I just saw Batman Begins
First movie I've seen in a while that received applause at the end.
I liked it immensely. Enough that I'm wondering if I should cough up the $15 to see it in Imax at the last showing tonight. But I may just be in the mood for dark and brooding violencia.
Three thoughts:
1. Christian Bale is amazing.
2. I wanted to run out halfway through the movie and do a bunch of push-ups, you know, so I could be all ripped like a chick Christian Bale.
3. I wonder if I poked Katie Holmes in the face if it would leave a deep, finger-shaped impression. I find her face is so soft and boneless-putty-looking that I am unnerved by her and her malleable looking little softy face. She just looks like, at any minute, all her features might just slip right off onto the floor. Okay, now I'm creeping myself out.
I'm gonna go rent American Psycho now so I can get more CB fix. He can be as dragon-toothed as Tom Cruise when he grins, but somehow he lacks all of the underlying evil (and crazy) that makes me fear that man.
My last post for today, I swear.
Last night I dreamt I was engaged to some guy I don't know and we were all set to walk down the aisle and I had a huge motherfrigging cushion-cut diamond ring and I just could not do it.
So he waited.
And I dragged all my friends over to the trendmonkey shop run by some oldish queen-type next door to the place I was supposed to be getting married at that very minute and I couldn't decide whether to do it or not.
And he waited.
Then I thought about dragging everyone to the weirdo club across the street for drinks and debauchery and really I was just trying to avoid getting married and hoped he would give up on the whole idea so I wouldn't be the bad guy, er gal.
But he waited.
I finally resolved to just go through with it because in my dream I thought, shit, when will I ever find someone who loves me enough to wait through all this bullshit ever again, I might as well just marry him.
Then I woke up.
It was a fucking nightmare.
So there.
Dear men,
What the shit is wrong with you people?
Sorry, that started wrong. I've been reading that there Ross fella's blogs on rape, and anytime you get a bunch of guys talking about rape, usually somebody says something that pisses me off, or reminds me of something that happened that pissed me off in the past, and I get tetchy.
Let's start again, yes?
Dear men,
What the motherfucking hell is wrong with you people?
Oh fuck. That's even worse, isn't it?
Dear men,
Please explain to me how some of you can be so clever, and yet so very not. There is that whole rape thing, but that isn't even close to what's irking me, at the moment. It's just that, today, someone I have a modicum of respect for described a gal he fancied as attractive and pleasant. Pleasant. Motherfucking pleasant. Wha?
Ficus plants are attractive and pleasant. Penny loafers? Attractive and pleasant. Boatneck sweaters, trellises, garden gnomes, dangly chandelier earrings, scrapbooks and tap-pants fresh from the freezer on a hot summer day? Attractive and pleasant. People--partners--should be more. Complex, nuanced, challenging. At least, that's what I always thought.
Apparently, I'm just goddamned wrong. I know a lot of guys who are big personalities, who seek out attractive, pleasant girls. That shit just weirds me out. Girls like guys with big personalities. Guys...not so much. Eh?
(It should come as no surprise, then, that the last time I had a date pursue me aggressively was the time I was so not into the guy that I said nothing and smiled pleasantly throughout the date, running through my grad-student budget in my head all the while. He wanted to make plans for the next date ASAP, and on the next date, a lunch date [I always give two chances--the first failure could be nerves] I said less, and he was even more gung-ho, and damn-near invited himself out with me and my crew for that night. There were no more dates after that.)
Which is all to say, of course, that it is really fucking sad that I know so many dazzling women who go unappreciated, and that, to the average male, a girl like me is at her best when she's pretending to be a quiet, pleasant, attractive someone else.
That is all.
I found him via Screed, who found him via Bitch. Ph.D.. They were lauding him for this post, understandably. It should be required reading for men of reproductive age, seriously. And the rest of his blog is just as genius. I just felt the need to spread the love. Now, if only I could get two of him in brown...
Boys, boys, all type of boys...
1. Run, don't walk, to the Starbucks on 56th Street between 6th and 7th, right around evening rush. Why, you ask? Because that's where you will find the goddanged prettiest Starchuckian mixmaster ever. He's like LL in a green apron. LL in a green apron handing you a delicious soy latte. That is the closest most of us will ever get to the LL-feeding-you-skinned-grapes fantasy, mmkay? Like I said, run. I have no reason to be in midtown. None. But damnit, I will find a reason now. Or not, but LL in Starchucks, I will never forget thee. How could I? Who's ever seen a friggin' competition-ready body-builder working as an espresso jockey at Starbucks?!?!
