Archive for the ‘Jesting, Infinitely’ Category

A Tweet

February 13, 2018

Whenever I am scrolling through Netflix and I see one of their own productions in the “trending now” or “critically acclaimed” sections, I’m like, “Ugh, bragging like that is so unseemly.”

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Agreed

January 17, 2018

Friend’s email titled: I want to work at this company solely because of the name

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Bluelight Live

December 26, 2017

So I’m in a weird phase in my life, and one of the things I’m doing to entertain (err, distract) myself is explore odd corners of the Internet.  By far the most exciting site I’ve explored is Bluelight, a well established (but new to me) hub of information for drug users of all stripes. I’ve spent a bunch of time this evening reading blow-by-blows of “precipitated withdrawals” (the more you know!), recommendations of what benzos to take when suffering night terrors, and “eye alignment issues on meth.”  The most exciting post I’ve come across, though, is the below, titled “Have I ruined my amphetamines???” and written by a user who goes by the handle speedyhousewife.  I read it aloud to my husband in a posh British accent, which made me think that perhaps there should be some performance called “Bluelight Live,” a la Letters Live.  Who’s with me?

***

Hello everybody here, what a fabulous resource you have here. I’m not sure of all the proper terminology for everything so please do excuse me for any errors. I also do not know anyone else who uses this, nor does anyone other than the seller know that I use it, so I have no one to ask and Google didn’t help me much at all.

I live in Hampshire in England and i have been secretly taking what I know to be called Speed for about 5 years. It usually comes in a mildly smelly pure white sticky paste, sometimes a bit grainy, wrapped in plastic. It’s about the same size as a small butt plug! I was initially told by the seller to put it in the freezer and cut off what I need, but it tastes nasty, so I have always opened it up, spread it on a silicone board and left it in the airing cupboard to dry out. Once dry the next day, I flex it off the board and whizz it into a powder in a food processor. Then I divide it into 50 cigarette papers for easier swallowing. Always been fine, never been a problem, it has always been pure white and mildly smelly.

2 days ago, I bought some and shoved it in my bag without looking. I arrived home and realised that the house wasnt empty, so in a panic, i shoved it in the gas meter cupboard outside overnight. It was a very cold night and i was panicked so i still didnt actually look at it. The next morning, i opened the gas cupboard and the smell was VILE, I wondered if I had a gas leak! I took out the speed and the smell was coming from that, it was nasty and it was a creamy yellow colour! I spread it on my board, but it wasn’t spreading easily. It also made me feel sick because of the smell * I do have extremely heightened sense of smell for the last 3 years though *. I left it to dry over night and it hasn’t dried well, still quite sticky and the smell is still awful. I’m scared to use it.

Has anybody ever known anything like this? Or could it have reacted whilst hidden in the gas cupboard, either to the gas or the cold night? Will this make the speed dangerous to take? Am I being paranoid and irrational? Is variation in colour and smell normal?

I cannot ask the seller as we have no contact at all to protect my secret. I hide the funds in the secret location at the same time every month and the following day I return to collect it. What should I do? I won’t be able to get anymore for 1 month and I only have 2 days left from my previous supply.

Just in case this isn’t actually called Speed, the effects of it are super increased energy, excess sweating, increased motivation, no appetite, sometimes irrational thoughts and crazy ideas (both good and bad), fast talking too much, increased productivity, reduced judgement when shopping (I.e, likely to massively overspend), feeling of invincibility (I.e, attempting tasks that wouldn’t normally be considered for an untrained late 40s 4ft10 woman, like building a summerhouse from scratch, chasing a burglar for 2 miles on foot and roofing repairs) and sexual rampancy. I dont know how much this is in weight that i buy, but it is much much much much cheaper than a months supply of cocaine. Previous threads I have read have not mentioned any prices of things so I haven’t quoted the price to avoid flouting any rules.

The effects hit in 20-30 mins, and usually last from 7.20am-5pm. Once worn off, there is ravenous hunger and occasional emotional sensitivity, but nothing else really, does not affect sleep that night unless a second amount is taken at 5pm. When not able to take for 2 or3 days, major paranoia kicks in, but that might just be my mind and nothing to do with the speed. If it’s not speed, I’d love to know what it might be as I’m really paranoid that I won’t be able to get this if my seller ceases trading. But it was speed I initially asked for.

Thank you so much for reading and for any help! Middle class bitch here with no other help available!

The Art of Air B&B

November 7, 2017

AirBNB?  I don’t give a fuck.

