Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Chosen sent his in about 5 months ago and I sent mine in about 2 months ago.
Chosen brought it up several times, wondering why they hadn't contacted him.
I told him, "Yeah, that's weird. They usually diss my ass right away."
Chosen went as far as to hypothesize that McSweeney's might not even be doing open letters anymore.
I countered that, "Yes they are, silly. I just saw a new Open Letter to Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer the other day." It's true. I really did.
Well two days ago the mystery unfolded when I received the following email:
I apologize for the extreme tardiness of this reply. It isn’t the way I want the website to do business and I’m ashamed that I let it happen under my watch.
I’m sorry as well that I’m going to pass on these for the site. I do hope you won’t hold it against us and will submit again in the future.
I promptly sent it to Chosen and he wrote back with this:
"Good to see they personalized the response. Oh, wait...."
I apologize for the extreme tardiness of this reply. It isn¹t the way I want
the website to do business and I¹m ashamed that I let it happen under my
I¹m sorry as well that I¹m going to pass on this for the site. I do hope you
won¹t hold it against us and will submit again in the future.
Very creative those guys are over at McSweeney's. Very creative, indeed.
*A quick site search reveals that McSweeney's has indeed eliminated their open letters section. So, instead of admitting fault for once hosting a mediocre section, they opted to instead make us feel like we're not good enough (A tear departs my eye). Bastards.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Considering that this is my second update on the stupid thing, I regrettfully inform that it has just been way too hyped. On top of that, it's only going to be moderately interesting. Uh oh, that's a bad combination...
Either way, it will be featured here next Sunday...
Sunday, February 26, 2006
All of the drama.
Cak's in a shitty long-distance relationship with a guy in Houston. He's 40, she's 25. He parties, she doesn't. He lives with an NFL player, she lives alone. Oh yeah... he also cheated on her a year ago. Being a reformed cheater myself, I imagine he still is. Nevertheless, Cak eventually took him back after he groveled, shamelessly, for 6 months. Needless to say, she's still not over it. She just can't seem to trust the bastard. Could you?
She does that chick rationalization thing whereby she analyzes everything he has said/done for the past week or month or other time period. It goes something like this: "I know the only reason he's not calling me is because he was busy this week because when I go down there he's busy. I've seen how busy he is, so I'm sure that's why he's not calling. He's a really busy guy. That's why he's not calling. Yeah. Busy."
Cak never goes out.
She got decked-out last night; her bra sticking out of her shirt, her jeans glued to her legs, and boots up to her knees. She looked hot. She thought so too, so she had me take a picture of her so she could send it to her man's cellphone. Maybe as a threat.
Cak is a one-drink max kind of lady.
Her first and last drink of the night occurred at 10:30.
I like to get shitfaced.
I don't stop until I'm sleeping.
She checks her phone (and his) constantly.
I spent the majority of the evening building up her confidence; telling her that if she's going to stay with him she's gotta drop the jealousy shit. I personally couldn't take a guy back if he cheated because I'd always be paranoid, kind of how she is...
You can see where this night was heading, and did head. We left the club at about 2 a.m. I must admit some fault however. My friend promotes there, which means I don't pay for drinks. Ever. We arrived too early and he arrived too late. The product of which was me buying a drink for myself. Can you even bare the thought? I was pissed. I'm not being serious (but, I kind of am). My thinking is that I wouldn't be at the club if it weren't for my promoter friend being there, so I shouldn't be paying for any drinks. The situation put me in a bad mood.
So, yeah, we left. I ended up spending the night at Cak's place near Times Square. When we got back, Cak got on her computer to check her boyfriend's Cingular bill. For some reason she's got his password and with it, she traces every single call he places and receives. Somehow she also knows who every phone number on his log belongs to. I have to give credit where credit's due: she's a master of her pitiable craft. She repeated this whole process when she woke up in the morning as well.
You've got to stop this.