2. Should you be a trim blonde seeking a mate (*cough* TDMM*cough*), the place to be is the bar car on the New Haven line Metro North train. First of all, the male-to-female ratio is roughly 7.3 to 1. Second of all, you'll be a slim blonde, and it ain't hard to pull when you're a slim blonde, no matter what the male-to-female ratio is. Lastly, well, I've seen it. You'll be like chum in a shark tank. Godspeed.
3. Sorry attractive South Asian professional-man, for assaulting you first with my elbows, and then my mild pit-stank, on said bar car. It had been a long, hot day. Mea culpa. If I ever see you again, you can have a can of Rolling Rock (or whatever) on me. Hopefully, I'll smell better, too. Yeesh.
Okay, three types of boys. What? That's more interaction with the outside world than I usually get!
Old people say the darndest things!
So I'm talking to a lady who is in her sixties but who looks really good for her age. I tell her I thought she was in her forties, at most, and she laughs and says she has a daughter in her forties.
This is where it all goes horribly fucking hilariously to hell.
"My daughter, she's like you," she says. "People think I am the daughter and she is the mother!"
Me, half smiling, blank stare, thinking, "Huh?"
She clarifies: "She's big, doesn't take care of herself."
Me: *blink, blink, blink*
Sigh. Part of the problem with having been enormously fat and having lost an ass of weight is that you think of your accomplishments and know what has gone into who you are now, while all other people see is someone who is still fat.
Also, how do you insult someone who has just complimented you? *eyeroll* Maybe she didn't see it as a compliment, lol.
I wonder what she'd have said if she'd known I spend at least five days a week in the gym, have an anger management problem, and could literally bench press her ass?
>:}
For the record,
as much as I love certain pulpy writers and their novels, I am occasionally, shall we say, chafed by how absent we are from their stories. From their lives.
Oh geez. Outright: I'm tired of reading lily-white books. Even when they are fun, good books, I am amazed at how absolutely absent non-whites are from white consciousness. Amazed. I mean, usually, the most we warrant is some sort of low-level character, described solely by race and set up for some tiny situation for main character. I know it is indicative of how very separate most of this country is. I know, really, that there aren't nearly as many close friendships across color lines as I'd hope there would be, but still. Jesus H. Cornwallis Christ.
I think part of the reason I like Caryl Phillips and even depressing-as-hell Hanif Kureishi is that they have no qualms about stepping outside their own experiences to write. Middle aged white female protagonist? No problem, despite the fact that they are black and brown males, and the stories do not suffer. (Of course, they are both Brit-lit writers and one could argue that the desire to write such characters is itself a problem, a sort of catering to the mainstream.) But here we seem to stick to writing our races, almost exclusively. Meh.
Also, why are my non-black, non-white friends not nearly as bothered by this as I am? Do they just not talk to me about it? Is is just not as big a deal for them? What?
*dead*
Is anybody besides me slightly relieved that The Pretty started out looking like a used car salesman? Gahd, Hollywood is like some alien planet where everyone is forced to becom the best version of themselves or die a slow, painful death. Or move to West Covina or something.
You just don't need to know.
To the individual(s) who found my blog by googling eighteen different permutations of Seal and Tatjan Patitz and abortion:
Ain't nothing about that here. I promise. After this post, there will be nothing else remotely relating to it. Feel free to have a poke around, but, you know, dang, EIGHTEEN? Seriously. Try searching for Brad and Angelina or summink. Mix it up a bit. Please. That cannot be healthy. Or at least get here searching for some good shit like Dwayne and Vin.*
*Bwahahahahaaaa! I am shameless. Jesus, could The Rock be any prettier? He makes my eyes hurt with the pretty. I mean, damn. It's just not fair. Weird though, I just realized my trainer looks kinda like him in that photo. How could I have not noticed that before? Shit. Great, now I have to erase that from mind, because I cannot, cannot, cannot seriously squat and sweat and ickily jiggle around somebody who looks like The Rock, dammit. Actually, I can. Whatever, I'll deal. I gots toning to do.
