Stop reading my blog, Mom.

I called my mom last night because I hadn't talked to her in a few days, and, after asking me if I'd been to the Minneapolis airport lately (WHAT?!), we started talking about my brother and how he's adjusting to college.

"Do you talk to him often?" she asked.

"Yeah, I talk to him online everyday... he seems to be doing okay."

"Yes, he does seem to be enjoying it a little more. But is he telling you things he's not telling me? Is that story on your blog true?"

"Huh?"

"Did his roommate actually pee on the carpet?"

"Uh... I thought you didn't read my blog."

"Well, I Google you occasionally just to see what you've been up to."

Great. My mother GOOGLES me. Also, David: call her.

Feist on Letterman with indie-rock allstar choir!

This is the last post for today, I promise!



In the choir are members of Grizzly Bear, The New Pornographers, Mates of State, and The National.

I may laugh at others' misfortunes but I'M NOT MADE OF WOOD.

I'd like to take a moment from blogging about gay Republicans and penis-slippage to focus on something sincere for a sec, ok?

First, I heard back from one the jobs at Northwestern: I didn't get it, although I got a nice email from the guy I interviewed with saying that everyone really liked me and want to find a place in their department. At least it seemed like something that was personal and wasn't just a nice way of telling me I wasn't chosen, which made me feel slightly less upset about it. And then Katy made me feel even better:


And that's the perfect segue into what I planned to write about today: PREGNANCY.

Some of you know that Katy is preggers, and it's kind of weird because she and Justin are really the only close friends I have who are married, much less expecting a child. And that's exciting, and surprisingly not freaking the shit out of me (no matter how often Katy likes to suggest that I'll be in the hospital with her when she gives birth, even delivering the placenta). This is probably one of the reasons why I read an excerpt from Birth: The Surprising History of How We are Born by Tina Cassidy last week.

The first six pages, available on Amazon, were really fascinating and I want to pick up the book sometime this week to read the rest. I will admit, however, that I was a little disturbed when the author explained the details of her complicated first pregnancy, and I found out exactly what a c-section was. And it made me wonder: why is pregnancy such a scary subject? I mean, sure, I'm a guy, but should I really have gone nearly twenty-four years not knowing that sometimes to get a baby out, they have to remove the uterus from a woman's stomach and then stick it back in when it's done? I mean, it happens. It happened to my mother twice. I don't necessarily think that birth should be such a taboo subject, and it shouldn't be so uncomfortable to talk or read about.

When we were discussing this over the weekend, Justin made a good point: after all of the gross-out humor in Knocked Up (which I haven't seen yet), the image that made the audience gasp was a shot of the baby crowning during the birth. When are we going to be less sensitive about that image? Is it because we're scared of the vagina?

Anyway, those were just some thoughts. I didn't take any gender studies in college, so I've gotta express them here.

Also, in case you're wondering, Katy is having a girl, tentatively named Google Menard. Although I'd like to point out that Tyler is unisex, especially since I take a little credit for the conception as it took place shortly after I took this picture:


It was fate.

THANK YOU, LARRY CRAIG.

Isn't it about time we had another hypocritical Republican? I haven't been this excited since Mark Foley!

Man, when these dudes fall, they fall so hard.


Related:
Idaho Senator Larry Craig Arrested In Men's Room [Wonkette]

I'm glad they read Cosmo so I don't have to.

Jezebel just posted an item about the furor over an article in Cosmo about "gray rape," which is the term for a non-consensual, yet nonviolent rape. I obviously don't have a personal gray rape story because I'm a dude, it did make me think of this gem that a friend told me about an acquaintance. I'll write it in first-person, just for effect.

So, this one night me and my best guy-friend were drinking and stuff and his penis kind of slipped in me, but it wasn't rape or anything.

Okay, I know that's not even like, a story, but seriously, if you heard that first-hand, wouldn't you die? Like die a thousand deaths because it's both hilarious and tragic at the same time? I mean, in what situation would that be not-rape? I feel like if wasn't rape, there must be something missing from that sentence, like, "So, this one night me and my best guy friend were drinking and lubed up and in a naked heap of people and his penis kind of slipped in me, but it wasn't rape or anything." Because that's understandable. But if it's just the two of you drinking and stuff - which inevitably means rolling around on an extra-long twin-sized bed - I think any penis-slippage should be fully consensual and defined.


