And I Was A Boy From School

Can I please have (yet another) angry blogger moment and talk about just how I much I hate the fact that Carson Daly has his own late night show?
The entire half an hour is Daly sitting around half drunk, chatting about what he did last night while he was at the bar and debating which female celebrity has the best breasts.
Whenever the cameras pan over to the producer, all I can feel is complete and utter sadness for the man who seems to have a perpetual expression of defeat and pain on his face which can only be created by the fact that he has been trapped in Satan's Frat House for six years--with no hint of escape any time soon.

Tonight's rerun featured Daly sampling the "new" cocktail creation of Redbull, vodka and NyQuill--which has allegedly recently been awarded the Britney Spears Seal Of Approval.
With his ready made vodka and Redbull waiting on his desk, Daly makes the drink,
comments on how delicious it is and continues to suck it down within the last twenty minutes of the show.
Forgive me if I don't have the greatest expectations in the amount of effort they put into making every episode, but I'm pretty sure the time frame during actual airing is pretty close to the amount of time they put into shooting.
16 ounces of pure cough syrup and hard liquor in twenty minutes, that is true skill.
I mean, I'm sure whatever it is in those mugs that Conan and Leno are drinking isn't coffee or water but at least they're discreet about it.

I particularly enjoy when Daly prods reality stars for "dirt" on who's had plastic surgery and is denying it.
Any idiot who can recall old "Total Request Live" editions or Daly's cameo on the groundbreaking film Josie and the Pussycats can tell you, his recent face and tan were not made by nature.

I'm not sure why I return to the show every couple of nights; perhaps it's because there's only so many blurry episodes of "News Hour with Jim Lehrer" I can stomach and NBC is the only channel that comes in clear on my rabbit ears.

I think I'm just fascinated by the idea that someone who has absolutely nothing substantial to say has been able to host a talk show for the past six years.

As long as college children are alive and Daly continues to plug the drinks he samples every night at the LA clubs, the show will continue to exist.

If I have to suffer through it again at least hand me some of whatever he's been drinking before he's goes on set to shoot because it would make the experience a little less painful.

Come on and spread a sense of urgency

Let me ask you a question, PGE.
How do you expect me to pay my bill if the account number you gave me is invalid?

When the website is telling you one thing but the bill is telling you another--AND NEITHER OF THEM WORK--what do you do?

Here's what the website says:

"Your account number is at the top left corner of your monthly bill."
-My account number is at the top right corner, thank you very much.
"Enter the full 12 digits of your account number including the dash. Such as:
1234567890-1"
-That is only eleven digits, PGE, and my account number looks like this*:
0098 77678-9873467 2 (*account number has been changed for my "protection")

I may or may not... have to bust a cap in somebody's ass.
God, these people.

I sense there's something in the wind.

I feel like I should share what I just read on Yahoo! News:

"Mars may mess you up: Astrologers believe that the red planet in retrograde could be making your life very strange."

Oh, Yahoo! News, reporting on the important issues--as always.

The man across from me is having a mental breakdown of some sort. He keeps wiping his palms on his pants and rocking back and forth.
I'm waiting for him to crank up the Radiohead and sob into his hands.

The only reason I'm back on the internets today is because this is my only free night until I'm forced to perform a seven day stretch for el Macy's.
All. Closing. Shifts.
I'm almost 100% certain my manager is punishing me for even thinking about asking for time off at the beginning of the month.
"What? You have family you want to visit before the crazy holiday season? That's preposterous, why would you even suggest such a thing?"
The way she looks at me when I speak to her frightens me; I'm waiting for laser beams to shoot out of her eyes with the intention of melting my face off. When I asked if we could possible switch the schedule up a little so I didn't have to close every night of my life she looked at me like I had just asked her to give me three weeks paid time off so I could go gamble all of my paychecks away in Atlantic City.
Then scheduled me for closing all week.

Ah, such is the life of retail sale.

Burn That Broken Bed

Only six hours left on my iTunes movie download.

Little does the boy behind the counter know, by giving me a free piece of cake he basically saved my life because I was seconds away from passing out from hunger.
Upon recent reviews of my bank statement, I have come to realize that 90% of my money goes to unnecessary eating out.
So--aside from my normal thirty cups of coffee--I vowed that today is a day of eating in.
Unfortunately, when you go out for eight hours at a time you're bound to get hungry sooner or later...
Thank you, Boy Behind The Counter, you saved us all from an embarrassing rush to the hospital.



My extended absence from it has reminded me of how much I hated the internet.
More specifically: Myspace.
I wonder, when did friendships turn into a series of short and misspelled comments that have absolutely no substance instead of personal conversations that extend passed such scintillating phrases as, "Do you like my hair better blond or brown?" and "I bought a new jacket today, I'm so excited!"

Yet agan, I find myself avoiding the normal crowd of friends as much as possible.

What sort of experience during the adolescent stage causes a person to need someone to hold their hand for every possible situation?
Why does someone need to go out every single night to see and be seen? Since when does sitting at home--alone--reading a book or watching a movie qualify as insufficient social behavior?