Lifeless
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing going on.
All I do now, literally, is work and workout, and travel back and forth between the two. My apartment is a wreck. I haven't prepared anything more complex than scrambled eggs and turkey bacon in at least a week. I bought CDs last week that I haven't even had the time or inclination to unwrap, let alone to sit down and give a listen. None of my clothes fit quite right, too big or small, but I cannot be assed to go buy anything new.
Yeah. Not even shopping.
God help me.
What I have done in the past week is plow through four books, fiddle around with some ideas for a redesign (I've even gone and illustrated myself, because really, who are you if you haven't got a cartoon alter-ego?) , ignore email and, uh, that's it.
Oh no, actually, I also signed up for another month-and-a-half of training. If nothing else, that has to carry on. But damn, this fitness shit takes time. I spent almost three hours at the gym Saturday. I didn't mean to. I just...lost time. So sad.
Other than that, I am now officially dull, boring, boring, dull, tedious, thoroughly unamusing and lifeless. How pissed off will I be if I finally have the perfect body and then find myself absolutely without personality? (I mean, shit. I have spent the last 27 years cultivating the pseudo-hilarious spunky/bitchy fat girl personality, dammit, and I didn't do it just to watch my personality leeched away by basement-stale gym-induced sweating now.) No wait, there's a place for people with that problem...I believe I have a brochure here somewhere...oh yes, Los Angeles. I could go there if that happens. Well great, one less thing to worry over, at least.
These are the things that I am missing out on and would love to do if I were idle rich:
1. Listen to my goddamned new CDs. I took a speedy tour through Tower on Broadway and Sixtywhateverth the other day and picked up Oasis' ...Morning Glory?, the Beatles 1, and M.I.A.'s Arular. Actually, M.I.A. is the only one that's really new to me, since I had ...Morning Glory? way the hell back in the day and lost it, and who hasn't heard every number one Beatles track eight million times over in its original and remade by yo' mama, Puffy's mama, Yo-Yo Ma, luxury automotive jingle-musicians, elevator muzakians...wait. What was I talking about? Damn. Anyway, I heard "Galang", the first cut off of Arular about a month back, and have heard some serious hype about Arular, so I bought it. I'll keep you posted...or not.
2. Shakespeare in the Park. Be nice to see that again this year. They're doing As You Like It. Shame to miss this, since it's actually free. I don't need money, just time. *huff*
3. What is playing in "the movies" these days? I have no idea. I happen to be avoinding cinema altogether until the TomKat hype dies down, for fear I may have to watch forty-foot-high grinning Tom Cruise mug onscreen in the previews. Only thing scarier than grinning Tom Cruise mug is said evil mug forty feet large. I'm just sayin', God made that man three feet tall for a reason.
4. Eat something, anything, besides turkey bacon. I have had that shit every day. Can a sister get some maki? A noodle? Something? No, not if she's watching her carbs. *weeps*
5. Museum. Any museum, I don't even care which. Museums mean free time, in minimum-three-business-hour chunks. So, nope, not gonna happen, because I swear, I feel lately like every waking hour of my life is delegated to some shit I have to, need to, must do.
6. Blog about stuff. Any stuff. Chicago. My dirty apartment. People who irritate me, the Lush shower gel I just bought, real estate trends, anything.
7. Sit down and just work out a new template, already. Dang. I am so tired of this one, but I am so not ready to sit down and rework all of my damned links and archives and blahblahblah.
Okay, that's all for now. I'm going to go have some eggs. And turkey bacon. And, if I'm really feeling ambitious, steamed string beans!
Almost forgot, #8. Y'all know brother Phil has a line of gear out at CafePress now, right? I love CafePress. One of these days I'll get some stuff up there myself. Maybe. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to get my hands on a "Love Somebody" tee.
Here's a random question for the lawyerly types.
Can a person suffer entrapment at the hands of an entity other than law enforcement, like a private contractor or company?
Bear with me. Example: I hire a maid through a maid service. The service has shady billing practices or some other flaw that irritates me, which I complain about, but I like my maid, so I don't try to get out of the agreement. Management, however, is disgruntled by my complaints and wants to break our contract and keep the cash, so they enlist the maid to solicit me to engage her directly, which in the fine print of the contract, is a no-no that I am unaware of until after agreeing to employ the maid myself.
