My Beefs with Fruits and Vegetables.

First up: Cauliflower.

I think this is the most worthless vegetable ever grown. My research leads me to conclude that it was created in a lab by suburban mothers hired by Kraft Cheese to invent a "healthy" conveyance for cheese sauce. And white veggies--unhealthy anyway--always seem to require further unhealthy accoutriments to become tastey (see cauliflower's pal, Potato, for reference). Who munches on raw cauliflower? Future serial killers, that's who.

>But what about the water chestnut, Lexi? It is white, and I have never seen one fried or buttered.

>>Fuck the water chestnut. Those things have been ruining salads and green beans for far too long.

Next up: The pink tomato.

Listen up restauranteers: if it ain't red, it's not a real tomato. Perhaps that crap flies in New Jersey, but goddamn, we live in California; can't we grow a decent fucking tomato? I went out to dinner last night and was served up some pink, pithy rounds masquerading as my beloved tomato. Anatomically, I suppose they were correct enough, but their sad, pale faces told me the truth. Would you serve me pink ketchup? Or pink spaghetti sauce? Nope. Because you all acknowledge that, in theory at LEAST, tomatoes were meant to be red. That's why we have a crayon called "tomato red"...not "tomato pink".

Stop trying to fool me!

Lastly: Iceburg lettuce.

I just don't get it. Would't it be easier to just chew your water?

>But Lexi, why are you ranting about fruits and vegetables? Don't you have anything better to do?

>>Yeah, I have 40 exams and 40 10-page papers about the theory of law to grade. Makes sense, now, no?

I Should Have Known Better

My friend set me up on a blind date last night. My friend has a big, wonderful heart, but his thoughts just aren't running on all cylinders. He is one of my artsy friends. And I value him, but I am frequently frustrated when he misuses words, or makes statements such as "British actors just seem to be deeper, you know, more intelligent." (Except when they lose the accent for an "American" part, right?)


So, I should have known better when he tried to set me up on a blind date: "AH, I've got the perfect person for you! I just know you two are going to click. I'm sorry I'm pushing this so hard, but when I know two people that are just so...so perfect for each other, I just want to make it happen."

Date came over.

Scrabble board came out (I'm still poor).

Words my date tried to use on said board:

totel (total)
nosel (nozzle)
tech
diggin

and for the grande finale, three-fourths into the game, he tried to put three tiles at the top of the board, unconnected to any other word, and actually started to count up his points.

I was finally successful in wrapping up the game and politely sending him away, and immediately called my friend:

Me: "Why in the hell would you think that we would be perfect for each other??? That was painful!"

Friend: "Well, you both like jazz music a lot."

Me: "Really? That's it? That was this mysterious connection which destined us to be together forever and ever? He liked jazz???"

Okay, so I wasn't that rude to Friend...I mean, he tried to do a good thing. But the experience served to reinforce that with each friend I have, I emphasize one or two interests/characterstics, etc. I emphasize music with Friend, because he's no brain-child, but we do have similar musical tastes. And we have fun getting drunk together. So there, music and beer. I'm sure he saw his friend and thought, "Hey, HE likes music and beer! I gotta get these two kids together!!!"

totely.

my deep thought for the day

I have a cold, and it occurred to me, the amount of sex in my voice is inversely proportional to the amount of sex in my pants.

just thought I'd share.

Snippets from the Train

I don't have the coherence to structure these snippets--or remember all of the very funny comments--overheard during my 60 hours on Amtrak this holiday, so take this as a smaller, less entertaining, one-time installement of Overheard in New York, but On the Train:

**Welcome to the Train**

Conductor: "...We will be training for the next 3 hours until our next stop in Santa Barbara."

9 year old kid: "We're training!!! We have to SIT DOWN!! Mom, what does training mean? We're training! Please, please please sit down, everyone!!!"

**And Where Were Barb and the Trumpets in Santa Barbara??**

Old woman: "Feels like we're going around another turn."

Her older husband: "We must be in Bend, Oregon."

