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10:46 am | 18 June 2004 | flotsam & jetsam

That cookie

So last night I was all coked up (a-cola Coke, and Diet, to boot: see below) and riffling through my CDs all crazy-like, and I found this totally ludicrous mix CD from Tape, and I popped it in on my commute this morning. Friends, this mix CD included the song "Nookie" by Limp Bizkit, which was awesomely hilarious and had me laughing like one of those annoying Halloween motion-sensor witch doorstop things. But my question is this: The chorus goes

"I did it all for the nookie (come on!)
the nookie (come on!)
So you can take that cookie
And stick it up your ass."

I'm not here to debate artistic merit, of which there is none. My question is simple: Is he saying to this unnamed ex-girlfriend, "I dated you for sex only, my dear, so you can feel badly about that fact" or is he, in truth, telling her to stick a cookie in her ass? I am just wondering. Come on.


That CD also had the theme song from "Angel" on it. Shut up.

That ass

On Tuesday as I was leaving work a trio of middle-schoolers were walking behind me and then I swear to God they started CATCALLING me. Cat-hollah-ing. Whatever. The gist of it was "Damn, girl, look at that fat (phat?) ass. I'd like to hit up on that, shit dawg yada." I turned around and, somewhat indignant yet bemused, was like "C'mon, guys. You have years of this kind of shit ahead of you of this. Take it easy right now, huh?" The oldest, who was maybe five feet tall in his size-six Nikes, replied simply, "It's cool, I'm into older women. Whatcho name?" Was it wrong of me to feel weirded out by this? Like TOTALLY weirded out?


This morning's fashion theme was "Swarthy Jackie O. in Capri" and I was kicking it in my new shoes (below), a peasanty-skirt-thing, black t-shirt (I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER BLACK T-SHIRTS) and a headscarf, and well as what magazines call a "nude lip look" to set off my yes-indeed-it's-summer SAVAGE TAN (observant readers will remember that I'm part Iroquois and, as such, broil up like a bratwurst in any hint of sun). Apropos of very little, a man sauntering down the quietish early streets looks in a me-ward direction and goes "Girl, that dress look DIVINE." Uh? I was the only person on the street, yet so distinctly not wearing a dress in the leastmost. Do people even LOOK anymore, or do they just have some basic prelim filter that goes "SCAN SCAN target:FEMALE run:CATCALL.EXE"?


This morning I got so much soap in my eyes that I could only have gotten more in there had I peeled the lids back with a pair of tiny speculums and rubbed the bar forcibly across their surface, or perhaps if I had gently GRATED some soap FLAKES into a saucer and then SPRINKLED THEM into my kangaroolike undereye POUCHES and then RUBBED THEM ALL ABOUT, hokey-eye-pokey-style. God seriously.


Yes, Jer, I know it's probably "speculae" or "speculideau" or something, but I don't have time for your "waaah, Latin plural forms bleeeargh, I'm smarter than you" today. We have the same IQ, sucka.


At the ghetto gas station yesterday morning, I found one of the greatest snacky-treats of all time: Limón 7. They are basically sugar-sized packets of powdered lemon rind, sugar, citric acid and salt, and they will completely scour the surface of your tongue off with acrid tangy sourness if you're not careful.

Needless to say: I'm not careful.


Yesterday devolved into complete pandemonium along the order of "Scrap all viable labor efforts in favor of watching The Tom Green Show and drinking light-beer tallboys." I crashed out when I got home and then made the sweet decision, at 9:30pm, to hit up the Angry Asian Shell Station for a pop. Er, soda. Sorry. Anyhow I was lured by the 44oz. fountain Diet Coke, which came in a cup that was less of a cup and more of a pail, seriously it needed a handle and then perhaps I could get two of them and carry them on a YOKE like a fucking MILKMAID of COLA DELICIOUSNESS. Anyway, I then drank the whole thing and sat up until 3am planning out the totally SWEET mixtapes I am making today, which you can check out here if you want to see what aspartame-fueled audio madness looks like.

