now even the computer. It all makes me very cranky. Plus that I am cranky anyway, as I hate losing and had been, thankfully, quite unaccustomed to it. Argh.

please stay off the stage all day

Hey, were you in that "musical act"? The one that was playing on Manhattan Avenue, where Bedford turns into Nassau? The one featuring that "DJ" (playing MP3s on a computer — with those very professional minute-plus gaps between). Were you even the one guy — who looked like, well, every awful Williamsburg hipster stereotype you can think of — standing on a box yelling inane things into a microphone. Things like "Give it up, Greenpoint." And "You can do it, F29!" at a professional runner. Oh can she do it? Really? Like for a living, even?

Yeah, you suck.

just can't wait to get on the road again

Dear Vroom Vroom Guy,

Seriously, vroom vroom-ing while going 25MPH behind a Greyhound in the Lincoln Tunnel?

And the Baltimore Orioles? Really? If you could hear what I was saying in my car, you'd know that New Jersey plates surrounded by an Orioles plate-pretty makes you the saddest man ever. Also, a plate-pretty? Stop it.

In other news, we thought you might be a woman. Just so you know.

Your friend,
Jane

***

Dear Cabdriver,

You know who you are, the guy who doesn't know the rules of the road who almost killed us with a moronic cut off on East Houston and Avenue A last night. Remember me, the girl in the passenger seat of the Charger with Jersey plates (rental) screaming at you to "JUST F-ING GO ALREADY" — while wildly pointing in the direction that you needed to go — when you decided you wanted block traffic in order to stop and stare at us (what?) and then flip me off.

Flip me off? Oh, sir. You are so lucky. You are lucky that I so effectively suppress my crazy. For if I had chosen that moment to have my inaugural lapse, I'd have jumped out of the car, opened your door, thrown you on the street and stepped on your neck before setting your beard on fire. Because that is what I did in my mind.

YOU DON'T WANT IT WITH ME!

I know you thought you could intimidate us with your voodoo stare because we were two girls in the front seat. Don't let appearances fool you. Next time, you could pull that trick on two girls with a shotgun between them. I'm just saying.

Also, you may want to consider trimming the beard a bit. Between your eyebrows, hat(I think?) and the beard that starts a centimeter below your eyes (and not in an adorable Matt Cullen way), no wonder you can't drive — you can't see!

Hope that helps,
Jane

good things are fantastic

In the interest of improving your life with my inane thoughts, I've decided to post far too frequently for as long as I can keep it up. Because why not?

In that vein, I don't believe that I have introduced my star system of grading. It's quite simple, like all great things. Things that are great (a la — and including — Alec Baldwin's Tony Bennett) get five stars. All other things get zero stars.

Two examples from this morning:

• My Black Ice Chai (it's a chai latte, with shots of espresso, from this lovely local cafe) gets five stars.
• Dollie also gets five stars for trekking there to get it, and waking me up at 9:40 to drink it (oh, I will miss this luxury!)
• On the other hand, El Fano's news that he can't go shopping with us on Saturday because he has to help his office move (seriously, how CHEAP ARE THESE MOTHERF-ERS!) gets zero stars.

Get it? Got it? Good.

feeling like an orchid

I could be accused of serving just to serve, and I apologize in advance for my poor humor, but I have to call out this New York Vulture interview with some 21-year-old goof from a pretty lame band.

Like "The Hills," this interview with Zach Condon makes me so glad I'm not 21, but unlike "The Hills," it isn't even fun.

Key points that made my eyes roll out of my head:

• Living among Hasidm in "South Williamsburg" makes him feel like he's in "an entirely different country"
• the "guilty pleasure" question on the whole — can't blame the kid for that one, but he does get daggers for "even Bruce Springsteen" answer. Oh even him, hmm?
• And, of course, "I'm an old man at heart."

I'm sure this Beirut fellow is a nice boy — though I've been hating the band's name since I first heard it — but this interview makes me want to throw tomatoes.

run to me when you need a shoulder

A while back I shared my plan for turning my apartment into a halfway house for wayward celebrities (I believe it was called Jane and Dollie's Halfway House for Wayward Celebrities, but now I can't find the post. How annoying). But I never followed through. And for that, for failing to share my healing help with my favorite famous people, I apologize to Owen Wilson (presuming this story is true -- for once, I hope the Enquirer got it wrong.)