Related:
Cosmo Wonders: Is It Rape If You Had Too Many Jaeger Shots To Remember It Anyway? [Jezebel]

Cheer up, Mumblecore kid.

Last week I have discovered a new hip term that makes me want to die: MUMBLECORE.

According to Wikipedia, which is always right, "Mumblecore is an independent filmmaking movement in the United States characterized by ultra-low budget production, focus on personal relationships between twenty-somethings, improvised scripts, and non-professional actors.... It has also been called 'bedhead cinema' and 'Slackavettes,' a reference to independent film director John Cassavetes."

Ew.

This movement is getting press all of a sudden because the Independent Film Channel Center currently has an exhibition of Mumblecore films called "The New Talkies: Generation D. I. Y." Critics are creaming their pants over this and especially about Hannah Takes the Stairs, which premiered at the exhibit. (Not coincidentally, IFC Films is releasing the movie.) I'm rather dubious of "indie comedies," especially when they garner a lot of buzz before their release. You can interpret that statement as you will, but I'll tell you now that since I think most people are kind of dumb, most of the movies that they like are kind of dumb, as well. (See: Garden State, et al.) And now that this movie has launched "Mumblecore" into any sort of national dialogue, I am immediately turned-off, and that was before I even saw the trailer for it, which I will share with you now.



Also, um, I don't, like, um, really like it when people, um, talk like they can't, um, finish a sentence in real life, and I don't really, like, like it when, um, people do it on celluloid, either. Emily at Gawker, who I kind of want to marry, put it best: "There's nothing worse than when actresses try to convey 'quirky and neurotic' by basically acting drunk or stoned all the time and trying to convey 'incredibly naturalistic' by just taking forever to spit out a sentence." (See: Garden State, et al.)

I'll break here and admit that I did enjoy one Mumblecore film, Mutual Appreciation, which falls into all of these categories and, really, is about nothing. But I liked it, maybe because the dude from Bishop Allen is in it and it's essentially about him. But anyway, here's the trailer for that one:

That movie at least has the music aspect to keep me distracted from a dude wandering around and whining about random make-outs. Do people actually complain about making-out? I don't; I think it's terrific. Way to not be the voice of my generation, Andrew Bujalski.

My major problem with movies like these, however, is that the lack of a really interested story is lauded with praise, as if it's so goddamn difficult to write a script for an improvised film where the characters don't really change or progress in any way. Sure, it's "true to life," et shitera, et shitera, but doesn't anyone remember the line from Adaptation?

"Nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day. There's genocide, war, corruption. Every fucking day, somewhere in the world, somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day, someone, somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love, people lose it. For Christ's sake, a child watches her mother beaten to death on the steps of a church. Someone goes hungry. Somebody else betrays his best friend for a woman. If you can't find that stuff in life, then you, my friend, don't know crap about life. And why the FUCK are you wasting my two precious hours with your movie? I don't have any use for it. I don't have any bloody use for it."

I'm not saying I'm an expert at screen writing or anything, but I was three semester hours away from a minor in Film Studies, so I think I know what I'm talking about, K?


Related:
No, Megahyped Indie Hannah Takes The Stairs Is Not Good [Gawker]
In Which Mumblecore Mania Compels Us To Attend The Sort Of Premiere of Hannah Takes The Stairs [This Recording]

The (Almost) End of Sumratime 2K7.

Highlights from the weekend:

1. Kristin and I went to the Empty Bottle on Friday night to see Magnolia Electric Co. It was my fourth time seeing them (now tied with Of Montreal), but probably the best show I've seen them perform. Also, I'm kind of in love with Jason Molina, as every single song he writes at this point breaks my goddamn heart. To wit:


2. On Saturday I slept until 12:30. Then I went to Jewel with Christina, and upon my return, took a nap. It was a terrific day.

3. Adam and Alissa had an End of Summer (Observed) barbecue on Saturday evening, since they'll be in Europe over Labor Day weekend. While I should have taken the opportunity to wear white jeans for the (first and) last time of the summer, I forgot. Instead I wore my cut-offs, which can be seen in this great picture (not!!!) that Adam took.

Notice my sweet Wii Bowling posture. That's the kind of stance that allows you ten frames of spares!

3. During a brief conversation about The Hills on Saturday night, I loudly declared that Heidi Montag was "a date-rape waiting to happen." I blame the Red Stripes. [PS. Googling that picture enabled my discovery of The Hills Blog. Jackpot!]

4. I had three off-putting dreams this weekend. The first one involved my ex trying to make out with me, and I literally woke up on Saturday morning afternoon with a jump, and then was kind of pissed off the few hours I was awake. Then I had one on Saturday night wherein I ran into my ex-best friend at a family function. I was prepared to hate him still, but then he brought over his baby, whom he named "Moremont" after an imaginary place that I made up when we were kids. Clearly, the way to my heart is to name your baby after something I made up, even if the "place I made up" wasn't even something that happened in my childhood, just one of those dreams I have that involved a lot of fictional back-story. And last night I had some sort of breakdown in my dream when I realized I'd never get into grad school because I didn't read The Scarlet Letter in high school. I think my subconscious is mad at me.

5. Christina and I had a pizza party yesterday and invited everyone who helped us move into our apartment. It was a lot of fun because we played Argue, which is my new favorite game. Adam and I had to debate on this hot-button topic: You're on a date and you suddenly realize that you have to take a shit... do you go in your pants or do you go on a bush in front of your date? I successfully argued the latter, and my winning argument was, "If you put pants on a dog, it's just going to shit in its pants." That may not be convincing when taken out of context, but trust me: it was a pretty powerful thought.

Two things I LOVE about The Hills:

1. Lauren Conrad is really smart:


2. The many faces of Whitney, Lauren's "boss" at Teen Vogue:

The best eight minutes you'll spend all day.

Gray hairs or urine stains?

Today is my brother's 18th birthday, which I'm going to turn into my own neurotic event as I am wont to do.

Last night I was talking to a friend on GChat and he was complaining about noticing a lot more gray hairs when he was in the Gap fitting room, and how that added to his obsession with getting older. I told him to calm down because he's only 25 and, really, that's young.

And then this morning I was doing my weekly shave (I have another interview today) under the bright lights in my bathroom, and I noticed a lot of gray hairs. Like, a lot more than the two I've had in my bangs for a year. There were a lot of them. A lot a lot.

Oh god, my little brother is 18 and in college and I'm turning 24 in less than a month fuck fuck fuck.

Turning 24 wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't one of those pointless birthdays. It's like 23 but worse, obviously, because you start to notice those gray hairs and that you've finally started to look like you're older than 21 because of those years spent getting drunk two nights in a row and smoking entire packs of cigarettes. (At least at 25 you can rent a car without spending extra money on insurance.)

Anyway, as I also talked to my brother last night on GChat, I felt pretty old. It was six years ago that I went to college and was dealing with the stuff he's going through (although my roommate never got drunk and pissed on the carpet; I think my freshman roommate, Fuckhead Dickens ("Yeah, I think I'm related to that writer guy."), stayed in on the first day of classes). I remember also being overwhelmed by all the drinking and the pot-smoking, and it took me quite a while to get comfortable at college. And I'm really glad I don't have to go through all of that again, especially since I feel like I'm finally getting comfortable after college.

I guess my point here is that someday, David, your gray hairs are going to be more stressful than your roommate peeing on your stuff.

I call you out, Jimmy Johns!

If you're not from Chicago, you probably don't know about Jimmy Johns, which is a chain of sandwich shops like Subway but it doesn't smell as bad and they deliver. Also, they apparently have commercials with an Asian announcer which is kind of pointless and racist-question-mark? (But still, it beats Jared, who is still overweight and the reason is because HE STILL EATS AT SUBWAY.)

Or perhaps you've heard of Jimmy John's because you were unfortunate to catch an episode or two of My Boys on TBS, which is the "Chicago sitcom," and also the reason why I'll never think Jim Gaffigan is funny. Because the show isn't actually filmed in Chicago, it relies on inserting Chicago landmarks into the dialogue. The actors overcompensate this, and here's an example (emphasis not mine): "Hey, why don't we hop over to JIMMY JOHN'S for a bite to eat before the game at WRIGLEY FIELD. Then we can meet up with the guys over at KINGSTON MINES!" Also, the show is about a girl who is a sportswriter. Is that even allowed?

Anyway, I started going to Jimmy John's because I found out that you could get a "slim" sandwich for about three dollars, meaning that I didn't have to pay five bucks for just turkey on my bread. And with a drink and chips, my lunch would be cheaper than McDonald's, which makes SENSE because all I'm getting is TURKEY ON A PLAIN ROLL.

Thennnn JJ's tried to sneak one by me and raised the prices on everything on the menu. Suddenly I was not saving money because my lunch began to cost six dollars and sixty six cents. (Perhaps the symbolism of that number is lost on Mr. John's.) I figured this was because they switched from the normal paper cups for drinks to big, dumb, plastic cups (you know, the kind you pay extra money for at Taco Bell because it ties in with the Godzilla movie), as if I was going to elated to have a complimentary souvenir from Jimmy John's #48. Instead, my reaction to this was, "Well, I guess it'll be McDonald's for lunch everyday again. Welcome back, indigestion!" Today, however, I wasn't very hungry so I decided to run by Jimmy John's. What did I find? Not only was my combo still $6.66 (that's to help out those of you who are more visual readers - get it now? JJ's is the ANTI-CHRIST), but it did not come with a big plastic cup. Instead, they gave me a smaller, paper cup. I paid more money for less Coke and four slices of turkey on a plain roll.

I hate you, Jimmy John's.

I should have taken more than one package of Grey Poupon.

My little brother is becoming my little adult.

My brother is at college, which is WEIRD because he's my LITTLE BROTHER and he's at COLLEGE where he will make HUGE MISTAKES but also HAVE THE BEST YEARS OF HIS LIFE.

I called my mom on Saturday to see how Empty Nest 2.0 was coming along, and she seemed fine. In fact, she was sassy with me when I told her that I really just called to tell her what I wanted for my birthday ("Thanks, Tyler. I've been thinking about that all day."), and I have the feeling that she and my dad are absolutely fine and are enjoying the house to themselves for once by eating the good food, drinking wine, watching movies, and not having sex because eww they don't do that.

And my mom only had one crazy thing to say about David's roommate, which was: "He seems nice. He's from Pennsylvania and only has three piercings. Who knows how many others he has hidden."

I talked to David this morning about his first impressions, and I'm glad to know college is exactly the same as when I entered six years ago!


Tomorrow is David's birthday. I think I'll buy him this poster:

I will gladly take that dude's job.

Because I'm lazy and admittedly vapid and uninterested in the news unless it primarily affects me, I don't read the newspaper. I've thought about getting a subscription to one, maybe even just a Sunday edition, but let's be honest - all that will leave me with is a stack of newspapers, mostly unread (except for the Arts section and possibly the Best Buy ads). And since I already have a growing stack of unread Vanity Fairs and Smithsonians, I don't need to add to the clutter.

Basically, I only read things in the New York Times when they are pointed out to me, like this article about AC Newman's wedding, which would have probably made me really mad had it not featured Neko Case, who can do no wrong no matter how many pretentiously indie-rock wedding receptions she's involved in.

Vicariously through Gabe Delahaye's column on Gawker, I read Randy Cohen's "The Ethicist" column. There's no need to read Cohen's actual column, whereas Delahaye's feature is pitch-perfect every single week as it rips apart the assholes who think it makes perfect sense to ask their burning ethical questions with a signed letter to a national news paper. Today, was no exception, although it made me wonder WHY PEOPLE ARE SO STUPID. Please, ponder this paragraph from a link Delahaye provided in reference to one of this week's letters:

Nick McCarvel tells The Ethicist (second letter) that his editor ordered him not to mention that he worked for the magazine when he posted on publication's blogs. "Your ethical instincts are excellent: it is wrong to deceive the readers, even implicitly, and that’s what your editor asked you to do," writes Ethicist Randy Cohen. McCarvel doesn't name his employer but a web search shows he was an intern at Tennis magazine.

Doesn't anyone understand the power of Google?


Related: The Unethicist: Randy Cohen And The World's Last Mystery [Gawker]

Bless your little heart, Mandy Moore.

Can I make a confession? Thanks.

Remember when Mandy Moore released that covers album (aptly titled Coverage)? And she did her own version of songs originally performed by Todd Rungren, XTC, Cat Stevens, and Joni Mitchell, among others?

Well. I bought it. I didn't download it. I actually went to a record store (Plan 9 in Harrisonburg, where the staff surely made fun of me) and paid money for it. And I enjoyed the hell out of that album because Mandy Moore is a motherfucking sweetheart.

Anyway, I found this video this morning of her doing a cover of "Umbrella" by Rihanna. Which is weird, yes, but slightly enjoyable. But I think my favorite part of the video is her introduction and her speech about how she doesn't usually listen to "Top 40" kind of music. Um, I beg your pardon, Mandy Moore? Sure, you're no longer singing stuff like "Candy" and admitted that your first album was shit, but you're not Top 40? And you don't listen to Top 40 anymore? Do you only listen to Zach Braff soundtracks?

It's not something to brag about.

Anyway, here's a video of Mandy Moore singing a Sheryl Crow-ish version of "Umbrella":

Slowly. Surely?

Things are quite dead at work lately, since we're not getting much mail and there isn't any busy work to keep us busy. So, since I was instructed to "look busy," I've been spending my time watching movies on Netflix, which is pretty much one of the greatest technological advancements in my life (following the iPod and Netflix, free online movies have saved my life). I've been watching some downers, though watching depressing movies at work makes you realize that you don't have it so bad after all? Feeling down? I suggest watching Agnes of God, like I did yesterday! And follow that with The Children's Hour! There's nothing like nuns who kill their babies and suicidal lesbians to brighten your spirits and make those miserable eight hours fly by!

I should perhaps credit my good mood lately on the progression in my job search. I had a phone interview on Monday that landed me an in-person meeting tomorrow afternoon. And I took the Metra for the first time yesterday (terrifying!) to Evanston for an interview at Northwestern, which went amazingly well. I was there for an hour and a half and talked up a storm. I was pulling out all kinds of optimism in my work ethics that I surprised myself. Also, it's nice when the two interviewers are much more awkward and less prepared than I am. I think I have a very good chance (I'm one of seven candidates who are in the interview process out of around seventy applicants), but I won't hear anything for a few weeks.

The interview tomorrow is for another position at Northwestern, and it requires writing samples, which is kind of frightening. I don't really have any professional writing samples; the only thing I have are long, academic papers. In addition to that frustration, I've never had an opportunity for someone to judge my ability to be an office assistant based on my writing. I think that interview might be a little trickier, although I suppose it'll be good practice regardless.

My cat is smarter than you.

Vacay 2k7 is officially dunzo, and I'm back at work despite my best intentions. Well, that's not exactly true;I did get up on time and got to the office early. And there's no work to do, so I've spent an hour catching up on my blog reader (which isn't exactly out of the ordinary) and craving McDonald's.

I had so much fun last week, and even though I didn't really spend any money (meals and entertainment were covered, but I did buy a t-shirt and salt water taffy), I don't have any money until payday on Friday.

I have a lot of freckles right now. Unfortunately, all of the sun that I managed to get on my arms, back, and chest has faded really quickly (my legs, natch, remained white all week since the skin down there does not react to light). I was impressed with myself for being okay with the beach and the bathing suit issue, and I came home thinking, "My body is nobody's body but my own and I'm OKAY WITH MY BODY!!!" Then I got off the bus at the Addison stop, saw the mixed crowd of Wrigleyville dudes and meat-Market Days gays who were all like, "LOOK AT MY GUNS." All I wanted was a long-sleeved shirt.

I should buy some protein.

Other than my arms, I'm generally happy about my life right now. Vacation was wonderful, and I had a great time with my family and Kristin, but I'm glad to be back in Chicago with friends. And after this upcoming paycheck, I'll be out of the hole, which is a nice feeling. And I've got two interviews this week!

Okay, that's all I've got, but I'll leave you with these pictures of my cat:

He hasn't fallen and he can get up.

It's hot here in the Outer Banks with temperatures dangerously close to one hundred degrees. And since we're in between two large bodies of water, the humidity is about ninety-seven percent. Basically, we sweat a lot, and then we get in the ocean and it's so cold that our balls hurt (especially Kristin's).

