Well I finally got sick. I haven’t been sick since 2005, so I feel okay about it. BUT THEN, in spite of the ire of my personal physician (Fiona M.D.), I cured myself using an utterly incomprehensible Ol’ Home Hippie Remedy taught to me by my unlicensed personal physician (Claire, University of Life): Before bed, you put freezing-cold wet socks on your feet and then heavy wool socks over them, then you go to sleep. In the morning the socks are dry and you are cured. Why does it work? No one knows! Fiona says it doesn’t work but LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY, I BESEECH YOU. Look at me, cured in one day! Already the phlegm has solidified and broken up and is being ejected from my body in a variety of disgusting sounds and motions. The fever is gone, ditto the headache! Perhaps ’tis coincidence but I say “whatever.”
Then I had a dream that Rob started a line of fancy banana-themed t-shirts the centerpiece of which was one depicting a banana swimming in a scary black sea with a word bubble reading “BUMMER BANANA.” My dreams are smarter than I am.
I’m really amazed by how everyone’s all into meat now. Where it used to be a hipster thing to be vegetarian, now it’s a hipster thing to eat butt-loads of bacon. What price, fashion? It seems akin to the larger American desire to vociferously defend its right to not make an effort or care about anything. The hip equivalent of making a virtue out of indulgence and callousness. The dietary Hummer. This struck me reading a NYer blurb about the Decemberists and how they were eating breakfast at a “meat-laden” table at the Ace Hotel. There was a time not so long ago when the cutesy stereotypical thing to point out about a Portland band would be that they were all eating tofu and drinking soy lattes. Now the cutesy Portland stereotype is bacon on top of bacon on top of, like, grits and ham. Why did this change? Did people just get demoralized about the impossibility of effecting change in the world, or are we all just lazy? God knows I am. Both, I guess. God knows I am both of those things, deeply, especially the first, more and more, but I will not lie and say I am not the second. I am the second in spades, for sure. I live in a fragile glass house made of backsliding veganism and too much air travel and I am not meaning to cast a bitter stone, I’m just saying, it’s interesting how it shifted, and I wonder why it did. Perhaps someone is already writing a book about this, which I will not read (lazy).
Today at the ritzy coffee shop I walked past the giant rack of fancypants art magazines and without even thinking about it I recognized Vlad the Impaler on the cover of one. A few beats passed and then I was like “Wait, did I just recognize a PAINTING OF VLAD THE IMPALER?” and I went back and checked and indeed, it was so. Then I thought, “what’s wrong with me?”
To be fair, it is a very distinctive image. He has a horrifying mustache and a truly frightening vacant yet sociopathic expression reminiscent of a certain person I once knew who shall remain nameless:
Then I went and blasted my glutes, delts, and quads at the Rec Center. I love an elliptical machine, you guys, I won’t lie. You just shut your eyes and listen to “Man in the Mirror” and before you know it your 35 minutes are up and your butt is a’burnin’, and no harm done to the old creaky knee or hip joints. Swimming would be just as good but I don’t “swim” so much as I “flounder wildly about like a wounded seal.”
MEAN THOUGHTS OF THE DAY
We finished season 4 of Friday Night Lights and I am deeply disturbed by the lack of comeuppance delivered to the McCoy family, Joe in particular but also J.D. I really wanted to see Joe McCoy cry like a baby in front of the whole town but instead he just kind of made a “oh damn” face and then we didn’t see him again. Is my lust for emotional retribution yet another thing that speaks ill of me? Probably. Furthermore, I think the actor who plays Julie Taylor makes Anna Paquin look like Cate Blanchett. She makes Andie McDowell look like Laurence Olivier. She makes Michael Caine in “Jaws Four The Revenge: This Time It’s Personal” look like John C. Reilly in “Boogie Nights.” She makes Marlon Brando in “Last Tango in Paris” look like Marlon Brando in “A Streetcar Named Desire.” There I said it. I’m sure she’s a nice person but to quote my father, “nice ain’t got nothing to do with it.” Still, great show. Very accurate portrayal of small town Texas high school football life, believe you me.
While trying to find a suitably unflattering photo of Julie Taylor (to be fair, there are none, as she is very physically darling and lovely, to give credit where credit is due), I discovered kind of a lot of “Matt and Julie” artwork, incorporating various scenes from the show superimposed on each other, and paintings, and weird angelic stagings of Matt holding a football and looking up to heaven nobly with bright light shining upon him. WHO KNEW?
“I need to find my own Chicago.”
“SHUT UP JULIE”