Crumble crumble to the ground...

Our stock market prices continue to fall despite the media's announcement of a 700 billion dollar government bailout on Wall Street. It seems the attitude there is still positive though, even while Mr. Dow Jones goes on a diet. Because fear is the presiding emotion, investors are making snap decisions with primarily their best interest in mind. Who will deliver the goods and how will it get split up?

Hundreds of billions of dollars is a lot of money. Who has the ability to oversee an operation like this? Not only that but what implications will arise with a 700 billion dollar governmental rescue mission? Becuase this is a huge operation I have no control over, and the result will have substantial consequence on my livelihood, I’m scared.

Perhaps the most startling aspect in the latest collapse of Wall Street is that reputable financial analysts’ have only mustered a murky digestion of the various erroneous transpondencies that occurred within the banks.

And the thing is; there isn’t enough time to do a full investigation before reactionary decisions are made! In this volatile economy every minute counts. What's resulting is a blind sprint to a unknown finish line. With haste comes lack of attention to detail.

Is throwing billions of government dollars at this problem really going to fix it -- or will it be just a temporarily bandage. Remember when the Bush administration injected that proposed lucrative booster shot into the consumer’s wallet earlier this year? Did that actually work at all?

or even a little bit...

While I appreciate our government’s enthusiasm and commitment, I sincerely hope employees at the Securities and Exchange Commission aren’t taking their lunch breaks!

changing it up

I’ve increasingly become aware that I am a creature of comfort.

Though I love spontaneity and random acts of adventure, I’m a person that relies on baseline day-to-day regularity as my epoxy. I’m a habit forming, native clenching person that wants his core Monday-Friday this week to be analogous to next week’s.

When a change in pattern occurs, no matter how much time is given to prepare for the transition, my auto-response is to composedly sedate myself. Aiming to project demure poise, I cast a cool shadow on my surroundings while internally scheming how to extricate myself from these off-kilter feelings.

I, like anyone, plant meaningful roots in my relationships. When a person is uprooted from my life, it feels like a part of me withers and droops, shrivels and dies.

I bring this all up becuase my best friend at work has now quit and, god bless her, is on to bigger and better things. but through all her positive upward movement I'm left at the office taking up her tasks and feeling alone, acting reclusive and unsure of choices to make.

Though her departure has left me with some grievances, its obvious our once common rapport will morph into a more meaningful friendship filled with social dates and cocktail parties. Once that connector bridge is built between coworker and friend, everything should be all set.

An alteration to regularity is like a splash of cold water on exposed skin; it’s a shock which has prompted me to be more self-reliant and withdrawn with all this much-to-do. Given the time, I don’t see why I can’t rekindle the vivacity of which I’m accustomed to.

Who couldn’t be a creature of comfort? Cutting myself some slack, I think I’ll pine for consistency until I find it.

hawk and mouse

After a long and deliberating conference at the office I decided to take myself outside for a walk around the courtyard. Framingham can be so beautiful in August.

Indeed, that's what I thought while traversing brick pathways amongst clever green landscaping. Dodging hydrangea bushes and daffodils, the deep blue sky commanded my attention. Wings spread wide; a hawk was soaring above.

He was gliding in the wind circling figure-eight patterns, probably looking for a tasty mouse morsel or a crisp of chipmunk. I couldn’t help but watch him intently, using my imagination to pretend I was that devious vagabond in the sky.

I'd love to be that hawk. Though I’ve never eaten a rodent, the freedom of flight would be breathtaking. The unshackled liberation from responsibility would check my stimulus into the stratosphere allowing breezes up my shorts and riches in pockets.

Walking forwards with my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds I continued to stare upward. Step by step, my thoughts bounced up the springing vestibule walls of possibility.

I tripped. (suddenly and out of the blue...I might add)

Crashing down, my skin scrapped over the ledge of an unoperational fountain. Far be it for me to be flung head over heels by stupid gravity and reoccuring obliviousity. The scene must have been a dramatic one to a bystander.