Old woman: "No, dear. Just because we're going around a bend doesn't mean we're in Bend."

**Foiled Again**

Hick Drunk Dude: "Damn, I can't wait 'til the next smoke stop. Hey, let's go open the train window downstairs and smoke there."

Hick Friend: "Naw, man. I just saw them kick off a woman with one leg in that fucking freezing last stop because she was caught smoking."

Hick Drunk Dude: "Fuck. I've got both my legs."

**Sharing Means Caring**

Mother to her extremely irritating and loud 3-year old: "I'm sick of your whining. You need to stop!"

2 seconds pass

Mother to the Porter: "How many glasses of wine can one person buy at the cafe?"

**It's Funny 'Cause it's True**

Porter to the long line of people boarding: "Couples! I need couples first! Any couples?"

waits a few seconds, scanning the line for hands in the air...

Porter, incredulously: "You're all SINGLE??"

Me, audibly and blurtily: "It's a sad and lonely world."


**

Dear Fiona

That was my chosen alias. Though it might end up being Liza...

I got to be Dear Abby--but for sex questions--for www.nerve.com. Check it out at the bottom of the page! My sage answers to the scintillating questions should show up this morning some time.

Question: Can I put this on my CV as a publication? Sadly, this would double my published articles...

UPDATE: here's the actual link: http://www.nerve.com/regulars/sexadvicefrom/phdstudents/

Also, they have edited out what I think is funny. Maybe it's because I'm not actually funny. But here are my complete responses:

> Which department's students would you most like to have sex with and why?

Oh, this is a tie between math department boys and art school boys. The
artists are certainly more likely to be hipster hot, but they're also less
likely to be showered clean. On the other hand, the math boys have all of
those hot hot hot math brains, but are less likely to be into sex.

> I'm having trouble focusing on school with all the hot girls
in my class. I've heard taking anti-depressants can help curb your libido.
Should I look into this?

First, that trick only works for the first few weeks or months; the side effect
WILL wear off, leaving you hotter than a dirty old man at a junior high swim camp.
And that will come right around exam time. Second, I’m sure that lopping your fun stick off would also help curb your libido, but you wouldn’t consider something so drastic, no? Antidepressants change your brain chemistry—learning to concentrate despite your surroundings might be a better strategy.

> My boyfriend has this little girl fantasy, which is disturbing me. He
likes me to wear catholic school uniforms or little pink socks when we
make love. Is it weird that he's into that? Should I worry that as I
get older he's going to lose interest in me because he's
youth-obsessed?

Are you disturbed because you don't enjoy this fantasy? Or because you're
afraid he'll stop enjoying you once you can no longer affect the visage of
a 12 year old? If it's the former, ask him to play a different game, mix it up, have him wear a tweed jacket with elbow patches and dark-rimmed glasses… If
it's the latter, I'd be more disturbed that he_actually_wants_to_do_a_12-year-old, and you're the closest thing to legal pedophelia he can get.


My girlfriend is terrible at oral sex. I've been trying to prevent her
from even attempting it but she seems to think I'm just being shy.
Should I try to teach her a few lessons? Or is that insulting?

She's probably not down there to please herself, so the next time you exchange presents, ask her what SHE would like beforehand…then, give her one pointer (no pun intended) when she’s under the tree.

>
> I know I'm not gay but looking at pictures of male underwear models
> kind of turns me on. Is this normal?

Everyone appreciates aesthetically pleasing images, so I wouldn’t worry too much. If giving a guy a blow job kind of turns you on, then it might be time to start questioning some things.

> I'm getting married in 4 weeks and I'm panicked thinking that this is
my only remaining time to sleep with someone else. Shouldn't I get it
out of my system before it's too late?

Would it be okay with you if your sig-o ‘got it out of his/her system’ now? If you are both on board with a last hurrah with a gang of hookers, then go, sow your oats, plow a few fields. But if you’re hoping to sneak a last roll in the hay under the Law of Pre-marital Amnesty, you should be picking up a set of divorce papers along with that marriage license.

