And just because one can never have too many drool-worthy footballers at which to gaze, here's another, Aston Villa's David James. Shame he lost the FA Cup for Villa on Saturday, as it would have been thweet for a local team to win it (even though the value of the Cup was a bit devalued by Manchester United refusing to compete for it). Oh well, who cares; the eye candy gets better every year.
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Is my boyfriend, David Beckham, trying to mould himself into a living shrine to 2Pac? Some people think so.
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Pamie, Dana and Rob in the same room together? Colour me scared, but jealous. I'm sure a lot of laughing went down in that bar.
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I don't usually steal other people's links so blatantly, but I'll do it twice in one morning: Robot Frank's Diary -- found via Gwen's links -- is fucking funny as hell. I'm trying to think of what it reminds me of, but it's too early for me to remember. Anyway, the red text on black background hurts my eyes, but just do Control-A (select all) and you'll be fine.
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Many thanks to Rob for linking to The Jon-Jon Diaries ('Overly Dramatic Since 1970'), which is one of the most clever, witty and (most importantly) well-written sites I've ever seen. I only hope and pray that he doesn't endeavour to become part of the 'journalling community'; this guy is far too cool for such a fate.
In his entry entitled 'Annoying Prick A La Framboise In Port Wine Sauce,' Jon-Jon informs us that Jeff Smith, aka the Frugal Gourmet, has moved to Milwaukee and become a bus driver after being convicted of a sex crime against a minor (true!), and is now one of the bus drivers who works the route he takes to work. Apparently, Mr Gourmet Paedophile vocalises a bit too much for Jon-Jon's liking:
His attentive audience consists of whatever catatonic, retarded, deaf and/or aged persons happen to be sitting closest to the front of the bus.
At my stop ("Frrrrroedtert Hospital, a-County a-Medical Centerrrrrr! Eeeeeeeeincluding the Eye Institute, a-Cheeeeeyildren's Hospital and rrrrrelated rrrrresearch facilities!"—it was very Bugs Bunny with white counterculture hair), I got off through the back door for fear of shouting, "SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH, YOU BABY-FUCKING PBS SAUCE-MONKEY!" if he so much as cleared his throat in my direction.
That's only partially representative of the writing on his site, which is at turns touching, biting and laugh-out-loud funny -- I strongly urge you to go there. I can tell I'm going to be reading the complete archives in every spare moment over the next week or so, and I'm sure that those of you who go read his stuff (now!) will be joining me. Somebody get this guy a book deal and a $600k advance.
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A'ight, I'm officially calling dibs on Matthew Perry for the celebrity dead pool. I give him another two months to live, tops -- which should be plenty of time for him to do SOMETHING about that all-too-obvious (though not terribly so in that photo) strip of pale skin around his hairline, which contrasts horribly with his sloppily-applied self-tanner. Can't he afford someone to slather that stuff on for him?
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Okay, so the preceding two posts would have perhaps been better suited to this page; I'm far too lazy to fix that now. Sorry, Charlie.
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So, the party was really fun, though I will say this: You know you're grown up when you throw a party and no one pukes in the flowerbeds or pisses in the kitchen sink.
The most infuriating part of the night, by far, was playing Trivial Pursuit. I'd devised a very cunning plan, which would ensure that I was teamed with Ian's friend Simon, who has a degree from Oxford University. This plan involved making sure his plate was piled with plenty of food, and giving him extra vegan ice cream (non-dairy Swedish glace, technically) and strawberries with vanilla mascarpone when dessert came 'round, as well as making sparkling conversation with him on the way to the off-licence to buy drinks. I thought I was in there, because he very sweetly bought me eight Bacardi Breezers at the offie. But when we got back to the house and got everyone round the TP board (British Genus edition, it should be noted), someone had the brilliant idea that we should just be on a team with whomever we were sitting next to; I got stuck on a team with Ian and his friend Ruth. Balls.
We came in second, which doesn't really count when it comes to Trivial Pursuit, but I was heartened by the fact that my answers had won us every piece of cheese (four in total) that we got. Which reminds me: I debated the use of the term 'cheese' to describe the triangular pieces which, in my family, were always referred to as 'pieces of the pie'. Are you enough of a dork to have an opinion on this?
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WARNING: Long, self-indulgent post ahead!
