Clink clank STAB

Ok so we’ve established my unhappy existence as a very light sleeper/sometime insomniac. This we know. I’m fully aware of the trade-off I’ve made between living in the deliciously dark, quiet country and living in the big city with all its awesomeness, in addition to noise and bright lights. The garbage trucks, the street lamps, the late night carousers; I’ve bitched and moaned about them until the cows came home. Well, until they were supposed to come home; they’re probably smoking outside a bar disturbing the peace of some other poor bastard on the LES.

For some reason, since the new year began, the insomnia has pretty mcuh seized complete control of my nights. I lay in bed, deliriously tired. At some point in the middle of the night I fall asleep. I have vivid, mentally exhausting dreams. I wake up to some noise or another early in the morning, usually around 7. Except on Thursdays. On Thursdays, of late, I’ve been waking up to the clinkity clank of glass bottles being harvested at 5-5:30 am. Or so the sound would lead me to believe. Imagine reaching into a refrigerator to grab a few brewskis. The glass kind that have nice long necks. You’re grabbing a few for friends, so you curl your fingers around the necks of two or three. The glass bottles clink together in a very distinct way. Now imagine doing that over and over for about twenty minutes. This is my Thursday morning life. This morning, I was quite close to tears. I was closer still to getting dressed, going outside, and stabbing whoever is doing the bottle harvesting, with a butter knife. Next week, I will get dressed, go downstairs, and tell them I will call the police if I ever hear clinking glass bottles at 5:30 am ever again. EVER AGAIN. Unless it’s my super, in which case, no prob, carry on Angelo!

Going postal, straight up with a twist

The Online Etymology Dictionary has this to say regarding the phrase "going postal":

Online Etymology Dictionary - Cite This Source - Share This
postal

"pertaining to the mail system," 1843, on model of Fr. postale (1836), from post (3). Noun meaning "state of irrational and violent anger" (usually in phrase going postal) attested by 1997, in ref. to a cluster of news-making workplace shootings in U.S. by what were commonly described as "disgruntled postal workers" (the cliche itself, though not the phrase, goes back to at least 1994).

Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2001 Douglas Harper

I propose a slightly different interpretation, one dedicated to disgruntled postal customers rather than employees. The ones who, for example, stood in a long line to pick up a package, waiting patiently, ok that's a lie, waiting impatiently while the ONE postal worker poked around in the back trying to figure out someones package mix-up (shocking). The ones who, when they FINALLY get to the front of the line because FINALLY some other postal worker came over to help, are told, "Sorry, can't find your package. Are you sure you didn't already pick it up?" Pretty sure, yup. "Have you come in recently to pick up a package?" Is that a trick question? No, I haven't. "You haven't already picked this package up?" Ok let me think about that again. Had I already picked it up, I wouldn't be at the post office now, and don't you guys takes these little mail notices when the packages are picked up? Uh, yeah. So like I said, you have the package. "Ok we have to ask your mail carrier. We'll call you." That sounds like the kiss of death. We'll call you. As in "Don't call us, we'll call you." What is this mysterious package?? Who sent it to me? What does it contain? I wasn't expecting anything, and now I'm dying to know what it is I stood in line thirty minutes for, and then another twenty while they "looked" for it.

They seem to have it pretty cush, these postal workers. They go about their business nice and slowwww, they don't care if there's a line a mile long, they're going on break when they damn well please! It's we, the poor customers, who are angry. We deserve vengeance!

Fortune Telling Chocolates Keepin' it Real

When I woke up this morning my alarm clock said 9:26. Taking into account the 10 minute pad I stick on, as if it will make any difference, I was supposed to be at work 16 minutes before I woke up. I may have continued to snooze longer still, if not for the disturbing dream I was having. I'm just gonna come right out and say it because there's no way to prepare you for it: I was dreaming that I was Britney Spears, and I was in bed with K-Fed. Now, it's not as racy as it sounds. "Bed" is not code for "sex". It really was just bed. The dream felt soooo loooong, and it was all about the sordid demise of Britney and Kevin's "relationship". What was happening at the very end is that Kevin was fake trying to seduce Britney, (fake because he doesn't love her and he knows it and she knows it and he knows she knows and she knows he knows she knows) and Britney is all, whatever. He's all feeling up on her leg and she (I) don't even care. But she keeps laying there in bed.

