This is just...ugh: The Autograph Collector's Best/Worst List

Everything from the photos to the pithy comments, this only reinforces my suspicion that collecting autographs is tremendously lame. As a person somewhat obsessed with the concept of celebrity, I feel this is a topic worth exploring (and if you disagree, you're better off skipping the rest of this post). After all, I've obtained a few signatures in my time, but what have I done with them? Alan Rickman's is sitting in a pile of crap here. Penn & Teller's are sitting in a pile of crap at my mom's house. James Earl Jones's probably isn't even real. So why bother? Not all celebs hate giving autographs and I'm sure many are genuinely flattered. But from my perspective, the only reason to obtain an autograph is to "prove" that you met the person--that for some brief moment, you forced a famous person (at least "famous" in your eyes, at that moment) to acknowledge your existence. But does walking by a table at Tower Books while his publicity agent hands you a signed book count as "meeting" Johnny Rotten? (it was like a celebrity zoo exhibit--look but do not feed the punk-rock legend!) Does holding out a magazine for some movie star to scrawl on as s/he walks by count as "meeting?" Did I "meet" Natasha Lyonne when our eyes caught for a millisecond outside of Topdog/Underdog? If I had asked her to sign something, would that have meant more?

I thought of framing the page from my Private Lives program, upon which Alan Rickman's signature was artfully placed. It is indeed a fine piece of work suitable for framing. But what does putting this on my wall signify? I can look at it and remember my trip to London, the hilarious play, Alan's bare feet, the chill of the winter evening, the enormous screen on which we watched Harry Potter earlier that day, and so on. But I can remember all this without looking at his signature. The real reason to have it on my wall, if I'm honest, is in the rare event that someone comes to my apartment they can see it and say "Gee! Alan Rickman! Is that his real signature?" Suddenly, I'm cooler because I got within breathing distance of a truly fine actor--though, in truth, this doesn't make me cool at all. Maybe cool in that I appreciate Rickman's work enough to put him on my wall, but I wouldn't need his autograph to do that. So basically, it's pointless.

Not that the autograph concept needs to be eliminated altogether, it's just overrated. At its best, an autograph is a relic of a particular moment, ideally if that moment included a genuine human connection with someone you admire or appreciate. One of my most valued possessions (which, oddly enough, is in a box in Nebraska), is a record album cover signed by Jello Biafra. I had spent an entire day with this icon, this legend, the only person I could honestly say was my idol, and still remember with absolute clarity the moment I handed him the record (which he had just given me for free from his merch box) and he correctly writing out my full name without asking me how to spell my difficult surname. Jello Biafra knows that I exist!, I thought. He even knows how to spell my fucking last name! And, for some reason, that made my life more meaningful. Why? There is no answer, but that one personalized note thrilled me beyond reason.

[The note, in full (from memory): To Ginger D___: Thank you for the rare chance to de-corn some Huskers. Jello Biafra]

So what are these autograph-collectors hoping to achieve? Even more baffling, what are autograph-buyers hoping to achieve? You go on eBay, you purchase an autographed photo of, say, Catherine Bach. You've always loved Daisy Duke, after all. One of those childhood crush things. Now you have her picture. It might even be her real signature (Who can tell? You don't know her. At least 95% of the autographs on eBay are fakes). You put it on the wall. You stare at it. It gives you no memory of meeting Daisy Duke. You never met Daisy Duke. You don't even know if Daisy Duke actually wrote on that picture. But you've got an autographed picture of Daisy Duke.

I just don't get that.

I'm embarrassed about how late I am up doing aimless surfing, but I had to share this gem with you in honor of the last day of Pride Month: The Gay Test!

In the interest of full disclosure, here are my results:

-----------------------------------------------
You are 30% GAY!
That's less gay than average for someone of your gender and supposed orientation. The typical straight female is 32% gay!
Here's how you compare:

people less gay than you (50%)
people just as gay as you (4%)
people gayer than you (44%)
------------------------------------------------

Somehow, I feel a little inadequate. I wonder how different it would be if I had admitted to wearing Birkenstocks. I do still own a pair, though I don't know where they are at the moment and I haven't worn them regularly for years. And did I have to start shaving my legs again a couple years ago, after a decade of sexually-ambiguous hirsuteness? Oh well.

Also courtesy of Carrie's blog, which I find addictive (despite not knowing nor having anything in common with her) -- one of the funniest book titles, ever. Hmmmm.... could this be an Advantage Title?

