I hate it when time goes by, you know?

If my trip to Chicago wasn't a whirlwind of hedonism, I don't know what is.

The last time I did homework until 2 a.m. was definitely high school. I really don't like being back in that place. And yet, here I am.

A few observations:

what I have done with my evening is patently ridiculous.
I could have/ should have done something valuable and fallen asleep comfortably eariy.
I admitted my one true secret to two people tonight (one a very lovely friend and the other a relative stranger). What a weird thing!
Alcohol is mostly bad. And yet I love it.
My house is so comfy and warm.
My values are very very different from everyone I know.
I am so fuckin beat. God. I wish that everything I've taken on would just dissipate into thin air.

*yay* My landlord just agreed to let me extend my lease so I'm here for a whole year. I may actually unpack some of my things, now. It's a nice flat for how ridiculously cheap the rent is. And my roommate is great!

And I just bought a plane ticket home for the summer. I haven't seen two of my friends from high school in person since the day we graduated...which will be six years ago by the time I'm back in Arlington Heights. From June 22-sometime in August. *hooray* An entire summer of American watermelon and midwestern sweetcorn and vegetables straight from the garden and huge boxes of pop-ices and root beer popsicles and a bag of Ole'Saltys crisps at the 4th of July picnic.

The more time I spend away from home, the more desperately I miss the food. How I've managed to GAIN weight in a country whose food is so markedly inferior to the food back home is beyond me or my back-fat. Then again, with the exception of the Ole'Saltys crisps, my summer foods wish-list is rather healthy/low calorie.

And I don't have the watermelon or the corn while I'm over here, because it's shite (I have tried both, so my opinion is rooted in personal experience), as are the majority of the vegetables (the types of vegetables that I like, anyway). Sugar-snap peas will never taste as good from an imported package on a shelf in the UK as they do straight from the garden, picked seconds before you pop them into your mouth. Same goes for lettuce and tomatoes. Best when grown in the backyard by your mommy.

I'm sorry to link to p'fork two days in a row, but you have to admit that this is pretty frickin hilarious.

My boss just called me a monkey. Thought I'd throw that out there.

I'm so exhausted right now. All I want to do is go to bed. But I said I'd go to a Burns Supper thing later tonight with my roommate and a bunch of her friends that I've never met. But I'm so so tired...I didn't get to bed until after 5am last night because I was (gasp) actually doing some work, and now my eyes and eye area skin feel as though they're sinking down into my cheeks and sinuses.

and I'm cold. Because I live in Scotland and it's January. *whinge!*

well I'll be damned.

Ok boys and girls, this is my schedule. All visitations, interactions, and communications--depending on your geographic and chronologic attributes--can be planned according to these schematics:

January 25 (wednesday):

1. Arrive in Chicago, 3pm
2. Fran and Flynn, 4-7pm
3. Allie's party, 7pm+

January 26th

1. H&M with sister
2. Free time (Adele + Lakshmi+ Theron+mary=completely awesome???)

January 27th

1. Shop for b-fest (10am-noon)
2. Get in line for b-fest (3pm)
3. B-fest begins! (6pm)

January 28th

1. B-fest ends! (6pm)
2. Degreasing/sleeping

January 29th (sunday)

1. Free time
2. Brian Bouldrey literary party?

January 30th (Monday)

1. Free time (breakfast/shopping, catatonics???)
2. Plane leaves (1:40pm)

January 31-February 9th

1. Applications, freak outs.

February 10th:

1. Fly to San Francisco

February 11th:

1. Fly to Singapore

February 13th:

1. Fly to Bali

February 22:

1. Fly to Hong Kong

February 24:

1. Fly to San Francisco

And yes, I have done nothing to deserve such extravogent rewards, but I promise I'll bring you back something Balinese if you don't make a point about it

So, so tired.

*eew* JesseMcCartney appears to be trying to break into the UK market. How unpleasant. Hearing JamesBlunt everywhere I go is taxing enough. And speaking of taxes, I'm becoming increasingly baffled by mine...as if having to file in one country every year wasn't potentially baffling enough. I wish they'd just give me a call and tell me how much I owe and where to send the check, and then I would. They can even overcharge me, if they like, so long as they tell me how much they want me to pay them and where to send the check.

Actually, I kind of maybe sort of don't completely hate one of JamesBlunt's songs...the one with MischaBarton in the video. But that may only be because I like the O.C. and think that MischaBarton is really pretty. I'm not sure how I'd feel about the song if I heard it on the radio, as opposed to watching it on the television.

I'm so glad that the 04/05 year is over. It was so relentlessly shitty...admittedly with plenty of room left for bleaker years to follow, but I'm hoping I'll be granted a few relatively easy years before the next disaster period comes along. I'd really appreciate being allowed to live the next 7 or 8 years uncontested. They're going to be challenging and stressful enough as is. Imagine being fired (and essentially deported) for getting a poor mark on an exam! No pressure there...