Anyway, I am currently holed up in a fancy flat in a fancy neighborhood in London, and this place officially has the weirdest art of all time.  There is an home to the famous Sex Pistols album with Kate Middleton instead of the Queen, an autographed version of this famous photo of Jennifer Aniston from the cover of GQ, and my personal favorite, this:

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It is an approximately seven feet tall lacquered print of a model (no one I recognize) in Clockwork Orange cosplay, with two… tattoos of Mariah Carey on her arms, and the word  “DREAMLOVER” inked across her chest?  (Also I believe those are Mariah’s initials on her stomach and enormous fake tits.)  My friend AC put the image into Google and it came up with nothing, which means this is someone’s unique and as-of-yet undiscovered creation.  You’re welcome.

Also this made me think that there should be a Tumblr or Instagram devoted to the art of Air Bee and Bea, but my friend KM alerted me to one that already exists.  Sadly, it appears they stopped updating in May.  Missed opportunity!

 

Who Said It: Meat Loaf or Lao Tzu?

July 13, 2017

And wherever you are and wherever you go

there’s always going to be some light

 

If you don’t worry about the future, sooner or later it’s the past

 

The further you go, the less you know

 

Heaven can wait

And all I’ve got is time until the end of time

 

The nameless is the origin of heaven and earth

 

Some days it don’t come easy

Some days it don’t come hard

 

Sometimes you lead

Sometimes you follow

 

What about your gods?
They’re defective! They forgot the warranty

 

The beat is yours forever
The beat is always true

 

She cries all day without getting hoarse.

She is the ultimate in harmony.

 

Does it come with the darkness? Does it bring out the light?

 

How deep! How dark! In it there is an essence.

 

You were only killing time and it will kill you right back

 

Though you lose the body, you do not die.

 

And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car

 

Assignment

July 10, 2017

The following is an essay prompt given out to students of the Enfield Tennis Academy class “The Personal Is the Political Is the Psychopathological: the Politics of Contemporary Psychopathological Double-Binds.”  I would like each of my readers––yes, all four of you––to please submit your responses by 2359 GMT today.

KEEP YOUR ANSWERS BRIEF AND GENDER NEUTRAL

ITEM 1

(1a) You are an individual who, is pathologically kleptomaniac.  As a kleptomaniac, you are pathologically driven to steal, steal, steal.  You must steal.

(1b) But, you are also an individual who, is pathologically agoraphobic.  As an agoraphobic, you cannot so much as step off your front step of the porch of your home, without undergoing palpitations, drenching sweats, and feelings of impending doom.  As an agoraphobic, you are driven to pathologically stay home and not leave.  You cannot leave home.

(1c) But, from (1a) you are pathologically driven to go out and steal, steal, steal.  But, from (1b) you are pathologically driven to not ever leave home.  You live alone.  Meaning, there is no one else in your home to steal from.  Meaning, you must go out, into the marketplace to satisfy your overwhelming compulsion to steal, steal, steal.  But, such is your fear of the marketplace that you cannot under any circumstances, leave home.  Whether your problem is true personal psychopathology, or merely marginalization by a political definition of “psychopathology,” nevertheless, it is a Double-Bind.

(1d) Thus, respond to the question of, what do you do?

(No cheating off Schacht and writing “mail fraud,” please.)

Xanadu!

March 28, 2017

As some of you may remember, many moons ago, I wrote an essay that I suspect is probably  my best work of all time, about the Broadway show Xanadu!   Looking back now, I can see it’s a bit of a flawed piece, but ultimately, the heart of it is still genius.  As many of you also know, I happen to have become, in the aftermath of the election, obsessed with a website called 366 Weird Movies, which is, as you might have guessed, a list of weird movies, and supplementary materials.  Well, today, my loves collided, because 366 Weird Movies did a post on Xanadu!  Let’s just say they weren’t too enthused…

WHY IT WON’T MAKE THE LIST: Xanadu is campy, kitschy and appalling, but it’s not weird. It’s just one of the last death rattles of the disco era.

COMMENTS: La La Land may have revived the movie musical, which has been on life support for decades because of flops like Xanadu. This film spawned a soundtrack album (deliriously overproduced by the Electric Light Orchestra’s Jeff Lynne) that was a monster hit in 1980, spawning five top 20 singles. The movie itself, however, bombed, and rightfully so. It’s inoffensive, embarrassing piffle. Made on a big budget, Xanadu still looks cheap, and director Robert Greenwald , who later made The Burning Bed and several progressive-minded documentaries, doesn’t really seem to know how to stage musical numbers, despite choreography from Kenny Ortega (High School Musical). Michael Beck, fresh off the macho action classic The Warriors, looks embarrassed (he never starred in a movie again), and poor 68-year-old Gene Kelly makes his unfortunate farewell to musicals in this dud. Olivia Newton-John is beautiful but cannot act—although she was much better in Grease—-while director Don Bluth (An American Tail) contributes a weak animated segment.

