So I got rid of the cell phone. Ten years is enough. It used to be a tool, but then I became the tool. Now I’ve outgrown it, adapted and evolved so I don’t need it anymore and left everyone in the dust. People have to fight to get hold of me now. Side note: Watched a cool Liam Neeson–narrated documentary about Darwin, apparently he suffered from acid reflux, too. Also it turns out his ideas are not in fact incompatible with God and Jesus.
Other reasons I got rid of the cell? For one thing (and I know the jury is still out), I have zero interest in getting cancer of the balls. Sex life is hurting enough lately. Nah, actually I got some last night. Screamed. Also tired of texting all the time, receiving texts, anticipating texts, getting excited and disappointed about texts, hearing that text ring go off when I’m watching TV and getting up off the Eames to find out it’s a mass text cleverly disguised as a personal one. Hate the word “text.” Text, text, text, send me a text! Text me!
Could really use some potpourri in my bathroom now. Dropped the kids off at the pool. Gave birth to seven or eight guppies, a great big northern pike and a cigar-shaped UFO.
My favorite Depeche Mode song would be “New Life.” Talked to D. A. Pennebaker about them once and he said the documentary he did on them was about the most fun he’d ever had doing a documentary. Snow White turned me onto the song, danced with her all alone to it in basement of Siberia bar circa ’01. Got no action but she danced real close. These cool slick freaking geniuses are like 18 years old. Tell ya, you’re gonna be tapping your feet, swaying around, nodding your noggin:.
Also wanted to curtail the late nights, which having a cell phone often leads to. Straw that broke the camel’s back happened on a recent Sunday—I was at home, being responsible, doing the dishes, brushing the cat and a text came in from a 19-year-old who wanted to meet me for drinks with her mother. I thought, Well, even though I’m happily engaged, I’m not a man if I pass up this opportunity. Started thinking about how in 1931 Brooke Shields’ grandfather skipped the finals at Wimbledon for a threesome with a mother and her daughter or maybe it was two identical twin countesses. So I went to meet them and had a real nice time but ended up in a bathroom on the Lower East Side with the 19-year-old and two scary ne’er do wells who were trying to shovel some toxic diesely white powder into my nostrils with little sharp knives. I couldn’t do it, I was so terrified! Got home at 6 a.m. and it took three days to fully recover.
The Metropolitan Museum has a bronze version of Degas’ “Little Dancer, Age 14.” Her name was Marie, she was one of “the little rats” at the Paris Opera, whatever. When the sculpture was first displayed, Parisians were horrified, thought she was an ugly, bestial monkey whore with a low primitive forehand. I think she’s pretty cute even though she’s only about 36 inches high. Wouldn’t mind having her running around my pad fixing me coffee and doing pirouettes, long as she kept her mouth shut while I was emailing. Apparently she and her sis were hookers, pimped out by their mother, and Marie made the gossip columns as a girl with loose morals and probably came to a sad end in the gutter. Price of immortality. Here see for yourselves:
Dude, you remember anything from the other night after 3:20? We got into a cab and then what? Did I go by myself? We take a cab together? Only thing I remember is asking Kid Rock about Bob Seger. Remember everything from Rodeo and Emily’s but do not remember much else between 3:30 and 8. Is that called a blackout? I mean I know where I was, but can’t remember too many details.
Oh boy, more Googley nonsense you’ve been polishing up for years in order to impress girls in bars and make dudes feel inferior. Give me a break. What if I was in the woods, set my tape recorder down right next to a tree that was teetering around, about to fall, hit record, then went into town for a snack and came back 45 minutes later? Think there would be a sound.
Quantum whatever is all myth at this point and will probably be totally discredited next year. Its main purpose now is it allows people to show off, feel superior as they hold forth—hey, look at me, I can explain string theory. You may as well have faith in Wicca, or some big tata cult. Not to sound deluded but I’ve always thought I’d make a decent cult leader. I wouldn’t go down the sex and child abuse road, wouldn’t demand too much money (just enough to keep me afloat), wouldn’t mess with minds all the time—I’d be my regular old self. All that would happen is once a month or so I’d send out an email saying “Don’t use Sprint” or “Get rid of your cell phone for six months” or “Don’t Google anything today, use Alta Vista.”
Believe it or not, marriage is not a pressing issue. If it was, she’d be dropping hints all the time, right? She might have mumbled something during the Sex and the City movie.