Owen, when the detox is over, you are welcome to be our charter case. Unlike other rehabilitation facilities, JADHHFWC is a free service. Our cozy facility's amenities include a large TV with premium cable (therapeutic screenings of "Big Brother" and Rangers games are mandatory) and an extensive DVD library, lots of pillows, Digestive biscuits and tea every morning, story-time picnics in the adjacent park featured prominently in "Flight of the Conchords," a limited-edition DDYW T-shirt, lots of laughs and unlimited hugs. This offer is non-transferable.

when the seasons change we'll look ridiculous

I have had a worse season than this. Spring 1994 was hell on earth. Surely summer 2007 isn't that bad. But make no mistake, it is awful.

So in the interest of turning the beat around, I present "Summer's My Season," by Sloan. It's one long and dirgey play on words -- which would be painful, you'd think, but it's actually fantastic.

May it make the remaining weeks of this season bearable.

mog.com

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she knows she's losing it

If I get through this week without ending up in a rubber room, I will consider it a major victory.

Speaking of major victories, my gorgeous and flawless NY Rangers won the Eastern Conference quarterfinals in a sweep. Sorry, Lil Jon. But, it happened in a week of horror. Which means I went from trying to cover monstrous shootings from an office in Times Square to jumping up and down for the "GOAL!" song in Madison Square Garden in about an hour. That's not good for one's head.

And then today, when I buy every local paper so that I have the pretty pretty back page action, the front page is a mass murderer pointing a gun at me. Where is censorship when I need it?

Even if I were sane I couldn't handle this. And we all know I am not sane. For example, I lost count of how many times I rewatched Matt Cullen's post-game interview last night to catch him "looking at me." I wish I were kidding. I really wish I didn't think we made actual eye contact. Through the TV. It's sad, really. But it's the quickest way to get happy.

who you talkin' to?

I was really going to just let this go, but my true nature won over.

Yesterday afternoon, I got this — rudely short, in my estimation — e-mail. Not only was it rudely short, the subject was the man's name. Um, what?

He's a relatively famous man (in some small circles), so I won't call him out. Let's call him Guy Smiley instead.

Here's what I got:

From: Guy Smiley
Sent: Monday, April 09, 2007 12:21 PM
To: Jane
Subject: Guy Smiley
Jane,
I am emailing to ask for Dollie's address. She sent me a poster and I need to send her a thank you note.
Thanks,
Guy

I responded quickly with just the facts. I am dying to send a PS note today, but I won't. Instead I've done this. It's the subject line that's putting it over the edge. I'm baffled.

wrung me out too too too many times

Today I left work an hour and a half late (nothing shocking), and when I got home I spent another hour doing other work things. And then I got an e-mail that said I have a meeting that starts at the time when I'm supposed to leave work, PS I needed to leave an hour early tomorrow.

So what I did was cry. Seriously. I cried for an hour. I cried at the computer, I cried on the phone, I cried on the couch. I went into my room and starting packing my bag for my trip (which I will now be late for) crying while watching "The Job."

I love "The Job." The job, not so much. Now I am sitting at the computer (oh, but you knew that) having downed three Advil and a beer (My self-medication is squarely OTC), and I have stopped crying. I'm calling that progress.

PS I love Colton Orr.

I want to live the sporting life

My stepfather bet me $10 that Boston would win the St. Patrick's Day Bruins/Rangers game.

"I've always loved the Bruins," he said. "And the Devils." He lies. He's a Rangers fan. He does it just to drive me crazy. The other day he called me as a representative of the Chris Simon Fan Club. He's a riot.

Anyway, we won 7-0. And Matt Cullen got 2 goals and an assist (it's like supporting a team within a team!). Pop should bet me more often.

Speaking of sports enjoyment, there was an "exposé" on "Dateline NBC" about men who like watching football. Yeah, really. So they had these huge fans who really like their team, and the wives who can't stand it. My favorite part is when the wives talk about how much they hate it, PS of course the men were crazy fans before they were married. First off, why hate it? Who cares? I hate football too, but it's on once a week. How much of a problem can it be? And if you do hate it, why get married to a fan?

So they set the dudes up by having the wives ask them to do things around the house while the game was on. Come on! Leave the dudes alone. Does it make you happy to haunt your husband so he can't enjoy something that he loves? Aren't you happy to see him happy? Can't you find something to do without him on a Sunday afternoon? And when did emasculation become a prerequisite for being a good husband?

Also, how is it that no one has married me?

I should be laughing right now

Two huge things are happening that I can't talk about here (well, huge to me. to the rest of the world, not so much. but enough that I can't talk about them here). I think I may have to start the secret spot up again, just for my own sanity — and to have a record. Oh, it's so important to have a record.

But yeah, here's today's question: Do I stay home, be sad about wasting a day and continue to yell through the wall at the noisy workmen next door? Or go out, possibly freeze to death and neglect all the housework (and personal improvements) I really need to do? It's a win-win, I tell you.

Oh wait, I forgot. I have to stay home because I have to work. Now I'm angry again. And crying. Someone will pay, I assure you.

the good old days, the honest man

Oh no oh no oh. Dollie was right. I am man crazy. It is not good. The worst part of it is that right now, I am not even just man crazy in general (though I will admit that I do also harbor a teeny mini crush on a very young, very pretty, very inappropriate man -- but that's another story).

BUT for real I am one-man crazy, and it's one man I don't even hardly ever see, one man who I could have previously taken advantage of on any number of occasions. One man who I got similarly (and similarly too late) crazy for like 10 months ago. Ugh! Boo and hiss.

Worst of all, I totally don't even know where he lives or remember his last name or any of those important investigative-type things. I am giving this all a resounding thumbs down.

Also, I am totally obsessed with that Killers song. I listened to it all the way home today. Weirdo.

you wonder why New York fans are in love with him

If you listen close, you can hear me screaming.

turn out hate in factories

Dear Today,

Beat it. Seriously. Bug off. No one likes you, and we know you are just hating because other days are very nice and productive and lovable. Oh, but not you.

If you were standing in front of me right now, I'd punch you in the throat.

Die die die.

love*jane

can I get myself out from underneath

At 9something PM, my Christmas tree was up and decorated, all but the angel. I should have taken a picture. Because then it fell down. I don't think anything broke, luckily (Not even the ornaments you threw across the room for daring to fall on you while you were under the tree trying to get it to stand again? No, not even those).

Also, hockey fucking sucked. 9-2? Seriously? My day was going well until that. Bastards. I'm giving the Bigmouth Maple Leafs Fan who sits behind me at MSG just 30 seconds to talk about it at tonight's game. After that, he's going the way of the ornaments that fell on my head. Only he'll break, I assure you.

This morning I've dyed my hair. Now I'm going out to get a new Christmas tree stand. And a latte. Using Preference by Loreal AND indulging in a Dunkin' Donuts free Gingerbread Latte? Why not? I'm worth it.

PS I didn't stay up for all of the JT SNL, but so far so good. "Omletteville" revisited I saw coming. "The Barry Gibb Talk Show" I hoped for. But "My Dick in a Box" — now that was a surprise. And a good one. Especially when they said, "See, I'm wise enough to know ..." Magnificent.

oh where should I start?

The fog has lifted, and I'll tell you why, in not-even-remotely-blind-item terms: What Canadian band that put out a beyond-awful album is playing a secret/not secret/secret again show in my borough and didn't even bother to tell me?

Now, I know what you're thinking, "What, you're special?" Um, yes. And if I am not special, if I am not privy to special information and special consideration, then neither are they. Which means

dun dun DUN ...

Guess who is (almost) ready to let loose with the entry "Year-End Special, Issue #? - Biggest Fiasco Committed To Disc "?

Wait for it.

never read or hardly wrote

My vacation is over. Boo. But I don't want to go back to work. I am clearly cut out for a life of leisure.

Also, I have a new favorite song. It's called "You and I Are a Gang of Losers" and it is the greatest great ever. And it is from my favorite album all year, The Dears' Gang of Losers — not to be confused with my favorite mixtape all year, Gay Pimp's This Is New York City, Bitch: The East Village Mixtape. I'll explain later. And there are more unsolicited year-end favorites to come. Get into it.

a little payback for everyone

As I sat on the bus on my way home this evening, I thought, "I wonder if I could track down Karla Homolka. I think she's just up in Quebec. That's not even a long trip."

If you don't know who she is, or how reading this book is starting to make me think very bad Paul Kersey-esque thoughts, this may sound harmless. It isn't.

Now of course I would never act on these thoughts, for I respect the sanctity of human life (unlike some people I could mention, Karla!), but could I spit in her face, maybe? Just once? Or, you know, slap her real hard? I think one minor violent act would go a long way toward making me feel better. Or, maybe some non-violent torture? I promise to let her go once I get her really hysterical. If she somehow gets arrested for something new and Canadian law enforcement wants to bring me in to work the case, I'm available.

you're a nightmare to me

When I read that Cheney was going to Iraq for Thanksgiving, I thought, "Ugh, it's already miserable that these kids have to be in Iraq for Thanksgiving. Why make it worse for them?" And then I read that he didn't actually go. And I thought, "What a prick." Sorry, Cheney. You just can win with me.

I could laugh in your face if I want, oh but I'm not going to

I was going to post this great entry about all the things I want to say at the hockey games but don't, but all I can remember is a general, "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to punch you in the mouth, you stupid fucking fuckhead" or something.

Oh, yeah, now I remember one! So there's this guy who is there for some games, and the camera finds him, and plays "Strike It Up" by Black Box (a classic, clearly) and he dances like a madman. It's wonderful. So some dumb woman who obviously needs a swift elbow to the nose decides to smack talk him on the escalator on the way out. "Imagine, you're like 30 years old or whatever, dancing like an idiot on camera. Why would you do that? Why do they even show it?" (I honestly don't remember exactly what she said now, but it was something like this, negative, pointless, bitchy.) And so, if I'd talked to her, I would say "Why does he do it? Why do they show it? Because it's awesome. Because he's awesome. Why don't you shut your mouth until you have something worth saying you dumb fucking bitch. PS Push me again on the way down the stairs and I'll get you to the ground floor real quick." (There's a lot of cursing in these, because it is a hockey game.)

Also, I would just like to take this opportunity to tell that guy who sits behind me (I could totally read him now and call out his section, row and seat, but I'm a punk) to never talk ever. No one cares about how awesome it is in Canada. No one cares about the craptastic Toronto Maple Leafs (the bastard outlaw cheaters of the league -- if it was a barfight, they'd bite) and how there are three parades in Toronto every time they win a playoff game (Oh really? That is the saddest story I ever heard.) No one cares about Darcy Tucker or Tie Domi (seriously, what kind of fucking names are these?) unless it is to punch them in the throat. No one really has any sympathy for the fact that you can't get into a Montreal-Toronto game, mainly because you are fucking talking through our game, you stupid dick. Why do you have 1/2 season tickets if you don't care? No one is really going to check all the news on TSN.ca (God help us) even if you say it is the best hockey site. It's still Canadian. No one likes you, and no one understands how you managed to implant a fucking megaphone in your head (that is the only explanation for the volume at which you speak conversationally.)

And other guys behind me, you were way more fun when you brought Ira, who tried to take his cat into the game. You minus Ira equals a total snooze.

ladyish, waxed woman

This has a lot of bad words, but all are deserved.

This week on my #1 all-time favorite podcast, "Gay Pimpin' With Jonny McGovern," Reichen Leimkuhl won the Douchebag of the Week Award (after they read Vanessa Minnillo within an inch of her life for her hugely offensive "Ugly Vanessa" stunt) for proudly saying he's a "straight-acting gay." Oh, that went over big. A super-heated Jonny's in regular print, Linda's chiming in in italics.

Reichen, in some interview said, "Well, most of me and my friends are, you know, S.A.G.s — straight-acting gays."

Are they, Mary?

First of all, Reichen, you fucking pussy-having woman, Fuck You.

You're the face of gay America, and you're going to use self-hatred?

OK, look, I love a butch game. It's OK to pretend you're doing a little butch game to get laid. But don't fucking start with me that your whole life is that you're a "straight-acting gay" because you're "not like that." FUCK! YOU! It makes me so ANGRY!

And he's got gay face, number one.

First of all, Reichen has got gay face. Secondly, he's probably a big nelly pussy bottom.

He's taking it from Lance Bass' two-inch cock.

Yeah, from Lance Bass' little two-inch wiener. I hope you're listening, Reichen, because fuck you, you motherfucker! It makes me furious when famous gays start to act like it's better to act straight or neutered so that you don't upset the boat.

You wear sweater sets, Reichen. Stretch tees and sweater sets do not classify to me as S.A.G.

Take your moment of your 15 minutes of fame you stupid, ex-Air Force whatever. Just because you had to be in the closet — you chose to be in the Air Force, in the closet, and so you don't know how to really be gay — you think that acting pretend butch — and by the way, your eyebrows and all of your skincare is not helping with your thing you fucking ladyish, waxed woman. Fuck you, Reichen.

It makes me so angry that someone who is having their moment in the gay spotlight is going to start telling you he's a straight-acting gay, like it's cool to be that way. It's OK to pretend to be straight to get laid, or you can be kind of a butch person, but saying you're "straight acting"? Fuck you.

