Cat Ladies: no comment necessary?

Cat Ladies: no comment necessary?

Obscure joke? Identity theft? Troubling misunderstanding? I received my first issue of Cookie magazine today, with Liv Tyler gaping vapidly at me from the cover while “her” “kid” “plays” with one of those wooden German puzzle-piece train sets so popular with our people. Wait, our people? Shit.
I also got the first issue from my new McSweeney’s subscription, and I hope and wish and want to believe it’s all a work by those mad geniuses – but if it is, it’s absolutely perfect down to the ads and tip-ins. So it’s not.
So now is the time to explain who did this to me and why. It is also the time to take this off my hands. If you think you can stand a magazine that offers both “LIV TYLER on the simple pleasures of family time” and “54 WAYS TO BE THE PERFECT DAD,” I won’t judge you. Not judging is a new thing I’m trying.
Go elf girl, go! Don’t let mere genetics keep you from claiming your heritage.
(Sorry for the weak Flash interface, but there’s not much to it, so you shouldn’t have to wait long for it to load. Also: some images of stitched flesh, which seem not gross at all to me, but you may disagree. The nearly-finished product shows no innards and is quite compelling.)
It’s time for the next round of cold fusion! A Japanese gent named Yoshiaki Arata, emeritus professor of physics at Osaka University, claimed to demonstrate it just a few days ago. I have no horse in this race – though I do think that people are spooked by the words “cold fusion” because of the previous failure, and there doesn’t seem to be any good reason to dismiss it this time, or any time, really, unless it can be shown to be impossible like perpetual motion. The comments are well worth reading if you are patient and seeking amusement. Skim when it’s time to skim, but wow, nerds can be awesome. Okay, here’s my favorite:
khurshid ahmed May 25, 2008 7:32 PM
In the name Allah the most gracious and ever merciful.
I have deep faith in cold fusion.
Joke? Bizarre misunderstanding of faith? Freakishly ineffective hate crime? Who knows?
Really? Really?

Maybe, maybe not. Blame this guy for making me see it, and me for making you see it, and yourself for your dirty, awful, shameful life.
I went to see the man Saturday night with Junior and her dude and we went to Tinkle Camp in our pants. I’ve tried and largely failed to describe him before, but America’s Husband offered this concise appraisal: “He’s the hip-hop Soderbergh.” Good, brief, but a little incomplete. Still, better than I can do.
He told us a story about cough syrup, in the second person I believe, and rapped about words (and the objectification of women, and the objectification of object, and, well, lots of stuff, really). His loop machines offered brilliant accompaniment, and while there was no super-hot, mind-blowing dancer to pull on-stage this time, he still tore the plance down. Always see Reggie Watts.
Last night I went to the ever-awesome Salon of Shame with Junior and America’s Husband and mostly had a fantastic time. Somehow, though, Ariel let a ringer hijack the show at the very end, and we left with the taste of bile clinging to our angry tongues.
Let me back up: Do you know about this phenomenon? People like you and me bravely stepping up and reading from their journals, letters, etc., written when they were dumbass adolescents? It’s the best thing ever, and if you don’t believe me check out this brief piece listing the pros and cons of being Anne Frank from an early book report. But half or more of the fun is the amateurish, embarrassed glee with which these people read their work. Got it? Okay.
So after hearing the oh-so-blase goth girl’s virginity-loss tale, the Duran Duran fanfic involving the author’s friend’s marriage to Roger Taylor, and a terrible Encyclopedia Brown ripoff, we all felt warm and fuzzy inside. Then MC Ariel, awesome as ever, announced the final reader. He bounded on stage with untoward enthusiasm, and it quickly became apparent that he was a pro. He launched into a tepid stand-up arrangement (he actually said “I noticed there’s a lot of people here tonight with tattoos and piercings,” which was both untrue and showed that he had traveled here either from 1994 or from Auburn) that some folks chose to laugh at politely. I thrust my head down into my lap to keep from exploding in rage. It got worse, and the mood of the crowd mercifully matched my own. Finally, a nice lady in the back yelled “START READING!” and was joined by several others. Dude looked mildly abashed (nowhere near enough, though) and pulled out something he had obviously written that day in order to assure himself a spot on stage to wow us with his brilliance. It was terrible, but short, and the applause was so overwhelming that he had to go. Ariel rushed the stage and sent us off before he could try for an encore.
Why, people, why? Why must you listen to those jackass life coaches who tell you to take every opportunity to advance your own career or low-rent dreams at the expense of everyone else in the world? Why ruin a perfectly awesome evening with your stupid needs? I hope and wish that Mr. Comedy actually feels shamed from all this, but I know the type and expect he instead blames us for not being ready or accepting or open-minded enough, because we don’t yet understand that It Is All About Him! In fact, I encourage him to drop the Sha and open a competing event called Salon of Me. Everyone wins!
So some effete snob decides to devise and share a list of 1001 books we must all read before dying, which suggests that s/he thinks most Americans will live for more than 1,000 years. Still, this is the sort of exercise that pleases my inner librarian, so in the interests of full disclosure, I’ll post those I have read:
So…more than I would have thought (nearly 100), but almost all easily categorized as Forced to Read in School, I Was One of Those Guys in College, or Given to Me by a Girlfriend. If this list seems shockingly illiterate or weird, that’s only because I am – the list itself is mostly what you’d expect, though I was surprised that Ballard had several books on while, say, Twain had only one. But it’s all subjective, who cares, etc., etc.
If someone you love blogs too much – or is just having too much fun — tell them about Zyrtec. It’s not for everyone, but a lucky few will find their interest in life reduced to manageable levels. No more embarrassing blogging or reading or smiling!
(Back to loratidine, and maybe more regular blogging, for me.)
My phone is temporarily out of my hands, maybe until Tuesday. Email me if you need something.
You said it, sister