> How can I let my boyfriend know that even if he has an orgasm and
can't continue having intercourse that he can still get me off? He
seems to think that once sex is over, it's all over.

Do you both speak English? I suggest words.

My guys friends talk about sex all the time but I feel like it's a
betrayal of my girlfriend (whom I've been with over 5 years) to spill
the details, but then I wind up feeling like the prude at the table.
Should I just make stuff up?

Yeah, I’m sure she’d much rather have you telling your friends about all the sexcapades you’re not having together…Ask her if she minds (she may not, and is perhaps telling details to all of her pals); if she would feel betrayed, then you’re limited to talking about pornos or other guys’ stories.

> My girlfriend hates my ex, whom I'm still friends with and whom I
dated a thousand years ago (in high school). We're just friends now
and we're really good friends but my current girlfriend gets mad when
I talk to her or see her at all. What should I do?

She has to realize that you existed before you met her. You have a past, filled with people who have accompanied you into the present. If this ex were an inconsequential friend, I assume you would have dropped her a while ago to ease tensions with the current girlfriend. Hang out with Exelina in a larger group, and tell Nowawana whenever you see Exelina. You don’t expect her to drop everyone you don’t like, do you? Neither should she.

But, really, when's the right time?

I'm sorry--I had started a couple of actual, prosey entries (one of which, dear ttractor, was written as a full-on reply to your "I feel cynical" comment)...but alas, I found this, and just had to wonder, when is the right time to divulge to your date that you're a violent alocholic with herpes?

(from daily dish)

Gest Wants Judge to Void Minnelli Pre-Nup

Music producer David Gest has asked a New York City judge to void the prenuptial agreement he signed with Liza Minnelli because she didn't tell him she was "a violent alcoholic with herpes."

During a court hearing on Friday, Gest's lawyer called for Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Harold Beeler "to set aside the prenuptial agreement" with the singer because "there was substantial nondisclosure of several material issues."

According to court documents, Minnelli accuses Gest of having tried to "poison" her, while Gest alleges she kept her medical condition a secret until well after they were married and had "unprotected sexual relations."

Minnelli's lawyer, Israel Rubin, insists the court documents should have been sealed: "This whole thing is ridiculous."

***

I mean, you want to give the best impression on the first date, right? And then, well, it's just kind of awkward that second date. And then, after you're married, you just kind of figure that the window's passed, and now you have to wait until you get him good and drunk, but then you're the alcoholic, so you're usually the drunk one, and wow, that's a toughy.

A Funny Story

My mother was valedictorian of her high school, straight-A student through college, and really, just quite intelligent. But she's also fond of hyperbole, drama, and playing dumb in order that others may serve her.

While I was in high school, my mother, a teacher, took on an after-school job at a department store to help partially fund her bi-polar spending sprees. She came home one evening as I was finishing up my homework in the kitchen, and upon entering, heaved a sigh heavy with all of the burdens of the world. "Lex, I'm sooo hungry and tired. What can I eat that's easy?" Wow. She was going to fix something herself. This was intriguing.

I offered her suggestions: "Well, you could heat up the leftovers from last night, or you could make a microwave pizza..."
"Pizza!" she exclaimed.
"Okay. Here it is." Since she was actually going to make it herself, I kindly took it out of the freezer for her and handed it over.

She opened the box, took out her meal, and threw away the box, upon which were the directions.

"How do I make it?"

Good Lord. How could a woman, aged 40 years, not know how to cook a friggin' microwave pizza? How had I sprung from her loins? I had just finished my advanced calculus homework, and here I was, having to explain the most trivial of all meal preparations.

But, she was going to cook it, herself. And I wanted to encourage this new, and most welcome behavior.

"Well, you can cook it in the oven so the crust is crispy, or you can--"

"No, that will take too long!"

You'd think she'd been foraging in the forest, eating grass and twigs for two months, as desperate as she seemed for this little pizza.

"Okay, okay. You can just pop in the microwave--put it on the little tray, put it in the microwave for two and half minutes, turn it, and cook it two and a half minutes more."