Desparation rising in the face of impending deadlines and myriad methods of procrastination. oh oh oh. it's too early in the semester for this ....

I'm not sure how many of you actually read Radar, perhaps the best magazine to enter my life since I picked up SPIN at 15 (shut up all of you--I love SPIN and I don't want you saying anything bad about it ever), but just in case you don't, I thought I'd reprint one of the more eye-opening articles, in case you're bored at work.

Stoners vs. Six-Year-Olds: A Radar Investigation
If you’re baked, are you also brain-dead? Radar recruited two potheads, two small children, and a monkey researcher to find out.
by Lucas Hanft

A recent study revealed that marijuana seeps deep into the brain’s prefrontal cortex, distorting basic reasoning. So just how impaired is your average toker? With the help of Venkat Lakshminarayanan, a friendly researcher at a primate psych lab, Radar conducted tests on two stoned adults (Miriam and Bob) and two sober children (Devon and Dom). Here’s how our potheads fared compared to the kids—as well as monkeys, toddlers, and mentally ill patients who’ve taken similar tests.

Test One: Clear Cube
A reward is placed inside a transparent cube with one side missing. Subjects have five seconds to retrieve the reward before the cube is rearranged. Test is repeated six times.
DEVON, 6: 5 out of 6 ("Was it supposed to be hard?")
DOM, ALMOST 6: 6 out of 6 ("My rabbit could do this. And it’s a dumb rabbit.")
MIRIAM, 25: 5 out of 6 ("This made me feel insecure.")
BOB, 23: 3 out of 6 ("Are you guys facing the box upside down?")
CONCLUSION: The -stoners were stupider than the six-year-olds. Bob scored lower than a rhesus monkey and is stupider than toddlers who have taken the exam.

Test Two: Delayed Reward
Subject is given a dollar and told that if he waits until the researcher returns, he can trade it for five dollars. Researcher leaves for 10 minutes or until -subject calls him back.
DEVON: Called after six minutes ("I wanted to see you run back.")
DOM: Called after 10 minutes (Subject’s mother notes, "He once kept his lemonade stand open eight hours to make five dollars.")
MIRIAM: Waited three minutes under the impression that it had been at least 10 ("I zoned out for a bit and had some thoughts.")
BOB: Waited zero minutes ("I don’t want to do this. You’re not going to come back. Screw it, I’m taking the dollar.")
CONCLUSION: The -stoners were stupider than the six-year-olds. Miriam’s score suggests she’s dumber than a tamarin or a marmoset; research shows stoner Bob is stupider than a head injury victim.

Test Three: Banana Phone
Subject watches actor use a banana as a phone. Can subject grasp concept of "pretending"? DEVON: Passed ("I knew immediately he was pretending. It was stupid.")
DOM: Passed ("He was pretending. I didn’t think he looked funny.")
MIRIAM: Passed ("Was he pretending he was on the phone? I got a little distracted. Do it again.")
BOB: Failed ("He was talking on the phone. He was having a perfectly quotidian conversation. Nothing seemed weird.")
CONCLUSION: The -stoners were stupider than the six-year-olds. Bob is stupider than a 24-month-old.

Test Four: Concave Image
Two images of a plaster mask are shown to the subject. The subject is asked which image shows the mask facing forward, and which shows the mask from behind. Six sets of two are shown.
DEVON: 5 out of 6 ("I feel like I’m the smartest person in the room.")
DOM: 6 out of 6 (Was able to identify the convex images by looking specifically at eyes and cheeks of image.)
MIRIAM: 3 out of 6 ("Oh my, that’s weird. I don’t want to look at them anymore. This is scaring me.")
BOB: 2 out of 6 ("All of these masks look real to me.")
CONCLUSION: The -stoners were stupider than the six-year-olds. Miriam scored lower than a schizophrenic; Bob fared worse than Miriam.

2 MySpace related items:
1) If you saw it, you're the lucky one. Was taken down at the request of forces above me
............................
The second item into today's Myspace related news is the item posted by the Man Who Will Only Be Known As Too Strange Even For Me. Said man posted the following form letter entitled: I Want This Girl!!!

