Smilin’ Jack

Why we call him Smiley: Poor kid has no idea what the fuck is going on, he’s just confused in every way possible. Yet he somehow had the presence of mind to wear a short-sleeved mock turtleneck to a photoshoot.

At the Public

Waiting for Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson. Unfortunately I bought a ticket to the early show and missed the Emo-cratic Party drink special at the 9:30.

Best line: “Van Buren, why do you always have to be such a motherfucker?”

3 things

Google News tells me something unpleasant nearly every time I open the Internet, except for this bit about BP owing us $1 million a day in royalties on spilled oil, which comes straight from my old pals at Business Week, who for some reason I thought had gone out of business. (I don’t understand. Did McGraw-Hill sell this magazine to the mayor?) I will pick up my portion of this alleged windfall weekly, preferably on Tuesday mornings at the Parisian Deli on Columbus, where I also like to buy Starbucks Doubleshot Energy+ in a can. Yes, I will accept payment in gumballs and/or moonbeams. Or canned energy, I guess. And please tell me what it is about this deli that is in any way Parisian, because thus far I’m feeling duped.

I totally forgot the second thing.

No. 3: My desktop wallpaper supports gay marriage via wordless, nonviolent technical revolution!

UPDATE: Back it up to the second thing, which I remembered at the bus stop:

Devil-gotten sinners,
Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
Kissing for their beds.

That’s Dorothy Parker rocking the charts.

The idiot sway

Whenever I read a ladies’ magazine I end up doing something I don’t want to do, like buying one of those horrible ’50s-style swimsuits or thinking I need to visit a dude ranch. Why would I visit a ranch? I don’t like outside! I haven’t been swimming in four years! This month either in Shape or Health or Real Simple there was an article on all the fun things you could use to make your own trail mix, which under the influence of this self-inflicted ladies’-magazine stupor sounded awesome, so I immediately made it my mission to go out and purchase all of these expensive, individually packaged stupid ingredients: chopped pistachios, sunflower seeds, dried cranberries, unsweetened toasted coconut flakes (perfect for baking!). I tossed them together in a Tupperware container and sat down on the sofa to feed while reading yet another ladies’ magazine, and halfway through it—as I was making a list of the products I’m going to need in order to “customize” my “anti-aging routine"—I realized I was eating something I didn’t actually want to eat, that I don’t like dried fruit, that unsweetened coconut is way too sweet, and that if I’m going to add 500 unnecessary calories to my daily intake I would rather spend it on Cheetos.

So! Ladies’ magazines finally taught me something worth learning. And now I am off to do some getting old, natural-style, while at the same time promising never to read anything called Give Us All Your Money because I think we can guess exactly how that worm might turn.

Love the nose you’re with

Best news I heard yesterday with respect to skin cancer:

It can wait until August.

I’m grateful for small things and big things and all points in between, but mostly that I don’t need to go to Paris like this: