Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Picture 3Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

ffym

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

The Adventures of Clive

(To be read with a loud, jaunty English accent)

” ‘ello! Wot’s this then? You following me, guv’nah? Wot? No? Then wot you doin’ then? Oh? You want to know where I got my sporty tam o’shanter? Cheerio! I bought it at Harrod’s! I think it makes me look rather dapper and jolly, yes? I’m the toast of the savannah! Wot’s that there? A lion? Oh, cheerio old chap, pip pip and all that! Oh? Wot? Stop following me, you posh lion you. Don’t be a daft prick! Run along now! Wot am I doing? I’m on my way to see Nigel the elephant for a spot of tea and perhaps some biscuits. He’s a right fellow, that Nigel. He used to work for the East India Tea Company, that’s right! He has some new baccy he wants me to try  and I suppose he wants to chat about that trollop of a wife of his. I’ve always thought she was a right twit, see. Nigel also wants me to join his cricket team. I told him I’m not beastly enough to play. Oh no, good sir! I most certainly am not! I’m sure that gray bugger will try to convince me now I can assure you. He’ll most certainly say ‘Poppycock Clive! Stop being a prig and come play!’ I’ll just sip my tea. Well, that’s it. Pip pip, cheerio and all that rot.”

July is the cruelest month

Hot damn, Summer in the city

After last winter, I made a promise to myself NOT to bitch about the hot Chicago summers. February through late-May almost turned me into a meth addict because of the weather–it was depressing as fuck. Also, I’ve been in a less-than-pleasant mood because of my still dire financial situation, frustrating personal challenges and the fact that I haven’t been motivated to get me arse back into the Bikram yoga studio since my return from below the Mason-Dixon. The main reason for no Bikram is I’ve been working as a temp copy editor here, and it’s taking up all of my time, dammit. I mean, really! How dare a temp job that pays me well occupy every dark, sweaty corner of my life?!?

I kid! I kid, of course! I’m grateful for the gig.

But, I digress.

It is hotter than dragon snot outside.
But, I love how sticky and lush it is this time of year–even though it does feel like I’m breathing through a sweaty jockstrap–I’ll take this freckle-searing heat any day over the sub-zero crap we had in February. The downsides are the twice-daily showers, the runny make-up and not having clothing that adjusts from the scorching heat to the sub-zero AC in a nanosecond. Now, there’s an invention I’d like to see. This weather has released some questionable clothing choices from their hiding places. Now, these images aren’t ones I’ve snapped, but they’re very similar to what I’ve witnessed out and about on Michigan Avenue recently. Oy. Stop. My eyes. *Shakes head* Really? Finally, looks like two pigs fightin’ under a blanket.
I can’t look anymore–my eyes are starting to rebel.

I’m riveted by this story. It’s because I’m a journalist and my profession has taken a lot of necessary hits lately because of bad behavior, by not just desperate reporters but by their bosses. It’s also taken a lot of unnecessary hits by sub-mental choads like these fine folks. But, that’s a discussion for another time. Now, I’m not going to delve too deeply into this because there are others out there who’ve already spoken for me. Plus, I’m too damn tired and am in need of some bad tee vee. Our profession ain’t perfect–it’s riddled with bad behavior that’s been chastised vehemently. Good. It should be. What’s going on with Murdoch & his minions is embarrassing and reprehensible. Due to their incessant greed and callous attitudes, they’ve knocked journalism down a few more levels and that makes all of us look bad.

We don’t need that jive–not in this heat.