I'm the girl who will put her head on your shoulder, not because she's sleepy, but because she wants to be closer to you...
I'm the girl who likes to be kissed under the stars, more than inside your bedroom or in an expensive resturant...
I'm the girl who loves to end a hug with a kiss...
I'm the girl who you can talk to about anything...
I'm the girl who laughs at your jokes...
I'm the girl who will have many inside jokes with you and remember each one...
I'm the girl who will brag about you to all of my friends...
I'm the girl who will listen to you talk...
I'm the girl who really does WANT TO BE FRIENDS AFTER A BREAK UP...
I'm the girl who loves getting hugged for no apparent reason...
I'm the girl who loves you for you; and doesn't care what other people say about us...
SWEET HEARTED GIRLS : If you are this girl repost this saying "I'm this girl"
DUDES: If you want this girl repost this "I want this Girl"
LUCKY BASTARDS: "I have this girl" if you already have a cool girl like this

Now, I have no problem with the content of the letter per se--In fact, if I want to tap into my cutesy side, I probably am many of those things, though really, I have no idea what sort of a girlfriend I am. I do know, however, that such a letter could be the lamest thing I have ever seen. I mean, come on, let's be truthful about this. In fact, if I were to design such a form letter, it would probably go more along these lines:

I'm the girl who puts her head on your shoulder, not because she's sleepy, but because she wants to leave a bruise your boss will see...
I'm the girl who likes to be kissed under the stars, more so against a wall or in a back alley...
I'm the girl who loves to end a conversation with being proved right...
I'm the girl who you can talk to about anything, just as long as you wait until the commercials and don't touch the remote...
I'm the girl who laughs at you when you don't 'get' the new Damien Hirst at the biennale...
I'm the girl who will make incessant sarcastic remarks during movies you didn't really want to see...
I'm the girl who thinks what you wear matters and hates it, especially how you do your hair...
I'm the girl who will listen to your problems and have the answers to every one, but will never tell you what that answer is...
I'm the girl who really does want my life exactly as I want it, without compromise, with or without you...
I'm the girl who stands around at parties, aloof but not cool...
I'm the girl who is most likely incapable of ever loving you.

I'm not even going to attempt to write one of these "I'm the guy" essays, because if I did, it would end up sounding way to sexist and cynical for my own good, something along the lines of "I'm the guy who loves you for how you enrich my life, not for you as an individual." But notice, I didn't write that. It's just what I would have done, if, you know, I was going to play it like that.

Gosh, I am on a ROLL today

I really need to change.
I need a reason to change first though.

Me too, The. Different things need changing, of course, but change really needs to occur. And soon.

But I'm struggling to find a suitable impetous for change. Logic and reason have thus far failed. And weekly meetings or a stint in a controlled environment won't mend my current funk of near utter contentedness coupled with my natural predisposition toward laziness.

If I don't at least change my attitude toward academics - by the end of this month at the absolute latest - then I'll get a first fail on my dissertation. Normally, the threat of failing ANYTHING would have me working day and night to avoid failure being the outcome. I'm not accustomed to failure...but I'm simply not in the mood to work right now. Toward anything. Things are alright. And if I'm (ME!) feeling like things are alright - even if it can quite reasonably be argued that a number of things are not alright, certainly not alright in the long-term - then why mess with things?

Seriously, someone write these essays for me. I am completely crippled.

I'm going to the single's ward for the second time in two weeks at the bequest of my father, who is tentitively doing some sort of business deal with the bishop, who in turn wants to meet me because I said some sort of ego-crushing thing to him when I was 13 and he's been trying to vindicate himself for 11 years. The story goes, he approached me (when he was first councilor in my old family ward) in order to ask me to give a talk, and after he introduced himself, I simply stared. "I'm brother N," he (reportedly) said. I looked at him blankly. "From the bishopric?" ... "The young one?" ... "The bald one?" "Oh yeah! Hey brother N." I am completely serious when I say he has been holding onto this for years, as he always thought he was a young, hip sort of guy. He's had this fascination with me ever since, especially with proving to me that he does exist, and one of the stipulations in the potential merger is that I have to come to the single's ward and talk to this guy.

Here's the problem: I have no idea what this man looks like.

The entire problem is that he feels terrible that he leaves no impression on me other than baldness, and I am supposed to, in turn, approach him and chat. There are three guys on the stand (he's now the bishop of the single's ward), and they all are equally un-impressive to me. All balding, all bespeckled, all in grey suits--how on earth will I know? And if I ask, he'll be even more discouraged. So this is a complete mess. The best I can hope for is some time to write my personal essays during sacrament meeting, write some notes for MMM during Sunday school, and bail out during third hour.

...