I told her that everyone has, at one point or another, been in a similar hell. Maybe not as intense, but a hell just the same. I think I got out of mine when it was in the early stages, before it had time to consume me like so. Living in her reality for even 10-hours invoked a kind of nostalgia I could've definitely lived without.
Cak is taking baby steps.
Evidently after I left this morning she called one of her friends and had her change the password to her boyfriend's online phone log. Now she won't be able to check it even if she wants to. She'll want to. This was a good move, one that will actually save me some stress too. After all, I didn't really have a good reason as to why he was calling other chicks at 4 in the morning. Evidently Cak did though: "I know the only reason he's calling her is because he works with her. When I go down there, he calls people he works with around the clock. I've seen him do it, so I'm sure that's why he's calling her. He's a really busy guy. That's why he's calling her. It was business. Yeah. Business."
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
This is clearly a publication that recognizes a good thing when it sees one.
Actually, who am I kidding? The story will not highlight my finer points (perhaps there are too many?), but I'll post the clip when it comes out.
To be continued...
Thursday, February 23, 2006
A good question indeed. And the answer is not a cryptic one. In fact, it lies in the heart of the following passage -- it having been sent to me by the owner of the displayed bio:
You are SO fucking funny!!!! And damn talented. I could read your shit all day but it is back to my monkey tasks now. I am going to put your blog on my favorites...so keep writing you ugly little whore.
Yes, it's really that easy, folks. Honesty is an endearing policy. One to which Ms. McCord clearly and rigorously abides.
*No one asked.
**This is how I explained to Chosen the phenomenon of him getting more traffic than I do. "You see, Chosen, my blog is only for VIPs. While my doorman is very strict with the list, yours will let in any old riff raff off the street." Boy, did I set him straight!
Name: Courtney McCord
Date of Birth: August 13th, 1979
Hair Color: Auburn, which is not really red, but then again, not really brown either.
Eye Color: Green-ish
Skin Type: Fair to Midland, lingering more - okay, a lot more - on the fair side.
Dogs' Names: Dakota and Cash
City/State of Residence: Carlsbad, CA
Occupation: Something dealing with real estate
Hobbies: Giving into her vices, walking her dogs, scaring cats, hanging out with her boyfriend, & much, much more!
Let's everybody give a big, warm welcome to Ms. McCord! And, if you see her in the neighborhood, don't hesitate to say hello. She's quite friendly as it turns out.
"The blog is just my way of unboring myself and in turn, boring the hell out of others. You see, boredom is not created nor destroyed, just transformed and transfered. As you know, I'm a physicist..."
I'm so darn clever.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Chosen: So, I made some comment about how the majority of people working in corporate America have the tasks of a monkey. I think this pissed him off, because I haven't heard from him since. At the same time, I thought that since I work in corporate America and since mine are the tasks of a monkey, I was eligible to make this claim. Like if you're black you're allowed to make fun of black people, but if you're white, you better shut the hell up before I gat yo ass.
Aaron's Sister: As she was scrutinizing the wine menu the other night, I made a comment about how generally people don't really know shit about wine, yet they sit and stare at the menu hoping that they will -tada!- suddenly understand French or Italian. I elaborated by detailing accounts of the times when I worked at restaurants and people would order one wine and I would give them another. Conveniently, they had no clue. Or, when people would complain about a glass of wine and I would bring them the same glass back and they would sing its praise. Pathetic really. I think she thought I was referring to her and her present practice. No, not at all really. But, I must admit, her looking at the menu so intensely did provoke the conversation.
Misty: Related to the Sally story, plus some of her own personal issues, which she is conveniently blaming on me.
Ken: Please refer to my previous entry about how I thought my roommate was mad at me. Well, all of my guesses were right on. He's no longer mad at me, however, but since this was a recent event, he made my list.
My Cousin Sara: She overheard me saying to one of my friends that I wanted to take diet pills so that I could stay awake at work. She looked at me with disgust, saying, "You are already skinny." Right, right. But, it still takes me an elephant's worth of coffee to stay awake at my job. I'm turning to drugs. Sorry.
