Overheard...

...at Kokomo Cafe.

A young woman talks on the phone for a good 15 minutes while a friend across from her lazily stabs at the ice in her drink with a straw.
The subject of the phone call was a potential sub-lessee for the young woman's portion of an apartment...

"She's old, like, 30. But she's totally young at heart."



I nearly choked on my too-greasy omelette.

keeping it young at heart,
gretch

Oscar the Death Cat

What is the World of Local News Coming To?

Duck Hunt

That's what. Sorry I can't embed it here, but I assure you, clicking on this is "worth" it, particularly if you are a lover of terrible, clumsy duck-related puns, all said with an inflection that makes your skin itch.

Jenny

PS: Update - the missing duck was found on a lawn about two miles away, with two other random ornaments. Police are searching for the other owners.

Zero Chance

Was it coincidence that last month’s National Geographic magazine featuring the Mormon splinter FLDS Church on its cover around the same time the new season of Big Love premiered?

I think not. I love me some Big Love, and I’m a big proponent of letting consenting adults do whatever they please as long as it’s not hurting anyone else…and if a plural marriage is made up of gorgeous people like the Henricksons, then go ahead and sign me up too, cuz it doesn’t look like such a bad deal.

Reality isn’t quite so appealing, what with the ill-fitting prairie dresses and French braids as far as the eye can see. And if I were a 14 year-old about to be sealed to my husband, what do you think the chances would be of me scoring the guy on the right?



Zero chance, that’s what chance.

I’d probably end up with the mouth breather. Thanks, Jesus.

gretch

P.S. Unlike Playboy readers, I subscribe to National Geographic for the pictures. I don’t even read the articles. There, I said it.

There's no Business...

I was in NYC last week biatches!

My friend is in a Broadway Show! That's like the major leagues of theater here in the USA.

I was really happy that the actors onstage spoke loudly enough that I could understand every word they said.

Here's the "but" part...

A couple of times during the show some performers had to leave the stage and go to another room.

As they left the stage I could see them standing there where they thought I couldn't see them... but I could.

This is the major league biatches! I told my friend and he told the stage manager and the stage manager told my friend to buy his friends better tickets next time.

I still had a good time and all but what the ...?

I mean, "I can see you standing there."

I'm not going to tell you the name of the show but let me just say it was not Phantom of the Opera.

Biatches!

Kurt

Dear John

Well, I'm torn here. I'd like to let John Mayer drown in his self-obsession, and not enable him to continue the conversation he seems to be having with himself.

He's given an interview. It can be argued that he's given way too many interviews. Nevertheless, his verbal diarrhea continues. It's like he can't help it. And I alternate between thinking he's unhinged and feeling deeply, deeply sorry for his mom.

And I guess I feel a certain kinship, in a weird way. I, too, navel-gaze. I, too, talk a lot about what's going on in my head. Maybe I'm fooling myself that I have a better record than he of concluding something marginally smart and/or insightful at the end of it all. But if I ever sound like him, I hope like hell someone stops me.

I used to think that I'd talk to anyone about anything, so I've learned today that this is simply not so, not by a long shot. So, thanks, John Mayer, for that perspective on things.

Some facts:

~ He himself uses the word "douche" or "douche bag" about eight times in the interview.
~ He's even more hung up on his age (32) than he is about being a douche.
~ He confesses to sometimes seeing as many 300 vaginae before even getting out of bed, thanks to the miracle of online porn.
~ He doesn't seem to realize that the line "I spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on therapy" translates to 2 sessions worth. He might want to give it another go. There's a difference between going to therapy and being in therapy.

So, I guess I sort of recommend reading the interview, if only so I don't feel so alone. And ooky.


All the best,

Jenny

Bon Appetite

I’m going to go ahead and assume that when parents takes their child to Giggles n’ Hugs: the Only Children’s Restaurant they mean to have a dinner out that involves in no way asking their child to stop bothering the people in the booth behind them, or demanding that their child stop screaming in a public place, or stopping their child from launching spaghetti across the table. I’m going to go ahead and assume that the floor is covered with crushed Cheerios and carrot sticks and bits of throw-up. I’m going to go ahead and assume that they’ve never been able to get rid of that far-away smell of dirty diapers.

I sure hope they’re not booked in April, because my anniversary is coming up, and nothing says “romance” like Giggles n’ Hugs: The Only Children’s Restaurant.