So, because of the call we got on Friday night (a little more than midway through our party, which I will discuss in a bit), we went to Derby on Saturday to deal with this latest family crisis. I felt doubly bad, because not only was Ian's Dad in a bad way (thank you, NHS, for waiting for him to die before you'll shell out for the heart op he was scheduled to have over seven months ago), but I was kind of in a distant, upset mood for the rest of the party on Friday night. Also, I missed HissyCon UK, which I'd kind of brought up the idea of in the first place -- though someone else would have if I hadn't, so it's not like I was head of the organising committee or anything -- and was really, really looking forward to it. Joy, one of the people I was supposed to meet, called me on my mobile and was nice about me not being there, but I just felt like I'd let someone(s) down. Ian told me to calm down, because any idiot would realise where my priorities should lie and he was sure no one was mad at me for not making it to London. (Have I mentioned that, driving me crazy notwithstanding, he really does keep me sane at times? Because he does.) So on Saturday we hung out in Derby, at the DRI and then at his Dad's house. Ian watched the football (I really wanted Aston Villa to win, by the way) and I messed around online, emailing my Dad and lamenting the fact that, in the face of this crisis, I was concerned about myself and whether or not other people were feeling hostile towards me about my absence from the HissyCon.
Then I realised how childish I was being and took a nap. It seemed to help. I love me some sleep.
So anyway, we came home this aft and -- as if I didn't have enough to love him for -- Ian washed clothes, did all of the ironing for the week AND went to Sainsbury's, bringing me back some spinach soup, spinach and ricotta canelloni, garlic bread and peach yoghurt. For this, I let him watch the Grand Prix in peace, uninterrupted by my exclamations of 'Murray Walker needs to DIE!' It's a nice little give and take we have here, and it works for us.
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Ian and I are seriously considering going to Tokyo in January, for our better-late-than-never honeymoon. Sure, I'd insisted we wait until January so that I could escape Britain's shitty weather for warmer climes, but right now Tokyo sounds like a way better option than, say, Ibiza, Turkey or Corfu, if only because everyone we know has been to those places. So anyway, this Salon article talks about how certain Japanese girls are so desperate to look 'black and American' that they pay out the nose for sunbed sessions, tanning creams and 'buraku' (black) or 'afuro' (afro) hairstyles. It also says: 'It's not uncommon for a girl of limited means to color her entire face with a brown magic marker.'
I'm thinking that's pretty damn cool, but Ian pointed out that it could just as easily be viewed as offensive (well... yes). What do y'all think?
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I'm about forty minutes early on the 21st, but I just had to say, 'Yay Bjork!' I realise I shouldn't be applauding a performance I haven't seen, but... the rules don't apply to me.
20 May, 2000
Ian and I got kicked out of the hospital (the old people need their naps; we can go back after they eat their tea at 5.30), so now I'm sitting here being bored and worried. Ian -- who responded, 'Good, we'll get back to the house in time to watch the FA Cup final' when we were told we'd have to leave his Dad's bedside -- is playing with the cat and preparing for the match. I'm thinking how scary it is that Taylor has my dream head of hair, highlights and all.
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There won't be any new entries till at least Sunday night, due to a family emergency. Have a good weekend and be good.
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19 May, 2000
I totally love this photo, because it just about sums up how I feel when I see the vast expanses of rapeseed fields that are all over the place in England this time of year. Getting the bus into the city centre isn't actually that much of a chore when I can sit on top of a double decker (in the front seat, preferably) and look out at acre after acre of gorgeous yellow fields. Imagine if buttercups grew in patches as large as cornfields; that's what the oilseed rape reminds me of (it's used to make cooking oil, by the way).
I can't believe I'm going to say this, but if anybody has any particularly attractive images of cornfields, I would be very interested in seeing them. My Dad's house is on a farm, and there's usually corn on either side of the yard and soybeans in the backyard every summer, and I really miss hearing my brother chant 'Children of the corn, children of the corn!' every time he made me fetch his wayward golfballs from within the densely crowded, 8-foot-high stalks.
Okay, I really need to get my ass to sleep.
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Ian won't stand for it, but I really want a copy of the London Tube map on one of the walls in this house. My favourite stops? I'm glad you asked: Angel, Kentish Town (to the Forum!), Arsenal, Piccadilly Circus, South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Pimlico, Fulham Broadway, Canary Wharf (designed by Elastica singer Justine Frischmann's dad), Bethnal Green, All Saints, Seven Sisters and Cockfosters (but of course). My least favourite Tube journey is the one I seem to make most often: Piccadilly Line from central London to Heathrow, which usually takes at least an hour, depending on my point of origin. No matter what, it totally sucks.
I'm sure that was very boring for you, but it's 3.41am and I care more about the fact that I can't sleep than I do about whether or not you enjoy my rambling. Soz.
