Category Archives: Blogroll

Letter o’ the Day: Dear Gawker, The Voices Say You Wanna Ride Shotgun

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Hell, I’d say yes. At this point, it would be a step up.

Go to the Gawker site for the, uh, 50+ comments (did I mention I’m a Gawker commenter now? Well, guess what? I’m a GAWKER FUCKING COMMENTER NOW, bytches but I’m all, like, cool about it and shit) but I will repost the whole letter here. Hell, I’d even include the real name if I knew it.

“Bonnie Fuller“?

John, meet Mark

From the mailbox, presented without comment:

Gawker,

• I’m trying to be #2 at US weekly, and have a paradigm shift for achieving this; my intuition is that if you could be on the staff of US, you would take it

• My soulmate is a hollywood actress, and I’ve been waiting patiently for her, for almost 5 years; I can demonstrate that we’re soulmates and I’m infinitely confident she would say yes

• I receive concrete signs from GOD, and can offer proof to ANY reporter in REAL TIME; I’ve been getting signs for over 4 years – I can assure you I’m not crazy or delusional

No, really. I'm not insane

My goal is to reach the editor of US weekly, Janice Min, and present her with my signs as well as my new paradigm for the success of her magazine. In exchange for your help, I promise you that if I get on the staff of US weekly, so will you. I have a bold new idea that I believe will be extremely popular and very invigorating to implement. It will be very rewarding and life-affirming working for US.

I have an intuition about youI feel good about this. No, really., as well as your website, that’s why I’m proposing this arrangement (US) to you.

Can we have an e-mail dialogue? Can I send you some of the signs?

Sincerely,
[xxx]

Is it so wrong of me to hope they say “yes”?

My Summer Vacation: A Narrow Escape

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It’s still to painful to blog about. Go to Metro‘s blog and read the comment I posted.

God, I need a drink. Will be back after the hangover and the memories abate…

Abe Vigoda: Celebrity Sighting o’ the Day

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From Gawker, who no doubt posted something raincoaster-swipe-worthy to celebrate my new status as a certified (and certifiable) Gawker commenter. The few. The proud. The ones who read the open invitation on Sunday night and emailed just before passing out.

Abe Vigoda

Sunday I saw Abe Vigoda putting the moves on some broad who couldn’t have been more than 60, on a bench in central park outside the Delacorte waiting for Macbeth. I was sitting next to him when I called a friend and told her Abe Vigoda was alive and well in central park. After I hung up, the dame said, “is that who you are, Abe Vigoda? Weren’t you Luca Brazi in Barney Miller?” and he said, “No, I was Sally Tessio in Fish.”

Laughing Yoga

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Check out Laughing Yoda here, currently standing at over 110,000 hits on YouTube. Dressed like Elizabeth Taylor at Studio 54, sounding like a cross between a bald eagle being burnt alive and that smiley guy in The Shining, the wee wonder reminds me of nothing so much as a diminutive Jedi on crack.

And ether. 

I know we’ve been video-heavy today, and I saw this days ago but didn’t click on it, but this is just unmissable. Really, you cannot look yourself in the face (in the mirror) as a time-waster and thoughtless pursuer of mindless amusement if you haven’t watched this video.

Once again, Perez was the source for this insanity. Blame Perez.

my summer vacation 3.0

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Come on, he said. Get in the car, he said. It’ll be great, he said. You’ll like it, he said.

You see this coming a mile away, don’t you?

“I’ll take you on a nice, scenic drive through the wine country, raincoaster,” said Metro. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Sure did. So into the car hopped one unsuspecting Vancouverite.

I should have suspected something when I spotted the sign that said we were on the road to the dump. “Sanitary landfill,” excuse me.

Eventually we toured quite a slice of the back country, the kind of mountains where the Akeleys and Whatleys confer on strangely bald mountaintops, between huge menhirs placed there by unknown beings long before the Poquassetts settled the land in the tenth century BC.

We passed the dump at about minute fifteen. I should have jumped. The raccoons would have been swift and merciful.

Instead, we did not turn around until well past the dump, well past the reservoir, well past the…fucking pavement’s end. Eventually the gravel turned to rocks and boulders, and Metro was persuaded to give up or sacrifice the undercarriage of the non-off-road-equipped Ford.

We turned around, actually, just past the sign that said we had reached Cowpat Farm.

We had left Lovecraft territory entirely, and entered Shirley Jackson‘s godforsaken lands.