I have a terrible hatred for the 1980's. Well, most of it. I can pick out a small basket of things to save from the decade (um, hum, my birth for one. Seinfeld's creation for another.) but the rest put must be purged.
For instance...


(If anyone wants me to put that under a cut for whatever reason, just ask.)

I love the tackiness of this. Dear ol' Robert Plant, professing his love for Coke for the world. We all thought "For your Life" was about coca-coca-cocaine, but in actuality, it was really about coca-coca-coca cola.


In the past few weeks, I have been wasting my life with nostalgia. Watching old Sesame Street clips, sifting through boxes of old photographs (and realizing that I was a dork all my life, and that I had a very bitchin tye-dyed shirt at the age of ten that needs to appear in my closet right NAO.)
Other than that, I have discovered that I love driving at night, windows down, a bit freezing, blasting Yardbirds like there is no one else alive or around to overhear. May Daylights Savings never arrive, I'm enjoying the early sunsets a bit more than usual.




I cannot wait for summer break, so all the college bound return home. Especially Jones. The man's my best friend, but I barely see him anymore. In 2008, I have seen him...twice? Mayhaps? And one of those times involved him in long black hooker high-heeled boots prancing in front of Dillon and I.
Cross-dressing in his life is more of a common occurrence than one would be led to believe.

1. If you had to be stuck on a desert island with one piece of music, one book and one person, what would they be?
Music would easily be Zeppelin.  To dance in a coconut bra to Fool in the Rain is now my Number Three Life Goal.
Book, eh hum, probably something uplifting.  Or just damned entertaining.  How about a book on desert survival, or how to build a boat to freedom? 
Person, probably Deirdre.  Or Jones.  I feel that with Jones, we'd survive better, as he climbs trees easily and could step up the testosterone level.  Or he could test the ocean currents and we could ride the waves home, after all, he is The Oceanographer.

2. What would your last meal consist of?
Something that took a very long time to prepare.  Perhaps a rare wine that they would have to hunt down.  Or a mushroom grown under a full moon in Tuscany. 
Or drugs.  Hard drugs so I wouldn't be all there when they lethal injected me.

3. Would you support McDonalds if they went organic?
Whatever, man.

4. Who would be your ideal new years eve kiss?
Just someone who cares about me.  Or something friendly.

5. If you had to hook up with one of your friend's parents, who would it be and why?
Oh goodness, I decline.  Must I?  Feh.  I cannot think of a one.

6. If you had to get plastic surgery done what would it be?
Fix my jawbone, please.

7. What fattening thing would you make un-fattening?
Carbs.  I refuse to let go of my breads and pastas and rice.  No, no, no.

8. What celebrity's phone number would you want so you can call it several times a day and hang up every time? To annoy them?
One with a chronic fear of constant telephone ringing.  Who may this be?  Let us journey into the world of research.  Go!

9. If you could break up one celebrity couple, who would it be?
Really could not care less about who in Hollywood is shacking up with whom.

10. What's your favorite bar-shaped food?
Gertude Hawk bars.  Ahh, stopit.  Delightful.  Especially peanut butter or coconut custard.  Or raspberry.  Mmmph.

11. What public building, store or home would you use for the design of your own house?
A library or opera house.  Or aquarium.

12. If you could work for anyone except yourself who would you work for?
Some esteemed writer.  Although a good chunk of those I would like to learn from are dead.  Kurt Vonnegut, especially.

13. If you could erase people you've hooked up with, how many would you take off the list?
Pssssh.  There is not a huge list.  I have kissed three people over these past eighteen and a half years, one only just a small peck.  I have done the horizontal polka with none, either.  So uhm, none. 

14. Where would you rather wait in line at the post office on tax day or the bathroom line during intermission at an Elton John concert?
Elton John, hands down, kiddo.

15. If you were exiled and confined to a city or town outside of the United States for the remainder of your life, where would you like to end up?
Oh goodness, here we go.  Can I live in Bron-Yr-Aur?  Please?  If not, somewhere in England, India or New Zealand will fare beautifully.  Maybe even Canada-Land.  Yeah, poutine for the masses.