Kitty Adventure

Malibu Stacie had to go to the doctor today to get her teeth checked. I note with some irony that my cat has gotten more medical care in the past year than I have. We had a minor scuffle trying to get her into the KittyKarrier--apparently she remembers the 12 hours she spent in that thing en route from Seattle to New York. But once we were on the way, she calmed down.

We took two trains all the way into upper Manhattan, because that is where the holistic vet that my 'boss' recommended is stationed. The exam room had a row of autographed headshots along the wall, like you might find in any deli or dry cleaner here in the naked city. Apparently, Judi Collins, Paula Cole, Mick Jagger and Bryant Gumbel have brought their animal companions to this very place. I doubt Malibu Stacie appreciates her closeness to celebrity petdom as much as I do.

Since I let Stacie's teeth get all nasty, I was feeling like Bad Mom, but the vets assured me that she was in FABulous health, with an ideal diet, beautiful skin & fur, and a kind (if terrified) disposition. But, she has bad teeth. I suppose if I hadn't brushed my teeth in three and a half years, mine might look pretty stanky too. All my years growing up, I never had to brush a cat's teeth, so really the concept is beyond me. It's too late for that now, though; now she has to be knocked out and have her teeth professionally scraped and polished. The daily brushing will have to come after, and continue for the remainder of her life. So, I made an appointment and we'll be back in two weeks. This comes four days after my own medical appointment, and I am pretty sure her procedure will cost a lot more than mine. Ohwell.

(By the way, belated thanks to Mike for the linking tips!!)

At least I'm not the only one complaing about the heat (see entry 6/27/2002 04:43:00 PM--the link to the specific post is all screwy). But what do I know, I've been shut up all day with the A/C on. It smells like an airplane in here--yuck. But at least I'm not sweating.

Damn. First Dee Dee Ramone, and now this.

"He was unique and irreplaceable," that's for sure. I know it's cliche to always say the dead one was your favorite, but ever since I was a little kid, watching him sing the chorus of "Boris the Spider" in The Kids are Alright, I have had a lot of affection for this guy. Rest in Peace, Ox.

Hey, can anyone quickly tell me how to make it so that my links will automatically open a separate window? I'm sure it's some easy bit of code I could steal from someone's site but I'm much to lazy to do that. Much obliged, thanx!

Insomnia. It's almost like real insomnia now. I could hardly sleep at ALL last night, until I took some allergy medicine and finally broke down and put on the air conditioner. I don't like having the A/C on all night but I hardly have a choice with the oppressive humidity. And it's only June--yikes. But things always change and this I'm sure is one of many weather cycles of this wacky summer.

My kitty Stacie has bad teeth, so I'm taking her to the doctor this weekend. Wish us luck.

Unfortunately with her teeth likely to need some sort of expensive treatment, my medical procedure next month and my goddam broken TV, I am practically hemmoraging cash. Not that I'm actually spending money about the TV, but it's one of those potential expenses... Yet on the other hand, work has never seemed so hopeful and exciting. On yet another hand, the hopeful/exciting stuff is really in the three-year plan, any actual money created by which I can expect to receive sometime in fiscal '03 or '04. Which means my life will continue much the same as now for quite some time. But for some reason finding your purpose makes you worry less about immediate rewards, or temporary lack. There are no guarantees it will all work out and end up lucrative (or hell, sustainable) for me. The nonprofit sector is nowhere to plan on getting rich, that's for damn sure. Still, I have that feeling inside me that I only have when I'm sure about something, when I know it's the right thing, that it's okay, that--no matter what twists and turns may come--that I'm on the right path. It's really an odd thing, really a weird thing. I'm not getting my head around it, somehow.

Which is maybe why I can't sleep. But I will try now. Goodnight!

Stroke of White
Nell, bless her soul, is attempting to salvage whatever shred of indie dignity I have left by buying me a ticket to see The Strokes with The White Stripes coming up this August. I didn't even tell her that I was considering going to see Britney Spears, but I'm guessing my endless prattle about the new Eminem album made her decide it was time for an intervention. I have never heard either band--heard of them plenty, but I don't listen to the radio, and I don't have the MTV (are these guys on MTV? Is anyone? Or is it just The Osbournes 24/7?). It sounds like the kinda thing I'd like, so I'm into it.

Venti Skinny
The color of the universe now has a name: Cosmic Latte. I don't even drink coffee anymore, but I think that's pretty catchy.

