I could have been this dude.
Chris is in Los Angeles
Have been replaced by better taste.
America is Fat
Nice Corner
Addict
Last night — I’m mid-conversation with a friend when I look at my blackberry and begin replying to a text message. I don’t excuse myself, I just begin typing. And while I don’t think I stopped listening to my friend (I being of a generation of able multi-taskers), there’s no way he could have known that; if someone I was talking with suddenly began saliently toying with their cellular devise, I would assume they had lost interest and moved on.
Anyhow, I caught myself and apologized.
Then I wondered how often I’ve done this same thing without realizing it.
Because I’m never without my phone.
And furthermore, I’m constantly checking to see if someone called, or texted, or facebooked, or twitted, or BBMd, or e-mailed, or g-mailed, or IM’d, or whatever.
And I can sort of remember a time where people spoke face to face and made phone calls and wrote letters and that was about the extent of communication.
But that time eludes me.
I’m of a generation of able multi-taskers who (often) facebooks and tweets and tumbls, and bbms and (sometimes) texts and (rarely) makes phone calls.
And I don’t think i’d have it any other way.
But that doesn’t excuse me from manners.
And just because I can multi-task doesn’t mean I always should.
Hey peeps! Behold the future of local news.
Don't tell ME how to feel today.
At 6:00 am someone drove away from the building parking lot (of which my apartment sits directly above) listening to Don’t Worry Be Happy, loud as shit, with their window down.
Now, this is the sort of tune that situates itself into the playlist of the mind and sets itself on repeat. Especially when it’s the first song - the first thing - heard upon waking.
In other words, it’s been in my head all fucking morning.
Also, whoever designed this album cover gets an F.
NO. Never. And I’m constantly having to reverse the car, re-park, and go back inside to validate.
This is the construction site across the street from my office.
Among the site are construction workers, none of whom are hot, all of whom are making my day hell with their incessant banging, drilling, and soldering.
I cannot think to work. And I need an advil.
“ I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.
Augusten Burroughs
(via free-enterprise)
(via stevienyc)
Conversations with a Chinaman
- Sung: I told you to take a 1/4 swing.
- Me: What was that, like 1/3?
- Sung: (in all seriousness) No it was like between 1/4 and 1/2.
Big Fat D*ck at Fubar
Um…
No thanks.
That's gay
I read in the New Yorker an essay about the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall rebellion. The author quotes an article from a 1966 issue of Time* in which homosexuality is described as
a pathetic little second-rate substitute for reality, a pitiable flight from life. As such it deserves fairness, compassion, understanding and, when possible, treatment. But it deserves no encouragement, no glamorization, no rationalization, no fake status as minority martyrdom, no sophistry about simple differences in taste — and, above all, no pretense that it is anything but a pernicious sickness.
“Pitiable flight from life?”
“Minority martyrdom?”
“Sophistry about simple difference in taste?”
I’m not a fan of the sentiment (obvs) but at least reporters in the 60s used pretty language to express their bigotry. I mean, it sounds much better than this nonsense.
*described as the voice of middlebrow, middle-class respectability
Hello, old friend.
I had a friend named Vicodin
Who brought the bliss for which I yearned.
I thought our time would last, but then
He left and so the pain returned.
Inspired by this