Since I made the oral agreement with the maid, I've broken the rules and they can terminate my service without a refund, correct? But is that legal business practice if the company intentionally arranged a situation I would not have initiated on my own?
So hard to find good help these days, you know!
Anyhoo, you know what's fucking fabulous? Turkey bacon! Oh, also, I have fully re-embraced carnivory. Loaf will be glad.
Know what's arguably evil, as in I'm pretty sure Lucifer actually holds the patent and is laughing his maniacal ass off all us fatties right now?
This stuff. Hespecially this in "marshmallow." I bought some thinking it might be delicious! Now I'm trying to figure out how to ship an ass of it down to Gitmo to use as a torture--er, I mean, confessional persuasion--aide.
Happy Friday!
Gym-gyminee....
Okay, I'm back on my routine. Definitely good. I've spent a few days now working out after ten vacation days and a crazy working weekend, and I feel much, much better. And sore. In a good way.
Funny, that. How you can miss pain. Actually, come to think of it, it isn't funny at all. Most of us spend our childhoods in some bizarre kind of psychic pain and spend the rest of our lives trying to recreate it once we escape. Or so the shrinks say...er, what was I talking about?
My point: I'm working out again. Yay! But I've had to decide whether or not to re-sign with my trainer. I think I will. But weird stuff seems to be going on at my gym lately. I swear there is a whole slew of new trainers there, and I haven't seen the second manager who's been there since I joined since I got back from vacation. Is he gone, too? Will I have the membership drama with a whole new manager? If I could engage my trainer outside the gym I would, but I just checked my membership contract and nice how it says that'll get me booted without a refund. So that ain't gonna happen. I'd actually not mind switching gyms, but it is impossible to quit and get a refund without a) losing three of your four limbs in a horrible accident, doctor's note required or b) moving 300 nautical miles from any of my gyms' or its affiliates' locations. Slight exaggerations in terms, of course.
Actually, I haven't really had any problems since my last membership debacle, and the current crop of folks working there is really nice. It could be worse.
Meh. I know customer service in the fitness industry is traditionally not just crap, but asswipingly deplorable, and reading some other online complaints against the major chains, I guess I should be happy. I mean, at least my gym is cheap. Ish. Cheapish.
I checked this fitness training group out online and was a bit geeked. If I could get a few other people together, we could train as a tiny group and pay as little as $340 each for 20 hour-long sessions! That's per person for a group of five, though. But that's seriously only $17 per hour. Holy shit. I'm tempted to put an add on Craigslist just to get a group together. Eh, or not.
I have cramps, and absolutely nothing else to say. Night-night!
...is totally some shit my grandfather would do. Last time he got jumped by a 'hood dog (which was actually a doberman or german shepherd or similar), he punched that nucca square in the nose. Okay, it's not a leopard...but I'm sayin'.
Who would think of some shit like that? Reaching into it's mouth and grabbing the tongue?
And that is why that brother is 73 years old and counting.
I think spring is starting to, uh, "hit me," if you will.
Totally random guys smell really good to me right now.
And I am thrilled at my Bluesfest-gotten tan, because I have been having some incredibly blushworthy thoughts at the most inopportune moments, lately, and the tan, you know, covers that up (ignore the fact that I am, in fact, a Negress, and that statement makes no damned sense).
....
See, there they go again! So bad.
My pirate name is:
Bloody Bess Kidd
Every pirate lives for something different. For some, it's the open sea. For others (the masochists), it's the food. For you, it's definitely the fighting. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.
*Eyes screwed shut tight, wishing hard*
Pleaseohpleaseohplease let me cross the 10,000 line today. I can't take the suspense! It's killing me! When will I officially cross the line?
Er, uh, Kimora Simmons pregnant belly naked!
Uh, MILF!
Uh, uh, Mansquito!
Okay, I refuse to debase my blog any further with such traffic-grabbing search terms.
Also, some apparent news-producer type is emailing bloggers asking if they want to talk about bloggers getting fired or reprimanded for blogging. I'd like to chat with him but...duh, I don't want to get fired. Yeesh. I mean, I don't know how my employers and some of my coworkers would react if they read this thing. Actually, I think it'd be pretty damned funny, right up until I was handed my walking papers. Then I'd be hitting producer-man up for a job.
