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4:19 pm | 21 June 2004 | rock & churroll

Let me extrapolate on that

Okay, well, we already all understood about J. C. Chasez (lately of *N'Sync) being a complete tool, but check out the cover art of his new album. Okay, first of all, actually, let's look at the title: "Schizophrenic." This is just another example of the ill-considered attempted commodification/cool-making of mental illness that I hate so much. Secondmost: Check his greazy, Gollum-esque strands of misguided coiffure. Ew! Thirdly: This kind of font hijinkery makes me want to rip his eyeballs out of his skull and dangle them like squidly yo-yos from between my rage-contorted fingers. Fucking RETARDED. Who in the hell thinks that alternating spastically between lower- and upper-case letters is a "cool" or "edgy" design choice? It looks fucking STUPID. It's all, "Oh, look at me, I'm so cRaZy! I'm so WaCkY! Check my unregulated, arhythmic LeTtERiNg! I'm a truly fUnKy FeLLoW!" You know how you're not supposed to look feral dogs straight in the eye? That kind of text looks me STRAIGHT in the eye. Like a mallet striking the kneecap of my fully-rational hatred, the lashing-out of my bloodlust is barely more than a reflex with this kind of shit. What. The. Fuck.

Jobs I would like to have

1. Greeter at Hawaiian airport who passes out leis
2. Swiss milkmaid
3. Oompa-Loompa
4. County Fair Himalaya-ride operator

Another thing about jobs

It occurred to me that, much as I accept that Johnny Mountain* is a meterologist and there is thus no need for me to be all up on the "cumulous" and "Doppler," it is simply some girls' jobs to be Sexy Girls, and they have the time and energy required to be a Southern California Sexxy Sexxy Hott Girl, i.e. they are willing to spend four hours a day at Gold's Gym and drop $60 a pop on exotic and painful body-waxing feats, whereas not only do I not actually care about my stuff but I have better, more important things to do, so I should just relax about not looking all Carmen Electra already. Actually, she is gross, and I wouldn't want to look like her. But you catch my drift.

*This is the actual name of one of the weathermen in L.A.; another station's dude is called Dallas Raines. Is this kind of name required for admittance to weatherman school? Anyway, substitute the name of your local weatherman here, if needed.

Churros and burros

I went to a swapmeet on Saturday which was so very #1. The very sweet Paul got me a totally cool MEAT HOOK (which I am looking forward to latching onto car door handles on dark/stormy nights) and we had churros and I wore cowboy boots and got a photo album from some people's 1970 trip to Hawaii, which is outstanding not only because it is fashioned from woodgrain vinyl but because of the rampant drunkenness present in nearly every photo. I guess people drank more then, or were more open about it. Someday soon I'll scan some of that shit, but anyhow Saturday was a banner day, swappin' it up, dragging a red wagon full of bolts of discontinued vinyl upholstery around. Unrelated: Burros are widely underrated in the pantheon of "cute animals." They are, in fact, THE CUTEST.

Again with the churros

So my family went to DisneyLand in 1999 while my dad was on a business trip, and lots of weird things happened (most notably, we bought a five-day pass to the park, and by Day 3 I had totally HAD IT, so I was camped out in our substandard room at the Hilton watching TV with my dad while the Columbine shootings happened, and IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARD we went to the park to meet up with my stepmom and brother, and that kind of confluence of divergent if not straight-up DIAMETRICALLY OPPOSING ideas happens waaaaaay too much in my world but so ANYWAY). While we were at the park, I was quietly freaking out about not ever once being let out of their sight for the week we were there, and every cell in my body was shrieking like a Mussorgsky choir for a Marlbie Light and some booze, but so: ANYWAY: during that vacation my stepmom ate between twenty and eighty churros*. The woman was INSANE for hot churro action, and between every ride, while my brother spazzed over Princess Jasmine and while I did my angry-teen thing, she would come back to my dad, Bearer of the Wallet, and be like, "Daddy, can I have another churro?" And I love the hell out of my stepmom, but it was weird. THIS STORY HAS A POINT I SWEAR and the point is this: circa Churro #11, she bit into it and then went, "Aw nuts,** this one doesn't have the apple filling!" Now, I may be Little Miss Whitey Paleface, but I know enough about regional cuisine to be like, "Uh, Mom, none of them have apple filling." It then occurred to us that Churros #1-10 had just been radically undercooked and she had mistaken the raw gooey centres for apple filling. Gross! My Saturday churro did not have any "filling," thank God.

The living fuck

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOELINGTON! You are so totally my #1. I love the holy living fuck out of you. I said Goddamn! clm.

*If you're in a non-churro area, they are just these fluted sticks of fried dough rolled in cinnamon-sugar, they're usually found at fairs and stuff, and they're basically like a Mexican elephant-ear, which makes sense because my stepmom can also wreak some Biblical-style havoc on an elephant-ear stand, believe you me.
**We're from Michigan and really say stuff like this. Also "Jeez Louise" and "dang."

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