Monday, December 31, 2007
so it's new year's eve. there's my perfunctory nod to all the hoo haa i should be feeling on this glorious new year's eve. i mean, the weather's gorgeous today (near 50), the sun is shining, and my view of manhattan is utterly gorgeous. but it's no better than the great day that was yesterday, or the day before that.
ok, i know tonight is the last day of 2007, but unless your year was riddled with iniquity, addiction, or chemotherapy, i don't see why passing into the next year should be heralded with such acclaim. and i'm done with that.
now, the real topic of today's convo is the slew of nature shows we all of high intellect find ourselves drawn to on uneventful weekend afternoons that don't involve a trip to the beach. they're really terrific, actually. just think of the wide range of content; one show will be solely based on the huge range of insects that inhabit the jungle's floors, while the next hour encompasses the vast array of rodents that live on the arctic tundra. some are heartwarming, such as the birth and post-natal nurture of kangaroos and other marsupials, while others are downright horrifying, like when an entire pack of ravenous lions attack a single, formidable elephant.
but what really ruins it for me is, after spending an entire hour marveling at the unseen world of what lies three meters below the brazilian rainforest canopy, that little hidden public service message rears its fugly head. sigourney weaver's voice happily trails around the cute capuchins playfully romping in the trees, then suddenly drops to a solemner note, saying, "but we mustn't forget about the endangered capuchin's main enemy--man," and as she says, "man," the screen abruptly changes to a screaming monkey, all bloodied up as its fur is brutally torn off its still-living body. or perhaps a two-hour feature on the majestic whales of the deep, entrancing visions of the gargantuan creatures weightlessly flying around the water, and just as you're about to nod off for a reflective nap, the harsh reality sets in and chunks of whale blubber and mustached russian men in chunky skullcaps now dominate your screen, while poor james earl jones narrator man struggles to keep his shit from crying.
is this absolutely, crucially necessary? i mean, we all know the planet is in a pretty shitty position. it's no secret, and yet our generation, and those younger than us aren't doing a damn thing to help. my 18 year-old brother, who should be at the apex of environmental awareness, continues to ignorantly throw plastic bottles out of his car window, as if the very roads he drives on publicly serve as his own personal trash receptacles.
we watch these nature shows to observe the beauty of unbridled nature. why must they be tainted by such poison at the end? even though it's reality, i think these clandestine public service announcements should be presented as such, and perhaps at the tail end of commercials. after watching a presentation on the albino wolves of northern sweden, and upon hearing about how deforestation threatens their habitat, nobody's going to rush off their couches to buy thousands of acres of swedish forest in the hopes of opening a wildlife preserve. it's bad enough we have to see the harsh reality of one animal savagely devouring another. to cringe like we're in the amusement park funhouse and waiting for the chainsaw people to pop out, in that constant state of tension, just anticipating that horrible little message at the end, is no way to watch the discovery channel.
i'm out, kids. see ya next year.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
so here goes yet another grievance with yet another traditional Christmas carol. the old classic "mistletoe and holly," that goes, "oh, by gosh, by golly--it's time for mistletoe and holly..." and then the line of question hits, "...tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, countrysides covered with snow--" wait a minute. who eats PHEASANT for Christmas? maybe at one time it was the norm for those backwater people who also happen to consider rats a hard-to-catch delicacy, but not even ina makes pheasant. and if paula deen stays away from it, you know it's not normal.
so stay away from pheasants and weird Christmas songs.
and p.s. it wouldn't kill you to post a commment or two.
Monday, December 17, 2007
so like most people this time of season, i was listening to Christmas music on the way to work (not weird, i swear--i peep at ipod screens all the time and even superficial bitches in louboutins are humming to nat king cole) because it puts me in the mood and drowns out such subway adversities as old people, fat people and horrid little children. anywho,that classic andy williams song, "the most wonderful time of year" came up, and everything was sing-songy normal until a certain lyric caught my attention as being severely out of context. it goes, "...there'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago..."
hmmm. last time i checked, ghost stories were reserved for halloween which, incidentally, is MY most wonderful time of the year, but i digress. WHO tells ghost stories on Christmas?! maybe pagan people and witches of all sorts, but they don't celebrate Christmas in the first place, which clearly makes the answer: NOBODY!
i've been called morbid in my time, and i do wear a lot of black, but i've never in my life told a ghost story on Christmas. not even the ouija board's come out. i don't even think of dead people and their potential earthly manifestations (aka ghosts) on Christmas. this is a problem, people--a real problem. it's one of those overlooked anomalies (kind of like alanis morissette's 'ironic,' where her use of the word was grossly inaccurate, but the fact that it sounded good and clicked off the tongue in three syllables somehow made it work).
i highly encourage ya'll to raise ruckii about this every time ya'll hear this song--there's no way to stop it completely--it's about ingrained into american culture as trans fats, but we can raise awareness and sound a bit more intelligent upon doing so.
and for heaven's sake, don't go telling any ghost stories this Christmas.