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Thanks for the voicemail messages, people, but... please don't stop. Sarah, whoever you are, you sound exactly like Carly. It's a good thing you told me who you were. And Mr Three Second Message (consisting solely of the word 'Ohhh...'), email me. I can't take not knowing who you people are; communication is key, here.
18 May, 2000
Quote of the day:
Just curious, how hairy and what color is your beaver again?
That particular gem comes from an email to Traci Lords, which can be found at CelebrityEmail.com, which allows you to email your favourite celebs, as well as read the messages that others have left for them. I'll let you guess which one of those activities is more fun.
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These people never cease to slay me.
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Ian and I are having a party tomorrow. Any suggestions for how to tactfully throw drunk people out of my house in the morning so that I can get down to London for HissyCon UK on Saturday afternoon?
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Happy birthday to Karri! She's two months older than me, the hag. Anyway, Karri-Warey, I hope your 23rd is a blast, even though your BEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WORLD isn't there to celebrate with you. Love you!
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A judge in Devon yesterday told a man convicted of punching his girlfriend to make amends by buying her flowers and chocolates. Do I even need to tell you what I think of this?
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I SO do not buy this. Apparently, Renee Zellwegger's publicist (and the Post's Richard Johnson) thinks we all fell off the fucking turnip truck.
17 May, 2000
Okay, now that I've figured out how to check my voicemail without calling America (I can do it online = yippee!), you guys seriously need to leave me some more messages. Please? Just call me up and tell me a knock knock joke, or make fun of someone (even me) -- I'm really curious to hear people's voices and see if they sound as sexy as Carly and Stee (the rest of y'all sounded fine, but Carly and Stee could dub porn films -- seriously). So, if you want to give me a cheap thrill, call 1.800.222.6000 (or, from outside the US, 415.354.9619) and enter 33552336462. Then, leave me a message. Grunt like a stuck pig if you must, but chances are I'll still get more excited than is normal over hearing these messages.
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Hee! I normally don't make fun of people's beliefs, but Scientologists are the deserving exception to this rule.
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I'm no Camille Paglia fan (though she does shock me by saying something that makes sense every once in a while), and her latest Salon piece, where she says that Rudy Guiliani 'deserves credit' for the affairs he's conducted, reminded me of just how terrifyingly stupid she can be. So sayeth Camille:
'Unlike the predatory Bill Clinton, who riffled through vulnerable women like playing cards and demanded mechanical servicing from them like nameless plumbers [on this we do not disagree], Giuliani has conducted authentic, long-term relationships with mature, intelligent, feisty career women [maybe so, but, uh, he was still wrong].
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Due to circumstances beyond my control, I will not be joining Ian and his friends at the cinema for a screening of Gladiator. Even though it's no one's fault (except maybe the bastard who decided I needed to turn in these surveys for my volunteer project at 7.30 tomorrow morning), Ian feels bad and is bringing me Ben & Jerry's to help ease my pain. Because I really need it, too.
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You know how I told y'all yesterday about how incredibly, stupefyingly inept HostPro was, and how their cluelessness and disregard for their customers' needs had resulted in Hissyfit and Mighty Big TV getting fucked up in a major way? This was shortly after their ineptitude had resulted in the same exact broken CGI problem going unfixed for days on end. Well, a couple of new things on that front:
* The Hissyfit forums are once again fully functional, but as Wing Chun asks, for how long? If they go down again, you can email HostBlow (as Wing calls them) at customer@hostpro.net, with a carbon copy to support@hostpro.net, and their PR company can be carbon copied at micheledavis@micronpc.com. Believe me, they're getting all of the complaint emails, and every one of them lets them know just how many users now have 'HostPro is a fucking joke' permanently tattooed on their brains.
* You can go here and register your vote for HostPro as a (piss)poor hosting company, as an expression of your dissatisfaction with the way they've handled the whole debacle. Vote lots; I certainly have.
* Mighty Big TV has already been moved to another host, so don't email HostPro to complain about MBTV; you may still complain to them about their fucking up of the Hissyfit and Fametracker forums, though.
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Speaking of Elian, Rush & Molloy say that Israeli dirctor Menahem Golan plans to co-produce a feature film about the poor little tyke. For those of you keeping score, Golan's past films include Lambada: The Forbidden Dance, The Last American Virgin and Teenage Bonnie and Klepto Clyde. Should be a masterpiece, eh?,
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I know that, depending on how you feel about the whole Elian debate, this is either very sad or very angering or something about which you just don't care. All I know is, 'neckerchief' is a funny fucking word, and this article reminded me of that. Thanks, Miami Herald!