I left my mother and retreated to my room to ponder the truth of Darwin's theory.

The next evening at dinner, my mother turned to me and said, "Lex, I don't think that pizza turned out right."

"Why?"

"Well, I put it in the microwave for two and half minutes, turned it over, just like you said..."

After my initial shock wore off, I ran to the microwave and inspected the evidence--congealed and burnt tomato sauce, shards of rubbery cheese--all outlining a perfect little square.

Darwin was a fool.

If You're Lookin' to Laugh...

You've come to the right place (today, anyway). Here is the following cut-and-pasted myspace email exchange from this morning. I just had to share (by the way, "Nico" is French and a complete stranger to me):



----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Nico
Date: Jun 15, 2006 9:47 AM

Hello ,

You look very gorgeous!!!!!

Do you want to chat ?

Iam online right now

Nico

ps: ur breast is real or fake ?



----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Lexi
Date: Jun 15, 2006 9:58 AM

Hello,

Thank you

No

I'm working

Lexi

PS Yes, they're real. But ewwww--who asks that in the first email??

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Nico
Date: Jun 15, 2006 10:01 AM

you look very fine Lexi , and u look to have nice tits.

i love you

---

Good grief. Does this actually work for people? I am so amazed at the emails I get off of myspace, and used to get off of *that other site*. More appalling than moist fungal panties.

How to Look Creepy 101

Did you notice that Anthony Hopkins looks incredibly creepy in Silence of the Lambs? It's not just the fact that he eats the other red meat; if you watch closely, you'll see that he never blinks. He closes his eyes with great relish and breathes in deeply to freak Clarice out a bit, but the real creepy comes in with his ability keep his eyes wide open for minutes on end.

So, that's number one.

My great artist friend, Jason, spends the bulk of his time noticing things as I do. He keyed into a second quirk which renders one immediately creeptastic: don't swing your arms when you walk. Working in an art supply store for many years, Jason came into frequent contact with creepy guys--he realized they all had one thing in common: they hold their arms stock still, glued to their sides, as they walk to and fro. Jason delighted in this revelation, and so, to creep all of us out, began to practice this walk. Of course, like so many jokes gone awry, he began to walk in this way without purpose, and now, can no longer break this habit.

Anyway, that's number two.

The thing about both of these behaviors is that, usually, one can't put his/her finger on why they're soooo freaked out by the person--they're subtle maneuvers, and if practiced correctly, can bring you hours of fun in bars, malls, and classrooms!

It's Not Just Catholics

My dog apparently just really hates all religions equally. We took a longer walk today, and he pooped right in front of the Buddhist Temple and the Synagogue. Hmm.

My aunt's dog has a penchant for bibles--he's chewed all of their bibles to shreds: the collectable ones, the ones in use, brand new ones on the shelf. He's hungry for the Word of God.

My dog just shits on it all.

I like my dog better.

I Couldn't Make This Up If I Tried.

Today, I’d like to talk about friends. Y’know, how you should choose your buddies, and the art of forgiveness and grace for your pals, who might flub up once in awhile. And when they goof, you should drop them like cold stones in the Arctic. They’re no good. Leave them. Immediately. Don’t dilly dally around with people who have flaws; with people who might lie to you to try to save your feelings—because those people suck.

This, of course, was not my view on life until recently. But Bill O’Reilly has opened my eyes with his heart-warming book, The O’Reilly Factor for Kids: A Survival Guide for America’s Families. I share with you now the pearls of wisdom and goodness dripping from this sage’s pen:

