Go see Air Guitar Nation

Gabby and I were debating whether we could sacrifice a lovely night to sit in the theater and watch pretentious nerds do pseudo-rock outs, but it was totally worth it.

"This private email from the Air Guitar Nation guy is certainly rallying my spirits…"

"Wow he definitely sounds like kind of an ego-obsessed prick. Good thing I have boners for ego obsessed pricks. I kind of wanna go. Screw nice weather."

"Okay, so we’ll go to this movie tonight, and then, immediately afterwards, sign ourselves up for some kind of rehab-style treatment program that will teach us to stop finding ego-obsessed pricks attractive. Just like Britney! Deal?"


We have yet to sign up.

I'm totally going to Peru this summer.

I've been growing more and more excited about it, evidence of which appeared in my dream last night. In my dream, my friend Liz (who is rollin' to Peru with me in reality), my ex Joe, and my friend Joe, were all hanging out among some ancient ruins. Liz starts speaking in Arabic telling me to pick friend Joe's nose. I start speaking in Spanish telling her to stop speaking in Arabic. In real life, Liz does not know how to say "pick his nose" in Arabic, and I don't speak more than ten words of Spanish. I woke up remembering that in my dream "Hajibi" meant "booger" in Arabic, so I've been on a wild Google quest to discover if in fact my subconscious brain speaks fluent Arabic. I've concluded that no, it probably doesn't, based on these Google results:

"Hajibi can't play soccer"
"Dangerous Hajibi Girls"
"Syrian sponsored militia known as the Hajibi."

Anyways, in the dream I think I ended up picking the hajibi out of Joe's nose and it was all a pretty low-key affair. Though I have to think there's some deeper meaning in this one, so I'm offering a Tasti Delite to whomever can interpret my dream to my satisfaction, or provide me with the contact information for a Syrian militia called "Booger."

Damn, and then the "party" was taken out of "Passo-party".

Signs I need a full time job.

Sign #1: I become crazy in the house by myself. Note this dialogue I had with my peanut butter jar this afternoon.
The scene: I'm eating forkfuls of Omega-3 enhanced peanut butter straight from the jar, kind of writing pitches, kind of reading Harper's, and I look down to see that some of the oily goo from on top has dribbled down the front of my dress leaving a cum-like gooey stain on the fabric right between my breasts.

To the Jar: "Look what you did you pervert!"

Looking in the Mirror: "Ah. Fuck."

To the Jar: "You are so getting punished for this."

Begin consuming Jar at high speeds, before realizing Jar is not animated nor can it feel its punishment.

What is Space Day?


Since its launch in 1997, the Space Day educational initiative, which takes place on the first Friday of each May, has evolved into a massive grassroots effort dedicated to the extraordinary achievements, benefits and opportunities in the exploration and use of space. The ultimate goal is to promote math, science, technology and engineering education by nurturing young peoples' enthusiasm for the wonders of the universe and inspiring them to continue the stellar work of today's space explorers.

International in scope, the award-winning program involves hundreds of thousands of teachers and millions of students throughout the United States, Canada and beyond. Space Day events have taken place in 21 countries around the globe on six continents. Thanks to widespread media, millions of people have learned about the Space Day programs since its inception. So effective is this global initiative that it has been honored with the Space Foundation's prestigious Education Achievement Award.


On the First Friday of May I hope you'll celebrate Space Day with an Ice Cream Photo Cake proudly displaying a picture of Astronaut Diaper Lady, like Perfect Ratio and Co. will be doing.

First day of Spring

Al Gore testifies and Dunkin gives out free coffee. And my coworksies and I are using the press pass to hit up the Jeff Wall exhibit at the MoMA this afternoon. Not a bad start to the season, not a bad start at all.

Weekend Update

Yesterday was definitely an equal mix of good and evil. Let us start with evil: as I was trudging home from the gym yesterday morning I had no choice but to walk behind a man shoveling the sidewalk on Flatbush. Thinking that he was aware of my presence and would avoid slamming me with his metal shovel, I skipped by lightly as he was bent over scooping. I was wrong. He brought the shovel back full force into my knee cap and I instantly started bawling like a baby for a nipple. Worse, once the apology dialogue was underway I realized that he was mentally disabled. So then of course I felt totally horrible for crying and making him feel guilty, which all ended up with me both having a busted knee and feeling guilty about it. Bleh.

DUDES, so the New York Times interviews terrorists! So unfair, right? I've been trying to get an interview there for an eeeeeeeeternity. I've put my resume through the shaker and on the rocks, with a nice wedge of good GPA lime. I've submitted my best samples, but this Shakir al-Abssi pulls some serious competition. It's so hard to know what these big league media types are looking for in an interviewee, but I think they just wet themselves over this one:

He has solid terrorist credentials. A former associate of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the leader of Al Qaeda of Mesopotamia who was killed last summer, Mr. Abssi was sentenced to death in absentia along with Mr. Zarqawi in the 2002 assassination of an American diplomat in Jordan, Laurence Foley. Just four months after arriving here from Syria, Mr. Abssi has a militia that intelligence officials estimate at 150 men and an arsenal of explosives, rockets and even an antiaircraft gun.