Also, I have that writerly suspiciousness (it's a word now) about such things. Anything I've even remotely considered pitching anywhere at any time gets my hackles up. I have a ton of good ideas I never follow-up with actual pitches. Which gives me no right to be jealous when somebody else actually puts in the legwork and turns it into something, but it does mean I can turn down offers to be interviewed for the story! Meh.
I am so professionally lazy. Was so professionally lazy. Was. Now I'm suddenly a-burnin' to get my shit back on track. A-burnin'.
Howard Stern's girlfriend
June cover of FHM
Really not so hot.
Look, it was laying around, and I have been slacking on the haikus, and I'm short on time, okay? Yeesh.
I mean, damn. Just...damn. That's hardcore. Pretend you care about your organs, please.
I want this one. But now they're on sale at Urban so I think flasks must officially be, you know, like, so over. Unless you are X, the originator. I shoulda skraight copied her then. Dang. Too late. Woulda been nice to whip out a little Macallan at some of the crazy upcoming summer hoo-hahs. Like the Philly Live 8, or Shakespeare in the Park and what have you.
Alas, not to be. I'll have to stick to pulling the kind of tricks we pulled at Bluesfest.
Return of the Mac...MacGangsta!*
A key turns in a rusty lock, grudingly, haltingly. The lock gives. A door swings open on a dark and dusty room. A lone figure stands, a silhouette in the doorway, peering in, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The figure enters, draws a white-gloved fingertip along a dusty surface, examines the smudge. Peers around again in disbelief. This place, once home, once so well kept, has fallen into disrepair, untended, neglected, unloved.
The figure inhales, as if to sigh.
*I don't beleedis shit! No this bitch did not let my blog get like this!*
Loaf is back. Bitches.
Loaf: *Looks around at the cobwebs and filth laying around SITC, eyes wide with disbelief. Er, disbelee* Aw, hell naw! Is that...no...an unexpressed grievance? *Spins around to take in the other side of the room* Is that an unphotographed pair of hooka-heels buried under that unreviewed trip to Chicago? Right thurr, next to that heap of unopened Sephora products? Shit, are those...boxes...of...frozen...dinners?!?!?!?!
AW, HELL NAW!
Where is this bitch?!?! Where is she!
*Stares menacingly and stalks about the room, begins to overturn stacks of un-reviewed CDs, unmocked advertisements and Sci-Fi Channel listings, and stacks and stacks of homoerotic beefcake photos*
At the rear of the room, there is movement in a pile of ~~~r3a11Y !rr!t@t!nG Bl0g temPl@te$***~~~ and frozen pureed vegetables. A moan, faint but audible, breaks the silence. Loaf, worried something horrible has happened, perhaps a gang of beefy toughs (maybe from the Cubesteak crew) has come looking for him, and, finding him gone, assalted poor Sid instead) rushes to the pile and kneels, carefully, preparing to forgive all if only she is alright, unharmed. Instead of a woman pounded to mincemeat, he finds her slumped, wearing a stinky tee shirt she got for free-with application, a pair of yellow flip-flops, three-day-old jeans and unwashed hair, clutching a glass of bubbling amber liquid.
Loaf: Da hell? What's in the glass, Sid?
Sid: Jameson and ginger-ale. Bitches.
Loaf, assessing the situation, ignoring the insult: I think you've had enough. Gimme that.
Sid: No! 'Smine! You cain't hah' nunnadis delishusness. *sways, sloshes drink*
Loaf: This is worse than I thought. No updates, no home cooking, no real insults for like, two weeks? What has gotten into you? How could you let yourself go like this, let the blog go like this?
Sid: Piss off, Crusty. You ain't a part of it no more. You lef'. So whaddayou care? *tips glass for another swig*
Loaf, knocking drink from her hand and grabbing her by the collar: Get it together woman! *SHAKE, SLAP, SLAP* You have a blog to run! *SLAP, SHAKE, SLAP* Make me a sandwich! *SLAP, SLAP, SHAKE*
Sid, sputtering with shock: STOPPIT, DAMMIT! ALRIGHT, STOP HITTING ME!
*Loaf stops, looks her in the eye, and pops her once more*
Sid: Shit, what was that for?!
