Hee hee hee. He said “ass”
Like performer-in-mufti Precious Moments, I like a good ass. In fact, when ass is on the menu, I’m typically the first one at the table.
Why, then, oh why have they not invited me to sing for the tow-headed masses at the trash-a-thon otherwise known as the Indy 500? I can out-rim ol’ Gomer with one hand tied behind my back. In fact, make it two–just for kicks of course….
Oooooooomigod. No one is safe–not even Ida Lupino and Edward Everett Horton! Thanks Jay. You saved my workday.
So–OUCH!
quiet, please. quiet….
man, that was so loud. everything is fucking loud this morning: the air conditioner rattling in the window. the hounds walking on the hardwood floor with their glamour-length nails. the cat licking her belly two rooms away.
the stereolab concert, as you’ve probably guessed, was good.
of course, it was vaguely disappointing, too–in the way that most concerts are. perhaps it’s just me, but i always seem to walk away from concerts thinking, “well, they sounded good, but it was kind of a lot like the album, so maybe i would have had more fun hanging out with some friends in my living room listening to the shit on cd.” you know, if they were like metallica and shit and put on a show it’d be different, but these guys sort of just stood there and sang and said maybe ten words altogether (which i think was them repeating “sank you”–they’re french, ya’ know) so the audience-interaction quotient was pitfully low. left with nothing else to do, i chose to entertain myself by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. i’m such a good southerner.
in the end, though, i don’t think it was the volume of drinking that kicked my ass. it was probably the fact that i mixed my two fave summertime beverages (pernod/rocks/water and absolut/rocks/dirty)–something i was forced to do because the howling wolf doesn’t care to stock pernod with any regularity. oh, and i had a beer, too. and a wee bit of e. (p.s. joe, i never felt shit. but i’m feeling it now. my spine, my poor, poor spine….).
but anyway, i’m alert enough to be typing, no? kiss my butt and call me a trooper. besides, chad arrives today. i can’t let one little bitty b-grade hangover get me down. i gotta make room for the next one….
Omigodomigodomigod: someone please get this motherfucking song (track4) out of my head before i go pigfuckingnuts. No shit, it’s been on repeat play for, like, four weeks and it’s gettin’ old.
P.S. It’s finally here. And like every other pseudo-intellectual faggotini, I’m stoked. Anyone wanna send an early b’day prezzie my way…?
wow. No one–I mean no one–writes quite like this girl. I’m at work and I’m bawling and the people in the office think something awful has happened to my family and I have her to thank. A bad journal entry is worse than chewing broken glass, but a good one, well…. Glad you’re back, Pamie.
Guess what I was doing at 3am. Jukin’? As If. Smokin’ up? Sadly, no. Hey! Get your mind outta the gutter! No, I was making a mental inventory of every single solitary piece of work that’s gotta be done on the house before we can move in. Waa.
So, it’s about 7:30 now, and I’m still going strong. Anyone got a cure for insomnia–other than reading everyone else’s opinion on the matter? Maybe this‘ll get my mind off things…
It being Sunday morning and all–time for the bevy of political roundtable/week-in-review TV shows–how’s about a little commentary to get your day going? For those too lazy to click through, it’s an article by James Gill for the Times-Picayune (our local paper here in NO) that amounts to a sort of “I told you so” dance. See, Harrah’s, the company that owns the only land-based casino in Louisiana, is complaining that their tax rate is too high (after they leapt at the proposal put together by the State Gaming Commission two years ago), and now they want our mean ol’ legislators to give ’em a break. Funny, they don’t seem familiar with the concept of laissez-faire economics.
Of course, like many, many of the New Orleanaise, I’m waiting for the casino’s demise. (Have any of you seen the crappy building they put up at the foot of Canal Street to house the damn thing?) With Harrah’s out of the way, maybe we can finally get some faggoty furniture stores and shit. I think I’ll run say a novena to the spirits of the marketplace, just to speed things along.
Oh, and for anyone who cares, the headache’s gone. Maybe those cocktails helped. Then again, maybe I need something stronger….
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