The episode featured an audible THUNK and a FWAP followed by an 'allie-oomph' cartwheel as I tumbled upside-down, legs up in the air and into the pit. Humiliated, I rolled out of the fountain, (thank god it was empty,) and deceptively walked on imperviously. As an ode to the comedic Ellen DeGeneres I playfully acted out a quick glance behind me while motioning, "what was that?"

Besides mortification, the most egregious injury of my courtyard fountain folly were a pair of skinned knees.

I may be clumsy, but the only witness to the little plummet was the envious hawk, jealous of my cartwheels and complex thoughts.

privacy

Something you may not know about me is that I keep a private journal. It’s a small brown spiral-bound notebook, cryptically retained through illegible script.

Though unattractive, the one bonus feature of sloppy handwriting is to a strangers eye, it looks like I've got a case of the Parkinson’s. Because of this, I reserve my angst and turmoil for my journal. Everyone has despondency and their own way of expressing, right? As for me, it helps to work out clandestine emotions on hush-hush paper in scribble fashion.

There once was a young yesterTim who would post passionate feeeeelings in a Live Journal, but since growing some chest hairs and becoming mature enough to realize that my affectivity isn’t anybody’s business but my own, I now attempt to keep volatile and exposing impressions off the interwebs.

But today, in exact opposition to my maturity, I’ve decided to share with you a past entry I’ve stumbled across in my private journal. ~enjoy!
___________________________________________

November 1st, 2007
I’ve been eating way to fast lately. I scarf food down faster than is healthy—really.

::scarf::::scarf::::scarf::::

I can’t figure out why I’ve been eating so fast; but, I did work out before rehearsal. I feel like I haven’t worked my chest—well—since Gold’s Gym in Amherst. What I need is a good gym, a good workout buddy—that would be nice.

I need to move out of my family’s house. I need an Apt in the city! I can do it, I just, I just need to proper place. Jan!? Feb!? March!? Should I visit Ali in two weeks via Columbus and Skybus? Detroit is only a 4 hour drive or something, plus the Dreamgirls are in Detroit. I got me a Cadillac, Cadillac car. I’d prefer not to go to Ohio ever again, for the rest of eternity and then some. Work is just giving me two days off becuz they owe it to me, yippie!

I have the following crushes:
1) I think his name is Tom—(he plays Algernon in Earnest)
2) Kyle (too aloof)
3) James (too smart)
4) That other guy (message him)
5) Ray (won’t ever call me)
6) Michael himself (eghad)
7) Everybody in the world
8) Yikes...

The abercrombie sniffles

I don’t know if you know this but I was in Abercrombie and Fitch last weekend.

Although I’m generally over the Abercrombie clothing line, sometimes I find myself hypnotically charmed into the store by the odiferous bouquet of Abercrombie cologne. Walking through the main entrance, I’m warmingly greeted by an oversized male torso chiseled and stuffed with sexual hyperbole.

“such promise” I imagine, as I gawk at the suggestive photos wallpapered around.

Pupils dilated, I follow the thunderous dance beat, careening my wants towards everything virile and manly. My sensation of touch becomes hyperactive and my fingers reach out for anything I can caress. Wooden tables and racks hold the clothing I start to experiment with. Digging through neatly folded muscle T’s, overturning piles of long-sleeve henleys and picking up garments to my nose, I embrace the purely fierce scent of frat jock.

I’m dizzy, except I don’t care. It can be a bit oversensualizing, but luckily the friendly Abercrombie Brand Representatives are there to assuage the pressure. Frolicking in the pants and bottoms section, I don’t notice one gliding towards me.

“Hi, errrm...can I help u find something?” he seductively suggests .

Caught thrusting my fingers through the holes of some destroyed jeans, I freeze. while feeling the warm sting of a hot blush in my face, I’m able to utter a guffaw.

“ha…..umm…naah, I’m good” I sheepishly twain.

Standing at over 6 feet tall, his floppy chocolate hair and smooth auburn skin imposed a commanding vibe over me. Muscle Tee stuffed with genuine muscles, chest puffed out to there, teeth gleaming white with the latest application of Crest whitening strips, I imagine what kind of help he could exactly give me.

“I’m eeerrr...just browsin yeer, you know…stuff-- but yeah, thanks..heh…heh…” and grin.

“cool” he reverberatingly mumbles.

