it was a scratch, not a pick

Here's a wee gem that found its way into my inbox today...

You just came to Texas Tech University as a freshman. You are SO PROUD that you have been chosen to pump up the crowd as the school's Bell Ringer during the big game...

Your whole family, all of your friends, and 15 million ESPN viewers see you on Saturday's telecast ringing the team's bell. But due to the tragically unfortunate placement of the bell, the camera and your body, your whole family, all of your friends, and 15 million ESPN viewers, see this instead...

Is it just me or does that kid have a Weird Al Yankovic quality about him?

tails [sic] from the weekend

Sorry I've been so quiet lately. This whole working thing is really cramping my style. Here's a quick update on things:

On Saturday, I met up with Byrne, of Crash and Byrne fame, and we took in a matinee of Spring Awakening. LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVED it. And I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE the fact that my blog has exposed me to fellow theater geeks who will go to shows with me and even organize the outings! Thanks again, Byrne! Can't wait for the next one!!!

Glamour Puss continues to rock my world (sorry, watching a bit too much Rock of Love lately). Thanks to everyone who wished her a Happy Birthday last week. 'Twas appreciated. GP and I had a private birthday party this weekend. On the agenda, a modified (read: dirty) version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey, flowers and a loot bag filled with quite possibly the most random assortment of crap ever assembled. GP was treated to, among other things, Swedish Fish, stickers, ponytail holders, tissues, chocolate, pirate tattoos and the piece de resistance… Parfums De Coeur Sexy Thang Body Spray. Nothing says "I dig you" quite like a knock-off of Baby Phat Goddess perfume, no?

Here are some photos from our little private party:

I'm on vacation next week. After sleeping for a few days straight, I'll hopefully be refreshed and recharged and will stop treating my blog like an unwanted bastard child.

she neither looks nor smells like a monkey, i assure you...

Today is Glamour Puss's birthday. She pops in here from time to time so please join me in wishing her a happy one.

If you're so inclined, you're also invited and encouraged to sing "Happy Birthday." And by all means, do feel free to adopt the dramatic song stylings from my faux Idol audition. Jazz hands are optional.

On three... And a-one and a-two and a one-two-three...

Happy Birthday to you, Glamour Puss!!!!!!

xoxo,
Me :)

... i'm not going to eat tomorrow 'cuz i'm going to be a supermodel

I was lucky enough to go to the Marc Jacobs show on Monday night courtesy of my amazing friend, El Oso. He's so awesome, you guys.

The Lovely Jess was there too and she was good enough to recap our cool evening/early morning out.

I've been slammed with work so I don't have time to do the same, but I did take some pictures. Sadly, Debbie Harry wasn't there this time around. Or, if she was, I wasn't lucky enough to see her. However, for you followers of MJ, I did manage to snap a rather scandalous photo of his skinny ass reaching into a McDonald's bag. My guess is that there wasn't a salad or one of those bullshit yogurt parfaits inside.

More photos here. Photos from the Fall show can be found here. Enjoy!

foreplay

I left work at 1:00 on Friday afternoon and took in a showing of Superbad with a friend. I arrived home about 4:00 still high from the numerous giggles the movie provided and excited that I still had a good chunk of the day ahead of me to do whatever I damn well pleased.

I put my stuff away, turned on the A/C and sat down at the computer to check my e-mail.

And then I heard it... a squeaking noise. "Please let that be the A/C," I thought to myself.

I listened intently for a few more minutes and the noise persisted. I turned off the A/C, hoping the sound would cease once I cut the power.

No such luck.

If you'll recall, I built up quite the arsenal of traps during and after The Great M-o-u-s-e Trauma of 2005. I slid several glue traps under the stove and strategically arranged snap traps around it as a secondary line of defense.

Ideally, the ultrasonic devices plugged into the wall in conjunction with a generous sprinkling of Shake Away, a 100% organic, all-natural rodent repellent, behind the stove would have kept the wee buggers at bay. The inhumane traps were really my last and least-desirable resort. I didn't want to kill anything but I also didn't want additional roommates who chew everything in sight and shit in corners. I had enough of that bullshit with my last beast of a roommate, Clare.

Ah, how I love burning people who will never ever read this blog. Fuck you, Clare. Fuck you!