Get back, Marc!

Thrift stores have been GOOD to mama this week. Here is a complete list of all the sweet shit I scored. A few of the pieces defy written explanation so I am including a few awesome drawings, too (hastily executed in Sharpie with a "Lucky magazine" look, which remind me to tell you Monday how much I hate that BITCH Andrea Linett). See how good I am to you? Act like you want it! All this is hot!

• Super-old tin tackle box ($1.00!!) in the most amazing shade of metallic robin's-egg-blue (my #1 color) that had apparently been used for storing art supplies because when I opened it, not only did the most amazing graphite-and-crayon-wax smell drift out, but there was a dessicated rubber band stuck to the bottom with Pre-Columbian mucilage, and I got all misty-eyed about, like, second grade for a second;

• A set of four collectible 1960s drinking glasses ($4.50 each) depicting California missions (San Jose, Santa Clara, San Juan Capistrano, and one other I am forgetting) in taupe, orange, and brown screenprint;

• ANOTHER set of four collectible 1960s drinking glasses (also $4.50 each), but these ones are LONG BEACH MILESTONES and they have this awesome/awful pathos-riddled optimism about them, like "With the new Port of Long Beach, the city will finally take its place as the doorway to commerce with the world!" and shit. In sweet just-barely-pre-1970s colors like turquoise and olive;

• Red Cordova-leather woven open-toed flat-shoe-thingys ($5.00) that are pretty 80s and hot but also clazzy (see above) and which, I noticed after I got home, are Bottega Veneta, this crazy Italian brand, which means they were probably crazy-ass expensive originally, but what do I care: they are just cute;

• Metallic fake-snakeskin flats ($4.70) that integrate the 3 major metal tones (silver, gold, AND bronze) that Marc Jacobs will probably try to steal directly off my (freakishly small for my Amazonian height) feet if he sees them, Get back, Marc!;

• A big yellow men's v-neck sweater ($3.00) that is narrow yet crazy long and looks totally hot with an illegally short denim mini and the METALLIC FLATS OF GENIUS;

• Red-orange leather 1970s boots with platformy-yet-non-clunky stiletto disco heels ($4.00) that not only make me like 8 feet tall but which also cause me to wobble in a dipsomaniacal, Marilyn-Monroe-and-John-Wayne-had-an-eight-foot-tall-daughter-and-she-is-me kind of fashion. Hot!;

• Some light cambric man-pants of a subtly striped grey-and-white weave ($1.70), which I have hemmed to just-below-kneelength and to which I have appliquéd pink PISTOLS near the pockets, which hang off my hips with a kind of Quickdraw MacYacht élan;


Though I have rendered it in grey and peach for visual clarity, it is actually made of black polyester ($11.00). I have added grosgrain ribbon (in the picture it's peach but it's actually RAINBOW) and re-cut the sleeve action. It gives me insane 1970s disco hips and the violently sansabelted waistband sits WAAAY high up on my planklike torso. Its poly blend ensure that no matter how much scotch I spill on myself, it's allllll good in the jumpsuit: nary a stain will show. No way, boss. It is the second craziest thing ever and I love it. It's all, "No, I don't actually change oil. Well, not in the traditional sense. Heh." Heh;


This here is the actual craziest thing ever (for only $12.00). The body of it is normal-esque: a foresty-green bouclé-type fabric with three buttons. HOWEVER, the collar and leg-o'-mutton sleeves are FLUORESCENT green, and of a curly acrylic lambswoolly-mohair blend that is oh so Muppetty in execution, and also (as always) though the body fits fine and is even kind of loose the sleeves are waaay too short, so I either look like a deranged Prince groupie circa 1987 or like Kate Moss, kind of "fack off, I can't be bovvered wiv carin 'ow I look, I'm a bloody SUPERMODEL ya cunt," which is what I hope. But it's probably mostly just deranged. clm!

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