16. A thousand paper cuts on your hands or a gaping wound in the head?
Paper cuts over a lethal injury?  Go for it.

17. A pen forever stuck up your nose or a cleft lip?
Cleft lip.  I'm sure someone would think it was affectionate.

18. Shoes always on or always off?
I'm pretty partial to shoe ownership, but lately I have been kicking my boots off.  It depends.  If the decision is permanent, then on.  I would get cold.

19. Which phrase would you rather have stuck in your head for the rest of your life: the preamble to the constitution or the lyrics to the song that never ends?
The preamble may come in handy on some quiz show.

20. If you opened your own club/bar/restaurant, what would you name it?
Whiskey A-Go-Go II.
It may bring upon my heroes looking for a little old time nostalgia.  One can hope.

21. If you were a television network, which would you be and why?
If I were a television network, I would not have a mind to contemplate the question.  I would be something that no one watches and eventually turns into a sub-par talk show network.

22. If you could make any cartoon character from your childhood come alive, which would you choose? Would you sleep with them?
Hum.  Perhaps one of my lame childhood creations, like AA Cat, mater of lexicon and literary wit.  I would obviously not sleep with a superhero cat.

23. Would you rather have been a surviving jew or a nazi?
Jew, most obviously.  Does not deter too far from the bloodline truth.

24. Would you rather be without an arm or a leg?
Leg.  I walk often, but I use both hands more.  I'm a mad typist, artist and writer.  A prosthetic leg would obviously be in order, but then I can watch Planet Terror and feel a sense of kinship with Cherry Darling and her magical gun limb.

25. Or rather, Make your name into a palindrome:
Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog.

26. What's a word that you think you're the only one who knows the definition to?
I don't have such knowledge.  I would have to create a word to be the only person in existence to know its meaning.  And then, it wouldn't be considered an actual word then, would it?

27. Would you get pregnant if you knew you could only give birth to triplets?
Newp.

28. Could you go a month eating nothing but raw asparagus if you knew you would be in the best shape for the rest of your life?
Asparagus is delicious.  Yes.

29. Would you have an affair with your favorite celebrity if no one else could ever know about it?
Oh gosh yes.  The guilt would probably eat me away after a while, but goodness yes.  Jimmy Page, man, how could you not?

30. Would you pick up smoking if it gave you radiant skin and made you healthier?
What...kind of smoking? Hm hmm hmmmmm?

Number one of important matters it that I am officially going to see Robert Plant and Alison Krauss in concert, which is just mind-boggling.  It hasn't hit yet, and I assume it will in the shower, when I will promptly slip on soap and crack my skull and thus dying before I can live the aforementioned experience.
Number two of important matters is that my cousin got accepted into Rider University.  So, a good chunk of People That I Know will be dorming there, which rather sucks.  Morgan will be a senior, Ricky a technical (because of credits) junior and Stephanie a freshman.  Ah, yes.  And Rider is an hour away.  So I will be making quite a few weekend road trips to go visit them all in one hefty fell swoop.  Distance.  What a killer.
Number three of important matters is that smoking banana peels does not in fact get you high.
But you already knew that, I'm sure.

So, the Oscars were pretty interesting. I don't usually watch things of this sort, but I suppose since I watched the Grammys, I may as well keep it line with the rest of such award shows.
Jon Stewart simply wasn't doing it for me, which is a shame as I'm a pretty dedicated Daily Show fan.
Paul Dano should have been at the very least nominated for his role in There Will be Blood.  He is not receiving the recognition that he deserves.  At all.  But, of course, Daniel Day-Lewis taking the Oscar home was supreme.  The highlight of my night perhaps.  This calls for a milkshake.  So good.

My car is finally home.  Valhalla has returned, in beautiful condition, sparkling like mad.  He runs well, he's gas efficient and if only the dashboard would stop rattling when I go over 35 mph, he would Perfect.  Now he just needs an icon bumper sticker, a CD player and I'll be rip roaring, ready to go on and get get get going.

The weather remains miserable, which is especially disheartening now that I have a car and am aching to go places.  Thrift and antique stores as of late have become gold mines to me.  Especially as a record collector.  Nothing gets me going than finding that perfect title, especially for cheap.  (And how I nearly died when I found the fourth Zeppelin album in Englishtown, especially for a mere ten bucks.  My precious, how I've been searching for you and coming up high and dry!)
My phone is about to die, and perhaps I should just let it.  Sometimes it's a delight to have the world wondering where you are, unable to get in touch with you through a series of numbers and wires. 

Paisley pants, you are the best creation in this little world.  Now my legs can feel as out-of-this-decade as my top so often does.  I can run in you, you can warm me, and we can have a generally good, romping fun time.  My legs are looking forward to rub up against you.  Ohoho.
So, I am beyond pining for warm weather.  I live next the bay, which would be fantastic if it has not been absolutely frigid for the past few months.  I moved here in August, so I didn't really have much time to enjoy the summer weather.  (Especially since my two best friends were leaving for colleges both an hour drive from home.)   Although, there is something about watching snowflakes land on the beach.  It's not a typical sight, completely surreal.


Oh, I lol'd.

Valentine's Day is coming up, and you know what that means.
Buy your sweetie some uranium. 
And if she's the docile type, perhaps just a box of Ande's Mints will do.


Veggie burgers are such an outrageous idea.  Some vegetarians, who think meet is the gnasty, have flavored veggies to taste just like the substance they refuse to eat.
"Oh I hate the flavor of chocolate, but if I could make vanilla taste just like it, then I'd eat it." 
My cheddar burger tastes like enriched cardboard.  No, not even enriched cheese cardboard. I fail to taste the cheese. I think they used carrots and called it cheese.  DISAPPOINTMENT ALL AROUND.  EPIC FAILURE. 

            She was the kind of girl that slept with the lights on.  Her day clothes still on her, rumpled and worn.  Braless, bare feet, curls of hair splayed across the couch cushions were she dozed. 

            I stood in the doorway, reading the digital, hazy clock.  4:07 AM.  She’d passed out at eleven-thirty, with no help from whiskey.  Just her own exhaustion and drowsiness.  I hadn’t known sleep like that in years.  Open mouth, calm eyes, palms up in the air extended towards salvation.  The TV was still on, showing poker players with Stonewall Jackson faces.  Never knew how to play the game.  Gambling wasn’t for me.  I needed to know what I owned and what I didn’t.  Where I stood and what I could go home to.

         
I am on a quest for books.  Just a mass quantity of books.  Perhaps used, perhaps old with dog-eared pages, perhaps pristine and still glossy without a life of its own yet.  Books about counter-culture or religion or just facts upon facts upon facts. 
On another note, more dismally, there will always be that friend that must gloat every second of her bubble-bound life.  Be it her test scores or her grades or her scholarship or where she got accepted and why...it's never ending.  They're whole life is them being the cream of the crop, the top of their class, the pretty one in the group.  She'll put you down, make your unschooled self feel incompetent and laugh when you mention just how much you struggled to pull a C out of your high school math classes.  They save awful pictures of you and comment upon them, but tear up the ones of themselves when they had braces or glasses or just a larger midsection.
Forgive the rambling, but oh, there is no worse feeling than not being good enough.  I try, I try endlessly to be an original, wise person.  I read all day, think all night, write in between.  I draw, I evaluate, I have a broad range of interests.  Yet, in comparison to the beautiful friend who flies through life without bumps or shoves, it just does not compare.
Yet, as much as it gets me down and puts me to shame, I would not trade myself in to have lived her life.  Perfection?  Puh-lease.  I'm an interesting individual because of my flaws. 



But, yes, books.
A new stack of books would be delightful right now. 
Books and a side order of warm weather.  Little can be done when your bones are a chill and your body shivers and quakes like a Californian fault line.

I am in love.
With Cheerio's.
This is clearly the victor of cereals. Little kids go grubby hands on it, it has a simple shape and comes in a dangerously huge box compared to your colorful sugar cereals. I'm a dork when it comes to cereal, I could live off the stuff. (Which adds yet another point to my life of a slacker/burn-out.) There is nothing better, I repeat--nothing, than stumbling into your kitchen bleary-eyed and just shoving a fistful of cheerios into a cup and guzzling them. Right into a cup, forgo the bowl. You're only going to waste time with your spoon trying to fetch the little cumbersome loner Cheerio's.  That's annoying.  Cereal should group into little clusters.  Little high school clique clusters of deliciousness.

My record collection keeps on growing.  Not to wonderful new heights, as it should.  But scouring New Jersey for albums is rather difficult.  Especially when most/all of prospective record stores are a thousand miles out of the way.  I live in a very busy section of Jersey, but it's full of nothing.  Nothing but highways and cars and power plants and paint factories and ARGH.  Yet, people move here all the time. Houses and apartments are going up left, right and center.  WHY.  There are nice places in Jersey, surely.  And interesting, strange, chaotic places.  But they are not in Middlesex county, rest assured.
If you Google 'New Jersey sucks', on the second page there is a picture of the Hindenburg crash.  (And uh, likewise, the cover of Led Zeppelin I)  Yeah, that just about describes it.
KA-BOOOOOOOOOOOSH.






....Honey Nut Cheerios are good too.  Crazy good.  Like, this should be illegal good.  Good enough to turn the walls colors.

Friends with benefits is an interesting concept, and even stranger in practice.  Is there protocol for such a thing?  Seems that Rule Number One is "Do not talk about Friends with Benefits."  Rule Number Two being "Do NOT talk about Friends with Benefits."  Rule Number three most surely be "...unless you gave me a hickey.  Then I will call you to chatter about how many people asked what it was from, and the stories I had to create.  Laugh at my imagination, and then blush with recollection of the event."

Dear Internet world, Festivus came and went, followed by New Year's Eve.  I love my record player, I love my records more and I still have not watched the Lolita movie that I received.  My internet connection has been haywire lately, blipping on and off, which is a drag.  When your bootlegs of Italian Spiderman stop mid-download, it is certainly frustrating.

I have the fantastic ability of going to parties and never showing in pictures from the night.  Maybe you will catch a glimpse of my fedora hat behind someone's head, but it could just as easily be some other fashion-impaired lad or lass.  Or a five inch heel cowboy boot, discarded on the floor will show up in another.  But that might be your cross-dressing grandpa's and not mine.  You have no evidence that I popped in, drank your gingerbread flavored Bailey's and sauntered out.  This is the best superpower imaginable and I long to exploit it further.




I have never had cherry pie.
I hope I am not missing out on something delightful.

I have not posted in a while and that is because there is a thing called the Real World, and sometimes events happen in it. This is news to me. I simply rolled out of my room, bleary eyed one day and saw a whole landscape with rooted plants and vehicles and shouted, "Hotshit! This is epic!"

It is no news that Festivus is on its way. Do you have your metal pole?
No?
Get on that.
And I do not mean to get on the pole, unless you truly desire to. I will not be stuffing dollars down your underwear however, unless you tickle my fancy.
2007 is a coming to a close, and for most people, this means we have to sit back and be nostalgic about the past 300-some odd days and nights and afternoons and showers and breakfasts. A whole lot can happen in one year, of course. A whole lot of nothing can happen as well. Over here, I prefer the former with brief bouts of the later to catch your breath.


So, hello thar LJ-people.
If you stumble upon this, and if you do, dear god, hello, would you care for a yam, what has happened to you in 2007? Nothing? Something? Everything? Did you single-handedly go to Mars but the government has hushed it up for fear of exploiting the NASA space program as incompetent? Or did you just have some real fine and dandy tea and it was everything you could have imagined?



And on the note of Festivus: It's supposed to be a big secret, but it's obvious that there is a record player for me under the tree. How excited am I? VERYVARYYESYESZOMG. I will now have to steal my father's LPs and have myself a good old fashioned stoner night. Y'know, minus the drugs. But the White Castle, Pink Floyd and 3AM ramblings with friends will be there. You can count on that, Sergeant Tibbs.

Game Show Network really caters to the insomniacs. It's 2AM, and I'm lying on my futon, a bowl of oranges half finished off, and they are playing Who Wants to be a Millionaire. No amount of shouting at the TV will tell the contestant the answer is ALUMINUM but I try anyway.
But the real reason that they cater to the sleep deprived is the commercials at that time of night/morning/day/ehh?

Such as TATER MITTS.
I admit my whoreish love for informercials. I YouTube them, I add them to my favorites, I will call up people at 2AM and shout, "Have you seen the Extends infomercial?! Yeah, that's the penis growth one, only they never say 'penis'. They call it 'that certain part of the male body' which takes five times longer to say."

I so want Tater Mitts. I may seriously add them to my Christmas Hanukkah Festivus list. And whoever buys them for me will be the recipient of my eternal love and gentle fondling. And no, I am not taking into account that potato skins are so delicious, and belong in every mashed potato dish, I just want those gloves. I want to wear them out of the house. What a convenient conversation starter.  I would have a ladyfriend or manfriend in no time with those.  Who would say no to hands that could peel potatoes in just (allegedly) eight seconds?