My mom: My mom called me the other day and told me that her new hobby was laminating things. Her old hobby, which spanned 6 years, was making jewelry. She got bored with that though. So, she sent me a story she wrote me and it was, of course, laminated. She asked me what I thought about the picture on the other side. I told her that I didn't know there was anything on the other side. I got a message yesterday letting me know that when, in the future, I receive something that is laminated, I must turn it over to see if there's something on the back!
I'm sure I'm leaving out a few people, but this is not set in stone. I keep a running tally. This is the most names I've had in a while though. I imagine this means that I am doing something wrong. I apologize.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
"Geez, now I feel safe from harm's way. Thanks for the heads up."
The conversation started when I was telling him that Brian's once-nickname, "Chosen," had since evolved to become his official name. Brian and D are both Jewish. I'm Jewish on my mom's side, but have never practiced, which to me means I'm not Jewish. Evidently this isn't the general consensus amongst my Jewish friends. And, it certainly isn't important to D. Although when I tell people I'm Puertorican, D is quick to follow with "Jewish Puertorican." I think it's cute.
D was pleased with Brian's new name and reconfirmed Chosen's status as one of the Chosen.
"Well, yeah, that's kind of what I just said," I told D.
Then D told me that I too was one of the Chosen people and followed with the Armageddon thing.
I've never heard him talk much about his beliefs, but I'm glad he's into them. I mean, I guess. I'm not religious, but I very much respect religion. I just hate people. It is usually a religion's people that turn me off of it. How they represent it, etc...
And all of this is to say, was D for real? About the Armageddon thing? Hmmmm....
I'll take it as a compliment. After all, I guess that someone saying that I'm going to be saved from global ruin is better than someone telling me I look nice tonight, did I do something different with my hair?
Saturday, February 18, 2006
I think he's mad at me, and I'm pretty sure it's because I left all my recycling by the trashcan for 3 days; because I conveniently ignored a small pile of coffee grains I spilled on the stove, or because I tend to lay on the couch like a jungle sloth after work, have Cesar over for coffee every morning before I go to work, and because I set up shop in the living room, making it more of an office than a TV den.
But, beyond this, I really don't see the need for the attitude problem.
Really. Well... in his defense, I admit that I'm downright useless during the work week. I leave the house for 10-11 hours per day, I come home, and, quite frankly, don't really feel like lugging the recycling down 4 flights of stairs; don't want to break out the paper towels to clean up the grains; don't care to get off the couch in lieu of doing something productive; enjoy having an alternative to my stuck-in-the-potty-training-stage-of-development roommate over for coffee & conversation before work; and would love to use my NYC-licious, $1,125/month room as an office, but it is so damn small that my bed doubles as a floor. Honest. Plus, there are no windows, so I can't breathe. Did I mention that I'm clastrophobic? And, that I have asthma? This is not a good combination, especially when my clastrophobia turns into hyperventilation. My asthma follows in suit, and, well, it's just a downhill, medically-unprescribed game of hell's dominoes from there. In essence, I kind of sort of have to bring my computer and papers and office supplies and phones and purse and slippers into the living room. Every night. Or. I. Will. Die.
So, go to hell, Mr. Poopie Pants.
Oh, on top of this. I don't have a problem with anything he does (except this moping problem, which clearly annoys the living bejeezus out of me). Not because he doesn't do anything annoying, but because we are paying way too much rent to not be "allowed" to do anything that we want. For $1,125/month, I will craft a couch made of Costa Rican espresso if I, for some reason, feel the need...
Um, yeah. A couch of espresso.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Chosen: "Already said I was free this weekend. You deaf or something, bitch?"
[Editor's note: This conversation took place over email, so him asking me if I'm deaf is, like, so irrelevant.]
Since this mode of speech is about par for the course with Chosen, I failed to mention the bitch comment in my next email, but still he bantered. He was very proud of his hardcore persona and wanted to make sure I noticed that he had indeed called me a bitch.