Leaving me, he swaggers over to the ladies section. But before he gets too far away he turns around and gives me a look which trembles the fruit in my loom.

Transparency

I’m wearing my new white Aldo sneakers today. They are definitely new but stylized to look worn and tattered. They came dirtied up with this black tar stuff which could be peeled off easily if I had longer fingernails. Long fingernails are feminine. I don’t have long fingernails because I am a man who loves manly things like dirty shoes, sweaty shirts and short fingernails. But, if you happen to see the pink pansies and lacey inpatients in my garden, please don’t hesitate to appreciate.

I sorta like these shoes. They fit comfortably, despite the creak and squeak they make with every step I take. I swear though, if they weren’t 80% off when I bought them, I wouldn’t have bothered. My closet is filled with enough shoes, but a good bargain is hard to resist. Besides, they came laced up in a funky untied symmetrical pattern.

I’m hungry. Should I have Thai for lunch? There is this highly popular Thai place down the road. I should probably check it out, considering we are moving to Framingham tomorrow (goodbye Waltham, goodbye route 95 traffic, hello spending $1,196 a year on mass pike tolls!)

The restaurant is called Green Papaya. I haven’t eaten there because I’m scared of cellophane noodles. They taste fine, but find their transparent appearance unnerving.

I don't trust anything transparent. No matter how hard you look you can only see what’s on the other side; blinding everything immediate and temporal.

Go red sox!

easy cheesy

I’m sitting down to enjoy a bowl of Easy Mac. Regular Easy Mac is never cheesy enough, so I had to mix a slice of American cheese in and sprinkle some Kraft parmesan on top. It tastes sorta gross in my mouth but feels really good going down the throat.

I just decided I need to start watching MTV’s The Hills again. I miss it. I wonder what’s happening with Heidi? She better not be engaged to that asshole Spencer, he had really white teeth but his speech was busted.

:::an update to this post>>>>

I do NOT need to start watching The Hills....that show is absolutely borring. How can anyone watch that show?

lolcat

see more crazy cat pics

peaches and dream

Basking in the scintillating sun, I bit into a velvety ripened peach. A slight breeze caresses my warm skin and sends goose bumps down my arms. I’m gazing out at a pastoral forest from the sanctity from my front porch. The squeaking floorboards from under my rocking chair remind me that this pristine land I see will remain undeveloped forever.

The sugary peach nectar drips through my sticky fingers. Nibbling the last bit of flesh around the pit, I think about throwing it yonder, amongst the leafy thicket. It would land in the woods and remain undisturbed. Earth’s fertilizing soil would nourish the seed for years and years, blooming into a seedling. It would then grow into a peach tree only to subsequently produce and reproduce more juicy peaches. This is nature’s little miracle, this is reproduction.

Much like if you toss a seed into fruitful soil, two lovers laying in bed will foster impregnating results. After a couple ruffling romps, the magic of insemination produces lots and lots of babies. I don't have a baby. But my coworker Lenda will in a couple months, that’s right, she’s preggers!

She told me the news today when I stopped by her office. As excited as I am for her, learning of this recent news worries me. Lenda is my age and if she’s pining for kids, shouldn't I be as well? The theory of association dictates that I should be settling down to pop out a few kids of my own. Yikes. I love kids, but the idea of being responsible for another human being from infancy to adulthood strikes a power chord of anxiety deep within.

It isn’t that I don’t think I’m capable, people tell me that I’m great with children. And not to toot my own horn, but I agree with them, I am awesome. I have some infallible skills when it comes to understanding how kids perceive their world. I can speak their language, move their speed and educationally aid them in their journey through life.

There is dignified honor that comes with raising a child with a personalized branding; I can definitely see the benifits of having genetically related kids. But the horror of responsibility! Eighteen years of such dedication. Not to mention life-long association! This is downright frightening.

Lately I’ve been thinking that maybe my destiny with children is only as a spectator. Besides, a homosexual man is thought of as a curator of society, or a maintainer of culture. Without us, history would be forgotten, humans wouldn’t have discovered fire. Trendy up-and-coming neighborhoods would be still be ancient cave slums instead of preserved historic townhouses.