At some point, I seem to have stopped caring if people think I'm a good person or not. When I say that, obviously I don't want aquaintances to shake their heads or people to whisper about how horrible I am. I want people to think well of me. The point is, I don't need people to think well of me, and their displeasure doesn't have nearly the same effect it once did. The only reason I can think of is that I'm increasingly confident in my role of 'being a good person,' and therefore don't mind if I come off a little jerky. I've done enough good things, helped enough people, that if I say something like "Wow, I really don't think we should be giving any money to PETA," I am unaffected by how someone reacts to such a statement. I don't think this is arrogance, necessarily, because I often don't talk about the good things I do. Raise your hand if you knew I worked at a soup kitchen throughout college? I don't think anyone. Which isn't to say a soup kitchen is a big deal (it isn't). Which isn't to say that I'm this marvelous, awesome, charitable angel--hundreds of people work and volunteer silently; it isn't like I'm solving world hunger. I just like who I am, I'm comfortable with the amount of good I do, and thus, I am, paradoxically, more comfortable being considered truly horrible.

List of things off the top of my head that are wrong with me:
I'm inconsistent, I'm a strange mix of dogmatism and hypocrisy, agnosticism and fervor. All of my opinions are right (otherwise, what's the point of having them?). I'm close-minded. I hate ugly babies and pets. I'm terrible about birthdays. I will occasionally tear people down and be completely unaware I am doing so. I have secrets in the true sense--things I keep from everyone, refuse to write down, even to the point where I sacrifice intimacy; I overgeneralize. I am profoundly unmysterious. I tell people things bluntly, tell others what I know they want to hear. I crave peer acceptance. I dislike emotion, and therefore deal with it ham-handedly. I am a sexist, I am pretentious, and I am easily annoyed.

Feel free to add in something I've forgotten. I'm off to the single's ward

AlexiaIscariot: how are volcano! doing, anyway
theistheman: good, I think
AlexiaIscariot: i havent heard a lot, but they seem to be getting a slow buzz
theistheman: yeah, they're going to Europe soon
AlexiaIscariot: get out! i didn't even know they had a proper album out
theistheman: yeah, they have a proper album out
theistheman: on a proper, hot shit label in the uk
AlexiaIscariot: is it wrong and petty that the main reason i'm excited for them is because it really sticks it to andrew mason? cause that is SUCH a bonus

I want to be put into a medically induced coma for the next three months. I need a nap really badly.

I am not at all prepared to be back in school. This week has felt a lot like running a marathon without any training or preparation. Typical day: wake up and 5 and do two hours of school work; work at mag from 8:30- 5:15; class from 6-9; drink some beers; crash; repeat.

But if my grades from last semester teach me anything, it's that keeping up with the reading is wholly optional. I learned the entirety of what I wrote down on the criminal law exam in a single afternoon (I got an A- in the course.) It's Gilberts outlines and cramming from here on out.

I just feel like a hard, underripe piece of fruit right now.

Chances are, I will never be taken seriously. I kind of figured we were passed this

Living at home has done me no favors

Radaronline.com has provided a list of celebrity riders, always a delight, and never without question:

Eminem

1. 1 half-case of Snapple Kiwi Strawberry, lemonade drinks and other fun flavors
2. 1 fresh vegetable and cheese tray with hummus, pita bread, and crackers--DO NOT MAKE IT INCREDIBLY HUGE
3. 1 deli tray comprising lunch meats (turkey breast, ham) with condiments, including sliced tomato, fresh avocado, cucumber, and lettuce, mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise--DO NOT MAKE IT INCREDIBLY HUGE
4. 1 deli tray of various cheeses--not huge either NOTE: Please place meats on separate trays from cheeses. This should contain more meat than cheese please (3/4 meat to 1/4 cheese)

Naturally, the first question on all of our mind is, why the clause against ostentatious deli trays? At what point during his long and illustrious career did he stop and say, "you know what guys? The size of the meat and cheese trays is really getting out of control. And who can possibly use this much provologne?"

50 Cent

1. 1 sofa and loveseat
2. 2 cases of Heineken
3. 3 fifths of Hennessy
4. 3 bottles of Cristal champagne
5. 24-piece shrimp cocktail on ice (G-unit really stands for Gastro-Intestinal Infection. Who among us would be confident enough to eat backstage shrimp?)
6. 24 pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken & biscuits (Yesssssss. Seriously though, who does better fast food biscuits then KFC? I dare you to find me a successor)
7. 2 packs of strawberry Twizzlers (For the ladies)
8. 2 boxes of LifeStyles & Rough Rider condoms (For the ladies?)
9. "Game Room." This room should have an arcade-ambiance. Videogames, large television with PlayStation and games, masseur, ping-pong table, pool table, portable basketball-hoop setup outside the dressing room area. The game room must be in air-conditioned tent or a very large room.

It's this last item that really exceeds the bandwidth of my patience for Fiddy's rider. Eminem has sold roughly 30 trillion more albums than Fiddy, and yet Em is all, "dude, I just want my Club sammich" and Fiddy's all, "I want Cristal, and shrimp, and a game room, and tons of hos that I can bang with all the condoms I'm packing." Advantage: Eminem

LL Cool J

1. 6 chocolate donuts with powdered sugar on top (I didn't even know they made these!)
2. 1 small bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil(Let's pray it's for the stage show)
3. 3 Scripto wind-resistant fireplace starters (???)
4. 24 long-stem roses (TOTALLY DETHORNED) with individual WATER RESERVOIR TIPS (???)