Chosen: "And my availability was clearly stated in my prior e-mail. Right
before I made a Kobe rape joke...again....for the 100th time. Like
shooting fish in a barrel.
"Oh yeah, did I call you a bitch? Sorry! I must have spelled it wrong. Cunt.
Okay, that's better."
I think I must have laughed at this one (and a laugh over email is something like this: hahahahhahahaah. Well, for me, at least). So, Chosen ended the day's emails with the following.
Chosen: "I can't believe I used the C word. tee hee.
Still, I gave him no credit. Mostly because I knew he was trying to employ the whole shock factor theory, and I didn't want to give him that kind of satisfaction. Obviously still bothered by my aloofness about the whole thing, I received one final bitch/cunt reference from him a day later.
Chosen: "Oh...I guess now that you have a blog I should be careful what I say as EVERYTHING ends up on there!!! This quote probably will too. :) Although our bitch/cunt exchange didn't make the page. Sigh."
To this I wrote back: "One bitch/cunt entry coming up!"
And that, my friends, is this...and the end of my series of email-based entries. But, not really. Sadly, email is my life. Sigh...
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Finally, I gave him an ultimatum (get it, or it dies), followed by a relevant choice: "Death by euthanization or public hanging? You choose." Still, he did not show. So, finally, I gave it to Cesar. Today Cesar sent out this message to our list of friends on email, along with a Craigslist listing for guess what? Dan's skateboard! (Dan's reply and an interested party's reply to follow):
All you skaters,
don't be haters.
hear me now,
take a look and bow.
i only take cash,
you're not being rash.
40 bucks is all,
so come on ya'll.
check out this link,
of a skateboard, wink wink.
its dan, the man's.
Skateboard - $40
Reply to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Date: 2006-02-16, 6:34PM EST
Check out the picture.
No, my friends, "Skateboarding is not a crime."
Double D did not salvage this one.
It's $40 bucks.
Act now. This won't last long.
this is in or around manhatton
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
HERE IS THE FIRST REPLY ON THE SKATEBOARD
YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT, DAN
From : PoLo Gan
Sent : Friday, February 17, 2006 12:07 AM
To : email@example.com
Subject : Skateboard - $40
what are the dimensions?
and what type of wheels are those?
Dan Drew to Cesar:
I love my baby - please don't let somebody adopt it. I promise I can pick it up Saturday - 4:45. I'll be there, in my skateboarding shoes, ready to ride her all the way home.
-Dan "Skateboarding is not a crime" Drew
You see, now Dan is groveling. I tell ya, boys only want what they can't have.
Follow-up: Cesar has decided that the guy who replied is too dumb to take the skateboard. After all, he asked about the wheels. Is there not a huge picture of the wheels? There is, my friends. There is.
THERE IS A SECOND INTERESTED PARTY FOR THE SKATEBOARD, DAN.
I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I CAN HOLD THEM OFF!
From : Maxwell S Dubler
Sent : Friday, February 17, 2006 5:06 AM
To : firstname.lastname@example.org
Subject : Skateboard - $40
This still around?
Let me know.
I loved this pitch and was actually surprised when I didn't get a response. Now I have. Justice has been served.
That is soooo only half the battle though. I'll keep y'all updated.
Sorry for the delay in responding to this—I missed this email, for some reason. Anyway, go ahead and send me your article.
Dear Ms. Haynes,
Hello. I am interested in submitting a first person narrative of cheating to you for possible publication. I got your email address from the MediaBistro "How to Pitch" article.
The story I am interested in submitting is a quarky albeit intelligent account of what goes on in the female cheater's mind during the processes of cheating and seeming reformation. The narrative begins as a condensed history of the character's problem (as detailed by several arguments with herself; the opposition created when her conscience enters her reality) and concludes with her ultimately trying to, once and for all, solve her problem, i.e. "kill the beast":
Me: I've made a decision to break the chain this time around. I don't want to cheat. I want to kill the evil beast that resides within but it seems to be overpowering me.