Friday, December 14, 2007
ok what the f happened to the good old snowstorms so special to new england for so many years? the pillowy, soft snow that yes, eventually turns to a toxic slush all over the streets, but the fall of which evokes images of snowmen and norman rockwell?
now all we have in disgusting new york is disgusting, kind-of-frozen sleet-ish rain, that's cold as a bastard. and what really gets me is that when the weekly call from the parental units came through today, they were enjoying the very aforementioned joie de blanche, despite the fact that they're just over three hours away.
has new york suddenly become a sub-tropical region? and i don't want to hear a friggin word about global warming, please. that's all i hear anymore--people blame everything on global warming. "oh, the summer was unusually hot because of global warming!" as they toss cigarette butts on the ground (you know, 'legal littering') and cease to recycle their four-bottle-a-day poland spring habit.
listen up, people--while global warming is this impending matter that will, undoubtedly, melt glaciers and affect one or more of us on some magnanimous scale some day, it happens a heck of a lot slower than that. a degree or two a year, as a matter of fact, so if the third week of august just happened to be twenty degrees over the average, global warming is not to blame.
yet that doesn't help my weath dilemma, does it? why can't nyc just get one sonofabitch of a snowstorm that cripples the mta, thus preventing us civilians from commuting to work, leaving us with a full day of lifetime and luscious take-out?
instead we're stuck with this bipolar, ambivalent cloud shit that doesn't help anybody. subways run on sched (albeit filthier than normal), uggs get dirty, and tourists wear that perplexed look of, "why on earth should it rain while i'm in new york city?" like it's some climate-controlled amusement park.
ooh i'm in a rottenous mood today. that could be, in part, due to the snot faucet that's set up camp on my face and clogs my nosering. or maybe it's the hangover headache i've been nursing since 8 a.m. either way, my sleeping pills are kicking in and this boy is turning in early tonight.
p.s. i'm in SPIN mag this month, page 108, so check it out, biiiiitcheeeees!
i'm out ;-)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
hmmm, nothing grinds my gears more than when people say annoying things in a serious manner that implies they don't have an alternative way of stating that very thought.
for instance, where i come from in pennsylvania (for more info on that lovely vernacular, please refer to the past entry entitled 'she don't talk right'), a certain medical condition known as diabetes to the rest of the world is referred to as 'the sugar.' so it's not uncommon to hear one sauntering through the mall, discussing with their feathered-hair companion what a tragedy that wound that won't heal on carol's leg is. and then, like clockwork, it'll be supplemented with, "well, you know she has the sugar."
now, correct me if i'm wrong, but even if you're an avid user of the many sorts of artificial sweeteners; even if the potential carcinogenic side effects of saccharin doesn't scare you enough to completely dissuade you from using nutrasweet; even if the lack of research on the long-term effects of splenda consumption doesn't keep you up at night; even if you live and breathe and have made it your life's mission to extol the virtues of artificial sweeteners, you do, in some capacity, 'have' the sugar. you can't bake without it. not that i'm an avid baker, by any means (i'm not even a sometimes baker), but even in my cupboards, somewhere behind the jungle of high-fiber wasa, whole-husk quinoa, and organic wheatgrass bars, there exists that noteworthy yellow box of domino sugar. even i have the sugar.
diabetes is a horrible thing (even though patti labelle has taught us that the revolutionary one-touch can, indeed, change everything) so let's not equate it, and inevitably create a synonymous relationship with something so crystalline, so precious, so sweet.
next up--that damn phrase "she's expecting." a fat girl walks into a room. the second thing you notice (the first, obviously, being that she was fat--we are, after all, human) is that she's only fat from her boobs to her pelvis because of a certain large-scale lump subsisting on her midsection. you conclude she's pregnant. great. just what this world needs--another damn kid to run around, spread germs, cost money, get sick, ruin shoes, piss me off, clog up human traffic patterns in the subway, and cry for no reason. but i digress.
the girl is pregnant, and when her gaze meets that of the ladies' coffee clutch sitting in the corner, they begin to whisper to one another, "oh she's expecting!"
well, yeah. we're ALL expecting something. i'm expecting. you're expecting. everybody on this earth is expecting. some expect money. some expect retribution. some expect sex. some expect a bowel movement. if one were to look up the infinitive 'to expect' in the dictionary, one would be met with a definition along the lines of "to assiduously await the planned arrival of something; usually the effect of a certain cause put forth by the individual." (i should so work at a dictionary. i could rap to my coworkers "i'm a bitchin' lexicog...like a prince that's a frog..." well, anyway).
so i've just established that we're all expecting something in particular, making it so that we're all expecting. so you damn pregnant ladies who steal our seats on the subway need to think of a better way of describing your current 'situations.' i recommend starting with knocked up. it's always been one of my faves.
i'm out, bitches!