It was pointed out to me today that I write a lot about what pisses me off and angers me and what I vehemently dislike and that I rarely point out what it is I'm fighting for. My sense was to respond that I'm not fighting for anything, and that I find it odd that I need to italicize the word for, as if people wouldn't get the impression from the sentence itself...I mean, what's wrong with you people? See. There I go again. Anyway. While it's true I do find the world riddled with fucktards (and that I, too, am likely a fucktard), I don't want everyone to think I'm a total anti-hero. So, as of late, this is what I like:
Mint Mocha Chip Frappacinos and stealing the NY Times from Starbucks.
Battlestar Galactica, people who like Battlestar Galactica, and the fucktards trying to revive the original (from the bottom of my heart, I demand to see Noah Hathaway returned to prime time).
That every time I visit Elizabeth Crane's blog, I think, "You know, one day I have to email her and tell her that I think she has a strong resemblance to Dave Pirner, the lead singer of Soul Asylum."
That my friend Kristin, who was my editor at a terrible publishing house that rooked us all, and then my boss at UCLA, is going off to law school in Minnesota this week to become a lawyer so she can fight for the rights of the little man, provided the little man works in publishing and needs a lawyer. (I'm thinking that by the time she's passed the bar, I'll have received at least one cease and desist order from Parade Magazine and will need her guidance.)
Jose Canseco on the Surreal Life. I hate Jose Canseco with an unholy passion and am enjoying the sight of him playing second fiddle to Balkie on the freak-o-meter. (And I also like that man in drag Omarosa -- he almost looks like a woman!)
There's a guy who lives across the street from me and every time I see him I try to say something odd. It's a weird thing, I know, but I find him vastly annoying for wearing sansabelt pants with a belt, and for the weird way he walks to the mailbox and then slowly opens all of his mail in the street while running the gamut of emotions, alternately shaking his head, smiling, grimacing, nodding, tapping on the letter as if waiting for an elevator. You get the idea. Today, we had the most glorious conversation in the street:
Him: Sure is hot.
Me: Not as hot as some places.
Him: It must be 116 today.
Me: 116 isn't so bad when you've got your freedom and aren't caged up like an animal. Believe that.
Him: Well you have a nice day.
Me: Every day on the outside is nice, right.
Him: (walking away, pretending to read his mail)
I walk inside and encounter Wendy.
Wendy: Were you just talking to the neighbor?
Wendy: What did you say to him?
Me: I intimated that I'd done a little time.
Wendy: You're an idiot.