“This guy and I had known each other since first grade and we were pretty solid. At least, I thought we were. Freshman year is always tough because you are the youngest in the school and still trying to figure out the program. There was this dance I wanted to go to, but I didn’t want to go alone. I wanted some guys to hang with so the girls would think I was cool. So I asked my friend, who was usually for this kind of thing, if he would come along. He said he couldn’t go. I said fine and found a couple of other guys to go with me. But when we arrived at the hop, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My so-called friend who told me he couldn’t’ go to the dance was out there doing the twist like a madman. What was up with that? I cornered this so-called friend later, and he admitted that some of the guys he went to the dance with didn’t like me, so he didn’t want me around.
“If that happened in a TV sitcom, everybody would have made up and had a few laughs. But life is different. I never trusted that guy again and rarely spoke to him. Since he never apologized, I think I made the smart decision. He wasn’t a true friend and that happens a lot in life. By not wasting any more time with him, I went on to make real friends, many of whom I hang around with to this day. I’m that kind of guy: once I become friends with you, I’m in for life unless you do something bad to me. Even though I am now famous and successful, I still keep my old friends. And believe me, none of them looks like Jennifer Aniston. It would not be hard being her friend.” (O’Reilly Factor For Kids, page 4).

I'm not even going to touch the creepiness of that last line in a children's book. Well, I'll touch it a little: EWWWW!!!

I'd add more to this, but really, any more jokes of mine would be superfluous humor. This man is a comic genius.

Call the Justice League of Super-Lame-o's.

It's official: My superpower is an extraorindary sense of smell. You will all, of course, remember my post on the legality of perfume. Yesterday on the 5:00 pm shuttle (rivaled in popularity only by the 8:30 am shuttle), a young woman sized up the possible shuttle-mates, and apparently, found me the most suitable choice. She didn't look offensive, seemed fairly recently showered, and had a book. A good shuttle-mate, indeed. I politely moved my bookpack in between my legs to open up the seat next to me.

We were in agreement. We would be sharing intimate space for the next thirty minutes.

Ah, but then I began to smell something. Wasn't perfume. Definitely, definitely nail polish remover. This struck me as odd; she clearly wasn't painting her fingernails currently. I looked at her nails, and they were manicured, but chipping; so she hadn't tried to strip the pretty off right before boarding.

Maybe I was just crazy.

Me: "Do you smell nail polish remover?"
Her: "No...hmmm"
Me: "It's so weird! I know I smell nail polish remover."
Her: "Oh, it could be my bag; I carry it with me to work in case I want to do my nails when I'm bored. Yeah, it's in here...it's closed, but it's probably me."

Damn bottle wasn't even open, y'all. Hadn't even been used.

So, I'm not crazy, but apparently have a lucrative career option as drug-dog-human available to me. And that's something, right?

P.S. In my move, I found one of those sample packets of perfume/eau de toilette, or whatever. I like Miyaki, because his scents are usually so light, and my nose will let it slide if I dare to dab a drop on. I opened the packet, and found a moist towelette, which I cautiously dabbed on my neck (didn't know if it was some kind of body-freshener thing, or supposed to be used for perfume purposes).

Now, the damn stench clinging to my neck is having a grand time of punching my nose like a flowery fist.

Argh.

Sing It Loud, Sing It Proud

I sing along to songs all_the_time. I have to stifle the urge on the shuttle; if others got to hear the accompaniment (what's playing on my ipod), then perhaps I would sing along there, too. I sing along because it makes me feel like I've contributed to the music--By singing along to Bowie, I'm somehow sharing in the genius of the song--I'm a helper! When I had a piano, I'd play along to songs for the same reason. My friends were cool about it, but gas prices being what they are, the piano's out of the question for the most part.

My college friend, Julia, LOVES to sing along. But she couldn't carry a tune in a lard bucket, and generally can't remember the words exactly. She sings with real gusto, though. Really. As loud as humanly possible without the aid of audio equipment.

Julia used to work in a restaurant in which the staff had to sing those awful "Happy Birthday" songs to their embarrassed patrons while the birthday boy or girl's friends beamed with sadistic enjoyment. This awful birthday song was no exception to Julia's playbook; she sang it loud, off key, and with her own peculiar phrasing. She really wanted to pour her heart into the embarrsassed guest's birthday song--so she gave it all she had each and every performance.

Then, one afternoon, as Julia was putting her things away in the employees' office, she noticed the an item on the agenda for that day's staff meeting: Talk about Julia.

