Road Island

In elementary school they make you believe that spelling and grammar are what it's all about. To be smart you have to learn these things and be good at them. I've come to realize that that's all bullshit. Elementary school teachers are mostly the same useless types that go to copyediting class.

When I was maybe three my parents took to to see Pink Floyd's The Wall, when the scene came with little British school children going through the meat grinder I puked on my shoes. I suppose that at that moment I knew what was to come.

Copyeditors are the same little kids who were teacher's pet and stars of the class. It turns out it all counted for nothing! Now they get to sit alone counting page numbers and checking the table of contents. In class they still give the teacher beaming, dumbfounded looks and when a question is asked they shoot their hand up. Their answer will be a meaningless phrase recited straight from the book, "Copyediting is the three c's, correctness, cohesiveness, clarity, and consisitancy."

Road Island, yes I know it's Rhode Island. I've seen it there on the map a thousand times and on the weather beaten sign as you cross the state line "Welcome to Rhode Island". But in my head it's Road Island and I am in the passenger seat of a dented blue station wagon with fake wood on the sides. It's summer and I'm ten. The window is cracked and the soft wind makes my hair dance. My eyes are on the sand dusted road; in this state the asphalt fades right into beach--Road Island. We ride by mountainous dunes, spotted with straight green weeds and reined in by nothing more than a flimsy wood fence that falls and rises like a crooked smile. At the horizion there is a blurry spot of darkened blue. The ocean.

Something creepy and oddly fascinating.

www.pixyland.org

The Special People's Club

The most recent comment to December 4th entry “On Mtv’s Rich Girls" is very intriguing. It comes from someone named Andrew who has felt the need to adamantly defend the girls, particularly on the subject of their ugly mugs. He also corrected my spelling of Ally’s name. I’ve been prompted to wonder if this mysterious commentor could be a friend of the girls. Perhaps it is the very prom date who puked from too much coffee? Or maybe it is the girls themselves writing under a pen name? At any rate my hatred of the girls stands. The entire point of the program is to allow the viewer to feel superior to them and all rich girls alike. Not since Tori Spelling has such an opportunity arose. Hideous gluttonous beasts all of you!

Andrew's Comment:
I feel that you say these things because you have nothing better to do with your time other then bag on people I mean who are you to judge others that just shows how shallow you are and how much you wish you had money like that to spend. You can't just look at them and say these things because you don't even know them and from what it shows on the t.v. they are both kind hearted you ladies, I also feel that they are both very good looking. so why don't you try to find something better to do with your time other then trying to put others down

P.S. her name is spelled Ally

I think Jorge's point is a good one. I myself have committed depraved acts in my life and yes, I have have a sense of guilt and remorse over such acts, but it’s a battle. It think for the sake of self preservation I’ve countered that guilt with wickedness, because wickedness is more fun. I don’t know. All I know is that in an effort to be brutally honest I don’t always write things I mean and sometimes I do err on the side of brutality. Mostly I comfort myself by knowing deep down that I’m going to heaven and that, yeah my mom is a good lady.

I swear someone is out to get me!

This morning I got a prank call at 6am. My phone said Withheld Number, like it does when my mom calls. I figured it might be important so I picked up and gave a weary hello. It was a stange man's voice he was sort of stumbling over his words in a confused way--wrong number I thought and hung up. He called back and I let it ring.

An hour and a half later, when my alarm went off, I listened to the message. It was some redneck who thought he was really fucking funny. He sounded all confused and worried saying, "Shaniqua, is that you? I think that was you who just picked up. Listen I don't know, I don't know how anyone could forget their own child. I found Donelle in my car this morning. He'd been in there since last night."

This freaked me out a little because I was still half asleep, however I had a feeling that it was a prank call. He went on,

"Now don't worry, he's just fine. He was real hungry, yeah he ate my burberry scarf that I had in the seat back there..."

Hearing this I got confused, was he talking about a dog?

"He seems to be holding it down alright though, Oh wait no! Now I've got a burberry couch, he just puked it up. But don't worry, I gave him a bottle of New Castle to quiet him down, yeah, and he liked that alright. Then I gave him some Hennesey..." It went on, it was like a 20 minute monologue. A really shitty one.

When I came home tonight I sat down to eat some tempeh salad I 'd made this weekend. I'd eaten half of it when I first made it and it was good. Tonight I was sitting there munching away, talking to Janine when we both heard a loud crack. She thought I'd broke my tooth. I felt a large hard cold thing in my mouth that was about the size of a tooth, although I knew I hadn't lost one. I spit it out and discovered that it was a big ole' piece of glass. I was shocked. We searched through the rest of the salad and found another piece. I don't no where it came from. "I feel like some one is out to get me," I said to Janine and then we both looked at each other and whispered "Barton". He's our evil reclusive neighbor and arch nemesis. We call him Barton Fink, like the Coen brother's movie. I think Barton might be trying to kill me.