Children? Pleeease...I’d be a mess of a father right now. My current life is too eclectic for kids.
I think the endless nights of drinking at clubs and partaking in debauchery relinquishes a stable upbringing atmosphere. A child would simply wither and die.

And when I’m not flying high in socialdrum, I’m huddled in a corner thinking profusely, scribbling wordplay on the nearest cocktail napkin—the latest addition of useless repartee to be published in a self-titled memoir. No, a child is not a good idea for right now, but what about the future?

I’ll be singing a different tune when my biological clock starts ticking away audibly in my mid-thirties. I imagine by then I’ll be a peppery salted adult. Yes, I imagine I’ll be ripe for progeny then.

I can see it now, my husband and I nestled in a cute suburban cottage. I’ll be wearing an apron while planting cabbage in our victory garden; he’ll be inside emailing the latest addition to the editor of his exceedingly popular New York Times editorial column. The children will be sitting quietly at the dining room table listening to Mozart and finishing their math homework. I think maybe that’s what it’ll be like. As for now, unless you’ve got Michael J. Fox in a DeLorean waiting outside eagerly to hit 88 mph, I’ll hunker down for the currently unexpected.

Anniversary

Batten down the hatches and call in the dogs because today marks the one year anniversary of my employment at Techonline! For the past twelve months I’ve banked time, energy and experience at this job much like a young boy drudgingly saves portions of his weekly allowance, saving up for that expensive electric train set in the toy store window. With every accumulated step I take there is a temptation to let go. A small part of me wants to leave and squander away the frivolous time spent building a reputation for myself. But the bigger part of me knows to toil on, moving forwards with angst and patience.

All through college, you and I have been told to keep our first job for one year. Doing that emphasizes resilience and dedication, which are venerable qualities. At home or at school, this initiative was encouraged by parents, teachers, councilors and friends. Even my agency recruiter underlined the importance of keeping a landed job for one year, despite any grueling negativity that could arise. Knowing my tendency to be flighty and readily distracted, I accepted this one-year thing as a challenge, already expecting to fail. I, like you, dream up so many plans and fantasies, most of which involve having adventures outside of Massachusetts. When I started my job a year ago, I had no idea that I’d actually be successful!

Wow! Yay me! Look at me suppressing my restless urge for thrilling differences. Excuse me while I go pat myself on the back…

Don’t let my enthusiastic festivity of triumphant excitement fool you. My exclamations are purely sardonic. Today’s anniversary arrived much like a train to a station, with little pomp or circumstance. While I’ve fruitfully stayed here for one year, I can’t let go of what I’ve sacrificed in order to do so. There is no celebratorial cake in the kitchen here in the office. Nor is there a party in my honor scheduled for conference room ‘A’ this afternoon. My coworkers didn’t forget, I just never reminded them. IsIt it that I feel slighted like Samantha Baker from Sixteen Candles?

I’ve eagerly waited three hundred and sixty five days for this to arrive, each one passing with a contemptuous “all right already!” Ha, you’d think with all the hype I’d have some sort of articulate expression. Yet; now that this day is here, I feel dry. Which is ironic considering it’s been pouring rain all day long.

I can now completely remove the bookmark I’ve been inching forwards through the novel titled, One Year at CMP/Techonline, marking the pages and days passed. When I get home this afternoon I will put that book on my unkempt bookshelf alongside Bus driving with the PVTA, Emphasizing the Fierce at Abercrombie and Fitch, and Answering Phones with Jesus at the Christian Science Center. Actually, now that I think about it, there is comfort knowing I can ease down in my red comfy chair tonight with the satisfaction of having one year of a corporate job under my belt.

Next step: The book titled, Not-for-Profit and You, or maybe I’ll run down to Barnes and Nobles to pick up A Successful Romantic Relationship.