I live.

everyone wants to take a stab

I think I had a panic attack today. Maybe my first! How exciting. I wasn't feeling it as panic though, mostly anger.

Maybe I was panicking that I would never stop being angry? Or maybe it was a rage attack. Either way, I got so angry for so prolonged a time that I realized I'd stopped breathing. Well, I was breathing, but incredibly shallow, scary breaths. And it was taking everything I had to muster them up. It was not OK.

It would probably be helpful (as a modern log of my life) to recall even 1/8 of the events that led up to this, but I'm thinking of one now and starting to shake. So never mind! La la la!

I'm lovely, you're a mess

Was a time when it took an all-night You Tell Us pull (still working 45 minutes before I had to leave on a road trip to Canada, even) for me to place curses upon an artist for announcing a divorce. Now, it only takes an ol' 15-hour-workday to get me spitting mad over a broken celebrity marriage. A pox on them all! The rich people, I mean. Not the kids. I'll always love the kids.

let's not get loud

I slept through the dark this morning. I don't do that much. I can't do it five days a week, else I'd be really late for work. But even on the weekends, I usually have a few awakenings before the sun's up. Not today. I didn't open my eyes until 7. What a delight.

Though it may be due to complete exhaustion. And all the crying. Last night, c. 7:30, I started having horrible terrible evil gnawing stomach ulcer hate pain. I looked up online how to make it go away with common household items (because damned if I had been able to find the healing power of liquid Maalox anywhere in two years), and all the sites told me was that it was my own fault. Excessive use of NSAIDs gave you that ulcer, and now you pay. Ugh. Please. I wasn't taking handfuls of asprin and Advil back in the day for kicks. I was taking them because I had a cracked molar and various other dental ailments, plus shame and no insurance. It was handfuls of NSAIDs or handfuls of don't-wake-up-anymore pills. And if you don't get that, you've never had a real toothache, I assure you.

So I had to cry and cry. I feel like web sites should say, "We are sorry you feel bad. Here is to help you." Instead of, "Way you break yourself, smartie."

So this morning I got up and went to the drugstore where not only did they have a gorgeous selection of liquid antacids (thank you, Eckerd) but also even the store brand. Now I have a huge bottle of cooling mint Fakelox in the fridge. I've downed a ton of it (plus a PretendCid AC) and still don't feel much better, but it's so relieving to know it's there.

Anyway, I blame the laundry and work for making it hurt so much again. For while stress cannot cause an ulcer (only you can, with your stupid pill-popping, Jane), I know that it can make it so angry. Wah.

If you'd sick of reading me whine about my pain, check out Pink Elephants' delightful NaBloPoMo randomizer for something much better. Sometimes.

clear the floor

I am so tired and cranky. The people picked up my laundry on Wednesday, and it still hasn't been returned. I've had a fever for about three weeks. And I really want to go to bed. I have nothing to write about. So instead, look at this photo! It is taken from my sexy hot 1/2 season ticket seat. What a delight. And the Rangers keep winning, two times in a row! This is a step in the right direction. Good times.

let's play catch, I'll throw the shade

Should I see "Paris Is Burning?" Is it crazy that I never have? The Gay Pimp Podcast panel is obsessed, and I think they are heaven on earth, so perhaps I should follow their lead. Perhaps I should return some of these Blockbuster movies I've had out since June as well, and have them send me "Paris Is Burning" instead. Ooh, how exciting.

I had to read some man on the way home today. I got off at Bedford after almost stabbing a woman on the train out of rage (If you were rocking stupendously uncute sunglasses, a busted haircut, a nasty knapsack and carrying five FedEx boxes on the L this afternoon, watch yourself before you crotch yourself. Or something) and when I walked by one stoop, a dude swept his pile of leaves on me. "Oh, thanks" I said to him, with suitable incredulity. He's still smarting, no doubt.

I wonder how long I can go on quoting "How to Read" by MECCA? Probably a week, that's my guess.

scraping me off the ceiling

And the curse lifts.

I don't believe in big bad sports curses, the kind that are supposed to explain decades of losses. I do, however, believe I may be a jinx. True fact: Of all the Rangers games that I'd been to with Dollie (quite a few), only one was a win. And we'd gone with two other friends (shout out Sarah and Laurie!) to that game, so it doesn't even count.

Another true fact: I have tickets to 21 games this season. Now you don't want to miss games, but you also don't want to put your team in a bad spot. Well, the worries are over. They won last night, and we were there. It was a joy, a dream, a delight.

