Making Connections

I have a friend, we'll call him Nintendo, and he remembers his childhood days playing in the old neighborhood with his best friend the Paperboy. They lost track of each other as they grew up and Nintendo drifted into idleness and Paperboy kept working, determined to create a better future than the one that awaited him in the 'hood. He doesn't know what to do to locate him; last we heard, Paperboy was selling himself for a fraction of what he's worth at a store in the Minneapolis area, but we don't know which one. Does anyone know how I can help these two lost souls once again?

If you know where a used NES game might be prostituting itself, please let me know. Nintendo's happiness, and my own, are riding on it.

Damn the perserverance!

I didn't drop it, and I'll probably stay in it till the bitter end. I can't let those entitled acting stoned twits beat me. Sure, I'll never have someone set aside a spot for me at a top school, but I can at least give it a shot. And rejection will give me an excuse for some kick ass partying.

I + Econ = Dumb

I'm dropping the course I registered for. I still have to pay for some of it, because I didn't realize my total and complete lack of understanding of the subject was probably a sign I would fare poorly, but I just can't do it. Grad school was a good idea while it seemed possible.

Identity Theft, etc.

A Message to the woman who stole my kid sister's identity:

Fuck you. I'm going to find you and beat you to the point of death and then leave you at an ER after supergluing your driver's license to your forehead. $40? You screwed her credit over $40? I'm going to find you, and you WILL PAY. We're talking a pound of flesh, bitch.

In other news, I just heard a Beth Gibbons song covered by Jane Birkin that rocked my world. I want to be as cool as Jane Birkin when I'm 60, and I want to create something as awesome as her work with Serge Gainesbourg. Ethan would be a great Serge.

Finally, someone, please watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip for me and tell me which of Sorkin's old programs he rips off in the first episode. I'm hoping for a shout out to N'tanake Nelson, personally...

Milk Carton

Have you seen this woman? We have experienced a total loss of technological signal, with search technology ranging over email, internet, and satellite voice identification tracking turning up nothing. I suspect a pack of super-intelligent trolls has come out of hiding in Prospect Park and kidnapped her during a routine stroll, but others (ahem) have suggested political reasons. The cause is immaterial, what is important is that we find her before the time-traveling Apaches mistake her for Jesse James. If a trap must be laid, try smoked salmon and fresh tomato. And brie. Works every time.

Dreading the history

I realize now that I should have taken all these painkillers and sat in my pjs tomorrow while everyone does 9/11 stuff. I'm too loopy to comment on it. Just, uck.

Fall

Today was the first 100% cloudy, cold day. The wind has been whistling outside, the air is sharp, and it's finally pitch black outside after making it all the way to pewter this afternoon. Autumn is my favorite season, but it frightens me this year. Last winter even the most basic rhythms of life became close to unbearable, and it took half of this year and all of the spring and summer to feel normal again, and even that is fragile. I'm not exactly sure what happened last year, why I made the decisions I did, or why everything went so terribly wrong. This fall there aren't any big decisions to make, nothing to run to or from, no urges that feel uncontrollable. But I worry. Maybe the 9 to 5 and my new exercise habit and my cooking and my class and my knitting projects and my grad school applications and my slowly returning desire to write won't be enough, maybe they'll be too much.

UPDATE: I've managed to go to two parties since I wrote the above, and I'm feeling a bit better, but I know that is just the alcohol talking and not my confidence. I'm in the midst of playing nurse to Ethan, still, after he broke his wrist trying to protect us from loud music last night(the paramedics came to our house and he made a death rattle/snoring sound. It was AMAZING, and a little hilarious, although only after the fact). I have to make him some tea, and then we are going to bed. More later, my lovelies.

In A Nutshell

Katie Couric's prime time, history-making evening news debut featured the unveiling of SURI CRUISE photos. Yes, she's real, and we managed to get demonstrative proof of that and of the necrophiliac rape of television news all at the same time.

SURI CRUISE PHOTOS!!!!!!! Where I come from, Entertainment Tonight comes on an hour AFTER the national news. How did they mess that address up?