Hmmmm….choices, choices…

New York New York

“New York City at la-ah-ahast!”
“Shinny!”
“What’s that smell?”
“OH GOSH!”
:::grab:::
“gasp!”
:::grab:::
“oh!”
“oof…”
::flash::
“AAAHH!”
:::punch::::
“I’m bleeding!”
“what to do?”
“Dance it out…”

Bob & Co. party essentials

On March 15th 130 hosted a goodbye/birthday party for dearly departed Bob. Bob is now gone, may he rest in piece. Even though it's only been a couple of days, the memory of him at 130 lives strong within all of us. I just hope that even though he's in a better place, he'll be able to hold all of us close to his heart.
~Bob? This video is for you:

Good morning

This morning I woke up feeling much like I always do; annoyed at my alarm’s snooze button and it’s damned extra 5 minutes of slumber, groggy from the boogers crusting the caruncles of me eyes and mystified from my outlandishly senseless dreams. After battling my inner demons I finally rouse. Leaping nakedly in the air and out from under my russet down comforter, I pull back the crimson curtains and expose the John Hancock tower. Every morning I look at its colorful beacony light while thinking about a poem in which here I will recite:

Steady blue, clear view.
Flashing blue, clouds due.
Steady red, rain ahead.
Flashing red, snow instead. (unless it’s the summer, then the Red Sox game is cancelled)

It was steady red. Rainy, cloudy, downy, miserable, depressing.

That’s fine. Bostonians have cold stone hearts and black souls made of stiff rawhide. The plethora of rainy days we’ve had this season can’t get me down, no-no, today I welcome that rain with a positive mentality. Turning from my window, I jump off my bed and grab my new taupe towel I bought yesterday at Target. I remember an article I read in the South End Courant about how the considerable amount of rain has raised the groundwater table to record levels—which is good because the water protects the wood timbers that hold all of the south end’s buildings up. Yay! ...but wait a minute, doesn’t that mean…

Without enough rain, the buildings will collapse. As if knowing my home is sitting on wooden stilts pushed deep into sea marshes a hundred and fifty years ago isn’t unsettling enough, learning that the annual rainfall determines whether the heavy brick brownstone will stand infamously strong or teeter and collapse into the sea is downright frightening. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I thunder down the stairs and into the bathroom. Closing the door I turn on the light, fan and heater. I hang up my towel and look in the mirror, deciding what I’ll look like today.

“Hmmmm…curly and unshaven,” I decide, “but what are these?” I notice stray hairs’ growing in bunches around my nipples, vagrants across my chest, a hair on my left shoulder and two unsightlies on my right shoulder blade. Reaching for my tweezers nestled in the medicine cabinet, I think about all the yard waste I raked from the front yard yesterday. Leaves, branches, candy wrappers, condom wrappers, glass and newspaper. Plucking away at my areolas, I think about the forty square feet of gardenable land now scoured and cleaned for the growing. A clean blank slate allows for new creativity, refreshing experiences and good times. Just like my fresh unsullied chest. I brush the clinging hairs off and put the tweezers away.

Today will be a good day.

A brief commentary on your now…

Poor Eliot Spitzer! Disregarding all the poor choices he’s made, I have an element of sympathy for the former governor of New York. It’s kind of easy to pick out the humor amongst the scandal. The fact that he was such a fierce enforcer of ethics that he’s been coined many do-gooder nicknames is funny now because he likes to bang expensive prostitutes. The man has money. He spent over $80,000 of his own money on whores from a prestigious internet escort service. He didn’t use money laundered from the state or tax payers, no no, he used his own! Isn’t that something to be commended? I respect people with needs. Mr. Spitzer needed loving so bad he was willing to pay over $2,000 an hour for some. Poor, poor Eliot Spitzer didn’t know where to turn. After properly researching which vendor to use, he chose the top of the line which means that man has class, which I also respect. I wish he didn’t resign, I wish he fought for his job. Personal lifestyle choices should be kept separate from professional image.

Alas, I guess in today’s society, everything you do and wear and say adds to your reputation. Status and sourceablity are increasingly becoming the most important thing in this world. Eliot Spitzer’s is now tarnished forever, along with the rankings of men we all know and a couple that I’ve known in particular.


Appendment: Haven't we all done things we are ashamed of?

A brief commentary on my now…

My little brother turned 19 yesterday, Bob turns 30 today, Tim D. turns 24 tomorrow. I’ve found myself going on dates with guy’s ages ranging from 21-45 and I’m turning 27 in August. With Bob feeling the stress of turning the big 30 and John turning 30 in August but drinking to forget and Rob being 32 while scared of 33 leaves my sister turning 14 in June while my little brother turns 18 in September. The men downstairs are married and 27, Adam is 26 and Marco and Jeremy don't have any age.


