Friday, June 22, 2007

Head Up The Ass & Away

Oops. I didn't write anything yesterday! What will the Yagfijhi Tribe of Outer Greentopula do without my nonsense to fete their prophecies? Too late! They've all returned en masse to Tony Danza.

When we last left out this discussion, we were discussing how digusting it is that, the older people get, the shallower they become. But then the Grey Goose said, "Are we only talking about people who talk about rock & roll as if it's a way of life?" "No, no," said Jonathan Swift, trying valiantly to pass a kidney stone. "Shallowness," he continued, "is as common as pimples on the butt of existence." The audience cheered. I managed to ask the prestigious panel, "Well, can we choose not to be shallow?" There was hearty laughter all around.

"You can no more choose how shallow you are," said the dish who ran away with the spoon, "than you can pick the consistency of the viscous membrane that coats all of those inner tissues which are regularly exposed to outside sources." "That's a lie!" said Emmy-award-winning actress Desiree Fluke. "I am the product of the sum of all my parts." "All your parties," former Soviet Ambassador Ted Danson quipped, to a smattering of titterings in the solarium.

In spirited philosophical discussions such as these, it's not uncommon for commoners to feel they need to inject some common sense. "Come on," said Peasant Hobo, "you're acting like people understand what the fuck they think. They don't. They're stupid, they're shallow. Especially if they pretend that some art form defines them like a religion or an ethnic group. Also, panties are gross. Why can't women wear boxer shorts like men? & don't get me stared on thongs. How can a dude who has to wear cast off clothing enjoy his day in a thong? Anyway, I want to ask you all as I wander around the room if you can spare a dollar for a man who's really hungry & who lost his virginity for his country."

The evening got late, but since it was the longest day of the year, no one noticed. Everyone thought we were in some fucked-up Northern English city like Newcastle or the Bronx, where the sun doesn't so much as set in the summer as lie low. Presently the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse went on a beer run & three drama critics drank WD-40 & convulsed quietly to themselves on the bathroom floor. Bob Dylan came to the door & he was beat up. Time ceased to feel timely. A discussion about the properties of sleepy metals seemed about to wake up the room, but then the concierge brought us all chocolates & ginger ale & we knew it was nearing the end.

Your homework assignment today is to tune in to a radio show online (might I request at 4:30pm today central standard time) & regurgitate its highlights in a blue book on Monday. Ta!

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Whither Quitting?

Fuck. I thought that said "whither quilting?" I had material about perse quilts & medallion quilts & story quilts & paper quilts. I even had a joke about saying "I had material" in reference to quilts. I even fucking MADE A QUILT in Photoshop to post to the blog. But it turns out my show this week is about quitting. What jerk wants to do a show about that? Not me. I quit.

I mean, I quilt. I am a quilter of the highest caliber. Do you want to know how good a quilter I am? Well, do you know the meaning of these words?

feebrut extension
rulling the inside weadet
moscle round

No? Then you're not a quilter of the highest caliber. That's because they ONLY use words like these when you are of a high enough caliber of quilter to learn what these words mean. & these words are kept more secret than L Ron Hubbard's frozen brain - you won't find them in any dictionary. No. I am being a total jerk & breaking all the Quilt Club rules (the first two rules of Quilt Club, etc.) just to make a point. Sometimes when you're thinking about kenfoiling the feebrut extension, it behooves you the rull the inside weadlet postrelately instead of hunfitching the moscle round - or the moscle sidearm for that matter (that's a quilter joke). & that's why I feel comfortable telling you.

Oh yes, these quilting terms are REAL. Just because you don't quilt doesn't mean that I made them up. & also, these terms have NOTHING IN COMMON with the weird dolphin-sounds that needepoint people make when they hang out together. That's not a real language. They're just making noise. Those people are freaks.

Maybe one day I'll do a show about quilting, but I guess I need to read the memos more closely. Luckily, I understand too well that the theme next week will be Indonesian Pots, A To Z. A snap!

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Preface To Quitting: Are You Hiring?

Holy mother of skank! I don't think I'm quitting Self Help Radio this week, nor is Self Help Radio quitting me. Indeed, I am committed to the radio show until they pry it from my cold, sweaty hands. Note: you don't have to kill me to get my show! But my hands are sweaty!

How many things have you quit? I've quit smoking. I quit eating meat longer than half my life ago. I've quit pretending that you love me. I have quit a couple of jobs, but I didn't quit school - I actually finished it. I haven't quit life, though it seems to me that life has quit me. I haven't quit using square quotes around words like "square quotes." I haven't quit using lots of exclamation points although this makes me seem like a ten-year-old girl!!!!!! Have I quit using question marks. Does anyone know if I've quit using quotation marks. I have quit eating at fast food restaurants, thanks to the visceral unhappiness of Super Size Me, as well as the book (but NOT the movie) Fast Food Nation. I have quit believing in being in love, though I haven't quit loving. I haven't quit pretending, in the moments I go to sleep, that I am living in a superhero world that I invited when I was ten. I haven't quit helplessly seeking happiness.

I know that in time am going to quit my job, my city, my life, even my radio station, at some point. But I won't be quitting this blog today. Maybe tomorrow. But tomorrow I may quit talking about my radio show on this blog. & I won't be doing it because I am a quitter. It's not because I can't quit being ironical. But it is because I just like quitting things. Although I miss cigarettes. Agh!

Don't you quit me, though. I needs ya.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Apple Juice All Day

I'd like to dedicate this song to my two oldest friends from 15th grade, Pork Rib & Spanky. I have no idea where they are today, but if I google their names, I get a barbecue joint in New York, so who knows? They might be sandwiches now.

I'd also like to dedicate this song to the Wall Street Journal Editorial Board. It takes a lot of money & a certain kind of ballsy stupidity to consistently stand for & promote the wrongest possible things day in & day out, but you do it. I love you guys.

If it's not too much, I'd also like to dedicate this to people with teeth. Recent studies in our species' continuing evolution have explained that, as we eat more mushy food, teeth are no longer going to be selected for. That explains why so many American children are being born without them. Well, that's cool, but for those of us who still have teeth - this is for you.

Before I start, I should say that this song was inspired by the recent immigrant debate in this country & also season 5 of "Friends." Both are eminently thought-provoking, though only one is hilarious. I confess I was huffing lots of decaf roast around the time I wrote this, so if the song smells funny, you'll know why.

I promise, I'm not one of those prima donna artists who needs a Shasta enema & Malayasian snickerdoodles on my rider, but I would ask please the front two rows, can you guys make sure that you don't clip your finger- or toenails during the performance? I know, Peter Gabriel has the same hang-up, but he does have a particularly nasty hunk of dead human stuff stuck under his foreskin, so it's not quite the same. Just try to remember to clip & trim at home. It keeps everyone happy.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. This short number got me my country club membership as well as three free passes to The Gay Conspiracy: The Movie. I sing it like a tennis star, from my diaphragm, or like an architect, from a diagram. Here goes. One, two, three, four...


Thank you. Well, I told you it was short!