Toy Barn
This evening I met another obscure celebrity. A few weeks ago I got a letter in the mail inviting me to an "exclusive" evening with Star Wars uber-collector Steve Sansweet at FAO Schwarz. For those of you who don't know, Mr. Sansweet holds the largest private collection of Star Wars memorabilia in the world. He obtained his first piece before the first Star Wars movie came out in 1977 (a spiral-bound press kit he fished out of a colleague's wastebasket), and has been collecting ever since. When he moved to his current residence in Northern California, he chose the place partly because of a vast barn on the property which was (just) large enough to hold his entire collection, which took several large trucks to transport. He enviably turned his obsessive geekiness into a career by landing a job at Lucasfilm in the late nineties, and part of his job is "fan relations" for the marketing department. This, to me, roughly translates as "be nice to the geeks so they'll buy lots of crap." Nice work if you can get it!

The invitation said the guest list was limited to the first 100 respondents. When I received the invitation I RSVP'd right away, but didn't expect it to be particularly special. It seemed to me just a ploy to get people into the store to shop. I thought they'd trot out Steve for a 15-minute rap about his enormous collection--just enough to inspire us all to start our own collection that very night--and maybe sign some books. Since the invitation said you could bring one guest, I figured that meant there would be 200 people in a flourescent-lit room with folding chairs, so there didn't seem much chance of private chat-time with Steve--not that I had anything in particular to say to him anyway. As today wore on I wasn't sure I would go. Steve Sansweet seems a cool guy and all, but was it really worth the commute into Manhattan on a 85-degree Sunday night? You know I hate doing anything when it's hot. But at the last moment I decided to check it out. It wasn't like I was doing anything else--my damn TV is broken! Upon arrival I found that I was indeed on the list, and so was allowed into the (closed) FAO flagship store, the first time I had ever been there. That in itself was kind of neat--I think this is where Tom Hanks did that piano-dance in Big, but I didn't have time to walk around and find it.

At the top of the escalator I was directed to the Star Wars room by several immaculately-costumed stormtroopers and an impressive (most impressive) Darth Vader. Again, I recognized several of the geeks who were mercilessly ridiculed by Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at the Episode II premiere. I noted to self that, like it or not, these are my people.

First I noticed that the room--FAO's Star Wars "boutique"--was pretty small, and if there were a hundred chairs set up I would have been surprised. Thus I was pleased to find the event even more exclusive than I expected. Most of the seats were filled, but it looked like I wasn't going to have to fight anyone to sit down, so I helped myself to some refreshments. As I nibbled my finger sandwich, who should walk up and stand right beside me but Steve Sansweet himself! We greeted each other, and I congratulated him on the good turnout. He told me the reservations were all booked up in a single day. I asked him about the Darth Vader Bespin Duel figure, and he agreed it was fabulous, but he liked the Luke Bespin Duel even better.

I then took the opportunity to drop the one thing I had wanted to tell him if I got the chance, and the main impetus for me going in the first place: I told him that I was thinking of starting a letter-writing campaign to get George Lucas to put the original versions of the Classic Trilogy on DVD, rather than just the Special Editions, as he has said he will do. According to interviews with George, he sees the first versions as "rough cuts" and that the SpEds--as they are not-so-respectfully called--are his definitive vision. It's as if millions of voices cried out in terror...Greedo did NOT shoot first! Steve shrugged his shoulders as if to say "good fucking luck," and we talked about it a bit. But then one of the FAO officials took Steve aside to remind him to mention in his speech that the registers would be open for shopping when he was finished.

Yes, the event's purpose was clearly to get notoriously free-spending Star Wars fans excited about dumping more hard-earned dough on a bunch of plastic. But on the other hand, they managed to make it a fun and interesting event anyway. Mr. Sansweet spoke for a good hour and a half about his collection, showing a plethora of slides and discussing his favorite pieces. He's an enormously friendly and accessible guy, and occupies one of the weirder places in the Star Wars pantheon. Being employed by Lucasfilm, yet not having created any of the Star Wars Universe, he's the closest thing to a professional fan as one can get. And he acts more like a fan than a cog of the Lucasfilm machine--though he did admit to focusing mostly on the "official" merchandise in his presentation because of his affiliation with the company. Bootlicking toady.

After chatting a little with a local fan-group member who calls himself "Qui-Gon Tim" (I don't need to tell you how he was dressed, do I?), I did buy something--a Darth Vader Lego pen. I love the Lego versions of Star Wars characters--they are so cute! I got Steve to sign the package. Generally, I think autographs are silly but in this case I felt it was appropriate since we got to have a real conversation and not just "Whassyrname?...Next!"