Julia was delighted! One of those wacky kids who would take on the task of watching a pencil for a couple of hours with the enthusiasm of a cocker spaniel, Julia was sure she was going to be commended for her enthusiasm on the job. "Wow! I wonder what I did!?! Ah, another beautiful day to be at work."

The staff gathered around the restaurant manager, and Julia tried her best to supress her beaming pride until the big commendation. After ticking off the other items on the agenda, the manager looked to Julia. "Julia, you're not allowed to sing the Happy Birthday song anymore. Please just mouth the words and clap your hands--wait, just pretend to clap your hands."

To this day, Julia still can't bear to sing Happy Birthday to her friends, or for her friends to serenade her on her special day. This doesn't prevent her from enthusiastically butchering any song daring to play on the radio in one's car, though; so I suppose all's well that ends well...(?)

I Believe I Can Fly

Well, not anymore, but I did for a while.

In college, I had a recurring dream in which I was able to suspend myself in air. I simply jumped up, and then began twisting around in circles, somehow keeping my feet from touching the ground. This dream recurred so frequently that I began to live with the innate knowledge that yes, I could fly. I didn't actively think about it; it's akin to just knowing that you could outrun a toddler. You don't think about it, reason it out, or boast to others of this ability; you simply live with the knowledge that yes, in a life or death situation with a toddler and a knife, you could get away.

Then, one day, my conscious self and subconscious self began chattering to one another:

SS: Guess what we can do!
CS: What?
SS: We can sooo fly!
CS: That's improbable.
SS: No, really. Just jump up and twist around in circles. We'll be able to levitate!
CS: I'm sorry, but that just isn't going to work. I've taken physics, and there are some flaws with your thinking.
SS: No, no, I've seen it!
CS: Was this one of your dreams again?
SS: Ah, crap.

This happens a lot--where I don't know if something is true, or it has been dreamt. Sadly--or luckily--not everything is so obvious as the ability to fly...So as my memories fade and my dreams become more vivid, CS and SS are likely to trade furniture, and I rarely know if I'm sitting in a real chair (or floating on a magic carpet).

80's Movies Rocked.

I saw Galaxy High on t.v. yesterday and it succeeded in providing every eighties' teen movie cliche. There was the sexy high school teacher, who sometimes wore a suit jacket and jeans, and then miraculously changed into the "bad boy", replete with black leather jacket and single dangling earring at night. They had a brawl between the rich kids in Beverly Hills and the poor drop-outs of East L.A. (the students of "Galaxy High"--a school whose classroom was a travelling bus with graffiti).

But to my complete amazement, there were at least three dance montages, two of which had completely spontaneous and perfectly choreographed/synchronized dances--the last of which took place in the rain outside of the rich school at the end of the movie ('cause at the end, the rich kids and the po' kids become pals and all, so they celebrated their new friendship with some dancin' in the rain).

[Okay, to be fair, I googled Galaxy High--and the movie I saw was actually Lambada--I came into the movie about half an hour late, and would never, in a million years, have guessed this movie had something to do with the lambada (though I remember wondering why they had played that awful song twice for two of the dance scenes...). Same plot, though. Same strange insertion of craptastic dancing. I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved...)

It was fascinating. It wasn't a FAME!-like movie, or some kind of musical, but the dancing, if viewed in isolation from the rest of the movie, would surely shout "MUSICAL!!!"... totally different from say, Breakfast Club (in which the characters just bust a move to some music--Ally Sheedy's interpretation of the music quite dissimilar to Molly or Emilio's...) or Footloose (in which you expect dancing--I mean, c'mon). It was some weird hybrid, which was simultaneously cringe-worthy and completely satisfying.

This reminded me of another 80's movie I heart: The Warriors. Technically, a gem brought to us by 1979, but who can tell the difference?
Back to the film. So, the movie was actually based on Anabasis, a Greek war in which the Spartans and the Persian emperor Cyrus attempted to overtake present-day Turkey. Both the Persian army and the Spartan leaders were captured, and the remaining army had to travel through hostile territory and various groups of meanies back to Homebase, as it were.