Dear New York Times,

I'd like to add some important accomplishments to my folder that I've undertaken since the last time I sent you my resume. In terms of terrorism, no, I haven't managed to off anyone yet, but mind you, just two days ago I mercilessly smashed a huge water beetle that attempted to destroy my religious belief in the divinity of a good shower. Also of note, this beetle was spouting sacriligeous lies about the benefits of a free market. You'll be pleased to hear that I can not only kill exoskeletal enemies, but I'm a bit of a mastermind too. Around a month ago, I took a trip to Las Vegas in order to observe the enemy swathed in all his capitalist greed. While there I entertained mild revenge fantasies, conspiring with various "family" members, about urinating on an ex's toothbrush or at least a shoe, but this mission proved too risky and had to be aborted. But I think you'll agree that the dedication is there, and that I can provide a more hilarious plot than your other interviewee, something the infidels have not yet seen: comedic terror.

The Times arranged to speak with Mr. Abssi through a series of intermediaries, who helped set up meetings in his headquarters at the Nahr al Bared refugee camp. Mr. Abssi, a soft-spoken man with salt-and-pepper hair, was interviewed in a bare room inside a small cinderblock building on the edge of a field where training was under way. About 80 men were in the compound, performing various tasks, including one who manned an antiaircraft gun. As Mr. Abssi spoke, two aides took notes, while a third fiddled with a submachine gun. A bazooka leaned against the wall behind him.

Dear New York Times,
This is not Perfect Ratio. This is her intermediary. She is very very important and any contact you hope to have with her will have to be arranged through me. My email incidentally happens to be quite similar to hers, just lose the dot between first and last name at gmail. Should you choose to undertake this very dangerous interview, send your missionaries to the 2/3 Bergen stop, where our aides will immediately intercept them, smearing their eyes, temporarily, with Bergen Bagel cream cheese while we travel to the interview locale. Once there, two guards, one watching the Discovery Channel and another fiddling with quesadillas will be present. There will be about 70 persons in the surrounding area having audible sex through the vents. We will not harm you in any way if you comply with the course of action we have outlined above. Perfect Ratio too, looks a little like George Clooney.

Many Thanks,
Hope to hear from you soon!
Have info about a newsworthy plot!
Would love to hear about any Jr. reporter gigs!

Perfect-al RAtio.

This morning, in the shower, if you can Adam and Eve it, I ran out of Bob Hope. Not really wanting to go to work with my Bristols all dirty, I borrowed some Bob Hope from my Old China. It felt nice to get a good clean in, after my J. Arthur session last night.

Amaze.

Lamazing: a new abbrevs

Lamazing, adjective; referring to something that is totes lame yet totes amazing in it's lameness. Also "Lamaze", when one does not have time for the extra "ing", but, you know, that could get confusing.

Derivation: This link, sent by Gabby, of lamazing merchandise.

Regarding the "lamazing" similarity to the Lamaze birthing technique, Gabby makes sense of the relation: “Lamazing” kind of looks like it might be pronounced “Lamaze-ing”. Which is probably what you’d start doing if some dude came up to you with some kind of nylon tattoo blouse on.

I heart NYC

I'm prone to random bursts of affection from time to time, usually reserved for small puppies and pastry items, sometimes for people, but not often for locales. But this weekend I could not get enough of New York. A simple list of reasons (sadly, most of which are food related) why:

1.) Baby Dayliner @ the Mercury Lounge Friday night. So good. So earnest. So dance-y. So fun. I'm forever indebted to Jon for introducing me to such a gem. Also B.D.'s music video features Adrien Grenier. Mmmm.

2.) Lombardi's pizza.

3.) Park Slope brunches on sunny, happy days.

4.) Ice cream picture cakes and the fine bakeries that will do X-rated ice cream picture cakes.

5.) This interaction this morning:
Guy makes a writing motion to me.
Take off headphones, "Do you need a pen?"
"Can I get your number?"
"No, sorry. I'm dating someone."
"You're pretty."
"Thanks."
"I'm Eddie."
"Lauren."
"Can I get your number?"
"um No."
"Fuck you bitch."

6.) Magnolia cupcakes. For dinner.

Meta Sloth

Is it wrong that I have a brobdingnagian boner for this kid?

The Umbrella Sequence

Putting on my iPod for the morning commute makes me homesick for Minnesota. I don't know what it is about the Twin Cities-- the lakes, the wild rice, the Scandinavian heritage-- but something about Minneapolis/ St. Paul breeds the best local music scene of any city I've ever lived in, including, ahem, New York. My current homestate favorite (besides the ever-present deity that is Lifter Puller) is a band called The Umbrella Sequence. The sound is heavy on keys, quite dreamy, a little pubescent Radiohead-esque. Actually it sounds like being buried in snow, in the best way possible-- maybe that's the Minnesota connection.

An email regurgitation, because I'm too tired to write

Are you back? How was Vegas? Was your sister able to fly with her poop?

miss you,
Sarah

omg, I'm so back. I just got in off the red-eye at 7am. I am a zombie! I want to eat your pretty brain!

Vegas was so hilarious! And I never want to go there again! It was kind of tragic, we stayed in the Venetian and all the Gondaleers paddling people through the canal in the fake Venice mall had degrees from Juilliard School of Music or Yale School of Drama. I wanted to cradle them and tell them to try New York just one last time.

Supposedly there's a class at NYU that posits that Vegas is the "realest" place in the world because it's so hyper-aware of it's own falsity (I'm totally making the jacking off motion as I type that, barf.) BUT it is kind of true...I mean The Mirage is a Mirage! I just don't think I like reality that much.

Good news is I'm up 20 bucks! I can retire for one hour's worth of work.

My sister's poop was so real.

How was your poop? How was your weekend? Gaga loves you more than you will ever know, but I heart you more.

xoxoxo
Gamblecunt.

Also sorry about the exclamation marks, I get too excited on no sleep.