Funny that Steve would mention wanting to see Britney Spears this weekend, as I've also been pondering going to see one of her shows here in early July. I'm not a big fan of her "music"--with the exception of a couple of catchy dance numbers, the one album of hers I own is pretty unlistenable. But I am a sucker for spectacle, and no doubt BRITNEY! would deliver. Tickets are still available, but man, even the cheapest seats are like 50 bucks apiece, with all the service charges, and if you want to actually see the stage, forget it. Even I have a problem justifying spending that much, even if there is an onstage rainstorm!

Unless I decide that spending a hundred bucks to see this generation's dumbed-down Madonna is a worthwhile cultural expense on my meager income, I'll have to be satisfied with the more age-appropriate Laurie Anderson next month.

But the big news of today was of course the Coney Island Mermaid Parade! Nell has been talking this thing up all year, and I was excited to go. It reminded me a lot of the Fremont Solstice parade in Seattle (scheduled for today as well). No advertising, no political candidates, no Shriners in little clown-cars--just kooky folks dressed up like fish and a mild dose of public nudity. My favorite float was the White Trash Mermaids. The leading mermaid had a crown of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans and achieved PG-13 status with PBR blue-ribbon pasties. Her fellow mermaid had a tail made out of a patchwork quilt and they were followed by a mermaid-and-mermen jug band.

I was grateful to Nell for lending me her new parasol--much like the one in this picture. Aside from nearly gouging the eye out of someone next to me (sorry, lady!!), it was pretty good at keeping me from evaporating in the high-eighties afternoon sun. As much as I generally dislike summer, the lack of humidity and the pleasant ocean breezes kept me from complaining--I actually enjoyed it! Afterwards, we hung out on the beach for a while, watching the kite-flyers and waiting for the sun and the crowds to go down a bit before walking the boardwalk. I tell ya, sunblock is the shit--despite my pasty-ass Seattle skin and several hours in more-or-less direct sunlight, I don't appear to be burned (much).

Getting on the F train to come home, a bundle of college-age kids almost crushed me as they drunkenly fumbled their way onto the bench. One girl was pretty much passed out, and the one sitting right next to me kept saying "I gotta pee! Guys, I really need to pee." As she squeezed her crossed legs together, I kept glancing at her nervously and hoped they would get off before I found myself sitting in drunk-girl urine. "How many more stops?" she pleaded with the slightly-less-drunk guy with them. "Eighteen," he answered (truthfully). I think she and I both blanched at that. It made me glad that I don't get that drunk any more, and then a bit wistful that it doesn't even occur to me to get that drunk any more. I mean, standing outside in the blazing sun makes me think of water, not a six-pack of overpriced Corona. I guess that's just me getting old before your very eyes.

I found out that there are still tickets available to some Brooklyn Cyclones games! Plus, they have "rush" tickets every game day at 10am, so there's still a chance I'll get to see some baseball in Brooklyn this summer--hooray!

And with that, kids, I have to rest up for tomorrow's weekly brunch adventure.

Happy summer!

I had entirely forgotten about the summer solstice, but I did manage to get outside today. It was a little hot for my taste, but I had better not complain. When it's sunny, in the lower-mid-80s with NO humidity in New York, you better damn well enjoy it while it lasts. Soon enough it will be the draw-your-shades-and-sit-in-the-refrigerator time of year, and I'm not looking forward to that. After 8 gorgeous summers in Seattle, I'm now facing what was one of the biggest misgivings I had about moving here--a hot 'n' sticky next few months.

It doesn't help that no matter what is going on outside, it's easily 20 degrees warmer in my apartment, but no doubt you've heard me complain (and complain and COMPLAIN) about that before, so I'll spare you.

Because I once again don't have much news to speak of, I'll direct you to read elsewhere. I will likely have more to report tomorrow, after the Mermaid Parade, whee!

linx o' the day

Proof that Depeche Mode was right-- God does have a sick sense of humor. Courtesy of Reuters.

And don't forget your daily dose of Tom Tomorrow. As always, today's entry is full of Things That We Should All Be Thinking About. Thanks for keeping us on our toes, Tom.

Finally, lest you think I'm getting too serious, here's a new take on The Super Friends! I must have been busy with girl scouts or snorting ether or something in my childhood because I never once watched Super Friends. Ever. In my life. Still haven't. So, all this time I have had to get all those snarky pop-culture references to "Wonder Twins--activate!" by sheer osmosis.

The Science News is a heap of laffs again today, as we find out--after the fact--that we were nearly crushed by a humongous asteroid. As the article points out, it's not much use worrying about it, but it is kinda funny to think of the scientists slapping their heads and saying "D'oh! Missed that one!" Especially if it had hit us. A nice pointless distraction from dirty bombs and the continued evisceration of our civil rights by the Bush administration.

As you can tell, I'm too tired/lazy to report my own news, so in my usual pre-blogging blog-surfing (in which I browse all my friends' blogs to see if there's anything worth pointing out), I found this gem on Steve's blog. It is the best description of a heterosexual male's experience of a strip club that I have ever read or heard. I have always wondered what in the hell guys get out of it--and though Steve doesn't answer that question, it makes me realize that at least some guys find it as utterly unsexy as I do. But then again, I've never been to a strip club that features females, so really I have no room to talk.

So I might as well share with you my one and only strip club experience, which was several years ago at the now-defunct Mr. Paddywacks in Seattle. Stationed in uber-gay Capitol Hill, I suppose the intended clientele was guys, though frankly there wasn't enough audience in the place to get a clear idea who the usual patrons were. I went with my friends Michael (visiting from Nebraska), and a gaggle of friends and housemates--all male except for me and Gia, the lot of us sexually attracted to men. There was no cover charge, but you were required to purchase a large watery soda (no alcohol at strip joints in Seattle) for $10. We were the only people there except for a het couple near the stage. The dancers emerged one by one, each dancing for a song and each embodying a "type"--the uniformed muscle-man, the leather guy, the trashy sexpot in chaps, and--my personal favorite--the youngish grunge-boy.

To call it "stripping" is a bit of a stretch. As I recall they weren't wearing a whole lot when they came out on stage. And "dancing" is a misnomer as well. Mostly, the guys came out wearing little, moved around aimlessly, then took off whatever they had that wasn't panties. One guy didn't even pretend to dance, he just performed series of poses, like a handstand and some bodybuilder-type flexing. After their "dance," the guys would come out and hustle the meager audience for lap ($10) & couch ($25) dances.

All of us had some drinks before we got there, so we spent a lot of time shrieking and laughing. I dig men, but I've never been that interested in seeing people I don't know naked (or in their jockstraps/bikinis, as the case may be). In this case, I didn't find most of the men attractive anyway (musclebound is a turn-off for me), thus the situation was pretty useless as a sexual experience. The guys I was with seemed to be enjoying it a bit more, however, and Michael had his eye on the trashy sexpot in the chaps, probably because he came over to us and repeatedly flashed bits that were probably illegal to show us. This just made me a bit queasy, but somehow this didn't get through to Michael, who bought me a couch dance with the guy.

To receive said couch dance, I was led to a back room which was filled with the sort of vinyl booths you find in restaurants. They were scattered around haphazardly, as if they had been removed from somewhere else and kept there in storage. I dutifully sat down, hands planted on the booth at my sides (no patron->dancer touching allowed), while "Jamie" spent a song gyrating around and, sort of, on me. I again got an unasked-for peek at his bits, which failed to appeal to me any more than they did out in the other room. Instead, I spent the whole time peppering him with questions: "Are you gay?" "How long have you been 'dancing?'" "Do you like your job?" "Is 'Jamie' your real name?" "Is the pay any good?" "What other jobs have you done before this?" "What do you think is the fundamental difference between male and female strip clubs?" Jamie, however, was not having any of it. He non-answered each question with an evasive purr that I think was supposed to be sexy, but only succeeded in annoying me (most annoying: Me: "Do you prefer women or men?" Him: "I'm a nymphomaniac, I like everyone." Please.). The song wasn't over nearly soon enough.

It didn't take long for most of our party to get bored and leave, but despite the "Jamie" experience, Michael and I were having so much fun it warranted an extra trip to the ATM, as we kept buying lap dances for each other. I ended up with another couch dance--this time with Grunge-boy, "Trevor." He was probably the gayest of the bunch, although he wouldn't admit a preference either (it probably was some rule that they couldn't say, or at least couldn't say to women). Whereas the Jamie experience was humorless in his misguided attempt to be "sexy," Trevor was oddly sexier in that we spent most of the time cracking up. He did the expected bumping and grinding (though no flashing, which was appreciated), but as he was rubbing himself against me, he answered all of my nonstop questions as cheerfully as if we were girlfriends yakking over a cup of coffee. The primary topic was the difference in power dynamics between dancers and patrons at female strip clubs vs. male strip clubs (talk amongst yourselves...). It was so absurd that we both started giggling. At one point he accidentally knocked my glasses behind the couch, and we spent half the song digging around trying to find them. It might not have been the best 25 bucks I ever spent, but it was worth it.

