Hey Paula

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I, a very long time ago, was a HUGE Paula Abdul fan. Huge. I would dance around my living room with equal parts vigor, bulk and confidence that most likely resembled a blind schizophrenic on crack with little boy man boobs. But I was in heaven, dancing and singing along to Straight Up Now Tell Me, or Cold Hearted Snake, or the lesser known, but amazing song, Promise of a New Day.

She was the third concert I ever attended (my first two being equally sad and pathetic: Janet Jackson and Whitney Houston). I thoroughly enjoyed it though; the climax of the show was her falling backwards off a 10-foot platform into the arms of her dancers. A trust fall!!! I mean, brilliant choreography.

And then she went crazy.




There are 2 things that are hilariously sad about this clip.

a. Her assistants are blatantly entertained by her devastation.

b. She is this upset over the BRATZ movie. The most idiotic, soul-deadening movie to be released this year. I mean it's a movie based on slutty dolls, and this was her big creative passion?

What a mess she's turned into. She wasn't always crazy, though. She's gotta get back to what she knows best.

Dancing with the cartoon MC Skat Kat.

The final "fuck you" from Broadway.com:

The pens I stole after being laid off do not work.

Not a single one.

Roaches are inspiration

Somehow, the hellishly small 3X3 cell that was my cubicle was more conducive to stimulating ideas for blog entries. Maybe it was something about the dull hum of florescent lights and robot-like keyboard clicks that honed in on a certain creative wavelength in my brain. Maybe it was my dying soul desperately reaching out for some sort of creative salvation. Maybe it was just the fact that I didn't want to do any work. Whatever it was, I had a much easier time figuring out what to ramble about.

Last night, whilst writing in my journal about this post-cubicle writer's block phenomenon, I came to the realization that there is so much more inspiration to be had out in the world than there is in that deadening grey cubby hole.

This realization, which is by no means profound and is actually quite apparent, got me thinking about all the activities I've taken part in the past few days that are ripe with blogging fodder: like yesterday when I toured the Chelsea art galleries pretending to be shi-shi and rich, then instantaneously lost all of my gained status when I didn't know how to open the door to leave. I started thinking about all the endless events in my life perfect for posting to the world. At which point, a cockroach scurried from underneath my chair and behind the entertainment center.

We have had a few run-ins with cockroaches in this apartment, one of which I am told was big enough to eat a small child. Bear, our roommate of the feline persuasion, is a hunter of these foul creatures. He goes after them, tears them apart, and then proudly places the remains in front of whoever is home with an air that seems to say, "You owe me. Give me some love and one of those treats, bitch."

After seeing the vermin scuttle into the jungle of wires and cords, I called for the hunter, trying to bridge the human-cat language barrier and communicate the urgency of the situation. Bear is not dumb, but he is a cat. He knew something was up and looked around a bit, sniffing out the situation but the ultimate response I got was the pussy walking away to go lick himself. Good-for-nothing cat.

I sat back down, feeling dirty and praying a cockroach wouldn't crawl up my shorts, and without delay, the fucker darted out from behind the entertainment center. Bear was nowhere to be found, so the extermination was up to me. I got up and walked over to the tiny beast and without pause threw my journal onto him.

"Fuck you and your exoskeleton"

My journal, which I just started, is one of those Meade composition notebooks I used in 3rd grade. Mrs. Howard, however, never informed our class of their potential as cockroach-killing instruments of death. I picked up my journal and saw the severed body parts stuck to the back of notebook and thought about how this journal is already beginning to show some character.

Quick side note: I threw up on one of my journals once, on the subway--each page stained with vomit chunk tells a part of that drunken story. After this cockroach incident I was inspired to write the following haiku:

The mighty journal
Either vomit or roaches
You come out on top

See the world is full of bog entries. At least our apartment is. Our apartment is full of too many bog entries actually--there may be an infestation. Does anyone know of a blog entry exterminator that is safe for cats?

PS. Bear has been redeemed. Last night’s cowardice was shadowed by his brazen kill this morning. He pounced out of his sleepy-morning walk and ripped a cockroach to shreds in front of Jon and Courtney’s door.

You Can Do Better Than This: Gary Coleman

Poor Gary Coleman. The version of this commercial I saw on TV was even more comically sad. Gary said the line, "no one would lend me money, not even my relatives" and then he proceeded to laugh for about five seconds. A hearty laugh that gave a window into his blackened soul.

This is what's it's come to for Gary Coleman. This as well as This:



Gary! You can do better than--

Come to think of it, maybe he can't do better than this...