If the rider is a window into the soul of an artist, than Cool James uses double-thick-frosted storm windows. What does this all mean? Chocolate, roses, baby oil--and fire starters? Does he give the roses out to fans? Does he breathe fire? And why does anyone with a six pack that divine need half a dozen chocolate/sugar donuts?

Queens of the Stone Age

1. 6 bottles of Jamaican-style ginger beer (not ginger ale) (pussies)
2. 48 16 oz. bottles still spring mineral water (no large bottles please) (where's the rock-n-roll?)
3. 6 assorted flavors of noodle snacks (cup of noodles NOT made by Cup-O-Noodles) (Do they make other kinds? Who else makes cups of noodles besides Cup-O-Noodles?)
4. 1 pound of raw almonds (no salt, not roasted)
5. 1 deli tray: sliced meats, lettuce/salad, and other good stuff (no onions) (What qualifies as good stuff? To me, onions are good stuff. I dislike the arbitrary nature of this stipulation.)
6. 1 box of baby wipes (non-alcohol based) (hot)
7. 6 pairs of 100 percent cotton men's socks (please tell me these are for the feet.)

The same problem exists here that existed with Eminem: When did Josh Homme come backstage after a show, look through his suitcase, then yell "Where are all my clean socks? Who keeps taking all my socks? Nick, Dave? It was you, wasn't it. That's it, you're out. Both of you. I can't live this way. Give me my mothereffin socks!

James Brown

1. One hooded hair dry

Wow. Sucks to be you

Snoop Dogg

1. VERY IMPORTANT** Snoop's dressing room should have one complete Xbox system(with two controllers). One as loud as humanly possible radio that will play CDs, MP3s, and burned CDRs. (What is the volume setting for loud-as-humanly possible? Correlary: who makes that radio?)
2. 5 packs of Optimo Peach Flavored Blunts (Is this chronic? And if so, can you request illegal substances on your rider? And if so, why peach? Peach flavored grass sounds disgusting)
3. 1 pack of Hubba Bubba bubble gum
4. 8 bottles of Moet & Chandon champagne (White Star)
5. 1 bottle of Hennessy
6. Enough hot wings or chicken strips for 20 people, whenever possible from either Popeye's or Church's Chicken

Ludacris

1. Artist requires a juicer and blender for juicing and making smoothies.Please provide the following fresh fruits and vegetables washed and unpeeled:
2. 5 pounds of sweet juicing carrots (no stems)
3. 4 stalks of celery
4. 4 whole beets
5. 2 gingerroot pieces
6. 1 dozen apples
7. 1 dozen oranges
8. 1 dozen bananas
9. 1 bag of spinach

Who saw this coming?

Mary Jones

1. 36 cans of pepsi (33 degrees F)
2. 1 Large dominos pizza, regular crust, sausage and cheese
3. 3 cheese popovers
4. 4 sychophantic 20-year-old males with longish hair and polo shirts
5. 1 box lucky charms, one half-litre of organic skim milk + cereal accoutrements
6. Assorted magazines in the fields of music, tabloids, graphic design, fashion, news, and politics. See list of approved reading materials for more information (the artist will not perform within 50 feet of "The Nation" or "Ms." magazine)

Gosh I wish I were famous

Rats on coke. I just came across this and thought it was interesting (not so much the study itself, but rather the fact that some highly paid researchers at prestigious universities are feeding rats cocaine).

I've pulled/pinched something important in my left shoulder/upper back/neck area. Not while moving all of my boxes to the new flat, but while carrying large amounts of groceries home from the Sainsburys up the road. It's making my life rather uncomfortable: I can't recline on the couch! Well, I can recline on the couch, but if I do, the only way to get off the couch is to roll myself slowly onto the floor and then use the coffee table to pull myself up with my right arm. Which looks/feels pretty retarded.

So I'm stuck sitting in a proper chair at the dining table. On the plus side, sitting in a proper chair at the dining table is facilitating work getting done, something which reclining on the couch wasn't doing. And snooker is on television - hooray! And RonnieOSullivan is playing right now - triple hooray!!! And he's winning. :D

I haven't unpacked anything yet from the initial move back to Edinburgh. At this point, I know exactly where in which box everything is. My family is moving to Massachusetts (dad first, in a few weeks; mom in a year or two, once my little sister is at university). Probably to a place called Wooster. I like the name Wooster, because I've liked Jeeves&Wooster and P.G.Wodehouse since I was little. I don't particularly fancy my parents moving to Wooster, because the physical remnants of my US life will be gone once they do. And that frightens me. But I have a couple of years to prepare for the shock of not being able to go to my home for Christmas. And it is cheaper to fly into Logan from the UK than O'Hare. And thank goodness they're moving to a respectable state (so I can visit them; there are a number of states in which I refuse to set foot). But still.