But what is up with the talking? Last week, there was a dude behind us going over all the merchandising for "V." Dollie: I thought I'd learned everything I need to know about "V" in a 1983 TV Guide. This week, some guy (same guy? no idea) kept talking about the history of Canadians in hockey. And there are a lot of Canadians in hockey. Also, he called Lindros by just Eric. As in "Eric is doing really well down in Dallas." Um, you're a lady. In all my years of Lindros love and lust, never once did I call him Eric. Even when I was practicing my vows. Come on.

Speaking of that guy being a lady at a hockey game — and me not being a lady at a hockey game (surely I am a lady at all other times) — I coined the new go-to Hate the Devils phrase. It is (drumroll) "SUCK IT, MARTY!" Though it is especially glorious being shouted through MSG, it can work for any team. Try it out. When your man scores on Brodeur, let it ring through the arena (or your home). It's such a good feeling.

I can't go to sleep cause I'm too damn scared

I just saw the single most disturbing commercial ever. All you need to know is this quote:

Honey, why is Peter Forsberg in our bed?

UGH! Of all the hockey players in the world. I mean, really. What a nightmare.

girl you better recognize the game

Today was a big bag of butt. A great giant sack of ass. I hated it. It was too busy, and I feel like I got nothing done (I'm still working now, in fact — well, not right now) and, here comes the goodest good part, I have to go out tonight.

What do I mean "have to"? I mean "HAVE TO!" for it is the Candy Butchers magical reunion show of greatness and magic. Did I mention that it's magic? It is. And that'd be fine, except that it starts at 11:30. That's PM. I have to get up at 4AM for work. I'm not sure that I'll even be home by 4AM.

So tomorrow may be the day I end my stint as a drug-free American. Or, you know, the day I drink lots of coffee. Followed at 4PM by four cocktails capped off with a 12-hour night's sleep, I hope. Yay!

better learn how to face it

That British study of what people want played at their funeral (I think I'm supposed to link to something here, but I'm tired) has all sorts of internet nerds talking about funeral songs. So here's mine, because, remember it's about who's left behind as much as it's about who's going:

• She's Gone - Hall & Oates
• Without You - Nilsson
• Here I Am Lord

Gorgeous.

I have a new plan for a book: When To Kill Yourself: A Practical Guide To Auto-Euthanasia, by Jane. Inspired by current events and an absolutely enraging episode of "Without a Trace" that I shouldn't have saved for tonight (evil murderous child molester kills himself — after he's abducted at least three kids and killed one). It's about the greater good, people. I'm fielding publishing offers and accepting advances now.

feels like somebody's else's lights came on

Something amazing happened at work today. It was so amazing that someone who knows best, someone who's been in the department for about as long as there's been one, said that it was the most amazing thing that's ever happened in the newsroom. I believe it. So I don't think I'm meant to tell you what happened — yet. I will when I can. For now, I will say that it involved a real American hero.

After that beautiful moment, I flew into a rage over the shooting at the Amish school, which is what, the third school shooting in a week? Allow me to offer some excellent advice (that I'm certain I've shared before): If you feel the need to kill someone, just kill yourself instead. Because you're solving the problem, and the problem is you. Plus only one person is dead. This is especially great advice if you're going to kill yourself anyway after you kill other people. Skip a step.

Dollo was telling me about "Dexter" on Showtime, which is apparently about a blood-spatter expert who hands out bloody vigilante justice on the side. Oh. I'm so envious. How did he get two dream jobs?

If you're keeping score:

• Killing people (as a rule): OUT.
• Killing bad guys as a genius, clued-in vigilante: IN (in theory — you'd have to be always absolutely right, and merciful where it's called for. Tough.)

I am tired and hurty and glad to be home.

the plan won't accomplish anything if it's not implemented

I was waiting for the bus today, and these two teen-ish moms with their two three year old kids were happening by. "Get the fuck away from me. Stop touching me. I can't stand you" one said to her child. That child then started acting up (shocker) and then pulled something from the other child's hand. That little boy started crying, at which point his lovely mother said, "Stop being such a faggot. He didn't even hit you that hard."

Oh the things you see when you haven't got your gun.

I started thinking things to say to these people. Evil horrible nasty things that I've never said to anyone ever. Things I don't think I've ever thought, never mind said out loud. Instead of those things, I will say that it may be time for me to take my vigilante lust on the road and stop problems before they start. Because, seriously, those two little boys are going to grow up to be total maniacs (clearly) and totally rob and rape my children. And that is not OK.