When we got back from the beach yesterday, I found my father like this:

I ran over to him, thinking he had slipped and fallen down the stairs, and asked him if he was okay. He shouted, "I'm fine, just hot! Lean down and put your head against this bar! It's nice and cool!"

My father grew up on a farm and didn't have indoor plumbing until he was seven. Likewise, central air must still be a luxury to him.

Justice with a SNAP!

I kind of like judge shows because my parents raised me on Judge Judy, meaning that she was on every single afternoon during my high school years and, because I was lazy, bored, and addicted to moving images and sassy ladies on the TV, I would watch the show begrudgingly. Then I finally admitted that I had a problem and owned it. I like Judge Judy. Why not? She "takes no prisoners," as my dad says.

[Note: I was going to post a video from YouTube of Judge Judy's greatness, but we've all seen it, and you get it. Also, the best part about looking up Judge Judy videos is that people who have been on the show post their own cases. They are proud of themselves, no doubt.]

Anyway, there have been a lot of other judge shows that haven't been as successful, and each judge has their own little characteristic that sets them apart from the rest. Judge Judy is sassy and Jewish. There's a sassy, black judge. There's a sassy Latina judge. And now, there's a sassy gay judge.

Please, please, please go to his website and watch the promotional videos. Judge David Young will thank you for it. He loves the law, he loves to teach, and he loooooves to entertaaaaain! In song, no less.

My favorite part of this is that they don't say outright that the man is G-A-Y. Sure, he has "personality" and "loves showtunes," but can't a 48-year-old man be straight and still admit he fears his mother? Oh, wait:

Judge Young's compassion and concern extends to animals as well. He sits on the board of the Miami-Dade Humane Society and devotes time to many animal rescue initiatives. He is also an avid collector of penguins and has over 1,000 as a tribute to the character in the "Batman" television series. He is also a member of Weight Watchers and attends weekly meetings. Young lives in Miami with his partner of 12 years, Judge Scott Bernstein, and their Cairn poodle mix dog named Maggie.

Hmm. Guess not.

I don't know much about tans but my freckles look fierce

Hello friends of Tyler's blog. My name is Kristin. You may recognize me from past posts, embarrassing stories, and horrifying Flickr pictures (check for daily updates).

Yes, hello!

Tyler and I are in day #4 of vaycay 2k7 in the Oaterbanks (as those from the Northern Neck might say) / the Outerbarx as the dogs might say. Let me tell you: everyday is a scorcher down here. Is it hot enough for me? Yes, yes it is. This is my 9th summer down here and woooweee is it different from when I'm here with MY family. (I blew off my own family for a surrogate this summer.) I'm used to being down here with approx. 30 people in one household. This week I'm here with the Coateses and family friends which bring the total count to 8 heads. It's like Bizarro Beach Week I swear to god. These beautiful, nice, generous people sit around the table and eat dinner together. They wait until everyone's awake (I broke my promise to myself that I wouldn't be the last one to wake up but it happened and they didn't even make me feel weird about it!!) and ready to go before trekking down da beach all the while making sure everyone will have a sandwich they like when they're all settled in a little beach chair! They fix drinks for each other (mmmmmmargaritas)! Play board games together! Have large-group conversation! They are all so lovely. One board game in particular that mystifies me: Impulse. The "M" is make to look like a squiggly line from a heart monitor. It's this game that I think a friend of a family friend invented but never sold to Milton Bradley or one of those bigwigs, and so it never really "made it." Talk about fast-paced. I've only won this game twice, but that's okay, I haven't been playing for years and years like everyone else in this house. SUCK IT. WHATEVER. I'LL IMPROVE. Tonight we get to play Hedbanz. I'm really excited to play it. We were supposed to play last night but I think a bottle of red wine got in the way. I don't know, google Hedbanz, just look at the cover. I'm so excited.