What?! Why have I never heard of/seen this programme before - I live in Britain! I also regularly view all of the BBC channels. *hum* I must say, though, the actress does rather resemble me. And I do exist in a more or less perpetual state of genteel annoyance.

Jones - I have just discovered that there is a Mongolian restaurant located in Leith (near Edinburgh). The fare sounds even more appetizing than that which we enjoyed at the Ethiopian (or some similarly famine-stricken northeast African shitehole) restaurant in Chicago several years ago (with Lakshmi & Mark1 & Nickd, I think).
Should you ever visit me again in Edinburgh, we must go!

According to the advertisement, Mongolians ate just about everything, and so can we for the right price: venison, wild boar, ostrich, springbok, zebra, kangaroo and shark. And yet...I'm struggling to get my mind round the idea of GhengisKhan lunching on kangaroo chops (or zebra haunches?) in the bowels of Asia and in the middle of a rather major maurauding spree. Do you suppose the restaurant will provide us with metal shields in which to cook our springbok, as well??

In other, less notable news, I have finally found a place to live (for the next four months, anyway) and have moved. *hooray* I'm living with a Chinese girl who is studying computer science at the UniversityofEdinburgh. She seems nice and does not leave basins filled with seaweed festering around the kitchen. This is a welcome improvement over my last kitchen-sharing experience with Chinese.

And now - - to watch the first eviction of this year's CelebrityBigBrother!! DennisRodman is in the house this year...

Since we've already realized that I'm brain-dead for my complete enjoyment of the carcrash that is Jason Mulgrew, we can get down to more important things. On his website yesterday, he posted a challenge to his readers. Here is an excerpts:

I have been listening a lot lately to an incredible band called the Eagles of Death Metal. They’re not actually death metal at all – more like garage rock. But I would call them “sex rock.” Almost everyone of their songs makes me want to have sex. Not in the Barry White/Luther Vandross/“Price Is Right” theme way, but in a different way. A dirty hipster way.

So I’m working on a new iPod playlist, called “Dirty Hipster Stripper.” The name pretty much sums it up, but it’s a collection of hipster rock ‘n’ roll songs that would also be great for a woman to strip to.

But after only three songs, I’ve reached the end of my knowledge and I need your help. If you know of any songs that would match the Dirty Hipster Stripper description, please let me know. To guide you, the three songs I have currently right now are:

“Whorehoppin’ (Shit Goddamn, I’m A Man?)” Eagles of Death Metal
“Paper Doll” Louis XIV
This song is cool, but it is so sexual in nature that it makes me blush. A female reader suggested it to me and I played it for my roommate Brian. After listening to it, he said, jokingly, "Any girl who likes that song is a slut." I wouldn't go that far, but I certainly wouldn't want my 17 year-old daughter singing it.
“Midnight In Her Eyes” Black Keys
This is dirty, dirty rock. So filthy I want to take a shower after listening to this song. On a side note, if I ever went to a strip club and saw a stripper dancing to this song, I would do everything in my power to make her my wife. And I’ve been working out lately, so I have a lot of power.

He's asking readers to nominate filthy, let's have sex and be bad indie rock songs, and even if I expand the parameters to include hipster screwing as well as hipster stripping, I must admit that nothing comes to mind. Most of my ‘seduction’ songs fall into one of these categories:

1. dirty music, suggestive content
2. clean music, explicit content
3. repetitive beats, coy content

So I think Louis XIV and Dresden Dolls are great stripping music, because they have repetitive beats, opulent, hedonistic singers, and coy, suggestive content. But they don’t make me feel dirty, just sexy. Then there are bands Rasputina and Garbage, who do very lush, very dirty sounding work, but the sexual content is masked under metaphor and strangeness. The Smashing Pumpkins were always at their best when they did those sorts of pieces (“Marquis in Spades”, “Bodies”). Most of the lyrically dirty songs I enjoy have relatively clean music behind them—Lil’ Kim’s “Magic Stick” and “How Many Licks” are fantastically dirty (Puerto Rican papi, used to be a deacon/ now he be sucking me off on the weekend), but the beats are straight up, run of the mill hip hop.