Perhaps I should start carrying around the Chad Hunt SuperCock (TM?) and hand out hearty cock slaps to offending parents. And all other offending parties. I'm going with the SuperCock because it is big and terrifying and could probably whip out some facial fractures in the right hands. Also, I don't think anyone would let me carry a gun.

be delicious and still be influential

We went to a new restaurant last night. I fear new restaurants. What if they are terrible and it was my idea to go? That is a nightmare. But we have a friend from out of town staying with us, and while she is here it is best to go to places she has not been before.

Because of this (and my unwavering obsession with strawberry mojitos) we went to a place in the Williamsburg/ Bushwick environs called Mojito Loco.

It was delightful.

We started out with the gorgeous fruit mojitos (our table had two raspberries, a blueberry and my strawberry) — though the fresh watermelon margarita was very tempting — and ceviche (we punked out and got non-spicy). Magic. They also give your table plaintain chips when you sit.

Remember when Black Betty gave you pre-food food — what is that called, anyway — well, now they don't. I'm also tired of getting attitude there. I am an easy customer and a good tipper. Why the shade? Seriously, last weekend the server was such a beast that when three of us ordered the same thing (food and cocktail) she got annoyed. Um, that's easier for you, you stupid bitch.

Anyway, at Mojito Loco, depite ordering 11 labor intensive cocktails — PS Did I mention that the second round was a happy hour freebie? — the woman helping us was delightful, and also the owner/manager/chef/whatever (I'm not sure of her exact role, but she's clearly running things) came over to seat us, tell us about specials, check on how our food was and invite us to an upcoming event.

The four of us got out of there at just over $100 (with 11 drinks!) and I will go back soon for sure.

So there's a new Sloan song, in addition to the one on their MySpace page. It's called "Fading Into Obscurity," and I can't tell if it was sent out to every Sloan fan or just a random sampling. But I am permitted to share it with friends, so says the note, so if we are friends (I think we are) and you want to hear it (I think you do), hit me up.

clear thoughts tied in black and blue knots

From Flaming Pablum. I think I am supposed to tag others, but I'd love for us all to have less pressure in our lives. If you want to do this, go for it.
FIVE THINGS....
...I don't understand:
1. the use of the singular "pant" when speaking of clothes that cover legs
2. people who push their way on to the train as others are trying to get out
3. why there is still no way for me to teleport
4. the religious right's take on Christianity
5. how the National Enquirer gets it right so often

...I bought on eBay:
1. Joel Plaskett's famous orange cowboy shirt
2. Cod Can't Hear featuring Sloan's "A Case of You"
3. discontinued favorite bra - as many "NWT"s as I can find
4. a brown replacement for my blue corduroy Wrangler jacket
5. Guys Next Door promo box

...I have but do not want:
1. a sunburn
2. anemia
3. an exciting, challenging, enviable job
4. a huge broken printer on my kitchen counter
5. dirty laundry

...I want but do not have:
1. room on my DVR for VH1 Classic's reairing of the first 24 hours of MTV
2. a drivers' license
3. my own house
4. a dog
5. a large iced coffee

Oh, now I have the iced coffee! Thanks, Dollo.

just when I thought that we were winning

Today really sucked. I almost cried. I have once at work, just once, and it was because I hate Michael Jackson. Today I just had had it. I came in early, at 5:30, because I thought there may be some extra news this morning. There wasn't really, but there's always so much to do. There was lots to do at 5:30 and 6:30 and every :30 until 4:30, at which point I left.

Then I came home and there was a bug. A bug. I do not like bugs. When I saw the bug, I was playing my answering machine. On it, some dude who did not even say who he was or where he was calling from said it was important that I return his call "on an immediate basis." Seriously? Clearly, I told him (or, his voice on the answering machine) that he could blow me on an immediate basis. So yeah, back to the bug. I killed it, but then he had like 4 friends. It was not OK. I work and work and come home and curse out weird people on my answering machine and all I want is to drink iced tea in peace, but no. Then I have to deal with bugs. F-ing bugs.

I got an email from myself today, one of those reminder dealies, and it reminded me that Belle & Sebastian's cover of Rod Stewart's "Baby Jane" came out today, which I love because of the Jane and because it is great. The real song, I mean. I hadn't heard the cover. And good luck hearing it, because iTunes is hating on my Americanness. Haters. I found it on some strange German site or something. They had a preview. That was enough. I liked it, but I wanted to hear the real one and sing along. Loud. I did. I live.

second verse, out of breath

This is a week of butt.