Me: Oh yeah, blame it on something else. It's not you. It's a fire-breathing dragon.
Me: Brilliant, ain't it?
I would love to submit the above described story for your review. Please let me know if you are interested in having me send it over...
As a follow-up, Esther dissed me about 5 minutes after receiving the piece. It's a shame too. It was quite an article...
Here is a headline from the New York Post: Silence Broken as Cheney Points Only to Himself
Well, no shit. Who else would he point to? The grass? The open clearing? God's will? His bro's bad karma?
"You must have done some serious damage in your past life, buddy. I'm just the universe's preferred medium for delivering punishment for that which you, quite frankly, reaped upon yourself lives ago. Hey, don't look at me. I'm just the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. [Self-induced guffaw here when Cheney realizes he just employed a tasteless pun in the face of the recent shooting]." His hands in the air, his face to the floor, the shaking of his head. This all occurs as he does the stance. You know the stance. The guilty one...
In all fairness though, the White House evidently wanted to blame it on Cheney's hunting partner, so the headline isn't completely glorifying Cheney's *magananimous* & *earthshattering* decision to admit fault.
The White House is kind of like this though. One of those bastards trip and, hell, it was the sidewalk's fault. Poor kid in Iraq trips over a grenade and is disintegrated--> "Wrong place, wrong time." Isn't it easier to just say, "Sorry dude," "I'm a damn clutz," or, "We should seriuosly rethink our strategy..."?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
"We don't need your stinkin' magazines!"
Yeah, that's exactly what it says.
After all, Steven King got denied several times before hitting it big, and we all know what a great writer he is. Wink, wink.
"Just cover it up with snow and freeze it," I suggested, not able to imagine wanting the warmth of dog crap to be that which keeps me heated on a cold winter night.
"GiGi, what if you stepped in this? You wouldn't be too happy about it, would you?" He said in a manner that really suggested the notion that he was - plainly and simply - a better person than I.
"No, I guess not. But, when I had a dog, she used to go in the decorative grass area right by the sidewalk, not directly on the sidewalk."
"Well, Ruby is completely liberated now."
"Really? You mean, like, she doesn't wear a bra?"
"Exactly. She has really small nipples anyway."
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Anyway, these letters are further proof that MAD is still the reigning champ. And that Brian Rosen and I need an in!
Unlike many cold, callous editors, we at MAD believe that anyone takingthe time and trouble to submit material deserves a warm, personal noterather than a cold, indifferent e-mail. So, please consider this to be awarm, personal note rather than the cold, indifferent e-mail it actuallyis!We want you to know that we appreciate your taking the time to think ofus and send your comic brainstorms (yeah, right!) our way. Because ofthe overwhelming number of submissions we receive, we cannot respond toall those who submit material, even geniuses such as yourself.If you've tickled our funny bone and we are interested in having youdevelop what you've sent, you'll hear from us.Thanks for sharing your twisted comedic musings with us.
Thank you for your recent submission to CRACKED.Unfortunately, after careful review by our print and online editors, we donot think that the piece fits our current needs.Again, we greatly appreciate your interest in CRACKED and wish you the bestof luck.
The CRACKED Editorial Team
*From MAD to GiGi
**From CRACKED to Brian
With the receptionist as my witness, I spent the day at work Friday willing this upon myself. I knew there was a snowstorm set to hit New York on Saturday, so I thought it would be great if it caused cancellations at the airport. Now I get an extra night with D and a paid day off at work. Life is good sometimes.
On that note, all of my anxiety has passed. Last week was intolerable. I feel like I just emerged from a really bad acid trip (even though I admit, I've never experienced a really bad acid trip). I don't know where my mind went. It's like it left me and in it's place was a sub-par stand-in. A shitty substitute teacher. An unskilled temp worker who can't figure out how to transfer calls (bonus: that's her only responsibility!) Anyway, it's a bit scary to think that that level of paranoia-insecurity-anxiety lives inside me. I hope it stays away for a while. I can't handle going through that again any time soon. Hopefully, this wish will too come to pass with my dedicated two-ish readers as my witnesses.