All this does not matter. Age is just a number, character is everything. Now watch Adam do a hula dance:


HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOB!!

The undulating health / fashion week report

Question: What’s more fun to caress and look at than muscles?
Answer: Nothing.

Fashion week has long been over and now that the dust has settled, pop culture is finally able to personificate what they should invest in. That’s right, rumor has it that the next big-thing is going muscle! The forecast for the future shows chances of huge defined bulges coming from arms, legs, chests, and even buttocks.


Apparently this isn’t going to be just a passing craze either. While this year’s designers were sifting through recycled culture for imaginative stimulation, they finally found revelation in what nature rewards with sweat and diligence.

Muscle! To give their visions an edge, designers turned to artists for inspiration. Marc Jacobs sought out Richard Prince to collaborate while artist Takashi Murakami made his impression on Louis Vuitton. If that wasn’t enough, even Prada’s spring show seemed to showcase the exact same. Up and down fashion week, Runway to runway, the color and fabric of designers varied yet the continual constant stayed muscle. The proof is found within the ripped abs and contoured jaggedy edges of the models bodies. In fact, muscle is so hot now, it’s getting hard to find.


While consumers flood the malls in search of this hot new trend, cultural analysts are noting the depletion of muscle everywhere, especially in local shopping centers across America. Despite the lack of muscle nationwide, urban centers such as New York, Boston and L.A. are noting accumulating muscle, especially in local hot spots.
“If you want muscle, the city’s the place to be,” says Boston resident Peter Marino.

My mother says...

My mother says that when I was born I did not come out kicking and screaming like most newborns. Instead, once I got out of the womb, the doctor sat me up; I opened my crusty blue eyes and just looked around, contemplating and examining. The doctor was momentarily confused with my benevolent entry into this world. Why wasn’t I crying? Extending his hand apathetically, he wondered if he should slap my bottom to induce some temper-tantrum blood curdling shrieks. Exhausted from pushing, my mom intervened, demanding to hold me. She held me tightly ogling the thick jet black hair atop my big head.

“Tim, I tell you, you were just thinking and thinking. From the moment you popped out of me, I knew you were a true Wallingford thinker.” She said.

“Mom! STOP IT!” I would squeal as she recites stories from my infancy to family and friends.

I get so outwardly embarrassed when she starts in on childhood tales. Of course despite my humiliation mom continues, unabashed. Her mouth blazing with words, who knows what awkward account she’ll disclose next. She could talk forever. Mother's sole purpose is to shock and awe; absorb the audience, all at my expense. The Nerve! She probably knows that deep down I narcissistically enjoy these tales about life before my memory kicked in. Maybe it’s my narcissism that keeps me awake into the night thinking and rehashing all of life’s trite and infinite perspectives on what makes me, me.

Mind Ablaze

This morning my alarm woke me in the middle of a nightmare that I needed to finish. Smashing the snooze button, I didn’t care if I was late for work. I was going to wrap up this dream regardless of real life responsibility or the horrificness of it all.

The scenario was this:

Stuck believing my dream world was reality; I was hastily driving my car to high ground in an attempt to escape doomsday. I'm not positive by I think nuclear bombs were supposed to simultaneously explode all over the world at any moment. One thing was sure, I wasn't about to stick around to find out. In my car was my apathetic little sister, an indistinguishable elderly woman and a sleeping dog. While I was nervously eager to save ourselves, the others were surprisingly indolent to the idea. Even though it was the end of the world, no one else seemed to care, and that bothered me. Strangers wandered the streets asking questions which pondered the logistics of when the bombs were exploding and what that meant for us. I felt they sould of caring that they were all going to die. Wouldn't you? I mean, their curiosity had rendered them blind! Even the radio announcer on my car radio was lazily referencing the explosions with little demeanor or charisma. I was alone in attempting survival.