A dirty hipster sex song, then, needs to embrace the following:

1. Repetitive beats—this is a must. The song can only change rhythm once, and the bridge can’t be too jarring.
2. Dirty music—a bit low fi, a stripped, drum and bass heavy. Think “More Human Than Human” BEFORE Rob Zombie starts singing
3. Explicit content—there needs to naturally be a hint of intelligence and wit, a bit of the coy, since hipsters are notoriously elitist about literature and cultural references. However, the lyrics need to remember what they’re here for: helping smart people get it on
4. Charismatic lead singer. You need someone whose voice is gravelly, or who whispers, or who has lush tones and a bit of a swagger. Kelis’s “In Public” makes me want to grab a man and take him to a back closet, but Fall Out Boy’s (hypothetical) cover of “In Public” would make me want to hide in one.
5. It must be rock. That isn’t my rule, it’s Mulgrew’s

So unless I start pulling out my entire audio catalogue and leafing through it, I'm a bit stumped. The closest I can come to is NIN’s “Closer”, but that’s like 10 years old and it’s a goth song. So I’m asking all my dirty hipster friends: help me sate my curiosity. What are some of the best dirty, nasty, delicious songs for indie rock art fags to hook up to? Flynn, The--this is a call to arms. No one knows dirty rock like you.

Every once and a while we are hit by completely unexpected phenomena, like the tsunami or the explosion of Latin music. While less devastating then a tsunami or Ricky Martin, I was completely sideswiped the other day when I started watching BBCa's new series, "The Robinsons."

"The Robinsons" is a family comedy centering around the slightly dumb and driftless Eddie (Tim from "The Office") who is forced to interact with his strange family more often then he likes. His family is made up of his perpetually mean and quarrelling parents, the overachieving eldest son (George, loves bees, corporate accounts) and the middle child, Vicki, a perfectionist and an interior designer. There's only one problem.

Vicki is ANNE H0USE.

At first, there were just some subtle similarities of appearance. The caramel hair, the high cheek bones, the slightly feline eyes. There's also a similar nose. They have the same body shape, the same way of standing, the same choice in smart, well-tailored clothing.

But even if Vicki was a 300 pound Korean woman, she would still be Anne House. Sucked in by the eerie similarities, I watched an entire marathon, only to be more convinced as the show progressed that I was living in a twilight zone. For example, in one episode, Vicki realizes that she wants a child, but she doesn't want to wait to find the right man, because the right man may have imperfect sperm, so she tries interviewing perspective men looking for genetic imperfections in order to get pregnant, eventually deciding on a gay co-worker. She sits him down and explains that she doesn't care about his sexuality, she just wants the sperm, and wants to know if he will do her a favor and sleep with her. He does, but she doesn’t get pregnant, and she pronounces his sperm to be defective, and thus continues her search.

Now, why am I reminded of Anne? Because if Anne woke up one day and decided to have a child, she would do it with as much reason and professionalism as possible. I have no doubt she would sit down potential candidates and ask them questions about their medical history and sperm count. Every episode is filled with these House-ish quests and ticks.

Vicki spends every episode in a perpetual state of genteel annoyance; since everyone is less talented and driven, she must put up with their plebian presence. She has excellent posture, and is charming in the exact same way Anne is. It's simply the strangest thing I have ever seen. And the weird part is, I've become addicted to the show because it's so much like seeing Anne that I watch it as a substitute for Anne. Every time she does something reminiscent of my departed Ms. House, I get all giggly. "Oh Anne," I think, "Will you never learn?" I think some part of me may be cracking if I'm reduced to spending time with friends by watching their TV counterparts.

How do we feel about CSI? I'm watching my first one tonight, and I feel so so about it. On one hand, I hate the fast talking crime drama thing, but on the other hand, it's like Encyclopedia Brown but for adults. And I loved Encyclopedia Brown.

Also, I'm coming up for B-fest. Allie, get me a ticket--i'll pay you back

So, because I love you, I'm posting the new Kevin Federline mp3, "Popozão". Voila. But before you sit there and judge me, I need you to listen to it, and come back so we can discuss this.

My sister Jordan, age 12, happened to come in while I was listening to the song. She stood there for a moment, then she said:

"That is HORRIBLE. I think it's a waste of time. What kind of a song is that?"
I replied, "This is Kevin Federline's new song" (Jordan is as avid a tabloid reader as myself and my mother. Since girls in her age demographic seem to be the target market for pop music and this sort of silly Neptunes-lite presque-reggaetone sound, I gave her a quick interview about her feelings concerning "popozão."

Me: Why do you think it's so bad?
Jordan: "Well, it's just stupid, and I hate Kevin Federline, and I think he's white and not black, so he shouldn't be rapping. Unless he's Eminem. Which he isn't."
Me: Why is white people rapping worse then black people rapping?
Jordan: "White people's voices aren't as good, and they don't have any rhythm, and it sounds like trash. And those cornrows are going to mess up his hair."
Me: But, say, if you if you didn't know it was Kevin Federline, would you like it?
Jordan: "I don't know. I would say it sounds too white, whatever it is."