Loaf: For calling me Crusty. And not calling me when thangs got bad. I mean, I know we had a fight and shit, but you coulda still called a brotha to step in and bread up when you need a hand. I'da risen to the occasion. Damn. That's what friends are for.
Sid, misty eyed: You mean that, Loaf? Are we, you know, still...friends? I mean, after you left, so much happened and I just didn't know how to handle it all and I just got so mad, and then sad, and then...I don't know. It all sorta fell apart...without you.
Loaf: Yeah, I did a lot of thinking while I was traveling, and things wasn't the same without you, neither. Kinda lonely, without you to fight with. Plus, this heffa kept following me around, everywhere I went, trying to butter me up for something nasty. St. Louis, Seattle, Udaho. Everywhere.
Sid: Ooooh, nasty like what? Also, it's Idaho.
Loaf: Ain't that what I said? Udaho. I don't know exactly what that fool wanted, she said something about peanut butter and anchovies, and I ain't tryina mess with those bitches at the same time, nahmean?
Sid, nodding her understanding: I'm glad you're back, Loaf. I think I...missed you.
Loaf: I misseded you, too. Bitch.
*hugs*
Now let's get you and this place cleaned up.
Sid: Okay. Thanks for coming back. Bitch.
Loaf, smiling: Don't push it. I'm just passing through. I checked your shit out from the Singapore airport--you been there? That place is the shiznizzizit!--and it just looked...sad. I mean, no substance, no complaints, some serious desperation in that beefcake, and hello, where is Chicago? Damn! I had to come back.
Sid: Okay, I get it. I've been busy. I'll update first thing in the morning. Damn. Can I live? Can I live?
Loaf: Alright. I'm just sayin'. Get on it. I will train you, keep you on course, be your shaolin wu-tang blog sensei and shit, clean alladis bad, uh, chi and shit out of your, uh, fang-sho. And shit.
Sid, looking momentarily defiant, then, grudgingly, sheepish: What the hell are you--
Nope. You're right. I have to let this all go. I'll do better. Tomorrow, with a clear head and lightning-quick keystrokes, I will make a change!
Loaf: That's the spirit! Now make me that sammich, grasshopper bitch.
To be continued....
*Nope, made no sense to me, either.
If only to hear Ossie Davis say things like, "He had his mouth over my asshole!"
and
"Would you like a dingdong? Not that kind, a chocolate dingdong. Of course, now that I've been dyed all over I guess I do have a chocolate dingdong."
Sosowrong.
One month to my one-year Bloggerversary...
...and my anniversary as a New Yorker is approaching even faster.
Geez.
To think, I started out so sweet and optimistic. And broke.
And look at me now. All drunken hateration, cussing and porn. But I buy a lot of cool shit.
I am so ashamed.
I think I'm going to get a redesign and/or my own site (If what's on the inside ain't pretty, you can at least distract folks with cosmetic changes). I already own the Siddityinthecity.com domain (And to the evil genius who has held the siddity.com domain for the last fo-evah and hasn't done anything with it--I curse you. Even though I've held this one for a year and haven't done anything, but, uh, I mean--look over there! There's a squirrel, uh, driving a pick-up!)
I'm thinking Moxie. Anybody worked with them? Anybody have alternative suggestions?
Maybe the new design will help me return to being a kinder, gentler Sid. I might also return soon to being a broker, happier Sid. And as crazy as that sounds, that'd be nice. Because I used to be, and I miss, you know, not feeling evil all the time.
It's taking a minute to get to my Chicago action. I'll try to have some stuff up there by tomorrow.
Happy Tuesday, folks
Leaving town again today
Blogging will not stop
I'm thinking happy thoughts in my safe place.
I'm back. Nothin' like a vacation to make you all weepy and raw and pensive about your real life.
But let's not talk about me and Manhattan.
Not yet.
These are some happy things I've come home to and/or with:
Sugar Shoes flip flaps. These things are so cute and comfy that, even though I wore out the pair I bought on the Mag Mile, Friday, within roughly 36 hours of Bluesfestery, I bought two more pairs to bring home with me to wear around town. Like walking on clouds, or marshmallows, or babies asses. Or something else perfectly soft and squishy.