As for my snowday, I wish I would have found out about it a bit sooner as I would have really enjoyed having a couple more bloody mary's this morning at brunch and enjoying the day fully with D. He makes me rethink my old ways, not that I need any reason to think about things anymore than I already do. Sigh.
In conclusion, snowday=good. That's all
Thursday, February 09, 2006
In the event that you want your site to be understood only by 14-year old, suburban, white kids, go here. Gizoogle.com allows you to "translate" your entire website into Snoop Dog lingo.
It's worth taking a look at, but like any gimmick, it becomes un-funny very quick. And by "very un-funny" I really mean "horribly gauche and not entertaining whatsoever." So, yeah, check it out.
To understand the following post, you must know a few key factors:
A) I am gullible as hell
B) Jenny = Morris Ridgefield = this weird guy who has a self-righteous blog where he posts "advice," rants, and random email conversations he has with dumbass girls like me who will fall for it.
D) The absolute entire time (until the last couple entries, at least) I thought this was M and his friend messing with me.
Enjoy at my expense. Please. My stupidity amuses even me sometimes:
Jenny Lions <email@example.com > wrote:
stay away from my man. He is mine, just because you had sex with him, doesn't mean he is going to leave me. Grow up!
GiGi to Jenny
Who are ya?
Jenny to GiGi
Don't take me for a fool bitch! Stay away from my Johnny! You think because your tits are bigger, he will like you more?
GiGi to M
Is this your chick? If so, tell her to leave me alone. Thanks, GiGi
GiGi to Jenny
[Now, thinking this was M and his friend messing around, I wrote back the following to "Jenny"]
Isn't it past your bedtime, M-ski? Stop thinking about me.You too, Burke. You guys need a new hobby.kisses.
Jenny to GiGi
[Going along with it, "Jenny" wrote back]
We are getting all hot and bothered thining about you! Care for a threesome?
GiGi to Jenny
Hmmm... Although having sex with two 35-year olds who are so bored they have to harass me via a fake email address on a Sunday night in lieu of, well, meeting a real girl, sounds enticing - I'm going to instead opt to clean the shelves in my medicine cabinet. You see, they have commenced rusting and I don't do well with rust. In any event, you can surely see my hesitancy at taking you fine lads up on this tempting proposition. But, please, don't feel obligated to cancel your plans on my account. After all, two is better than one - the latter with which I am sure you're very familiar.
M - be a dear and send me my Might mag.
Jenny Lions to GiGi
We even cut out your head and put it on the face of two lesbians...
You should take your PMS medicine more often. Your cabinet wouldn't rust out if you ever opened it. I'm sure with all the other pills you have in there (anti rage, anti constipation, laxatives) you do get confused at times.
haha, I am sure you and "Mr. Wiggles" know all about being alone.
Gigi to Jenny
Are you for real? I'm so happy it's over, lover.
I'm pretty sure I win. A reliance on laxative jokes pretty much confims this.
Morris Ridgefield to me
You've been punked!
GiGi to Morris
[Still convinced it's M and his friend using a fake address, I continue writing...]
Cute blog. Comparing one's self to Maddox is pretty presumptious. Quoting Ashton Kutcher is ludicrous. Good night.
Oh yeah, good work on the alias.
Jenny Lions to GiGi
As cute and intelligent as you are, I think you completly missed my point. I punked you. I have no clue who your friends are. Although I would be interested in talking to you more. You sound like a really interesting person.
GiGi to Jenny
Cool. Let's talk over coffee and a crumpet tomorrow (or scone, whatever you prefer, really). 7-ish? I've got a badminton game at 9:30.
Morris Ridgefield to GiGi
I think geographically we have an issue there, and I do have to work....
GiGi to Morris
Yeah, location has always been an issue with us, huh? That and personality defects.