Practically all memory of the film vanishes right after you’ve seen it. Xanadu is sort of a remake of the indifferently received 1947 Rita Hayworth musical Down to Earth, while Kelly also played a character named Danny McGuire in the 1944’s Cover Girl opposite Hayworth. Either of those films has to better than Xanadu, which only Newton-John may still remember fondly: the young Danny McGuire is played in flashback by dancer-actor Matt Lattanzi, who later became her husband. No amount of fake glitter and flash can salvage this Lattanzi-Newton John family album, however: the climactic musical number involves a series of revolving stages that reminded me of the old Disneyland show “America Sings”. I’d rather sit through “America Sings” again. In fact, those who want to experience Xanadu should listen to the soundtrack album (featuring Newton John, ELO, Cliff Richard, and the Tubes)  instead of slumbering through this decidedly non-weird musical relic of the Studio 54 era.

Someone apparently had pleasant, perhaps drug-induced memories of the picture, because in 2007 Xanadu was adapted into a modestly produced Broadway musical (starring “30 Rock”‘s Cheyenne Jackson) that was nominated  for a few Tony awards. In the end, Xanadu may be recalled chiefly as being part of the “great”—or awful—disco musical trend of 1980, which also gave us the infamous Village People vehicle Can’t Stop the Music. Anecdotally, unfortunate moviegoer John J.B. Wilson saw both films at a 99-cent double feature and came up with the idea of the Razzie awards, “honoring” the year’s worst films, which are still held today. At least Xanadu has better songs than Can’t Stop the Music.

YouTube Knows Me So Well

March 9, 2017

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Sorry for another Tweet-like Message

March 7, 2017

But this one was just too good to pass up…

KM:  I wish auto-fill-in would get on the same page as I am.  It’s always trying to fill in my sentences with “great” or “positive” when I am typing “gross” or “pointless.”

Hair of the Dog, Part II

February 13, 2017

Two years later, lining up for Big Gulp-sized Buds at a Madison Square Garden kiosk, I was experiencing that same nausea, though my head was only pounding slightly, thanks to the seven coffees and three Advils I had consumed over the course of the day. The culprit: the first night of the WKC, during which we had slugged Maker’s Mark in a slightly better section, closer to a proper bar. Night two, we had been exiled to the nosebleed section, away from the ball-gown-wearing pure-breed owners in the double-digit chairs who drank white wine and soft-clapped for their chattel; up here, where the plebeians sat, there was only beer for the masses, like we were peasants at the theater in Elizabethan England.

“Do you get a lot of big drinkers at this event?” D asked the server.

She scrunched up her face and thought a minute. “Last week we had the Clintons speaking here,” she said. “Nobody had any beer then.”

This year, we had decided that to finalize the rules, we should probably attend the show itself. You know, drink in the milieu, and drink in the drinks, and hope that the environment inspired us to be the best drinking game artistes we could possibly be. We were missing out on the witty banter of USA Network’s panelists, truthfully, but other than that, it was going splendidly. The spirits––of the “sporting gentlemen” who founded the Westminster Kennel Club in 1877, and of T. William Samuels Senior––were filling us, which meant that our goals were both being met and also being quickly forgotten. No matter––it’s all part of the process. The first night, we had confirmed two rules, but then found one of them so thought provoking that, as we drank more, we just couldn’t get ourselves off the topic. Here’s the prompt: would you fuck the handler? If so you, took a drink. (Later on, we developed a twist: if you actually had fucked the handler, you had to finish whatever it was you were drinking, no matter how much was left in the mug/glass/chalice.) On the surface, a pretty basic question, but one that begs all sorts of other ones: what if, for example, you thought the handler pretty tasty, but you thought maybe, possibly, they weren’t into your genitalia? Two drinks later, we found ourselves mulling over D’s penchant for falling in love with women who turn out to be lesbians, all while watching a fluffy Chow Chow, fit for a royal court in ancient China, stride in front of a pensive, tuxedo-clad judge.

So now here we were: one last night, during which we had to overcome the shakes to harness all our drinking game writing powers. Five rules in place, including the “would you fuck the handler,” and pages of scattered notes from which to work. Two large Buds––working people can’t be choosy––at our feet. In the section to our right, a group of ten or so who appear to be our age peers, practically tumbling over the bleachers to talk to one another, even though they were yelling already. In the rows in front of us, a handful of middle-aged women dressed to accentuate their muffin tops, each clutching an official Westminster Kennel Club Program (the hardcover kind, the kind they had to purchase), pencil at the ready. And way down beneath us, the glorious, Astroturf-carpeted arena, no less grand, surely, than the Coliseum during Rome’s heyday, in which shortly, one dog would be crowned top dog.

“Hey, that’s good!” D says. “Maybe one rule should be if the announcers call the winner ‘top dog’?”

