That I formulate these marvey ideas when I’m away from this face-color-sucking screen.
The places I often come up with these brilliantly conceived mind candies are:
1. On Test Drives
2. When my hands are immersed in soapy water
3. While Driving
Why don’t I get a voice-activated dictaphone implanted in my shoulder? Good question. My answer: I am not Bill Gates.
And Speaking of Bill Gates–I am most-aggravated that none of my particularly acerbic political rants have wound up here. They always seem to get wasted on my dad. Not that my dad’s a waste. It’s just, well, my dad is not the whole world wide web. He’s just this one guy who always tells me “[I’m] tough” when I start to follow the logic of my politics of choice (libertarianism) to its nether regions. Being a libertarian is distressing and frustrating in today’s political schema because it’d be like what happened if we got Hillary all dressed up in R. Limbaugh’s suit and made him wear her panties.
I had this lovely little sauna-of-mind the other day about Marcy Playground. You remember them, right? That weirdo band from the early 90s that had their little pagan/wiccan/fantasy-readers’/trendily-retro songs. I mean, that’s some complicated music! It’s a little self-indulgent and overdone in spots. I think it came up at the wrong time. I mean, Radiohead hadn’t reached its peak of pop-saturation yet, and I bet MP got accused of riding band wagons (man-oh! I’m a pun-ishing machine).
So I was sort of involved in one of those cult-like events of football fandom recently. As you probably know, Cathy Day is publishing this book Comeback Season, and not that I’ve been actively setting out to get into football or something, but I guess the notion that it might be kind of cool to be a girl who likes football seems a bit less offensive to me in my old age. I mean, I am softening. My ideals are getting all squiggley around the edges. Anyway. So I went to this restaurant with some of my colleagues who were watching the big Green Bay and Seattle game on Saturday night. And I wore green. On purpose. Because they were rooting for Greenbay. ?! I know. Who’s eaten my sense of self respect and irony? Is this what happens to a gal who finds herself in a part of the country that baffles her? Am I so bored? Am I so desperate for peers?
Anyway, Cathy’s MySpace made me remember the only good joke I’ve ever heard this blockhead I work with tell:
Q: Whats the difference between a BMW and a Porcupine?
A: With a Porcupine, the Prick’s on the outside.
So I’m going to be updating my little linkeys over yonder. ——->
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