After a fun night was had by all, Michael and I stumbled home (because we were tired--you can't get drunk on $10 soda), significantly poorer than when we went in, but with smiles on our faces. Later I found out that evasively-ambisexual "Trevor" had given his real name and phone number to Peter, one of the guys in our party who left early. Figures. A few weeks later Mr. Paddywacks was busted and closed up for good for supposedly violating some obscure regulation or other, while numerous trashy gal-strip joints ("50 Beautiful Girls and 3 Ugly Ones!") not only remained open but significantly expanded.

I sure dig the science news. We're one tiny step closer to "beam me up Scotty."

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

Yes, JD I called him! He is busily working on his annual summer electronic music concert (see link). If you are anywhere near Lincoln, Nebraska on July 20, come check it out! It's free!

But on this happy, Hallmark^TM-created holiday, tragedy struck. I dropped and broke one of my favorite Darth Vader pieces. If you're looking for gift ideas, there's one.

Besides having our usual Sunday English Brunch at the Chip Shop with Nell, the most I got accomplished this weekend was listening to a lot of Eminem's new album. I've been trying to write some sort of explanation of how I--as a feminist-identified woman--can not only tolerate Eminem's work, but actually like it a lot. But it has become one of those bears of a project that grows and grows until it resembles a cross between a memoir and a graduate thesis, and then basically degenerates into a lot of lyric-quoting. In the middle of it all I have to stop and wonder--who gives a shit whether I like Eminem or not? I expect people to be shocked and dismayed at my revelation of yet another controversial musical preference, but maybe everyone reading this is just shrugging their shoulders saying "Well, after the whole Hanson thing we knew she didn't have any taste anyway." So maybe I'm only trying to convince myself that it's okay. But damn, he really can be brilliant sometimes. Plus he hates George Bush, so, you know...bonus points for that.

Speaking of Dubya, reliable information on the situation at Ohio State Commencement last Friday is difficult to find. This AP article was one of the few which even mentioned that graduates were "urged" to greet the president with "thunderous ovation" (see the last paragraph), which offends me more than the equally inappropriate threat to arrest anyone who protests in any way. Unfortunately, the left-leaning watchdog sites--and in particular the letters written to OSU President William Kirwin by enraged liberals--have been disappointingly incendiary and chock-full of exaggerated rhetoric, which I doubt will be of much help. I don't care how valid your point, if you start a letter equating the recipient with Adolf Hitler, you're not going to get anywhere. Still, this event was sufficent to get me pissed off about the constant trampling of our most basic rights by Bush and his passel of bootlickers. So, I wrote my own letter--a real one which I will send in the mail. I'm not posting it online, but if you have any great interest in reading it, I'll be happy to email it to you.

Have you guys heard of this? In a way we expect our rich 'n' powerful to be skeevy around crowds, but since when does peaceful, silent protest become illegal? I will try to find more information on this, but it's creepy that if a lot of people got hauled away just for turning their backs on the Prez, and if people were ORDERED to cheer loudly.... well, I don't want to know what that means, frankly.

I guess I am not nearly obsessed enough. I managed to catch a few passing factoids amid the Internet buzz that has been spinning around the big news.

Item: Hanson parents (Diana and Walker) married at 19. So the fact that their offspring follow suit isn't a big surprise. They are from the South, after all. So, congratulations to the happy couple. May you beat the odds and have lots of pretty children (if you want to, anyway).

Item: Apparently it was common knowledge among a certain set of Hanson fans (those who are prone to digging through their garbage and hacking into their personal e-mail) that Taylor has been dating Natalie for some time. News to me, but then I don't spend much time mucking about on message boards, either.

Aside from their youth, the marriage is pretty much a non-issue. A much bigger deal is the rumorlet I've just read that Zac cut off all of his rock-star hair! Talk about heartbreaking... but maybe it went to Locks of Love.

Still more depressing: My TV is broken. I turn it on, but no picture comes up. This happened a week or two ago, but after leaving it on for a while the picture suddenly came on with a "pop!" After that it was no problem, though some days there was a brief pause before the picture appeared. Now nothing! Grrr. The problem is, the TV is HEAVY. I can't just haul it down two flights of stairs, into a cab and to the repair shop. Oh, cruel, cruel world! Looks like I'll be watching DVDs on my computer again.