Anyhoo, it was official: I had captured me a m-o-u-s-e on Friday and it was squealing for its dear life underneath my stove.

I am proud to report that I didn't burst into tears, nor did I haul ass out of my apartment. I considered a variety of options to personally deal with the unintentional prisoner of war. Fortunately, I decided that spraying RAID in its face to stun it, shoving it in a plastic bag, whacking it against the brick exterior of my building to finish it off and then putting it in the garbage was a bad idea.

I was equal parts grossed out and ashamed of my trapping skills. But mostly grossed out. I gave my friend Linus a call and, bless him, he agreed to come over and handle the unwanted visitor.

While waiting for Linus to arrive, I tried talking to the m-o-u-s-e to ease its pathetic squealing and assure it that its suffering would end soon. I even apologized to the little guy. I'm nothing if not a polite murderer.

But I couldn't handle the noise any longer so I stood outside on the stoop. Linus arrived just as my super walked past so I snagged him as well and sent the two of them inside to do some rodent clean-up. I also needed the super to inspect the increasingly soft floor in my kitchen. Hello, dry rot! He's coming tomorrow to rip out my floor and replace it. Or so he says.

So Linus and the super extracted the screaming m-o-u-s-e and disposed of it in heroic fashion. Linus even treated me to a really tasty Flemish ale at The Waterfront afterwards. I heart Linus.

So much for a care-free, breezy Friday to do whatever I damn well pleased. I spent the rest of the day resetting the traps, disinfecting the place and adding more Shake Away behind the stove. I was a little heavy-handed in the application of the latter and the unfortunate end result was and still is a lingering aroma, reminiscent of an incontinent bobcat let loose in my apartment.

Saturday night was Date Number Two and a Half with Glamour Puss. We met up during the week after a show, which wasn't an official, scheduled date, hence the half designation, you see. However, we more than earned back that half with all of our hot and heavy making out. Mmmm... Glamour Puss.

So on Saturday night, we took in an awesome set at the Sidewalk Cafe, inhaled some pizza near Tompkins Square Park and then jumped on the Brooklyn-bound F train. Destination: My Tiny Wee Studio.

I opened the door, turned on the light and we stepped inside. Within seconds, I heard it... the squealing had returned. Immediate thoughts that entered my mind:

1. Linus and the super were merely fucking with me and didn't remove the
m-o-u-s-e after all. They had only given it a sedative to stop the squealing and lull me into a false state of calm. Hell, the two of them were probably downing Flemish ales at The Waterfront at that very moment counting down the time until the tranquilizer wore off and having themselves a hearty chuckle. Betrayal!

2. The ghost of the m-o-u-s-e had come back to haunt me vowing to forever terrorize me with that incessant sad squeaking because of the barbaric way in which I killed him.

Glamour Puss suggested that maybe it was squeaky floor boards. She tried recreating the noise by adding pressure with her feet. I appreciated the alternative explanation but I knew that creaky maple was not to blame.

I had caught me another one.

Again, I did not cry. I did not jump on furniture or sweat through my clothing in a state of hysterical panic. Instead, I did the only thing I could... I asked Glamour Puss to deal with it... on our second (and a half) date. God, I'm smooth.

AND SHE DID! Like a motherfucking champ. She armed herself with a flashlight, a plastic bag and a flyswatter and hot damn, if she didn't snag herself a squealing m-o-u-s-e glued down to a piece of cardboard! Mind you, I had my back turned the whole time yelling, "Do you see it?!" and "Did you get it?!" mixed in with apologies and thanks yous, of course.

"What should I do with it?" she asked.

"Maybe we should whack it against the building to put it out of its misery," I suggested. I really need to discuss this alarming preference for killing with my therapist at our next session.

"No, I can't do that," Glamour Puss replied. As it was, she had violated just about every principle she holds dear. It was bad enough she was an accessory in my second m-o-u-s-e murder in as many days. I couldn't expect her to actually pull the trigger.

So Glamour Puss marched outside with the plastic bag containing the victim, the flyswatter and rubber gloves and tossed them all in the Dumpster parked in front of my building. I felt like I was on The Sopranos, what with all the illegal dumping of dead bodies I witnessed this weekend.

Rest assured, Glamour Puss was repeatedly, um, thanked for coming to my rescue. I fully plan on showing more gratitude during Date Number Three and a Half...