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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


starving for sanjaya

I'll admit that I was way into American Idol when it first came on. It was Summer 2002, and I was spending two weeks in summer school for the Math B Regents (which i subsequently failed two more times). Our teacher gave us a short break halfway through class-- so short there wasn't much time to do anything other than turn to the person next you and talk about something other than sine,cosine, and tangent. Our teacher was a huge reality TV fan, so we'd usually talk about AI. And being me, and not wanting to miss out on any form of conversation, I picked up the show so I could chime in.

This lead to a strong hatred of all things Justin Guarini; a deep admiration, respect, and fist-pumping love for Kelly Clarkson; and (don't judge me) a super-secret crush on Simon Cowell. What can I say? He's got the accent, and he's that brand of asshole girls usually think they can change. And he keeps it realer than anybody else, so...so fuck you if you don't understand it, alright?

My AI love faded with each season. I knew enough to make general conversation, but I basically just resented the way it killed well-written TV shows (Arrested Development?) and any other program put up against it. Do I understand why people go crazy for the show? Of course--it shows human beings rising and falling, smiling and crying, and singing karaoke to songs we listen to on the radio.

And Sanjaya Malakar--I get him, too. He's peppy and vaguely ethnic and he's got that gay-but-won't-say charm that still allows middle-america moms and children to love him (just like Clay Aiken. speaking of, is he out of the closet yet?)

I've heard all the rumors and theories about why he's still on the show, and I hope they're all true. I hope the phone operators in India are messing around to make him win; I hope Vote For The Worst.com is inspring people to call up. And you wanna know why I hope he wins?

Because of this moron: starving for sanjaya

Starve, bitch, starve. Back in the day Ghandi embarked on a hunger strike to protest British rule in India. Now dumb girls are starving themselves to vote off a ponytailed Indian. Ah, history repeats itself.



charles bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do


capital city

How would i describe my weekend in Albany?


Back in high school I remember reading a lot of articles in Seventeen & watching special reports on Channel One News about huffing. I used to think, what's wrong with these kids? Can't they get real drugs? Where are these kids living that they think spraying Lysol into the sleeve of their hoodie & breathing in is cool?

But while shopping in the Crossgates Mall in my state's capital city, and looking around at all the kids numbly walking in and out of Hot Topic, a lightbulb when off in my head.

"Holy crap--so THIS is where all the kids are huffing!"

Lord knows if I had to spend more than three days in that town I'd be snorting the opposite side of the nozzle on RediWhip cans and trying to forget where i was, too.


rockaway st. paddy's day

"the best st. paddy's day ever?"

I'm not sure.

Yesterday was fun alright, but it's weird; it just used to be so much more fun when I was 16. The "scene" (yes, i guess the roc does have a scene) is getting old, or maybe it's just me.

In the morning Carolyn Cryan's little sister stopped by the house for bagels & beer. She's 15, and it was her first RSPD, and it was like a flashback watching her nervously filling her backpack up with beers. It wasn't so long ago that I was doing that, too. And then her friends came and they were nervous, too, and we were letting them know their rights, telling them not to talk to any cops, to drop their beers if they see them, and to never, ever open your bag if they ask.

"They need a warrant, yo. Don't forget it."

Then they went off to enjoy their first day of illegal, underage binge drinking, all in the name of heritage, and part of me sorta wished I was that age, too.

I had high hopes for this day--it's the first year I'm actually 21 so there wasn't the persistant fear of not getting in (as well as the straight-out not getting in & yelling at the bouncer, which happened a few years back). Also, the Clubhouse was back after a year hiatus, which means all the things I love about RSPD were also back--the mud (their ad in The Wave actually told people to wear boots), the crowds, the close proximity to other bars. Having the rugby team party at the Yacht Club last year just meant more walking & having the closest bar be Jamesons, which is terrible. The tradition of breakfast at my house continued, followed by the parade from my corner. This year, though, we watched it from Devin's house across newport, since it faces the parade route and we could openly drink on her porch. That's right, coppers, you can't get us on private property!

And speaking of cops--they just stood there. Before the parade came down we were all hanging out in the middle of the street, taking pictures and being assholes. I kept looking over to the cops on the corner, waiting for them to stop us but they didn't. Part of me was like, shouldn't you be stopping us? Of course the other part of me was just thankful. And a lot of the marchers in the parade were openly drinking cans of beer--not even hiding it in a cup like we were. I guess I shouldn't be complaining, because the complete passiveness of the cops did allow me to have fun. But it gets you thinking.

After the parade we ran with an awesome idea my sister came up with and got stamped at the Clubhouse. We didn't stay, but this stamp & bracelet would guarantee we'd be let back in without a line later on. After that we went to the Walsh's house for their usual party. That meant good beer, and Mr. Boden's Sheppard's Pie. We stayed there for a while and then headed down the boulevard to the Clubhouse, but halfway down we noticed something was up.

The cops and barricades were still around, even though the parade ended hours before. And there were a lot of people hanging out on the street, not in the bars like they were supposed to. We stopped in front of Roger's and saw some people we knew, who informed us of a power outage.

A power outage? God, of all days to have no power--You pick Rockaway St. Paddy's Day??

The Clubhouse was, of course, still letting people in. But without the band or the DJ it was so boring--the Iona pipe band would play every so often, but after sitting through a long parade the last thing i wanted to hear was a bagpipe concert. Kerry and Candace left for Connolly's, but I stayed, mainly because I paid my money and didn't have much left.

Luckily, the power came back on & Shilelagh Law started to play. Typical rowdiness ensued, fueld by taunts from the band that "the crowd up in Woodlawn sang 'fields of athenry' louder." There was crowd surfing, and bartenders up on the bar, and spilled beer everywhere, and lots of creepy drunk guys. Yes, the Clubhouse was back.

Later on I left to go to Connolly's, which was decent. By that point I was tired, and I couldn't find Candace (who lost her phone), and was running out of money. After a while I decided I wanted to head back uptown, where there were more bars and my house was within walking distance. I called a cab and waited. And waited, and waited. I called Deuce's and said "Uh, could I have, like, a cab to Connolly's?" and the smartass on the other line said "Uh, could you give us, like, 40 minutes to send one over there?" I was shocked by their snark--they're usually brusque, but never sarcastic--and I think I said something like "This is your fucking business, assholes, plan ahead", but it didn't matter. I was still stranded, and freezing in my polo shirt & sweater. Damn, when did it get so cold? I waited a little while longer, and then just gave up and started walking.

But then I heard it--the sound of a bus. It was the Q53, travelling down the boulevard, tired from a long trip from Roosevelt Avenue. I ran to catch up with it and hopped on, and enjoyed a warm, comfortable trip home. I think I'm gonna start taking the bus to bars more often.

The day was long, and I took a lot of great pictures (including one with Chuck Schumer). But the best part about Rockaway St. Paddy's Day is the chance to do it all over again in two weeks.

I wonder if my writing has even improved?