Morris to GiGi
My dearest sweetie,
I would be more then happy to meet you some weekend, but my current parole doesn't allow me to leave Kentucky, so you can come to me, or we can just communicate virtually. What's your IM name? As for personaltiy defects, that really hurts!
GiGi to Morris
Sure, I'll come to Kentucky. I'm going to be in Boston tomorrow through wednesday, and then NYC until Friday. How 'bout Saturday or Sunday. Do they have crumpets in the big house?
Morris to GiGi
I'm under house arrest. I can get anything you want, even including some midol.
GiGi to Morris
You're boring me. Good night.
Morris to GiGi
Yeah I was just thinking the same thing. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
R to GiGi
Ha! Nope, not one of my old psychos. Who else you have sex with lately? Any guys with Boston ties? Burke and I could probably track this broad down if we had enough info. It's a small place. Now that I have her e-mail address, maybe I'll mess with her anyway...
GiGi to R
[Feeling like an imbecile at this point, I write back...]
Nah. No boston ties. Well, except my ex-boyfriend who I haven't seen since the ol' break up.As for sex, i don't kiss & tell, lover. Although I can assure you - I have no interest in any guys right now. I'm pretty focused on moving, so don't you worry your pretty little head off (I know you are). Y'all have fun with this one. I'm over it.good luck on your interview. Keep in touch.
Morris to GiGi
How did your badminton game go? Kick their ass?
GiGi to Morris
Of course. I am the badminton queen. In New Zealand they have a special name for me, but I can't remember what the hell it is.So, are you going to post my conversation with you? Do I get royalties? How does this all work out? I think you should post it, despite the fact that my replies were more skilled than yours. Yu'd have to alter your correspondence a bit to make yourself, well, seem more intelligent than me. I can help you out with this, of course
Morris to GiGi
You completely misunderstand me here. I am just trying to make a new friend! I have no intention of posting our convo. First of all, you are way too intelligent. The average person I look for is someone that would buy an extended warranty, and I know you wouldn't fall for that! People who buy an extended warranty are very gullible. If you would like to end our newly formed friendship I can understand.
GiGi to Morris
You are hilarious. I'm going to the airport. Talk to ya later!
Morris to GiGi
Glad you aren't mad at me anymore. Saves me the $35 detective agency fee to find out who you are so I could send you flowers! But I don't need to do that anymore! I would have chose the cheap ones anyways and they usually die after a few days...I hope you have a fun trip!
*As far as I know, Morris never posted our conversation. He did ask me to talk to him on Google Talk, however. I declined. I'm bored, but not that bored.
The funny thing is, I've been doing this freak out for no reason and then instantaneous revelation ("Oh shit, it was PMS...I should have known") for 13 years now and still the pattern never seems to occur to me until after the fact.
I ask myself why I'm so depressed, why I'm freaking out, why I'm so miserable. And the answer is always the same, yet I never seem to quite get it.
It would be ideal if I could pinpoint it beforehand, so I could hold my tongue the entire week. The following week is obligatory clean up week, wherein I call everyone I freaked out on to apologize. They too should start recognizing the pattern. Then maybe they would start calling me in order to collect their apologies. Or even better yet -- maybe they'll just stop picking up the phone when they see my name every second week of the month.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
*Later that night, I was walking to the Rainbow Room in my new, stylish and oh so non-sensible, pointy shoes. As I felt the right one boaring a hole into my big toe, I wished I was wearing the flip flops. Cold feet are better than bloody ones. A little flap of raw toe skin haunted me for 2 days thereafter. Moral of this story? I'm pretty sure there isn't one, but there really should be.
Friday, February 03, 2006
And on that note, I would like to introduce myself as a recently joined victim of a completely different system (That sounded weird -- as if I were insinuating that victims, like members of a club, are volunteers. Well, that, in fact, is not at all what I meant... So, there). Here is my latest update and the thinking that has led to my very voluntary victimization...
