Saturday, May 28, 2005

There's one more kid that'll never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool...

I went to the Y today as part of my obsessive-compulsive exercise program *cue robotic voice* (must be done at least 5 days per week, only 45+ minutes running/elliptical/step/lifting counts, logged on a calendar in a kitchen, if I fall behind, I must catch up, or... uh... the gnomes get angry).

Anyway, I put on my "The dude abides" t-shirt, walked down into the gym, and The Big Lebowski was showing on Comedy Central on the tv above my favorite machine. Kismet. Fate. Perhaps I need to start drinking caucasians and take up bowling (but sure as shit not on shomer shabbaz).

I was absolutely thrilled. Kind of like how hearing a song on the radio is more exciting, even if you own it on disc (and you know I own Lebowski), and can put it on any time you want. But imagine if you were the world's biggest Foreigner fan, and of course you owned all their albums, and you get up and put on your Foreigner "4" concert t-shirt from when they played at the Dodge County Fair, and you got in your car, turned on the radio and heard:

Standing in the rain, with his head hung low
Couldn’t get a ticket, it was a sold out show
Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene
Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream

He heard one guitar...

Well, then maybe you could understand how tickled I was today.

After that I packed. India was off with her friend Amy, having a great day together.

It is at the stage where all the easy shit is done already, and it is only large, pain-in-the-ass packing projects. I spent a lot of time walking into rooms, looking at shit, nodding, muttering, and walking back out of the room, tape gun in hand.

Packing sucks. Nobody likes it. Nobody even likes to be around it. Everyone offers to help, but it's one of those social niceties, like asking, "how you doin'?" Christ, we don't actually want to hear how you're doing... Just say, "Fine," even if you're not, and you have upheld your end of the social contract.

The packing situation is so dire that my OWN MOTHER tried to skate out the back door on me. She showed up with a picture of one of my adorable nieces, and then I asked her to keep me company... not help, just keep me company.

She said, "Oh, I'm busy, I have a lot to do."

I said, "Like what?"

She paused for a moment and said, "Well, I have a full dishwasher."

"Dishwasher?!" I replied. "You have GOT to be kidding me. You're blowing me off to empty your dishwasher?!"

She started to laugh, and then I laid into the full-blown Olivia Soprano guilt trip...

"OK, I see where I rate. I'm leaving in a couple weeks, but you're dishwasher is full. Let's look at the list, hmmm, we've got the garden, the laundry, the dishwasher, then YOUR ONLY SON, bringing up the rear!"

Of course, she hung around and helped for a couple hours. My mom is the best person to have keep you company in those types of situations. She can make the most mundane jobs seem fun. Even if I had to bribe her by saying, "I'll show you my online journal..."

Hi mom.

We bought a couple powerball tickets together, agreed to split the proceeds, then spent an hour talking about all the things we would do with the money. She would pay off friends' mortgages & buy a beach house in Santa Monica. I'd build a new shelter for the humane society, buy a mansion in Big Sky and buy an island.

Oh yeah, and I'd pay someone to put away the dishes so my mom will hang out with me.

Instant Karma's gonna get you. Gonna look you right in the face.

So, I'm shopping at Super Wal Mart, and I was talking to my sister, Liz, on the phone. (Yeah, yeah, they're an exploitative, downtown-killing, soulless, little-guy-crushing evil empire, but when you need packing tape, bubble wrap, a playstation memory card and some bacon, what the fuck you gonna do?)

Liz works in Hollywood. She's got the most glamorous job in the family, and she gets to go to fancy dinners, cool parties and meet famous people on occasion. We all think it's fantastic. She calls it a job.

Anyway, Liz told me a good story.

She went to some type of Hollywood release party. She hung out for a while, got tired, and decided to leave.

As she was walking out with a co-worker, she saw Ashlee Simpson and her girlfiends. That's right, Ashlee Simpson. The one who fucked up her lip sync on SNL, hopped around like a Special Olympian trying to do an Irish jig, then blamed it on her band and "exhaustion."

Well, anyway, Liz is just leaving when Ashlee Simpson's girlfriends approach the burly bouncer.

[ed. note- please read italics in a Valley Girl accent, for optimal effect...}

Ashlee's girlfriends were 'all like,' "We're here for the party."

Burly bouncer guy responds, "You gotta be on the list to get in the party."

"Uh, yeeah. Right. We're here for the party."

"You gotta be on the list."

Ashlee steps forward, raises her eyebrows, and says, "I'm Ashlee Simpson?"

"Uh, yeah. And you're not on the list."


Aahhhhh. All is right in the world.

You think the carpet-pissers did this?

Dianetics Junior much better than Krishna

- I fixed the "comment" part of the site. You may now feel free to comment without having to register.

Rock on.