“Funny, but you know what’s funnier? Irony.”
“Right. What about if they say the word ‘underdog’?”

“Jackpot.”

The crowd of youngsters next to us was getting rowdier, each member whooping in excitement as his or her favorite breed took to the tiny podium. The terrier group, the last group before the climax, began. The pressure was on; I could feel my heart rate rising, and I kind of liked it.

Out strutted the little rat-hunters, their tiny wiry beards highlighted on the Jumbo-Tron. Interspersed were a few dogs that looked suspiciously like toys: a little too groomed, a little too dainty.   We snarled at these terrier-imposters.

“Patty Hearst owns that one,” D slurred, pointing out the Skye Terrier, with its butterfly-shaped head and long, silky hair, probably brushed a hundred times as the Skye stared at itself lovingly in the mirror like a Disney princess.[i] There was another reason to hate it aside from its obvious toy-ness: D and I had gone to middle school with the daughter of Patty Hearst, now a socialite-cum-model. They were both heinous bitches. Like, we assumed, the dog.

“Ew!”
“That dog does not belong here,” he seethed. “Also, you can’t see its eyes.” This was one solidified rule, so we took a big gulp of our Big Gulps.

As the judging began, I surveyed the notes. Five rules did not a game make, particularly over upwards of four hours of broadcasting. I began highlighting frontrunners and slashing through stupid ideas. D kept drinking and watching the stage. Frei’s sweet voice narrated it all. “Often described as having the look of the lamb and the heart of a lion… ”
“It DOES look like a lamb! Hey, do you think there’s subtext when the announcer says a dog can be a good family companion ‘with proper training or socialization’?”

“That definitely means the breed is full of assholes.”

Rule: formed.

I made a beeline for the bathroom before the inevitable commercial break, when they’d play the dog shampoo commercial and an ad for Purina Puppy Chow yet again, wobbling as I walked up the stairs to reach the hallway. The rows of toilets were empty, people obviously too rapt to leave their chairs. I briefly considered puking, but then thought if I just ate more generic popcorn, I might survive. When I returned to the chair, the hair care Adonis that is Chaz Dean was posing on the Jumbro-tron bookended by a quadruple of Labrador retrievers with shiny, beautiful coats.[ii] D had gotten us new beers. My stomach lurched, and the Manchester Terrier took to the stage. Around and around they went, like a dystopian zoological Small World ride, the russets and grays and the long snouts and the smooth coats and broken coats and the various Shires of England where they originated blending together until I could no longer tell a Norfolk Terrier from a Russell. “The Miniature Schnauzer is at home both in the city and in the country!” Despite being pretty sure I was at a point where I could possibly pass out on a gutter on West 33rd Street, I kept taking seal-like swallows of my beer. I barely remember the judges picking out the finalists, but I do remember what happened when he pointed to the sleek-haired Skye to indicate he was top dog. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw D cup his hands around his mouth, and bellow out––did I mention that D’s a professional voiceover artist? Yep, the powerful lungs behind the Army and Nascar––“THAT’S NOT A REAL TERRIER!”

To me, it felt like his roar flooded the entire arena; that’s probably a drunken exaggeration, but it would be accurate to say all of section 232 heard and reacted. The tribe of rowdy contemporaries nearby stopped whooping and looked at us. The middle-aged women in mom jeans stopped taking notes in their official handbooks and turned around to stare, utterly aghast. Unsure as to whether I should be embarrassed or greatly amused, I opted for the latter and burst out laughing. D took another sip.

“Well, it’s not,” he said, this time at a normal volume.

Thankfully the Skye wasn’t crowned top dog that evening, otherwise there would have been real hell to pay. Instead, an adorable little beagle named Miss P (we decided it wasn’t a truly human name) enjoyed a steak at Sardi’s and visited the top of the Empire State Building the next day, during her media tour. As for us, we got a big bar tab, one of the tallest plumes to stick in our drinking game caps, a selfie with Chaz Dean, and two walloping hangovers. And we’ve never looked back.

 

 

Full rules can be found here. This year, in addition to new breeds, WKC will also feature cats (though during one of the ancillary events). Oh, and also: there’s Trump hook for this essay, don’t you worry.

[i] It came to my attention afterward that in fact Patty Hearst owned the Shih Tzu, not the Skye Terrier. Immaterial for the sake of telling this story, but I felt it should be acknowledged. The Shih Tzu also made it to the final round of judging, but it would have been even worse if that breed––known to wear little bows––triumphed.

[ii] In the time since this event, Chaz Dean’s brand Wen has been sued by 200 women who claim products from the line have caused “severe hair loss.” I sincerely hope the canine line hasn’t had similar problems, otherwise there will be lots of angry show dog breeder/owner/handlers out there.