I feel like it's partly my fault that I'm so irritated with folk lately because I'm not firm enough when I say that I need to spend time alone.
"We should all have a dinner party or something! We can cook for the boys and dress up!"
"Well, I really only have one night off this week and I wanted to kind of have some quiet time and--"
"You have nights off, don't you? We hardly ever see each other!" (This is a complete exaggeration, I see all of them at least four times a week.)
"Well, I guess that's true---"
"Great! What should we make?! We should have the guys dress up and we can serve them dinner, it'll be so much fun!"

I wonder, which "guys" is she talking about? I certainly don't have one. And the couple of folk that I would want to invite would tear she and her boyfriend apart so quickly they would have no idea what happened.
They'd just run out the door... crying... holding their shattered egos in their sweaty little hands.

Ouch.

Or, the even more painful situation that I've found myself in on more than one occasion:

"I need to get some jeans even though I already have five pairs. Would you mind going with me on Tuesday night?"
"Er, I have to work all day and I won't be off until six and then I kind of wanted to do a bit of reading and writing."
"Oh, but I hate going alone! Please, you can write any time."
"Well, I guess I could--"
"Excellent! See you at six! You can stand around and watch me shop and try on clothes! I'm so excited!!!1111!one"

I always wonder, are they excited to see and spend time with me or are they excited to do these things and I'm just there as a receiver of their constant chatter?

Angst, angst, angst.

Now that my old glasses are gone and I have acquired my new "sexy librarian" glasses, I'm starting to doubt my ability to take on the reputation that comes with such glasses as these.
Let me explain, my old glasses walked the line of adolescent and college bookworm. They were quiet and unassuming, they did not attract attention but they got the job done.
These glasses are chic and fashionable, they are animal print for Christ's sake. They say to people, "I like to read but I also like to look good."
I'm not quite sure I have the energy for such an image; the male hipsters in the cafes are starting to hover.

I have the overwhelming urge to say to the guy behind the counter, "Your beard is good. Just a compliment for you."
If he has any idea what I'm talking about, we are meant to be.

Neighborhood # 3 (Power Out)

I love this cafe because in addition to the stressed-out, caffeine-fueled, pre-med students you get the stressed-out, caffeine-fueled "artists."
A (tall, dark and handsome) man just stormed in, shortly ordered a double americano, sat down and feverishly started drawing something.
What he's drawing, I can't quite make out (it is "under construction" at the moment) but I will be curious to see what it is once he's finished.

Do you think he was just sitting around somewhere and all of a sudden thought to himself, "I need coffee and my sketchbook. RIGHT. NOW."
He was on a mission to find a seat and start drawing.
When I write I don't drop everything and rush off. I wait. I formulate.

This must be why I don't consider myself an artist.
They're all so temperamental anyway.



I wonder, can you block bulletins of folk on Myspace without having to delete them as friends?
I'm sick of being fooled by a subject line that says something like, "Important!"
And when I open it, it says, "I need your opinion! Does my hair look better blond or brown?! I can't make a decision for myself and need the opinion of my peers to make myself feel acceptable to society! Help me!!111!11one"
Maybe I should just get some new friends.

Ah, the artist has finished; he found no inspiration in this particular coffee shop.

Girlfriend of the Whirling Dervish

Once again, I am hiding out from my friends and wasting my life away on the internet.
I've been here for three hours now, I'm wondering if the people are starting to get irritated with me.
If my neighbors hadn't up and moved--taking their internet with them--I could be wasting my life away in the comfort of my own home right now.

I'm trying to download a movie off of iTunes and let me tell you, I am never doing it again.
I have a full connection, nothing is (was, I got bored of sitting around staring at the wall) running and yet it continues to tell me that I have six hours of downloading time left.
At the rate it's moving, I am not going to argue with it.

I can pause it but will it still be there when I come back?
I'm not going to lie, I never cared to learn about the whole iTunes-Apple-Quicktime thing. The folk at the Apple store downtown can nerd it up all they want but I have better things to do.
The soup the man across from me is eating looks D to the ELICIOUS .
He's noticed that I've been staring at it but has yet to say anything. I'm waiting for him to make the move because right now I'm having too much fun trying to freak him out.
Maybe I'll let my mouth hang open a little bit and allow a sort of... blank, glazed-over look to wash over my face.

I'd peruse the Random Livejournal Picture Generator but I'm in public. I've noticed that sometimes I'll unsuspectingly be graced with a piece of graphic pornography shoved in between a sparkling Tweety Bird animation and a hipster picture of somebody's new MADRAD haircut.
They're just stuck right in there, waiting for me to come across them in a public place while the person staring over my shoulder is given quite the show and my face turns a vibrant color of red.

Only three hours remaining! Oh iTunes, can you do anything?

Let's fast forward to a full hour and one half of an hour later:
I'm still sitting here and it now says that I have seven hours left of downloading time.
That is my cue to go home.
Goodbye man with the soup.
Goodbye movie download.


toothpastefordinner.com

God damn right, it's a beautiful day.

There's a Bible study going on a couple tables away from me.

I don't really mind; last week they invited me to join and I politely declined with an, "Ohhhh... no... thank you."
But this week somebody brought a baby and it is sobbing at the top of its lungs.
And they can't take it outside because it's pouring so now all of us have to suffer and...

Anyway.

The only reason I'm commenting on the Bible study is because I just read this.

Human hands and feet have fishy origins.

God, life is hilarious sometimes.