Slowly but surely, through five minute increments, in-between snooze button pushing, I desperately dreamed my way towards a conclusion. Though I stubbornly want to be the hero with an outcome, I was eventually pulled out my illusive daze by a housemate Rob, calling my name to ask if I was about to get in the shower. Scared of losing my turn I shouted, "yes! I’m up!" as I gathered my naked body around a towel and groggily sprinted downstairs to the bathroom.

Rob, in his boxers, was waiting anxiously in the hallway while the bathroom door slammed.
"…four minutes, urr… promise." I grunted.
I like my showers hot and this morning was no exception. While the steam clouded the mirror and the water scorched my skin red, I soaped and gargled while wondering why I had such a crazy dream.

icanhascheezburger.com

Enter the ICHC online Poker Cats Contest!

Xanadu Weekends

Reminiscent of the small pox plague that exterminated most of the Massachusetts natives making way for our alpha-dog European descendants, Xanadu fever hit the house last weekend. “Xanadu, your neon lights will shine for you, Xanadu / The love, the echoes of long ago / you needed the world to know.”

It all started with a glimpse at a website advertising Xanadu on Broadway, http://www.xanaduonbroadway.com/. Upon entering the site you are first met with a dazzling pink background with rainbows crisscrossing top to bottom. First an energetic thunka-thunka beat starts to play over the speakers. “Where am I?” you ask, evocatively awakening happy fantasies of gay dance-club shirtless decathlons. Then while your heart patters to the beat, you suddenly see Pegasus, leader of unicorn planet take wing and soar across the screen. Finally a flash movie starts to play, showcasing the Broadway stars of Xanadu asking, “Where’s the place where all my dreams will come true?” And answering, “I grant you a Roller-disco!” After seeing such a thing, my housemates felt like we had to see the 1980’s original epic musical adventure, Xanadu featuring Olivia Newton-John, and Gene Kelly. Given the circumstances, you would be inspired to do the same thing…

While the 2008 Broadway show sits in New York collecting rave reviews, the 80’s movie will arduously stay present in history, forever tarnishing the warmth of our modern Xanadu love. While the musical numbers of the movie are interesting to say the least, the plot is horribly constructed while being equally dreadfully acted. Needn’t we forget the ever popular idiom , “Xanadon’t” It’s best not to watch the film. Rather just watch YouTube clips of the famed musical numbers. I tell you this; the all inclusive excitement you feel during the full length feature never achieves the exhilaration you get from the internet site.

Should not be blogging...

I shouldn't be blogging because I am at work and have way to much to do before I go home. But how can I resist? After taking a lunch break coworker Jen shared some internet hilarity with me, so I thought I'd post some here so I could reference it later. I figured you'd enjoy as well:

The site is called garfield minus garfield. The element of hilarity is simply removing garfield from the cartoon strip. Here we are left with the schizophrenic John Arbuckle who lives an empty life. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a garfield comic before in my life.

http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com/page/1

what d'ya think?

alleviation

Ladies and gentle-manliness, I have reached the end of my work day. :::hooray!!:::::
Before I frolic out to my car, I thought I’d leave you with the following information.

I have an itch.
–That’s right, an itch. Yet it’s not an itch that is easily scratchable. No-no, this is one of those hard to reach itches, impossible even. Right now you should consider, if a delicate graze was all I needed to remedy this irritation, do you really think I would blog about it? This tingle I have exists deep within my body. So deep it breaches the caverns of my physicality and dives headstrong into the underbelly of my persona. Can you feel my soul? It’s stretched out spread eagle, stomach exposed, embracing the blistering elements, simply calling out for a graze or a rub. A graze or a rub. I make no regular exclamation. This is a yell... A SCREAM!!!! I demand from you, Tranny luck, bless me with the power of your chambray. Give me a tiny prickle, so that I may coolly hose down my itch, quenching my dryness while leaving my skin velvetly moisturized.

Passive Aggressive Fun

A beautifully snowy Friday and an optimistic vision into the weekend, I continue to scour the internet for sources of random fun interestingness's. This website comes from my improvisational friend Liz Caradonna. For more art visit http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/ . Here are a couple of my favorites that left me laughing out loud:
Obviously human biology breaks offend someone so much they feel the need to smear guilt into the hearts of anybody feeling the urge to goooo.