D & D

Right now I’m at work reading an Australian book about horny D & D kids and as if that wasn't bad enought the whole thing is written in verse.
Here is a little sample:

Drank a little wine.
Meredith’s Nick was there, too,
looking side-eyed at her,
a little bit goofy and sweet and
out of bounds
I wanted her brother, the Dungeon Master, the chef.
I gave him all my party lines,
dragged out the M & M’s,
and I could feel his eyes all over me.
I could feel his heartbeat quicken.
He took me out to his bungalow and we stood there
looking at his plans for a catamaran.
We stood close but not
touching.
Not yet.
No more sports shed scenes for me.
I want a slow scene with some candles,
a little music.
I want the Dungeon Master
to plan his next move.
I want him to lead me to his single bed.

I think I’m going to have to pass on this one.

And your little dog too

I just want to set the record straight. I realized last night, as I caught the last part of The Wizard of Oz and noticed with disappointment that from the time the gang gets in to visit the wizard to the end of the movie there are no more musical numbers, that you may be under a false impression. You see I hate musicals. Honestly I do.

I came to this realization at the beginning of my teen years when I had stopped preforming in them. At that time I stopped harboring the secret wish that I might for once get a real part, maybe even the lead. As a child I was always cast in the non-singing roles, which by default rarely had more than one or two lines. At this time, finding myself on the other side of the stage I realized that musicals suck. They have ridiculous story lines and obnoxious songs, and what's with all that overzealous gesturing?

I also learned to identify the muscial boys. The ultra geeky, high pants wearing, mama loving boys who lived and died for musicals. I can remember the very day that I became aware of this phenomenon. It was at arts camp when a very ambitious 10 year old boy preformed a song from Phantom of the Opera. It was just the daily noon time show, but he'd still brought in a black cape to complete the look. He put his heart and soul into it, reaching his little hands out to the audience, wooing us with his pre-pubescent voice. Who would want to be associated with that?

Yesterday however, I sensed a contradiction within myself. Right here on the pages of this blog, which is but a week and two days old, I have already mentioned my love for two musical films. It is true, I love these movies and I love that they are muscals. Perhaps the difference is that they are movies, or maybe it's the fact that professionals preform in them reather than ambitious 10 year olds, or it could be that I am simply a liar. A bitter liar who is still wishing for the lead role.
Give me those ruby slippers! Give them to me now!

On the topic of Mtv's Rich Girls

I must disagree with bmad’s comments, I think that Jamie and Ali’s fake social conscience and fake sophistication is pure comedy gold. One of the remarkable things about Rich Girls is that Jamie and Ali are completely unremarkable, they are both heinously ugly, have no sense of style, and they aren’t even sluts or party girls. They have an uncanny resemblance (both in looks, personality, and grating tone of voice) to girls I have encountered repeatedly throughout my life. One could easily meet similar girls at Sarah Lawrence or Brookline High School. This is what at first disgusted me about the show. I hate being around those types in real life, so why would I want to watch them on television? Then I saw the prom episode. Jamie plans to loose her virginity to her ugly boyfriend, but he drinks too much coffee(!) and ends up puking and going home. Her night is ruined and she has been publicly humiliated. It's like getting revenge without all the work!

I would also like to make it clear that, although it insights my rage, I thoroughly enjoy the snobbery on The Simple Life even if it is fake and mean. Paris Hilton is a strange and amazing creature, she is barely even human looking she more resembles a lizard or maybe a mean ostrich. Fascinating.

At this time I think it's important to bring the subject of the Olsen twins to the table. I've heard it predicted many times that the Olsen twins will soon be doing porn. I think this prediction makes sense seeing as they have established themselves soley as commodities to be sold. They aren't actual teenagers, they are a brand name, so why would they avoid porn with its high earning power?

For this reason I was surprised when my roomate brought home some of her bosses old issues of playboy (don't ask). In the back of the 50th anniversary issue I saw projections for the 100th anniversary. There was a picture of the Olsen twins with fake wrinkles drawn on their faces (unneccesary if you ask me, they already look middle aged) and it said "the olsen twins finally do porn, at the age of 40!"

Does this mean that Playboy already asked them to be in the magazine and they refused? I'm intrugued. I suppose they are still trying to market themselves to children, so it wouldn't really be appropriate. It lead me to consider the fact that the Olsen twins are very shrewd when it comes to business dealings. I'm sure when the time is right for them to make porn it will be produced by their own company, Duel Star Entertainment. This way they will make 100% profit. For this reason you really have to respect the Olsen twins, even if their faces do recall the ever contemptable troll dolls.