I hate the world and hope that someone blows it up, and soon. I would also accept it if Edward R. Murrow's zombified corpse ate Katie Couric's brains on air before rampaging through the rest of the CBS building, singlehandedly avenging decades of sensationalism, pandering, and the most blatant act of bottom line over quality ever. There are others that I would like to see him eat, although I will leave that list for later. Maybe just the top 5:

1. John Stossel of ABC. If you've ever seen 20/20, you know why. If not, just trust me.
2. Wolf Blitzer of CNN, and I want him alive and on air for the whole thing. If I don't see his spirit leave his body I'm not satisfied.
3. Miles O'Brien of CNN, but just because he's a douchebag.
4. That guy who hosts NBC News on the weekends. I just don't like the look of him.
5. Sway of MTV News. The Hair. Just for the hair. And his delivery. And his stupid Rasta hat. And his stupid questions for the 2004 Presidential candidates. And his name is Sway. You sir, are no Tabitha Soren. You are not even Serena Altschul. I hope Gideon Yago skullfucks you after Ed has sucked out your eyeballs.

Steve Irwin, epic hero

My sister sent me a text message this afternoon that said simply, "Odysseus died of a stringray barb to the heart too!"

In addition to this Wikipedia sanctioned story, Odysseus also died a "gentle death by sea," which in less poetic parts is explained to be the cruel serrated point of a stingray's tail.

My sister is even now explaining to me the difference in the two different myths and why they both exist, but I will leave you with this-the State Funeral that the Premier offered poor Terry is far more apropos than I ever thought.

Rest in Peace Steve, and enjoy your wild animal baiting with Heracles and your death-sake O-dog.

Ugh

A Labor Day White Trash Potluck has led to some serious hangover stupids(Damn you Cabana Boy Jello Shots! Damn you to hell!). I'm making pickles, and I think I've managed to screw them up, which makes me want to cry because this recipe makes the greatest pickles known to Man. Also, we've been suckered into hosting Ethan's fantasy football draft, so the house smells a bit like vinegar and there are going to be a dozen people expecting food and drink and I am not going to provide it.

I have found the Holy Grail of hangover food, right here in Minneapolis, and it is not deep fried and on a stick. It is the Stuffed Omelette Antoine's Creole Restaurant in Uptown. An omelette with anduille sausage, peppers, tomato, onion, and jalapeno hash browns INSIDE THE OMELETTE. It is, without a doubt, the greatest thing I have ever eaten in my entire life. I can't wait to go back and eat it again.

I don't know what kind of magic the proprietress of this restaurant works on her food, but it is uniformly delicious. The pancakes are magically fluffy, nothing is too greasy, their catfish is amazing, there is spice but not too much spice, and the selection is huge. I wanted to try everything on the menu, from the crawfish omelette to the po-boy. If it has the sausage, though, it is not to be missed. Better than Bratwurst.

And it was cheap. The total was 20 dollars. I have a new favorite restaurant.

Promises, promises

I never did come through with that Simon Reeve interview, did I? I suppose the least I can do is put a link to his Guardian article.

Welcome, sir

Jake is a cool guy. He let me shoot warm lime-flavored vodka into his mouth at his birthday party(using a squirt gun). He is not a hipster. He has a blog. Check it out.

Lazy Saturday

The rage has subsided and I no longer want to go on an angst-filled rampage through the Sam Goodys of the world. I am tired, though, which I blame partly on all the delicious beer I drank while out with some of my favorite U of M MFA hotties and partly on Ethan's decision to get up at 4 am and be neurotic. "We can't eat popcorn for dinner anymore, sweetie," he said, his voice filled with the kind of conviction one only hears in those old Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland "We'll save the orphanage! We'll put on a show, by golly!" movies. "We can't do that, we have to have more vegetables, we have to be healthy, and I have to do my research for the draft!" In the middle of the night while I'm trying to see how my nightmare about killing someone and escaping to the Andes turns out. I still don't know.

Also, my gang name is Snowflake. Ethan's is First Person Shooter.

Music Store Despair

All due respect, Lauren, but Cheapo made me want to kill myself, and their stuff was totally expensive. In the words of Johnny "I let my marriage to Angelina got to hell so I could play with Ewan McGregor" Lee Miller in Trainspotting, "What a bloody mis-fucking-nomer." And there were teenagers talking about "post-rock" while their bored girlfriends chimed in about how much they hate hipsters. And it was 7:30 on a Thursday. They didn't have half the bands I was looking for, and they moved Nick Cave to Classic Rock. CLASSIC ROCK. Did the 90s not happen? Do they think they're being cute? Why not move Sonic Youth? Or Guided by Voices? Apparently none of the clerks there touched their first boob to Mr. Cave and The Bad Seeds. WTF?!

And the red smocks were very whatever that chain was that was going to take over the store in Empire Records, except ironic, or something. And the employee picks sucked. I'm never going back there. If it weren't for the extensive posters for upcoming shows, I'd have committed ritual suicide right in the entryway.

Women for Sale

Are you looking for a good woman? A good, God-fearing, CHRISTIAN woman? A woman who loves her livestock, babies, and sewing modest, modest clothes? A woman who likes her swimwear to come with a skirt and a belt? Do I have the girls for you!

It's technically a seamstress' webiste, but it got good once I found the family pictures. Scroll down to their 24 year old. You'll have nightmares, but only because you're not godly enough to see her true beauty. It's like Shallow Hal, but for Christ.

UPDATE: Their seventh daughter is not listed as marriagable, but I think that is beacause the has Down's Syndrome. I would feel sorry for her, but I imagine the internet is probably the tool to use if you're looking to arrange a marriage between two retarded fundamentalists.

I've figured out a way to solve this whole abortion debate. Instead of aborting some special, invidual life, etc., etc., we should just get info on their genetic code and save it, like it were a data file, and we can come back to it later! You can choose, spreadsheet, word document, text file, baby, it would be great!

Flaming Rain

I think the only person guaranteed to be dry tonight is going to be Wayne Coyne. The State Fair people insist that the show will go on, and that songs of our beloved Yoshimi will be heard, and Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon's ageless rocking hotness will cause the ears of all those useless under-25 hipsters who think Ben Gibbard is a great songwriter to melt in pain and shame. If I'm lucky, we will not be struck by lightning. If we are not lucky, I hope it all ends during Fight Test.

BIRTHDAYS!

Happy belated birthday to DJ, cousin of TODAY's birthday boy, great love of my life, Ethan! Feel the love as they both enter even numbered but sentimentally insignificant years!

I love you guys.

So Uncomfortable, but strangely...so pleasurable

So I started a temp job today, office slavery, and I liked it. I'm sure I'll be bored to death once I get the hang of everything(how could I not be, it's in HUMAN FUCKING RESOURCES), but for the moment, it's not repellant, and I should still be mildly interested by the time I make rent next week. It feels fantastic to know I'll be doing that without a loan, eBaying the originals of my CDs, or selling plasma(which apparently I'm not allowed to do anymore because of my "fainting spells." Whatever. I bet they'd still take a kidney if I promised to dry out.). And I actually like the people who I will have to work with for the next couple of months.

The beauty of this whole situation? It's Human Resources at Marshall Field's. As in the same company that sucked my soul into a vacuum and threw it in a dumpster in Ridgedale. Up until I got my little "Marshall Field's Girl" badge to attach to my cute little skirts, I thought I was entering falling action in my now totally derivative of Tess of the D'Urbervilles story. After crushing rejection and an almost comic destruction of all hope I crawled back to the source of my debasement and waited to embrace it and prepare for my inevitable, cleansing death, my dreams of simple happiness long since abandoned. But it turns out having a chair makes being a corporate whore a lot easier, what with the rest for my poor knees. We'll see.

Another weird dream

Last night I dreamt of a fasco-capitalist distopia where I managed to get a good job in the main skyscraper, and as I was trying to leave for the day, discovered that the men who were building higher into the sky were actually using the strongest men from earlier construction as nails. They were all in different stages of being hammered into the steel beams because the new strong men had to do it slowly so as not to kill the men in the structure. They kept crying out to me, but there was nothing I could do to rescue them. I just had to walk carefully to avoid stepping on them.

Was any part of this in a movie, or am I just losing my mind subconscious first?