VC Orange Label over passion fruit Italian ice. There are no words for how delicious this is. Fat free, decadent and buzztronic! Believe me, it will diffuse almost any bitchtastic sentiment you may be feeling at the time.
This face! I've figured it out. It's in the eyebrows. I'm a sucker for a man with bushy brows and an expressive face. I do kinda dig balding, though. I still haven't worked out the why of that.
Tomorrow afternoon, I'll go SOSBNC-post crazy, but for now, know this: I lurve Chicago. Uber thanks to Keidra, Viv, Shas and Carlos, TDMM, Woog and Oog for helping me have such a wunnerful few days in the Windy City!
And memories of the W City Center (172 W Adams, Chicago). I heart the W like a muhfuggah. I'm moving into that place. Seriously. I love swank hotels.
Happy Monday!
...but I do.
*eyeroll*
What can I say? I like my men either tarted up like ladies, or with hair everywhere but on their heads, apparently.
Look at this face!
I love it! And that is fucking crazy!
Also, Dil Chahta Hai features three of the ugliest pairs of pants in the history of pants.
Right. I'm off.
Lest you believe the forces of darkness were planning to let me vacation in peace.
About ten days ago I got a letter from a rep at one of my former credit card companies.
"I must speak with you immediately. Please call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx."
Me: What the hell do these fools want? I gave them their money. This is looking like a bullshit collections letter. I better call them.
*Calls number, gets an "All representatives are busy, please leave a message." message.*
*Leaves bitter "Why the hell are you fools sending me letters? Call me back, bitches." message*
*crickets*
Me, today: You know, those bitches haven't called me back yet. Let me call them to be sure they aren't assing around with my credit rating.
Me: "Why the hell are you people sending me letters?"
Them: "You're in default."
Me: "Say wha?"
Them: Let me pull up your file. *clickety clackety tap tap tap* It says here that you're in default. You were scheduled to make payments and you...uh, made your payments on time. Uh...
Me: *blank stare, mounting rage, silence*
Them: Did you send in the papers?
Me: What papers? You didn't send me any "papers."
Them: Um, I'll have to have your rep call you back, she'll have more information than I will on what's going on."
Me: Wait, let me get this straight, just to be clear. I have made the appropriate payments, on time, and that is in your system, but it also says I'm in default?
Them: Uh, yes ma'am.
Me: Goddammit!
Why? Why? AND that heffa still has not called me back.
Anyway, I have preparatory things to do.
Here's the last of the beefcakery. Just so we part on an upbeat note.
Boris.
Morris.
This guy, even though he has some of the least heterosexually appealing modelling photos evar. Then again...that's never been a problem before....
Djimon.
Henry.
And of course, Dwayne and Vin.
*wicked grin*
I feel so much better now.
Haiku Tuesday, one day late
At last, vacation. Vacation. Vay-CAY-shun. VACATION!
Holy hell, the last few weeks have been kicking my ass, emotionally.
Considering I keep waking up with new, giant bruises in weird places, the cause of which I cannot pinpoint at all, I suspect someone (aliens, evil underworld intruders, etc.) has been kicking my ass, literally, as well.
Though my break began, oh, an hour ago, I feel kinda like I checked out of my life a few weeks ago.
Like you couldn't tell. A week of beefcake? What the shit was I thinking?
Meh.
Anyway. I'll be finishing up my beefcake posts later today. (What, you thought I'd leave out Cube? Marcus? Morris? Boris? Horace the Taurus? Nahman, they get their own giant postacular of chocolicious American goodness. Okay, kidding about the last one. Ahem. But I saved the best for last.) Tomorrow, I jet, for a few days of serious escapism, to be joined by my lovely pal M, and at various points, I hope, by Carlos and Shas, Keidra and Viv, and whoever else is down with Chicago debauchery.
Until later, a little Tuesday haikubleation.
Clearly, I've checked out.
Ten days' break starting right now.
Let my freak flag fly!
Flats or satin heels?
Which goes best with '50s dress?
Guess I'll bring them both.
Get me out of here.
Under thumb and microscope
I just need to breathe.
Guess that's all for now.
I might post while on the road
but don't count on it.
Except for recaps in SOSBNC!
I hate the shit out of those Bacardi and Cola commercials.
Hate.
The shit.
I saw "Cola" on an episode of Elimidate once.