First Kevin Aviance gets gay bashed. In the East Village. By a group of punk-ass bitches who apparently didn't get the memo that "Bloods" and "Crips" (please, Bloods and Crips in NY is so ridiculous anyway) aren't supposed to hang out together (um, hi) ganging up on lone men.

And then Dan Abrams becomes the GM of MSNBC (what does that even mean -- also dig the hate in The Washington Post article. Dude.) and doesn't have a show anymore.

Dear World, You Suck. Love, Jane

my white diamonds always bring me luck

I shouldn't be writing inane stories. I should be cleaning. But I don't want to clean, so I will tell my inane stories.

Friday was 10 years since I met Dollo, so Dollo took me to 21 for steak and creme brulee and something they call a Bee's Knees which is a cocktail made of rum and cardamom-infused honey and something else, who knows, it was fantastic. Then it took us two hours to get home thanks to the rain, which cut off service on the East side. Also, some "debris on the tracks" issue cut out the downtown yellow trains as well. Please. So we took a bus down to 14th St and then a cab home. Because I got it like that.

Saturday I did my laundry. I walked into the laundromat and walked right out and a lady came after me. "Some of these machines are done. I'm gonna take the clothes out of them. People leave their clothes, I take them out." Well alright. She didn't have to because some other girl happened to be pulling her clothes out. So I put in my clothes, walked outside, got on the phone with El Fano to tell him that wherever we'd end up spending the night, it has to be at a bar "that isn't full of white people. I hate white people" which didn't even get hardly a shrug from the people standing out front of my non-white laundromat. See, they know. When it came time to dry the clothes, I was out of luck and had to drag my wet bag home. It was drizzling, so I couldn't even use the line. So I had to drape things over things throughout the house. There. Were. Clothes. Everywhere. Later on, Dollo put my jeans in the oven so I could wear them out.

But before that we went to the movies. I had to see "The Break-Up" obviously. It was like a dream, really. Well, not really. It was mostly really funny for like an hour and then got weirdly half serious like a TV movie. And the crowd was odd because they laughed a lot at many things, but no one found the old "You might get arrested." "For what, being awesome?" line as truly fantastic as it truly is. Whatever.

Then we went to Unos. Because I love chain restaurants and their cheesy drinks, f- all y'all. And it was lovely.

Then I was too early for my haircut so I went to the friendly neighborhood gay bar for more cocktails.

Then came the haircut at my very delightful, very rock and roll haircut place, where I got a magnificent haircut. It's a little big today, but that is because I left the house with it soaking wet. When I got home I put in some product, and now it is like a dream. Really.

But back to Saturday. After the haircut it was time to meet up with folks to celebrate this 10th anniversary of meeting Dollo and Lola and Seana. Seana is busy being a mom/rock star in Texas, so she couldn't come. Other people were stuck doing other things like falling down the stairs and fighting with their husbands (this was not the same person, so don't worry), but Dollo, El Fano, Lola, LMD and LMD's lovely friend from work brought it hard. We went to one nice place with a very nice bartender of fun, but there was nowhere to dance. So we left.

Then we went to Eastern Bloc, which had a pretty pretty DJ who played pretty pretty dancy pop songs and all was well. Then some indie rock snore came in to play indie rock snore tracks, the lamest ever go-go boy neither went nor went and we got some from-afar attitude from a little group of Howard Beach-looking 20-something queens and their ugly hags. Please. I had to announce that I could smell the New Park Pizza coming off them and they were fooling no one, also that I couldn't believe I was getting shade from the Lollipop Guild. It was time to go.

So we moved on to the Pyramid, where a desperate-seeming promoter was frankly stunned that we agreed to come in. The place was empty, but the cave was begging for a dance. So we danced. And more people arrived. And when the DJ (who was contractually obligated to play our requests, so said the promoter) wasn't playing our requests, we started growing cranky. I decided it would be super funny to junior prom slow dance to the frenetic sounds of "The Metro" by Berlin, but it is nearly impossible to do this without laughing, which set off El Fano (we were junior prom slow dancing after all, he could feel me laughing), so then I came up with this great '80s cocaine jitters dance, but nobody really appreciated how great it was.

This is all my long way of saying it was just like old times, of me drinking too much and trying to get in a fight and dancing and being a jerk. I loved it.