So, The Warriors takes this tale and contextualizes it in the future (based on the costumes, haircuts and phrasing, the future seems to be a couple months ahead of the release date--sidenote: Star Wars was also supposed to take place in a Galaxy Far Far Away--Did the feathered haircut really see that much universal action??). Instead of Spartans and hostile tribes , there are a host of different gangs, all of which are thematically organized. All of the members have chosen an outfit and, much like boy-bands, attempt to coordinate the hell out of them.

The Warriors, a gang which has decided on brown leather vests and sperm-killing tight jeans, are framed for the death of Cyrus, the uber-gang leader who was calling for a truce and the formation of a Super-gang. This pisses off the Grammery Riffs (Cyrus's homies) and urged by the call of some vindictive radio deejay, all the gangs try to take the Warriors out along their way to the big gang-meet-and-greet where they will be able to clear their names.



My favorite gang was the baseball-themed gang, The Baseball Furies. They carried baseball bats, and all wore baseball uniforms...to add that scary in, they wore purple lipstick. Because Knee-high socks and polyester and boys wearing lipstick would instill fear in every person I know.



However, a gang in the running for most bizarre-choice-given-that-you're-supposed-to-be -scary award was The Orphans. It's a bit sentimental for a bunch of "tough guys", no? And really, when they don't get the invite to the big gang-fest, can they wonder why?

Well, okay, let's make it a three-way tie. The Punks all wear overalls and roller-skates. Because when you're on roller-skates in overalls, you just, um, scream Tough Guy. Maybe it's just me, but aren't you a little vulnerable on rollerskates? And the blisters! Oh, my.



But what about the Hi-Hats? Okay, they're sneaking up for a surprise win. They all wear red shirts, black pants, suspenders, and top hats. they look like mimes. But wait, they're scary mimes. I forget what their weapon was--maybe they pantomime shooting you. ("Grab his hands! Don't let him escape into his pretend box!!!")

How To Find Yourself a Stalker

So, you'd like a stalker of your very own, eh? Well, I now offer you tips on stalker shopping.

I've tried to break it down along age and attractiveness lines, so you can narrow your search.

Age: 22-35, Pretty: Mixed. Graduate students. I am one. Not a stalker. But a graduate student. Well, kind of a stalker. I mean, I think that in one situation, I would have qualified as a stalker. But this should not frighten you now. I've already noted I have no interest in dating you; in fact, this post is a bit like a good-hearted and reformed criminal telling you how to keep your house safe. Or how to get robbed for the insurance money. However you'd like to take that.

anyway, back to graduate students. We make excellent stalkers. We have no money and a lot of time on our hands. Oh, and we have access to the internet. And we're all a bit socially retarded. Oh, and we get paid to research the crap out of the inane, the esoteric, the trivial, the minute, etc. So, in a nutshell, we're a bit like detectives for things that don't matter. You do the math.

Age: 18-34. Pretty: High Actors/Actresses. Oh, so you thought all stalkers were ugly, huh? Nope. Now, these individuals don't become stalkers because they're socially retarded, they're just really, really good at playing pretend. So, they may play pretend that they're in a relationship with you. My not-so-pretty guy friend had a hot hot hot actress stalker. She not only pretended he was hot, she pretended he was into her, and from time to time, that she was Australian. But I suppose that's beside the point.

Age: 30-70. Pretty: Low. Professors. All of my stalkers have been professors--generally from the math or science departments. I think they all had Aspy's, too (a mild form of autism --clinical social retardation). Grown up grad students. It just makes perfect sense.

Age: 15-23. Pretty: Real Low. Renaissance Fairs. Some of my male friends' stalkers have been the undergrad girls who are a little awkward, etc. They don't get a lot of social attention in general. These girls flock to renaissance fairs like geese to an open-air bread factory. And if you'd like to wait until they mature into more effective stalkers, wait util they hit grad. school.

Brilliant!