Ohmygod, I just admitted to watching Elimidate.
CURSE YOU BACARDI AND COLA!
I couldn't figure out how to blame it on Fred Durst.
FOR THAT, FRED DURST, I CURSE YOU!
Happy belated, er, Sunday. And Monday, come to think of it.
Sunday's boys are the boys of Central and South America.
GGB, whom I just saw all tarted up in drag in La Mala Educacion.
Talk about SQUEEE! Burly Australians do it for some of us; tiny Mexicans in drag for others, mmkay?
Okay, he is totally all I can think of from that region. Suggest someone. Onward.
Monday manmeat hails from, uh, Canadia!
Keanu, who is always one of the prettiest men ever
Ryan (the skinny) Gosling
Shit, blank again.
I need to give this whole thing up.
But not before I get to...well, let's just say I'm saving the best for last.
Hints...here.
I think I'll order it on Amazon. I've had the damned Netflix copy for a good month now, and soon they will want their video back. I'm pretty sure someone like me is the reason Dil To Pagal Hai is no longer available, and the waiting list for KKHH is, like, three months long.
You should see it.
Anyway, beefcake.
Saturday makeup: Australia and New Zealand
Karl Urban
Hugh Jackman
Vin Diesel.
Okay, he's not Australian or, uh, New Zealandish (Kiwi, whatever) but at least I made this pic optional.
'Course, Dwayne, being half Samoan, is kinda sort from the same general Pacific region, so mayhap he would be more appropriate.
I really have nothing else to say. I do nothing now but work and go to the gym. Meh.
I just saw The Day After Tomorrow.
It is the worst movie ever.
I wish the wolves had shown up earlier and eaten everybody.
Here are some more half-nekked mens, UK edition:
James Blake, tennis player, Harvard dropout, USA/UK. Yeah, he was raised in the States, but I think his mom is a Brit. Plus, he looks enough like the other Brit I was considering, one Stan Collymore, without all the sex-in-public and celebrity-girlfriend-slapping scandal. No, I don't have a type at all.
How'd he get in here? I blame Keidra.
Well, look who it is! No, not Pink. Fergahdsakes. It's Eddie! Eddie Izzard! You see? You see what happens when you don't exercise your right to vote? You get stuck with somebody else's idea of a good time.
About this whole Beefcake Week thing.
It is much harder to find suitable international beefcake shots than I thought. I mean, South Asia is totally a wash, since the promo poses the actors and models do are more cheesecake than beefcake.
I am taking suggestions. Nominate your beefcake from any of the following regions:
Africa
South Asia
Europe East
Europe West
Mediterranean
Middle East/North Africa
North America (is so taken already. Like I'd allow anyone other than Vin and Dwayne. Ha.)
South America
Caribbean
You don't have to include links. Just names and occupations. I'll track down the images myself.
In the meantime, to tide you over:
From some website called Celebrity-Exchange.com, which tries to trick you into installing shitty software "upgrades" which are very likely shitty trojans that are stealing data as you peek.
Beefcake Week
From now until next Thursday when I leave for Chicago: international beefcake.
Mmmmm. Beefcake. Our first two entries are Won Bin (above), an actor from South Korea I spotted while perusing the Sunday NYT, and Leslie Kwok, a Singaporean (but I thought Kwok was a Korean surname? Singaporean national, ethnic Korean, perhaps) swimmer/model I spotted while looking for Won Bin.
In other non-news, I haven't scrapped my trainer. I should have, I know, but he's offered me a really good rate for additional sessions, has pretty much exactly the attitude I need to work with (when he shows up,LOL), and--this part is key--in the two weeks I've worked with him, I've lost seven pounds. So...he stays. Shit, if you're in the NYC area and want I trainer, I'd be happy to pass his info along. Drop me a line.
Happy Thursday.
Hits
Hey, I just crossed the 9,000th visitor mark via Blogpatrol.
(I crossed it a long time ago via Sitemeter, but I couldn't ban my own damn IP with that one, so it hardly counts).
I wonder if I can get to 10,000 by Chicago. How can I get a thousand visitors in a week?
Guess I could start posting shots of my bare breasts, along with various beers.
Or...not.
Maybe it's time for another girlie quiz!
Or maybe the next week should be all beefcake, all the time!
Suggestions?