I am fascinated with this song. It gives rise to so many different emotions, it's hard to decide which to address first. My initial impression is that it isn't really that awful. The beats are indistinguishable from Ying Yang Twins or from Timberland, only it's a bit more reggaetone, so it's like, reggaetone crunk, which actually sounds like a rad subgenre. Sure, the rapping is mediocre, but in a world where the most downloaded song sports the refrain, "Girl shake that Laffy Taffy" over 30 times, popozão almost has dignity.

And yet...

Kevin Federline must know he has many strikes against him. He's a kept man in a patriarchal society, so already, he's viewed as effeminate. He hasn't ever had a steady job, so there is already the aura of laziness. Seeing photos of him with skanks in Vegas while his wife is knocked up in Malibu does nothing for his reputation as a bit of a dumb player. Then there are the cornrows, and the rapper clothes. And he has also never cut a rap record. And his wife is a bubblegum star. I mention all of these faults in order to illustrate that he is coming up to the plate of "rap artist" with a severe handicap. Being a rap star is like being an early nineties grunge star--a certain amount of street credibility is still expected, and if not that, then certainly talent and ingenuity (see blackstar, NERD, atmosphere). Since Kevin Federline has neither street cred, nor an ungodly amount of talent, I would have imagined he would be a bit modest, a bit quieter, a bit more reserved.

But he isn't, hence the beautiful horror of the song. He comes in with guns blazing, his voice packed with so much intensity it's embarrassing to watch. You know when you were 8, and you knew that girl who wanted to be a singer, and she would sing everywhere, and then one day at recess, she gets up on the steps, and she starts belting out Roxette's "Dress for Success", and everyone stares with their mouths agape because she's swinging her arms and trying to make her voice gravely, just like Roxette, and you know she thinks she's going to be on Star Search, but she isn't because she wears headgear and she lives in Tucson? It's a bit like that. Kevin Federline doesn't even pronounce popozão correctly--it's Portuguese, and his inflection is Spanish. It doesn't mean a sexy dance, it means a chick's ass. And then, every single line has some huge grammatical error that renders the entire sentence incomprehensible. Not like cute "we be tearing this joint up in the hizzay" grammatical error, but like "Girl don’t worry about all the dough/ cos I can’t/
Cos the cat is coming straight out of the know." I am not kidding. That's just the second line in the opening verse

It is awful, terribly so. But I think what makes it so awful is the sheer arrogance involved in every single word. The music is passable, dare I say good, which makes his hamfisted rapping all the more vibrant. I don't know what to say. Fascinating.

Scrabble makes me vicious. Scrabble plus tasty wine makes me silly and vicious. God I love scrabble.

The Top 10 New Year's Photos

Look, I'm not promising I'm back. I make no promises of updating or not updating. I can promise you photos in the interval, however.

Top 10 San Francisco Pictures:

Wow. Anne is alive! Welcome back! I want details on what you're doing in your new job.

Last night's band practice was probably the best we've had. We started working on recording a few of our songs, and I finally feel that we'll have something to show for our year of work. Listening to the play back, I was really impressed with L. and me-- how much we've improved at playing and songwriting, how well we play together, and how competent we finally sound. It was really a good feeling.

And now I am just beat up with exhaustion. I am dressed like a butch lesbian circa 1991 and I am gulping coffee as if it's going out of style.

My life rules.

I was so exhausted by my three week Christmas "break" in Chicago that I spent my first two days back in Scotland asleep...nothing like welcoming in the New Year with a snore/drool. This week, I am living in the billiards/junk room. It is alright, but not ideal. I am supposed to be moved out of here by the end of the week; progress made toward moving out by the end of the week: none. *oh well* There are a lot of things I'm supposed to be doing.

I've finally completed all of my Rotary-related obligations. *huzzah* And I bought two pairs of new trousers for only $6 each while I was home!! Post-Christmas sales are great. So is saving money when you don't have very much.

Hi - hope everyone is well and had a lovely holiday season. Back to room-hunting...

splash

you've been working on your master plan. And I've been sleeping alone in our bed.

The tone in your voice is hopeful. Thanks for preemptively excusing my failure, but -- sorry to disappoint -- I don't plan to fail. Why do you want me to throw up my hands, buckle and give in? Look at what I've done! Look at what I've done while dragging a sled full of dead weight behind me! I have a right to be cocky. I do. I've earned it. And frankly, in the future, I plan to do more. And I plan to do it better.

Happy 2006 all.

My New Year's Resolutions:

1. Always say "when" after three.

2. Do homework every Saturday morning for at least 2.5 hours.

3. Play more music.

4. keep a cleaner apartment.

5. stop surfing the internet so much.