I don't think I started the dream as Britney. I think in the beginning I was the observer, as I most often am in dreams. But then my perspective shifted. But really, it just made me think of my parents' relationship. How annoying my father thought my mother was, probably married her for citizenship, my mother really being quite annoying, but my father also being a bit of a prick. Just like Britney and Kevin!

So on my lunch break I got this one little piece of chocolate, that thing that comes in a silver wrapper and has a hazelnut on top and a fortune in the wrapper. Like a fortune cookie, but much more delicious and in four languages. Mine said something along the lines of "Last night you dreamed about love, but then morning came and you woke up." I laughed and laughed! Those fortunes are so smart!

Jane Fonda=My Hero

Fonda Drops the C-Word on Today



Like, whoa!

And just about a month ago, Diane Keaton Drops the F-Bomb on Good Morning America

A Very Special Valentine Serenade

When I think romantic serenade, I think Flight of the Conchords. I have a feeling I'm not alone. Ladies? Gents?



I know it's "old news", but as you may have realized, I have a tendency to jump on the bandwagon after the bandwagon has already been completely deconstructed and its parts sent off for scrap. So enjoy it again, dammit!

Vigo's Taken Over

There's this rage thing going on in New York right now. Well maybe everywhere, but New York is all I can see; out my window and on the news. This violent, physical rage perpetrated on one human being by another, for what probably amounts to be no real reason whatsoever. I mean, it's New York, New Yorkers are famous for being mean right? But this feels like more. Like there's something in the water making it happen. Perhaps evil slime flowing underground, a la Ghostbusters 2? Maybe it's been like this all along and I just never noticed, or it was never around me on the formerly quiet streets south of Delancey. Just now, tonight, outside my window, I heard yelling. It didn't escalate into a fight within my line of vision, but that fight in midtown last weekend that was on the news tonight sure did escalate. The one that someone recorded from their hotel room. The one where a bunch of guys beat another one who was on the ground, and then got into a white Escalade and ran someone over. With an Escalade. The fight that had apparently been going on for a while before the recording started, and where were the police? And where were the police that night that I was apartment sitting in Little Italy and heard a fight outside, and looked to see a very similar incident to the midtown one, right before my eyes. Screaming women in the background while a bunch of guys kicked a guy on the ground. It seemed like it went on forever, and the police that I called didn't arrive until long after the beaters and their women had driven off in their white SUV limo. Maybe it's something about being in enormous white SUVs?

So here's what we need to do: we need to infuse the Statue of Liberty with good slime, and good music, so she can bring goodwill and compassion back to the city, as we seem to be desperately lacking.

Jesus-is-savior.com

Looks like I'm goin' to hell in a handbasket.

Rock Music: Straight From the pits of Hell!

Anti Peter Pan Syndrome

2008 is turning out to be a very interesting year indeed. A seminal one, it seems, in the life of Cars. It's almost as if an outside force is acting on me to squeeze out every last drop of Never Never land. Literally, like a physical force. I just got this wild hair up my ass to like, grow up and like, do stuff. Grown up stuff. Like get a Master's degree. And register to vote. And maybe get a job that's slightly more challenging and fulfilling. And possibly stop dating emotionally unavailable lads.

A few weeks ago my lip ejected my lip ring. Ejected! Like "Get out of here, ring, you are unwanted!" I've had it for eight years! Gone now. And guess what's next? The tongue bar. Obtained at the ripe, young, immature age of fifteen, before I'd even Frenched a boy (long before, in fact). A few weeks ago one of my teeth started to hurt, the one that tends to bear the brunt of the force when I gnaw on the barbell. I didn't really make the connection, I sort of just thought it might be a cavity from all the delicious cupcakes and cookies, I guess it was a denial thing. But my dentist, she's got no reason to deny nothin'. Take it out for a couple of weeks, she said today. See how your tooth feels. And maybe...keep it out. Keep it out. If my tongue hole (man that sounds gross) closes as fast as my lip hole did then I won't really have an option. And then I'll be all growed up.