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bet ya a buck she's pregnant.

Okay, I guess that's mean. I will give them the benefit of the doubt and offer my hearty congratulations for a long and happy life together! Good luck bucking that 49% divorce rate, kids!

This is one of the coolest uses of the Internet I've ever seen. It's a site which matches school-age teens with working-world "mentors." I'd love to be a mentor, but I'm not sure I qualify since I haven't been at least a year at my current job, and the definition of "job," to most people, means getting paid once in a while. From an article I read in Time Out New York, it sounds like most of the mentors are white-collar professionals, but they want more people of different backgrounds to participate--including people who do NOT have four-year degrees. You don't even have to like your job! You can mentor without necessarily encouraging people to follow your path--the anti-mentor, so to speak. Now all we need is a site like this for us grownups who still don't know what the hell we are doing with our lives.

That said, I am enjoying my "job" to an almost ridiculous extent. And since it seems a bit more stable and real now, I guess I can tell you what that job is: I'm the Managing Director of a non-profit children's theatre company. That means I do everything except for the artistic stuff. I have to write grants, book theaters, schedule auditions and rehearsals, create budgets, try to get schools and other kid-oriented places to hire us to perform, keep us visible in the "things to haul your jaded city kids to" listings, and so on. Lately I've been working on creating a performance/workshop program for the fall. From scratch.

So. How did your erstwhile customer service trainer-slash-Advantage program flunky turn into the doyenne of New York City kiddie theater? Fuck if I know, really.

The other news of the moment, which may not be news at all, is my mysterious medical condition. I actually feel totally fine, so that leads me to believe that I am, indeed, fine. However, last weekend I received a letter from a certain woman-oriented health center notifying me that the routine test I had in January to double-check an "irregular" result from the same routine test I had the previous October was itself irregular (follow me so far?). The reason why I didn't find out about the second irregular test result was that they sent the letter to my old mailing address, it did not get forwarded, and I haven't been by to check my mail in a while. Thus, this letter--dated February--asked me to contact them "as soon as possible" to schedule a procedure in which they intend to stick an instrument up my Ya-Ya Sisterhood and have a close look around. Yeesh.

Having no way of knowing what sort of "irregularity" is going on in there, and able to do nothing about it until Monday, I spent the rest of the day convinced I had cancer. From reading this blog you may have determined, accurately, that I have hypochondriacal tendencies--something which appeared concurrently with the loss of my health insurance. Still, I feel that getting a letter in the mail telling you that something may have been wrong with your nether regions for the better part of a year gives you license to freak out a little. So of course I called my mom, who told me in no uncertain terms that I did not have cancer. How she could tell from 2000 miles away I didn't ask, but it was good enough for me--I feel much better now.

Here's the lesson: When you move, keep your medical practictioners well apprised of your current whereabouts. And, whenever possible, try to have health insurance (or move to Canada).

Sorry my last couple of entries have been so dead boring, but they (like this one) have been written in like two seconds because I haven't been on the computer much. Very busy, very very busy...moving my hands back and forth...like this... very fast. Sorry, that's a 21 Dog Years joke. By the way, happy travels tomorrow, Mike!

Have to be up early early tomorrow, so have to get to bed.

Not that anyone cares, but...

Remember, I told you if she had stayed single she never would have had that ridiculous hair at the Oscars^TM.

Nell and I went to see The Holy Ghost last night--these are my old roommates and friends from way back. They just returned from a 3-month tour and they sound great. Except that apparently their drummer (not, in fact, a friend from way back but we always got along well & he helped me move) bagged out of the whole thing just as the tour ended. I don't know the details--when I asked (which I am wont to do when something is none of my business), they all just sort of nodded and smiled cryptically. Rock life is such a dang soap-opera.

Meanwhile, my *other* roommates/friends' band Liars got a HUGE write-up in Time Out New York this week. They even emphasized how the rhythm section (drums & bass) were originally from Nebraska. I still haven't seen them live yet, but I hope to next week.

Check out this Slashdot review of Mike's book--it provides a detailed and intelligent review and should convince you (if I haven't already) that you need this book!

I just noticed that the Amazon Sales Rank for the book is a whopping 63! I always hated the sales rank feature when I worked at Amazon--it was hard to explain to people, half the time it didn't make any sense and insane independent authors would constantly call my department thinking that being ranked 982,789 meant that they sold almost a million books. But no matter how you look at it, being the 63rd best-selling book at Amazon.com, even for a little while, is pretty fucking huge. Congratulations Mike!

In other geekish news, my old pal Steve contributes to blogdom with his helpful and informative Fetish of the Week feature. Which reminds me, if you don't already have Furniture Porn bookmarked, you're missing out.

Gee, maybe he'll find someone with a Darth Vader fetish... not me, of course! As I keep trying (most unsuccessfully) to convince curious inquirers, it is not a sex thing with Vader. Only love, twue wuv. But I must admit, once I learned that the guy inside the suit is a genuine hottie, it made matters more complicated. I don't suppose that lava bath he inevitably takes in Episode III will do him any favors though--a dark tragedy indeed.

Ah, God bless Tom Tomorrow. I keep forgetting to check this blog every day and I shouldn't, because he's always got something interesting to say.

The above link leads to a great little ditty about moving from San Francisco to New York or, more specifically, from earthquake country to terrorism country. If I had thought of it, I could have written this article (except for the being here for 9-11 part--no, I rushed here fast as I could afterwards). I wasn't even quite aware that Seattle had earthquakes until I experienced my first one, a quaint 5.0 tremblor which hit while I was watching E.T. on video and eating enchiladas. But back in Nebraska I remember musing that I would like to experience an earthquake--just a little one, where nobody died or anything--just to see what it was like. And I got my wish, in 1995, 1996 (2), 1999 and 2001. The last one was the 6.8 which made us feel important because the news made it look like all our houses fell down (in truth, a few bricks off some old buildings and some broken dishes, not much else). I don't know if it was entirely a coincidence that I decided to move to New York after that one happened, but of course having to choose between a 6.8 earthquake and a terrorist attack, I don't think I have to tell you that I'd prefer the fury of Mother Nature to that of a homicidal fanatic. Anyway, the point is, go read Tom's blog.

I'm bad. I wasn't going to buy any more toys. When the hype for this movie started getting into gear, I thought: "I'm 32 years old and live in a shoebox--who needs toys?" Then a couple of weeks ago I saw this in the store and thought it was neat, but didn't buy it. How was I to know it was rare? [Yes, the equally rare Luke Bespin Duel was there too, though not the bloody variation] There were tons of them--not as many as, say, Senator Jar Jar--but enough that I didn't think it would be a big deal for me to come back and get it later. Well, I did go back, and now I can't find the dang things anywhere. Not even at the K Mart on Staten Island. I find to my disgust that scalpers are out there selling them at entirely unreasonable prices.

I don't like to support people who buy up a load of figures and then sell them at a ridiculous markup. That said, I turned around and did exactly that. Okay, the price wasn't too terrible--even less than I would have paid at a "reputable" online dealer. And now I know I'll be getting my Vader. Sigh, I'm so weak. Based on the number of these things on eBay right now, it only makes sense that the price will go down and I'll regret my un-Jedi-like impatience.

Today was a shopping day, for no good reason except that I wanted to celebrate finally getting through all of my CDs by buying some new ones. I don't want to tell you what I got, because it's too embarassingly top 40 for someone who should know better. To salvage what's left of my indie cred I picked up the Hedwig and the Angry Inch DVD. It's one of the most brilliant movies made in years, and the New Line Platinum Editions are always good.

That's my weekend. Not too exciting. I watched a couple of other movies too; first Pi, which I've been wanting to see for ages. I was pleasantly surprised to find it set in good old New York City--much of it our stinky but efficient subway system! At one point the main character is running around the Rockefeller Center stop, then magically is at the Prospect Park stop in Brooklyn. Ah, Brooklyn--there's even a particularly nice scene at Coney Island. I love seeing familiar settings in films, and seeing poor misunderstood Brooklyn is even a bigger treat.

Anyway, I loved the film. I'm not sure I fully understand it, but I don't think that matters much. It is brilliant to watch, and even drove me to download a free version of Go, which resulted in me staying up most of last night learning how to play.

On the other hand, tonight I saw Ali, and was bored stiff. About halfway through I started doing other things while it was on. I think Ali--the man--is fascinating, and Will Smith did a bang-up job capturing his essence. But the movie is deadly dull. If you want to know something about Ali, then run, don't walk, to rent When We Were Kings, a wonderful documentary about a boxing match that even people who hate boxing will love.

With that, it's bedtime. 'Night.