rabble-rousing wake up rabble
ROUTE ONE FIFTY-FIVE
You really haven't lived until you have sat near a fat Pakistani guy wearing a Bon Jovi SLIPPERY WHEN WET t-shirt, jeans that are sliding down his rear end, and a strange too-small navy-blue sailor hat. He is shouting on the cell phone in hysterical Urdu, and eating directly from a box of Dunkin Donut munchkins, and crumbs are flying everywhere. Oh, and because the aforementioned pants are headed south, it is easy for all to see that he is not wearing any underwear and has abundant, luxuriant ass-hair, easily enough to blow-dry and style. (Oh, how much fun we used to have when Uncle Firaz would babysit us! He always let us style his ass hair.) (Now there's a thought. Instead of that creepy severed Barbie head, your little angel could be practicing for her future Supercuts career on a big plastic disembodied hairy ass.)
Or how about a man who is digging wax out of his ear with a straightened paperclip—clearly a rebel who likes to live dangerously, as he violates the spirit of that DO NOT INSERT IN EAR CANAL warning, and does it with a pointy metal thing on a lurching bus besides.
Or Orthodox teenage boys in their ill-fitting black suits giving each other hip-hop-style soul-brother handshakes.
Yes, the Devon bus was quite lively on Friday afternoon. I got to leave work early because I am one of the unlucky ones who had to be at a meeting at eight o'clock in the morning on Saturday (more on this later) (and yes, they apparently make an eight o'clock in the morning on Saturday now). I think my boss felt sorry for me. So that was nice on multiple levels, because not only did I witness a whole different group of bus people, but I also was able to take a Disco Nap before heading out to the Adult. show at Empty Bottle. Disappointed hipsters were being turned away in droves because of the show's sold-out-ness, but I had some sort of will-call arrangement, due to a very sketchy connection at Adult.'s (oh curse you, creative punctuation) management company, so my comrade and I waltzed right in there. I did not have the best of times, but I did not have the worst of times either. It was kind of mystifying that this rather chilly and alienating beepy music could get these kids so very worked up, with the frenzied dancing and the fist-pumping and the frequent screaming of WOOOOOO. Don't get me wrong, I liked the earlier Adult. album well enough, and I like doing my robot dance to the alienating chilly beepy beats as well as anyone, but I think that not much was gained by witnessing this live. A pre-recorded dance party with the same music would have been just as enjoyable. Plus, I was kind of in a Mood, and I was not able to drink very much beer because of the crowds and such, so the night was mainly an experience in chilly beepy alienating anhedonia.
However, the evening was not entirely lost, as a creative plan was hatched to throw chicken guts on Fischerspooner the next time they come through town (“HA! MAINTAIN YOUR IRONIC DISTANCE NOW, COVERED IN CHICKEN GUTS! YOU CAN'T DO IT, CAN YOU!”) (Oh by the way, keep this plan quiet, would you? Thanks.) Also, I worked on an electroclash version of “The Gambler.” Can't you just hear “know when to hold them/know when to fold them” sung in a fake British accent through a vocoder? This is going to be great. Go home and get your laptops and music-making programs and meet me back here in half an hour.
Then, after four hours of fitful sleep, I did indeed have to head back to the office for that meeting. It was pretty much a complete waste of time, although we did get out earlier than planned due to my psychic abilities (I was sending desperate messages via ESP to my editor-in-chief to charge through the agenda as quickly as possible). When my hangover and sleep deprivation and general spaciness made my attention wander (which was approximately every ten minutes), I amused myself by flipping through Index Medicus and compiling this short list of some of my favorite one-word journal titles.
NAUGHTY LINKS, AND A SLUG NAMED RUFUS, AND SOME PICTURES
I received an e-mail recently, unfiltered or flagged, with what looked like a real person's name as the sender, with the subject line “Anal University.” It is not implausible that I would receive a real, proper e-mail from one of you people with the subject line “Anal University,” given all my past blitherings about the anal SUVs and so forth, so I was quite surprised to find that the e-mail was merely an ad for porn. At the very least I was hoping it was a four-year accredited sort of thing.
Why you shouldn't put a wheel bearing on your penis, even in the spirit of friendly, healthy competition.
Apparently it's Penis Day over here at Smartypants Central, because in my browsing I also found this. “No harm[m]” dot org? Are you sure about that?
Would you like to read the worst goth poetry ever on possibly the ugliest website ever? Please tell me this is a joke.
The Museum of Photo Hoaxes helped me waste lots of time today.
—mimi smartypants is sneaking up behind you.