Thursday, April 05, 2007

distant cousins

mom's uncle's son, murdered by rat poison in Taiwan. He made money, it was stolen, he was poisoned.


Sunday, April 01, 2007

justin timberlzzz...

It's been a slow year for this blog and a correspondingly manic year in my life. I wish I had the time to write all about the amazing people who have come into my life in the past year or so, all the ground that has been broken, all the mountains climbed, &c, but I simply don't. It's strange to be nearing the end of the school year and telling Stephanie things like, "Law school is too short." Did that really come out of my mouth? I say this because there are so many fantastic 3Ls who I will be so sad to see go. I guess the rush of blood to the head is a rite of spring, or a seasonal affective disorder, or just my body's way of reminding my brain that it can't all just be pretending to learn preemption doctrine.

What the FUCK am I saying? APRIL FOOLS! I wrote that entire paragraph before realizing that I was parodying myself. Boo-hoo-fucking-hoooo! Apparently you can rearrange the word "melancholiacs" and add the letter "R" to spell the name of a famous actress - I can't do it, but I heard in a tantalizing NPR clip that it is possible. Blah blah blah. I am generally pretty happy these days with banging on my new drumset and thinking of how to avoid getting Boo covered in poison oak when I take him on month-long backpacking trips in northern California. Is the only way to avoid this to hike and camp on beaches? Or to put him in a yellow mac? Can anyone tell me what the fourth dimension is? And define space-time also?

Also, I saw Justin Timberlake in concert at the New Jersey Meadowlands last Thursday. Snooze! I got an awesome New Jersey date with Bao out of the experience, which included two bus trips on NJ Transit and a $40 muscle t-shirt with JT's face stretched across the bubby-area, but JT himself kept getting in the way. There's only so much of a balding white man sitting at a piano and singing in falsetto I can take, especially if I'm sitting in the nosebleed section directly behind the one person (a giantess) on the entire level who is moved by the world's slowest song to dance. Sit down, fatty! is what I wanted to say, but I said nothing and instead slumped over Bao's seat and tried to catch a glimpse between New Jersey hairstyles and fancy stage decorations of the 2" tiny dancer that was purported to be the world's biggest male pop star of the mo'. ("MO" is a playable Scrabble word; an abbrev. of "moment"...yet "BS" is not. Go figure.) Of course I knew going into the show that Justin was as canned as creamed corn, but there was something especially painful about seeing him in concert, saying things like "Shit" and "We're drinkin' tonight!" I just don't believe you, Justin! You say "shit" like it hurts your mama's feelings, and yours, too! So he can move his arms and legs very fast and make sexy-dance with his backup dancers, but he has no charisma and is therefore unwatchable, which perhaps explains the perplexing "FutureSex" - it is precatory, because there is no PresentSex to be found.

Possibly the best thing that I saw on Thursday was the man sitting two rows in front of me interacting with a friend he'd just run into: two New Jersey dudes (button down collared shirt undone at the top button, jeans, ugly shoes, hair gelled into crests, meaty and butch) who could not keep their hands off one another. If it wasn't man-slapping across the thighs or man-punching in the pecs, it was man-high-fiving-and-clenching or man-gripping-the-biceps and then back to man-slapping-the-knees. I whispered quiet encouragement but they nonetheless did not kiss. Bao and I left early because we were falling asleep and sat on the bus for half an hour until the show ended. Also in the bus was a long-haired blonde who kept cooing "You'll be fine, we'll get you home, don't worry" to another long-haired blonde who appeared to be dead. We got back to Port Authority, ate a giant container of yogurt standing on the L train platform, and were home before midnight.

Also, I've decided that Pink is going to sit on my face someday in an elaborate gymnastic routine and pick me up by the strength of her outer labia so that we can float together above the wowed crowds at an area pop rock concert. Call me, darling! (917) 536-LEZZ!