Cops are awesome in general and so is our military. Side note: figured out a strategy you might want to try with your girlfriend: Be around all the time, drive her crazy, follow her around the pad in your PJs, like an old geezer, and ask “What’s going on now?” “What are we gonna do tonight?” “What’s wrong, what did I do?” “Are you mad at me?” And she’ll beg you to go out and carouse and stay out all night. Works every time.
Well a fair amount of sports fans are ridiculous, like 40 percent. Beginning to think ballet’s something I should know something about, too. All I know is there’s a guy named Balanchine, Nuruyev (sp?), Misha, Merce, Peter Martins and Darci Kistler and Karole Armitage, whose father taught me biology. Had to take it at Kansas U to get into UVM, but fell in love with a girl and decided to stay at KU. Two months later she goes, “If you call me again I’m calling the police!”
Think I’m too stoned to work out. Hope my guy has weaker weed next time. Side note: anyone seen The 400 Blows? Whatta masterpiece.
Going to Met today, buying a $60 membership, which gets you unlimited visits for a year and other perks. Same basic price as sushi dinner at Hatsuhana, four drinks at the Beatrice, entry into cheap boomie massage joint, a month of unlimited 8 netflixes at a time.
Went to aquarium instead, hung out with some fish. Watched a California sea otter eat a crab, whole. Not only that, watched a Planet Earth special in 4-D. It’s 3-D so it’s like you’re swimming with the dolphins and humpbacks but 4-D cause you get hit by bursts of whooshy air and splashed with water. Seats in there vibrate, too. Know anyone who wants a fish? Person in my building sent this out: “We are moving overseas and have a fish to give away to a good home - if you are interested please call Kylie…”
Saw guards yell at two people at the Met the past few days. First (dude) touched a 200-year-old painting. Second (woman) took a flash photo right next to one. Also saw a girl rubbing a sculpture. All three of these people were from the same hemisphere. Guess they don’t teach art gallery etiquette over there. But they’re sure good at computer espionage.
Sometimes I wonder if Jon Stewart is more prick than mensch. In spite of all the success and adulation he seems to still have a chip on his shoulder. Glad I’m not a member of the media who sucks up to him on a regular basis. The Daily Show, The Daily Show, Jon Stewart this, Jon Stewart that, let’s verbally fellate him some more! See Frank Rich.
Been a little self-involved lately. Reading Catcher in The Rye and it holds up O.K. Narrator a little irritating from time to time.
I’ll never ski again and I’m fine with that. Scuba diving’s different.
I know one thing not doing: going to Cabo or anywhere in Mexico till everyone there chills out. Apparently, beheadings are becoming routine amid the gangland turmoil there—more than 200 victims recently decapitated. Not a big fan of getting my head chopped off.
Not going to Palm Beach this year for Easter. Yep, that’s out. I’d say there’s a 35 percent chance I’m going. If a private plane’s involved. Kidding. Sort of.
Here’s how to get to Roosevelt Island: Cross 59th (“the Queensboro”) bridge. Turn right, turn right, go around like 120 degrees, then go down until this big plant’s on your left, then turn left onto the bridge to Roosevelt Island. Turn left, turn right at the bottom of the fucking whatever, go down a ways and I’m right next to the tennis courts.
Had a major revelation. You want to get on someone’s good side? Call them a genius. You want them to remember something you’ve said 10 years later? Call them a genius. You want the guy at Nuvisions to help you with your computer and cable service? Call them a genius.
So by the time we’re 60 there will be a Muslim majority in Europe? That the deal?
All right that’s it. Don’t want to start an international incident but once again, like the two other times I’ve been to the Met this week, some people have misbehaved and gotten yelled at by guards. They seem perfectly nice and excited and happy to be there, but then they go and stand too close and take flash pics right up next to a Seurat or they’re on their cell phones or touching paintings, rubbing sculptures—I’ve seen all this happen. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.
Don’t know what it is, but there’s something smelly looking about Gisele.
Pretty sure this Pineapple Express is both indica and sativa. The dealer acted like it was a big deal he had some. Unlike any weed I’ve ever had. Only drawback—feels like some creature’s in my head moving my brain around, adjusting it, swishing it around, playing with it with its hands like Playdoh. That can’t be good, but it’s pretty relaxing stuff overall.
All a sudden I’m in a great mood despite a negative $65 bank balance. Private plane’s sealed the deal and I’m off to Palm Beach!
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