Yoo hoo, it’s my centennial!

Happy 100th Post, ME! In honor of this momentous occasion, here is a picture of an angry, bigoted hick from the anti-sorryeverybody.com site, werenotsorry.com (enjoy visiting them both and see if you can find the picture of moi on sorryeverybody if you dare).

Anyway, here is an angry bigot. Hopefully he’ll find his picture on my blog and send me some death threats because I’m stuck at home writing papers and could surely use the excitement.



Yeah. So. Uh. Hunh. Great. And I see from the NRA insignia he’s armed too. Goody. I shall fend off his bullets of hatred with an impromptu lesbian orgy!! Now who’s with me?


Climate Change: Now it’s PERSONAL

The Disney World state getting pummelled by storms is one thing. Ice caps melting on continents I’m too poor to visit is also one thing. But when the weather in Brooklyn, NY is in the 30s, aka "wintry," one week, and then back to the 60s, aka "springy" the next, and this all takes place mid-November…well, it makes me want to walk down the street trying to find SUV owners so I can punch them in the balls. Because listen up, SUV owners: some of us take seasonal fasion VERY SERIOUSLY, and have SMALL CLOSETS, and therefore our giant winter coats must be one of two places with no exceptions: in constant use, as per normal in the Northeast ‘twixt Thanksgiving and mid-April, or stuffed at the bottom of a buried storage container. Last week I needed my winter coat, a scarf, AND a hat. This week, it’s back to a flimsy cord blazer and hooded sweatshirt. What is the meaning of this? I mean, worldwide extinction in fifty years is one thing (who gives a shit? I’ll be OLD), but I moved to the Northeast for a very specific reason: SEASONS. Four of them, in a row, that go: Warmy-Hotty-Cooly-COLDY, in that order!!! Not: Warmy-Rainy-Hotty-Rainy-Rainy-Really Damn Hotty-Warmy-Warmy-Warmy-FREEZY-Warmy-FREEZY. This is retarded, and it’s only going to get worse. If you own any car that gets less than 25 mpg, do NOT drive it by my apartment, or I will KICK! YOUR! ASS! (I’ll be the one wearing either a flimsy blazer or a giant winter coat, depending).

The Beatnik’s Guide to the States Whose Majority of Residents Think We Are Morally Depraved Sodomite Heathens Who Cheat Welfare, Part Deux

Yes, hippies, that’s right. Get out of the patchouli bath and pay as much attention as your pot-addled span will allow, because it’s time for another lesson in American Geography, S. Style.

Today: Some Of That Stuff In The Middle (previously, see The Bottom Right-Hand Corner)

Visited in: 1999, 2002, Next Week
High Point: the food at Austin’s Magnolia Cafe, specifically the "love migas," which are, simply put, the fucking best edible creation ever invented; also, the fact that many of my boyfriend’s relatives actually talk like Boomhauer, my idol.
Low Point: that would have to be when Jacob’s uncle yelled across the table: "Now, AH have a question for YOU, as a JEEEEEEW." Me: "Yes?" Uncle: "Is it true that h’when y’all get married, y’all have arranged marriages to keep y’all’s money in y’all’s family?"

What Texas lacks in religious tolerance, it makes up for in landscape, down-to-earth folks, and the lost art of slow talking. Despite feeling like I may at any moment be rounded up and shot, the time I spent on Jacob’s aunt’s farm was really nice, and while they probably thought I was the devil incarnate, I still enjoyed their hospitality. The out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere Texas, the one Pee Wee sings about in "Pee Wee’s Big Adventure," is pretty awesome, but if I had one honest nonpartisan complaint about Texas it would be: too much highway and too many ugly personalityless real estate development gated communities. If I had a partisan complaint about Texas, it’d be that the rest of Texas hates Austin and makes fun of it all day long until the Longhorns game is on, at which point everyone watches rapt, even if they are at a barbecue in the middle of the country without access to running water or bathrooms (in case you’re wondering, they rig up a long, long, long extension cord from a trailer and put the TV on a folding chair).

Visited in: every time I’ve driven across the country (a lot)
High Point: driving through without stopping
Low Point: the Country Kitchen in Ogallala, which is connected to some sort of masonic elk’s club or something. Actually it was kind of cool, although why anyone would need a full stack of pancakes with an omelette is beyond me.
Apparently Omaha is where all the new indie rock gods come from because one guy from Bright Eyes grew up there. I can’t pass judgement on Omaha because I’ve never been there, but I can pass judgement on the rest of Nebraska, which seems to have about four residents and absolutely no landscape. I think if Nebraska disappeared, nobody would notice for like a week, until the smell started bothering Iowa. And don’t get me started on Iowa. Iowa can kiss my ass.

Kansas City was going to call itself "The Buttcrack Of Civilization," but since Newark, NJ already had the patent on that title, they had to settle for "City of Fountains." I once had to go to Kansas City for two friends’ wedding (the two friends were marrying each other, natch), and it was the middle of the summer and I was stuck without a car and I hate weddings, so maybe my perception of Kansas City was tainted. My friend (half of the now-married couple) refers to it as "The Paris of the Plains," but he might be being sarcastic.