KARMA WILL FIND YOU!!! Not only did that person eat a sandwich, but it was a homemade sandwich. I bring in sandwiches to work all the time and if anyone ate it I'd be piiiissed.
Street parking can be such a bitch sometimes.

The best way to mask a complaint is to attach some element of applause, praising the scolded as "good singers."


This is my favorite of all. The sign just says, "seriously?"

Chicago aSpire

I was interneting today and I came across this exciting bit of information:

Chicago is building North America's tallest building! again! Turns out the currently under construction building has it's own website:

http://www.thechicagospire.com/ This could be the most phallic looking building I've ever seen. Apparently it will consist entirely of residential condo's and all the accompanying necci-ta-ta's that come with urban living. (salon, grocery, dog walking, etc...)

Would you live there if you could?

bark bark

Jenny Blais, my esteemed fellow coworker and partner in crime, voyaged up to her home town of Portland Maine last weekend. Nostalgic for her old haunts, she went to a party at her old job, where she used to be a DJ for an indie-classic contemporary rock station. Showered greatly with love and attention that night she woke up the next morning wearing just a jagermeister T-shirt and a pounding headache. Despite her desire to ditch the scheduled family day-after party at her parents house, she wrung out her dignity, ding-donged the front door from childhood’s past and embraced her father in a shamefully hangover hug.

“Out late last night?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Hmmm…don’t tell your mother…”

Jen’s sister has a dog who recently gave birth to lots of oogly—woogly, cuttie—patootie puppies! The puppies arrival just so happen to coincide with the bed-ridden recovery time from a surgery Jen’s sister had. Apparently all the love and attention from the puppies helped Jen’s sister recover faster and more effectively.

This being said…

Instead of prescribing pills as medication for pain relief, why don’t doctors prescribe puppy dog love? A couple of hours playing with a litter of puppies is the cure-all, end-all for disease in this world.

:::yawn::::

Another Monday, though it's Tuesday. :::sigh::::
Thank God Martin Luther King Jr. was such an outspoken civil rights activist—his efforts gave us a three day weekend! I'm feeling the love MLK, I'm feeling the love.

News at work is grim, yet conceivably manageable. Mel blasted into my office this morning spouting off top secret plans of merging her job in with the webinar group, (my group). While excited for her, I'm distressed at the concept of taking on some of her tasks, such as posting tech papers. As far as I can tell it sounds like glorified data entry. Will this new merger and task appropriation be the fuel which ignites my search for a new job? I do so desperately want to work in the city and end this Mass-Pike commute. I love this job, but I'm much more excitable then webinar production allows.

This past weekend I did so much! Thai Village/Club Cafe, snowboarding, Roxy dancing, Patriots win the AFC championship, Family dinner, discount shopping, Coverfield, a friend therapy session, possible gym membership scouting. It's all well and good, but probably the most taxing issue I'm dealing with is exhaustion. I need to get used to living a faster-paced life…plus city noises have been preventing me from getting a full night sleep. I've hopefully remedied that, now I have an ambient noise making fan, so hopefully my future sleeps should be more fulfilling. I woke up today jamming out to Huey Lewis and the News, "The power of Love."

My only regret this weekend is not installing the shelving units in my room. Yesterday was dedicated to that task, but the lack of studs in my wall due to the mysterious archaic construction of brownstone walls in the 1860's makes it impossible for me to put the shelves up where I want. Anyone have any ideas? Looks like another ikea trip is in order…

a reasonable beginning

It finally makes sense to start blogtastically posting my thoughts and feelings regarding the nuances of life in a new place—A new hope for the idealistical attempt at creation, a new blog. Yes, this new place will properly suffice. It's amazing how a simple change of surroundings can inspire a fresh push of creativity. Now that I've moved to the South End and am continually experiencing crazy adventures, I'm going to have to keep an exact record of everything that happens.

Ignoring the temptation to add a hyperlink to my old accounts on myspace and livejournal, I think this new start deserves a cold shoulder to the trials and tribulations of yesterblogs with an emphasis on a Neeew Tomorrow.

:::::holds champagne glass in the air:::::

-cheers