Bon Appetite,
gretch

I was dreaming...LITERALLY

So, I've been having dreams lately. I mean, I have dreams most of the time - scientists tell me I dream all the time, in fact (at least when I sleep) - but lately I've been remembering them.

A couple of days ago I dreamed that I had a conversation with my old boss - my ACTUAL old boss and I discussed my ACTUAL life's work, and my ACTUAL future...sitting at his ACTUAL desk.

Last night I dreamed that my current boss, my ACTUAL current boss and I sat and had a conversation about the current ACTUAL work flow, and were subsequently joined by many of the ACTUAL executives in our ACTUAL conference room and we talked about the ACTUAL way we work, and I told them what I ACTUALLY thought.

This is literal bullshit. Not literally bullshit - because, as we all know it wasn't - but bullshit lame-ass literal dreaming. I mean I spend all day at work. I don't need to pick up extra hours. If I wrote an ACTUAL screenplay about my ACTUAL work it wouldn't be as on-the-nose as these phoned-in b-movie excuses for dreams Morpheus is currently palming off on me.

Maybe I'm reaching, but I blame reality television. You know, the kind where you can almost hear the Producer whispering in the shithead subject's ear "if you're worried about tomorrow's competition, maybe you could say that? ACTION"... "I'm worried about the competition tomorrow"..."CUT, that was great, I loved the way you switched the order of the words - nice work." Now I know they don't ACTUALLY say "cut" on a reality set, but I'm trying to make a point. I hear people talking like reality TV subjects more and more these days - It's like an insidious infection of stupidity: "Oh my god, if the bus doesn't get here soon we're really going to be standing out in the rain for a long time and we'll totally get super wet." No flies on that one, no sir.

And now it's in my dreams. "Hey, if you think you're going to spend a lot of time at work, maybe you could dream about work? ROLL'EM!"...eyes close and I'm typing at my desk at work. Yay. With this unique and fascinating approach to my days, I'll be working through my personal issues in no time. Oh wait. No I won't because I'm BORED BY MY DREAMS.

I write this as I head to dreamland - in the hopes that it will let my inner producer know that his audience of one is pulling a hundred share every night, but it's clamoring for more meat, so stop dumbing it down - we're up for more of a challenge, please. A little less Big Brother and a little more Masterpiece Theater. Hell, I'd take a half-decent sitcom, let's just get off this friggin' Jersey Shore kick.

Peter

Buon Viaggio, Renee!

15 years ago…
My first T.A. in the undergrad Art History program at the University of Washington was Renee Martin. She was this amazing grad student, part rock&roll, part nerdy intellectual. I immediately fell head over heels for her. I’m pretty sure this is a singularly female thing. It’s not sexual, it’s just a crush. We crush on other girls. Sometimes hard…like I did for Renee Martin.

12 years ago…
I was accepted into the small Spring quarter Art History seminar in Rome. I had never been out of the country and all of a sudden, there I was, standing at the door of the apartment I was meant to share with five other girls (all but one of which turned out to be grad students) on the edge of Campo dei Fiori. The door opened, and there stood Renee. It was like showing up at your apartment only to have Angelina Jolie open the door. With a huge smile. Excited to see you. And then, for the next three months Angelina Jolie would teach you about wine, and make you try pesto for the first time, and show you hidden parts of Rome, and give you your first Milan Kundera novel and help you flirt with boys because you don’t speak Italian, but she does. Fluently. And then, before you know it, you and Angelina Jolie are friends. Like, real friends. Except this was way cooler because it was Renee Martin. You get the idea.

2 years ago…
Renee and I reconnected and have actually seen quite a bit of each other between Los Angeles and New York over the last couple years. We’re both a decade older, but I feel we’re closer in age and we have gotten to know each other in a different way, because I was really just a kid back then. She still has that extra special spark – she’s just the coolest. She’s successful and funny and witty and interesting and knows the secret underground bars (quite literally under ground) and whenever I’m around her I feel like I’m in the presence of someone extraordinary.

This past Sunday…
Renee got on a jet plane and headed to Asia. She’ll be back in six months at which time she’ll wash her clothes, go through her mail and then head off for another six months…destination TBD. See what I mean?! Seriously. How could you not crush on this woman?


Renee and I after an especially wet vespa outing
Rome, Spring 1998

Buon viaggio, Renee, can’t wait to hear all about it!
gretch

JLM as Mr. K = OMG

All yours,
Jenny