Today I provide a list of 'dumb ideas' and the length of time for which they were entertained:

Me:
***A skirt coat: 3 days
-I really thought I was onto something here--I mean, my legs were really cold in St. Louis and Chicago winters. And then a friend of mine reminded me about full-length coats

***I'll lock my backpack to my bike while I'm at the farmer's market: 15 minutes
-sounded like a good idea-and then I remembered that thieves could just unzip the bag and remove my laptop, leaving my bag safely chained to my bike.

***I'll get a dog to keep my grumpy 12-year old shih tzu company: 4 months
-got the dog, knowing full well my dog hates other animals. had to give other dog away.

***menthol cigarettes when you're sick: 5 minutes
-I used to be a pack/pack and a half a day smoker; my friend came up this one--his "menthol-will-help-your-sore-throat" argument was quite persuasive. the menthol cigarette was not.

***doing a cartwheel off the sandtire will be *cool*: 30 minutes
-it was cool, until I landed. I then had a broken arm for two weeks before my dad finally took me to the hospital (he insisted I was just being "dramatic").

My pal Mary:
***Buying an Akita in Japan will be cheaper than buying one in the US: 1 month
-She had already been planning a trip to Japan (she's first-gen Japanese), and was seriously excited about this idea--I guess she thought she'd save on import taxes or something--I gently reminded her that they actually breed them here on American soil...they do not ship them over on cargo boats.

I'll have to think a bit for a few more; Lord knows I've had lots of "epiphanes"...which turn out to be brain burps in the end.

No, You're a Slut!

My friend, I'll call him "Rico", has had sex with lots of ladies. I find that unworthy of comment, but what is worthy is the change in his perception of the term "slut." You see, when he'd slept with about ten people, we'd converse on the subject, and he would judiciously state, "Yeah, but I'm not sleeping with sluts--I mean none of them have slept with like, 20 people!"

Then, he slept with 20 people. The conversation changed to: "Yeah, but I'm not a slut--I mean it's not like I've slept with, like, 30 people!"

Then he slept with 30 people. The conversation changed to: "You know, I used to think that sleeping with this many people was slutty. Now I just think that term is judgemental."

Agreed, Rico. Agreed.

African-American is Beautiful

My friend teaches an intro course to comparative politics. This quarter, the class has focused a lot on political protests in South Africa.

my friend: "Yeah, these poor kids want to be PC, so they don't want to say 'Blacks' when discussing the protests in Johannesburg."

me: "Oh, wow, this must drive them crazy--don't want to say 'Black,' but can't say African-American!"

my friend: "Oh, yes, they can. And did."

Teeth are Overrated.

As I yawned in the mirror this morning, my eight fillings caught the gleam of the fluorescent bulb above me, and I smiled. Not because I'll never have to buy another radio antenna as long as I live, but because of the way in which my teeth became more metal than ivory.

You see, I was a very bright child. At three years old, I was quite aware of our financial situation. Grape juice was a luxury only enjoyed during communion at church. Toys were built from 1 part materials, 3 parts my imagination. And my teeth, well, it looked like someone with extraordinarily strong hands had grabbed my jaw and squeezed, popping out a second row on bottom, and giving me the wonderful vampirish incisors up top.

I knew we were too poor to ever afford braces, so, being the clever three-year old I was, I decided I would stop brushing my teeth, they would fall out, and I would get dentures. I didn't know, of course, that dentures had to be taken out and cleaned, interfered with one's ability to eat peanut brittle, and were not generally perceived as "awesome" by the general public. I thought you just got a brand new set of lovely and ever-so-straight teeth. (This, by the way, typifies the problem with clever children: they can do an awful lot with very incomplete information...).

I was getting cavities at an alarming rate, but I knew my parents would have to buy me new teeth when mine fell out. Braces could be considered a luxury, but chewing could not.

Then, one day I was visiting an older couple from my father's church. I had gone to the bathroom, and was washing my hands when I looked to the right of the faucet and there in a glass full of water were their teeth!! I was horrified. There was definitely a kink in this dentures plan of mine.

So now, years later, I have a mouth full of fillings as evidence of my three-year-old self's imagination, intelligence, and utter lack of information.