But what I was really getting at is that when I'm down here with my usual supersized crew, I go days without seeing members of my immediate family. You just, kind of, sift through the pile of car keys on the counter and see which ones match whichever vehicle is closest to the road and ride down to Food Lion for Bagel Bites or something. At dinner time cousins and I eat mac&cheese with little pieces of hot dog cut up in it for dinner when the Grown Ups eat pan-seared pistachio encrusted swordfish with potato croquettes. When will I be a grown up? Never. When people are pissed off on my family vacation, there are a lot of cold shoulders, down cast eyes, and behindtheback shittalking. People actually verbally duke it out here at vaycay 2k7. I've heard A-words, P-words, S-words, and F-words flying all over this house like fruit flies on an apple pie. I love it. I've detected four distinct types of sarcasm and I admire them all. I have my own bed here. My own room in fact. I'm used to drunkenly stumbling around looking for something soft on which to lay my head so I can catch some zzzs under a staircase or something.

Tylie (that's what his mom's friend calls him! it better catch on!) and I made a bet concerning the freshly-released Magnolia Electric Company boxset. HE SAYS that it will NOT be sold in records stores down here. SHE SAYS it will. Loser buys winner a ticket to their upcoming show. See you there sucker.

I love you guys.

ps tyler farted in front of me and it has brought our friendship to a 'hole new level.
pps Simpsons movie = 3.5 clams shells out of 5.
ppps dolphins are all cute but when you're in a kayak, arms length away, they're kinda skeeeeeery.


K SEE YA.


Ed. Note: To save you Googling time, here is the cover of Hedbanz:
Also, I do not fart.

Vacation (All I ever wanted).

I'm in the Outer Banks of North Carolina this week, which is why my posting will be sporadic at best.


And also, this is the first time in years I've gone shirtless outside, so it's possible I might actually have a tan by the end of the week.

Which really means all of the freckles on my body might form one giant freckle. It's the best I can do.

Friday Poll: What song do you hate the most?!

I'm phoning it in today because I'm leaving for vacay in a few hours and I don't feel like thinking too much right now, so here's a poll.

For the record, the song that inspires the most hatred in my dark, dark soul is "Ignition" by R. Kelly. I swear to God, every time I hear that song I want to shove rusty nails down my throat and let them pass through my body (I'm trying not to be TOO scatological here) so that the pain from hearing that motherfucking song will temporarily be relieved by the prospect of getting tetanus in my intestinal tract.



UGGGGH I HATE IT.

I've been asking other people what their least-favorite songs were. Megan responded, "I've had the string section from 'Funkytown' stuck in my head all week, so, that song." Which is a good answer.



Adam has two:

[Note: This shows how stupid people actually like this song and think it's sung by Tom Petty rather than Tom Cochrane. FUCK ALL OF YOU.]



My dad also has two songs that inspire road rage on occasion:


I've seen the road rage. It's not pretty.

My mom loves to do impressions of Dolores O'Riordan's nasally voice when she hears this one:


Here's my brother's pick, which resulted from the summer where I drove him around with this song blasting on my stereo on REPEAT. Seriously. I'm sorry, David; we all make mistakes.


So, Internet, what's YOUR most-hated song?

In Joker we trust?

This morning I found this in my pants pocket:

I wonder, do you think this is part of the Warner Bros. viral marketing campaign for The Dark Knight?

I don't have air conditioning.

In addition to cable, Christina and I are too cheap for air conditioning.

Well, I'll admit that I wouldn't be too cheap for it if I didn't spend all of my money on alcohol this summer, but you have to admit (if you live in Chicago) that the past few months have been generally cool and A/C seems like a luxury I don't particularly need. That is until Monday, when God decided that not only should I have no money in my account to fund my drinking habits, the temperature should also hit the 90s this week.

So basically, Christina and I spend our evenings sweating a lot and watching the three channels we do get: CBS, a very, very fuzzy ABC, and the CW. And let me tell you: neither How I Met Your Mother nor Girlfriends are any funnier when you're delirious from heat stroke.

Tommy Tester is my new favorite disgraced Baptist minister.

Tommy Tester, a minister in Bristol, Virginia (which might as well be Tennessee, by the way) was arrested for indecent exposure in Johnson City, Tennessee last week.

The good parts:

1. Tester was relieving himself in front of children at a car wash.

2. An open bottle of vodka and an empty prescription bottle of Oxycontin were found in his car.

3. Tester offered the arresting officers oral sex.

4. He was also wearing a skirt.

God bless your heart, Rev. Tester.


Related:
Minister in Skirt Charged With Indecent Exposure [WGAL]