We could all use some PANTS in our life. Operation emaciation continues around here, as Mr. H bravely staves off Snapple, and I retain no interest in eating most foods, especially if they require opening or preparing. Except last night, Mr. H made pizza, and I had to make an exception.
I am hoping the rest of this existentialism shoves off soon enough, and then my pants won’t be so saggy. I could just buy smaller pants, but that costs money, and we also need to hoard that, because we have a loft worth 75k less than we paid for it. Surely we can make this amount up in no time by making pizza at home instead of ordering out. I would like to discuss this with Barack Obama and maybe Yoda.
But by the end of this month, sunset will be pushed back all the way until 4:56 PM, and surely that will be cause for frolic in the streets. I’m holding out for March 13, when sunset careens ahead to 6:47 PM! I won’t be able to handle myself. If only Lambchop and I could schedule another relaxing weekend to dunk ourselves in Key West right after that. I’ll always fondly remember The Weekend Without Rage: 2009. Also known as The Only Weekend of My Life Without Rage.
I am going to Florida in a few weeks, but my whole family is also going, minus my dad, who is 2 kool 2 grope. Hey, when they grope you, do they bother to look in your mouth like prison? Just wondering. Â At any rate, I predict not necessarily rage, but chaos, and possibly the renting of a mini van. I’m going back to bed now.
The more a republican landslide is predicted, rx the more it is repeated. It is not just a snowball, ed it is an abominable snowman. Nothing is certain at the moment, troche apart from the basic fact of our impatience and anxiety. We are dyiiiing to know if that limburger-head Sharron Angle is going to oust that wretched weasel, Harry Reid.
And what about PANTS? Make no mistake we are in favor of gladrags, a spiffy trouser, a pantaloon. We dance dance dance for pants, pants pants! But as the last years have shown us, the world is full of terrible, awful people. People who do not agree with us!
I don’t have anything else to say about that apart from “Very Strong Rum”.
Today I played hooky from LegalHut and finished a painting. I also shoveled and had a chicken sandwich. Finally, I put on some pants because we were having an Open House at my house, looking for a potential new roommate. And I want them to think I am the sort of person who wears pants. Hoo boy, the parade! My favorite candidate described our living room as “wild”, and one of the others broke a cardinal rule by sporting such as culottes. There was a pretty nice boy who is studying to be a Masseur, and the less I say about that the better. Just to make sure that we find the best possible fit, I have placed a new ad here.
You know we got nuffin when we post pictures of dogs all week. Could it be that Lambchop and I are both happy for once? I feel like I am doing a gentle backstroke in Prozac-infused molasses, and I’m not even *taking* any drugs. When we go out, we spend our time doubled over with laughter, not shaking fists and gnashing teeth. It reminds me of how we used to ooze around Boston in an addled fog lo these many years ago. What’s next, staring for hours at the Amtrak ticketing kiosk in South Station because the music sounds like Peter Murphy? Yes, that exactly! Please join us.
The only thing’s that really bother me these day’s are poor punctuation and the state of the US government. No biggie! I got a call from the Kerry campaign looking for volunteers, so I think I’ll traipse in and shuffle paper at HQ a few days a week. Maybe I can finally master mail merge, for G– and country. I am not sure I am up for door-to-door in New Hampshire, as everyone in that state is issued a gun. This could be just the push I need to finally learn target shooting. There is a range right down the street; I could run over while the laundry is in the dryer.
David Bowie, the Man of the Pants, gave a stunning performance. This is the creature who invented or renewed everything I like about life in this century. He played Station to Station!!! He wryly requested that the audience not sing along to the chorus of “All the Young Dudes”. The power of that voice, that presence…it’s twitterpating, it’s Pantastic!
In addition, Clammy and I, social scientists that we are, have discovered the secret to a successful date. Only go on a Date with an attractive someone you really like, who also likes you. Thank you Mr. Drinkwater, for being a most charming escort. We scheduled all the major Date Highlights implicit in the Win a Date with Lambchop, from a nervous phone call to an awkward pause beneath the porch light.
As if it could have been any better, Helen did an excellent job of Parking and not killing anyone. Every day should be arranged to be that good!
This is the picture of Mr. Bowie, view Emperor of the Pants, ed that hangs right next to my computer. He is my maestro. The concert was wonderful, apart from the fact that the bulk of the crowd justify the use of the word “bulk”. Oh what an unfashionable lot! There was not an avant-garde brow on display, no Edie Sedgewicks or Candy Darlings. Even a Mandy Moore would have been nice. Well, no.
But the music is of course what transports us, what drives us screaming to our feet, arms flailing, and tears in our eyes when he plays Quicksand or Five Years. Hell, he could play the Alley Cat and with a wave of the hand, I am finished.
We are still sifting through Volumes of entries for the lucky person who gets to come along and see Lambchop have a seizure.
It has been brought to my attention that the proposed title for my novel, Portrait of the artist looking real fine, is one of the most egomaniacal monikers since Peter Murphy had the spleen to name an album Deep.
I certainly do not mean to toot my own horn. I would be writing about hypothetical (yet comely!) characters. It’s not like I’m Peter Murphy, presumptiously assuring you that I am DEEP, and my intellect is VAST. I’m not even like that Zadie Smith, running on about my flawless dental hygiene. I shudder to think.
Aaron piped in again to tell me more shocking separation of church and state news. Those folks who were so into the national day of fasting? Their resolution PASSED! By a huge margin! Do email your local wonk and tell them you are most terribly distressed if they voted for this. We go on and on about theocracy being so terrible in Islamic countries, but what are we shooting for here? It’s A-OK to dictate the religious actions of an entire nation as long as the god in question isn’t swarthy? People may certainly pray and fast all they want, and I’m sure every little bit helps if such things are possible. But please don’t tell me how, when, and where to beam my own brand of goodwill into the cosmos! Although I prayed just this morning: “Dear lord, please let me always be able to afford professional hair color.” I’m just kidding. Sort of.
My husband has this annoying habit of putting bottlecaps in his pockets. Everytime he cracks open a beer, there goes the cap in his pocket. We are talking pockets constantly full of the damn things. Usually nestled in a fat wad of filthy napkin. Sorting out our laundry has turned into a garbage pick, a lint harvest. I have tried coaxing, begging, and screaming at him. Should I sew all of his pockets shut?
Whoa, have a xanax, lady! I bet anyone who could see the crumpled receipts, cracked powder case, crushed breathmint, and stray hair clips and safety pins at the bottom of your purse would be none too pleased. Your mate suffers a bizarre form of pack rattage, I grant you. Kitty would never lay hands on someone else’s greasy serviette! Not very sexy, either, to have these things emerging from his pants during intimate moments. Sadly, a person cannot be browbeaten out of their foibles. But there are methods of persuasion. Perhaps you ought to suggest that you will be going nowhere near his pants until they are free of such items. A week or two without a) clean trousers and b) blowjobs should be enough to convince your mate to rethink his entire pants-as-receptacle model of the universe.