Cesar, the old mag partner who just moved here, is now looking for a job. As soon as that happens, it will be time to launch the new site, which I'm pretty sure I've never before mentioned, so my referring to it now - like it is some oft-discussed mutual friend - is very innappropriate. Oh well. So, we've been planning to launch the site for months, but, with my move, Cesar's move and the corresponding job searches, there wasn't a shot in hell of getting it up earlier (Insert dirty joke here about an old man's weener). The four of us who will be actively involved in the pending site are old numberII magazine veterans: Brian Rosen, Steve Lemig, Cesar Cruz, and yours truly, GiGi. I love being the only girl involved in boy projects. I am like the Gwen Stefani of the independent publication movement. Duh.
At first, we were going to veer toward creativity and underground-ness, but who exactly are we trying to kid? Only ourselves, my friends. Only ourselves. We already did that and fell on our once-beautiful, now-scraped faces. In response to that fatal plunge, I suggested we instead try to make some money this time around. I mean, after all, why is it so bad to have money as a primary motivator? I've spouted the evils of working for money for so long, and now I step back and slap myself on the wrist. Why is it so bad to work for money? Who the fuck am I trying to impress by working for free? If everyone else is jumping off of a bridge, do I? Hmmm? Never before, but now, yes, yes, yes! Mama needs a new damn pair of shoes and she'll be damned if her poor artistic cronies are going to buy them for her.
Basically, I've never embarked upon a creative venture with money in mind, and, in related news: I'm broke. My thinking is that if we produce a somewhat mainstream site with an underground "feel," we will attract visitors who will eventually follow us to the more literary, creative sites we plan to produce as offshoots.
That having been said, the site will essentially be a regularly updated news blog with a dash of crass humor and a touch off-the-wall intelligence. If it sounds like it has been done before, well then, that's because it has! While our template might not be 100% original, our design and content will be. We will call upon our inner trivia wells to make deep-seated connections between a series of entities that have no business whatsoever sharing a deap-seated connection. For instance, Brian wrote the following as a sample the other day. He really had no reason to connect Wilson Pickett and Ashlee Simpson, but, somehow it all worked out:
Singer Wilson Pickett Dead at 64; Ashlee Simpson Still Alive.
Beloved soul singer Wilson Pickett died on Thursday at the age of64. After waiting and waiting and waiting for the midnight hour, itfinally arrived. "Wicked" Wilson, as he was known both to fans and agirlfriend whom he assaulted in 1992, was a soul pioneer. Sweet ironythat a soul is all he has left. He is survived by all the remainingpeople alive on Planet Earth, including Ashlee Simpson. This is yetanother example of The Lord working in mysterious ways, as the greatWilson Pickett was selected for expiration while Ashlee Simpson keepschugging along. Ashlee, the sister of Juggy Simpson and daughter ofPervert Simpson, is beloved by tone deaf fans across the globe. Hersongs have inspired hundreds of record sales, and hundreds moresuicides. The Pickett family declined to comment on the tragicsurvival of Ashlee Simpson at the expense of their sometimes drunkdriving and pedestrian hitting, but always raspy-voiced, "Wicked"Wison. A viewing will take place in Virginia next week. No word yeton whether Simpson songs will be played.
All of this is to say, I'm entertaining delusions of working in my pajamas (just like the good ol' days), not showering for weeks on end, and advertisers contacting me, yes me, to give me money. Why would they give me money? Not a bad question and at this point I have a decent answer, but not one which I am sure I can support creatively. My creativity has been drained. For the life of me, I can not beckon my sanctum of offensive humor and tasteless wit. At once it lied at the tip of my fingers, now it is but a mere memory. Creativity and I are sullen lovers, looking for something to spice us up our sex life.
But seriously, something about the whole 9-5 routine is severely hindering me. That and the new long distance boyfriend who consumes the majority of my thoughts (isn't that gross?). I'll be back to report on those topics soon. For now, I just wanted to blab about the new site. My new baby. My new lover. My new obsession. Yayy.