Quizno Subs, you are a good place.  Mostly.  But I don't like most subs, so this is really coming from the wrong person.  But, your soup bowls are the best.
However, a soup bowl is pretty much worthless without the soup.  And what the hell is GREEN CHILI CHICKEN?  That's awful.  That is not fit for my stomach.  Nay.

I have an empty house tonight, which poses the question, what activity should I indulge in that could not be done with company present?  Hmm.  There are so many options.  Dancing, making a one-man play, making The Nastiest Diner Ever, "graph it" loud and proud.  Most likely, I will stay up all night on YouTube, with a bowl of popcorn, watching old TV shows and foreign commercials.  This is my Saturday night and I see nothing wrong with it.

Really, the only reason I am looking forward to Christmas is the prospect of getting my harmonica.  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you do not know the reaction I have when I hear a good harmonica piece.  You would be nearly correct to call it a Double Orgasm.  You all underestimate the pure sex value of this instrument.

Don't you love T9 word?  You go to tell an average story about cock, and the same key sequence gives you a not so average story about anal.  This is a dangerous thing, children.  Especially when you are trying to insinuate something.
Somehow, a big hard anal is just not as convincing.

Regardless, children--Ricky is addicted to Canada.  He wants to dig a hole into its ground and make sweet love to the entire country.  He and his college friends drive their little vehicles across the border for nights of...drinking.  Which is pretty lame.  I'm texting him, begging to know if he ate some poutine.  Seriously, Canadians, how delicious is that?  The closest thing we have to it here is Disco Fries, and that seems to be strictly a Jersey diner sort of deal.

It has also come to my attention that White Castles are not a nation wide chain.  I did not know this.  They don't have it in Rhode Island, Oregon...or um, well many, many other states, but those would be just the two I noted mentally.  Yes, yes, they sell the little frozen hamburgers in your grocer's freezer, but that is not the same thing.  You have to go to Castle at 1 in the morning, order way too many chicken rings and wait for your order, guessing who in the room is high as a kite.  (The answer to such a game is usually over the 80% mark.  And for some reason, White Castle is always full at 1AM.  But at regular dinner hours, it's completely empty.)  Likewise, certain states, such as the Dakotas don't have ANY Castle, including the frozen burgers and such.  How do you live?  And yes, in Jersey, we don't have Jack in the Box, In and Out Burger, Sonic, Hardy's and probably a ton of other places that are worth mentioning.  But White Castle has it's own movie.  That beats all other chains any other day.  Case settled.

Dear Livejournal,

My friend Ricky and I have been in heated discussion on the most important of topics. A topic so great, so EPIC, that the world must be polled. And then their polls must be re-counted, counted again, disinfected and counted once more for good measure.

What is the best Led Zeppelin song to get some sex'n to?

Of course, this is a futile argument between Ricky and I, as he has a girlfriend (nearing their 3 year anniversary) and I as a matter of fact, do not have a man or lady in my life. A virgin and a "sorry I'm late, Morgan and I got a little lost in each other" non-virgin cannot have this argument properly. Despite that---
I say "When the Levee Breaks".
He says "Immigrant Song."
I say "Double you tee eff, Rick, you can't screw to Immigrant Song. There's...there' s like--a LAW against that. And if there's not, I'll run for president and make it so."


Hell, I would make it a commandment.
THOU SHALT NOT FORNICATE TO IMMIGRANT SONG.

Oh.
I have an ell-jay.
And what should I do with such a thing?
I can't touch it, eat it, use it to further an orgasm or wear it.   Shame.  Because one of those would be helpful right now.
I was going to have this thing friends internet strangers only.  But that is pretty lame.  You don't need fun, special access to read this hogwash.  Hogwash.  Pogwash.
Pogs.

Mutherfuckin POGS.
There, that is your homework--
You stumbled upon this, go chatter on my journal about Pogs.  I want to hear your saucy story about them.  About how you were the coolest kid on the playground because you had a rigged-edged metal slammer with a wicked skull on it.  Or how you were the kid in the corner who bet all their Lion King Pogs in one go.  Even the Mufasa one.
...even Mufasa.