True Enough For You

Check your thighs in the mirror, ma. I'm done.

Monday, September 19, 2005

How Many References To Trash Can You Count In This Post?

Q: What are President Bush’s current thoughts on Roe v. Wade?

A: He doesn’t care how people get out of New Orleans!

Zzzzzzing! Tips in the jar. I’ll be here all week.

Hey, did you watch the Emmys last night? I did. I must admit that I had to pop open a beer during the ceremony. I knew the moment I saw Doris Roberts feeling herself up in a sexual manner while listening to The Black Eyed Peas (including that Kids Incorporated skank Fergie) and Earth Wind and Fire rapping/singing about the year’s best tv moments that it was going to take some alcohol to make it through. Arrested Development didn’t win much, though they did deservedly win Best Writing for a Comedy Series. Regardless, they begin their third headlong descent into near-cancellation tonight. And I couldn’t be more excited.

Seriously, my life it so sad; I am living for Arrested Development tonight. The other highlight of my day was walking around Whole Foods and eating as many free samples as possible. I entered the store a bit hungry and left quite satisfied. I got the stink-eye from a security guard during my third trip to the Roasted Red Pepper Cheese Spread station, so I grabbed a Jamba Juice and exited post-haste. That said, the champagne bread rolls and the fruit and nut granola chunks were a delight! Thanks Whole Foods! P.S. Loving the hot produce guy stocking the Jonagold Apples today. He was totally flexing as he worked, and I totally respond to that kind of desperation for attention.

As I write this, I am embarrassed to say that Dr. Phil is on my tv in the background. HE is pissed! The name of the show is “I am afraid of my mother.” His guest is this beast of a woman who routinely verbally abuses her daughter by calling her retarded and Helen Keller all the time. Granted, it’s an odd insult, but I give her points for creativity since she claims that her kids are “blind and deaf to everything I want.” It’s not just any verbal abuser who can paint an image with a metaphor as well as invoke the allusion of a strong female historical figure. More importantly, Dr. Phil almost just punched her. Seriously, he pulled back to hit her, and he almost called her a bitch. He’s going to go bitchcakes, and it’s amazing.

Speaking of crazy bitches, I discovered this weekend that I hate one of my neighbors. On Sunday morning JC called me to come downstairs to look at a huge pile of garbage that my drug-addled hall mates left against the side of my building. It was impressive, almost artful, the way they piled so many disgusting things together. I must tell you, reader, by way of background, that garbage is a huge deal with my landlords. One time, junk mail of mine was discovered on the street (it must have slipped out of the recycling bag), landlords called me and asked me to come home from work to pick it up immediately. Sometime after telling them they were insane, I removed the garbage from the sidewalk and had to call the landlords to let them know it was gone. Anyway…

As JC and I were surveying the garbage sculpture, replete with Life Cereal and several forties of Yeungling, a woman exited a car with a suitcase and garment bag. She must have been in her early twenties. She had a short haircut and serious bitchface. JC and I sat on my stoop and talked about the mess, that is, my life when she passed us by with her rolling suitcase and derisively snorted, “Is that your garbage?” It was a bit accusatory for my taste. I said, “No, is it yours?” She said, as if she just cured cancer, “Um, if it was MY garbage, would I be asking you?” and walked to the door of the brownstone next to mine, her suitcase banging on each step. She didn’t pick it up; she just kept dragging it.

Now. Beyond the fact that she didn’t use the subjunctive voice, the fact that she had a face only a battered woman shelter worker could love and the fact that her logic was reaching Xanadu levels of insanity, her tone made me angry. And on top of that, her question did nothing to prove that it wasn’t actually her garbage. What if she had the whole thing planned from the beginning? It wouldn’t hold up in court, missy, it’s not going to hold up on my stoop. Lose the attitude. That must be what you’re dragging around in that clunky suitcase. I didn’t say anything else to her, but as she entered her door, JC yelled to her, “We still think the garbage is yours!” The last laugh was ours.

I must go prepare for dinner at Lolita, a quaint little BYOT (Bring Your Own Tequila) joint on 13th Street. Last time I went there was with an ex. I practically had to be carried home after imbibing a little bit too much T. It was either that or have a serious talk about “the relationship.” Clearly you see the winning side. Oh, hindsight, you 20/20 roguish devil! Or is it devilish rogue?

Maybe with any luck, I will see Lil’ Kim on the way there! That's right. The Queen Bee will be doing her stint in prison right here in Center City Philadelphia. She'll make a more than adequate bitch to someone, or so I pray.

Sorry, Ma'am, It's Not My Dimebag

So, pretend you own a restaurant/bar that cashes in on a stale homocentric scene in the City of Brotherly Dry Humping by hosting a party every third Friday of the month catering to a crowd that’s say, a little lighter in the loafers than most. With me so far? Presumably, this is your most lucrative night of the month since homos come out in droves whenever a drink special is held out in front of them like the proverbial carrot dangling from the stick. [Note to self: try hard to resist the obvious carrot/stick/gay joke. Breathe. And…resume.] What would your next move be? Why not alienate your client base by improvising a fake dress code and not letting people in?

If you follow that logic, chances are you work for the Mansion on Rittenhouse. On Friday night, the owners of the manse turned bar decided to enforce a dress code of no t-shirts or sneakers, a dress code that was never in effect before this night, a dress code that was used to discourage the gays from entering. And it’s a dress code that is not very amenable to the balmy Indian summer we are experiencing. The planners of the party stood outside the bar and told people not to go in. I imagine that the “Lucky Lounge” party will probably be held elsewhere. The actions of The Mansion smacked of homophobia. I highly encourage you to boycott the Mansion. So ordered. If you do stop by, tell the owners we said to fuck off.

The disappointing night out was more than made up for the night after as lady-friends of mine threw a rocking dance party in their basement. It was a smidge hot, but one highlight was some dude who couldn’t decide if he wanted to make out with me or my friend JD (a female). She coined him Gaybe (a hybrid of gay and maybe). Gaybe was all up in our shit all night. I don’t know if he were cute or if it were just super dark in the basement and I needed attention. The copious amounts vodka did not help my assessment skills.

The other night I was approached by a man on the street who asked, in this order, if I had any heroin, cocaine or pot. Way to set the expectations high, buddy! At first I didn’t understand if he were asking me to buy or sell; so, I asked him to clarify. He said he was buying, but was also interested in helping me if I wanted to buy. I was even more confused and walked away. Drug dealers should really be more effective communicators if they expect to make any money. No wonder he had holes in his jeans.

Was that the only drug-related incident of the night? Not for me, no. I was on the phone with the G, trying to enter my apartment building and pulling the keys out of my pocket. As I was fumbling with my keys, some woman, a young one dressed in scrubs, passed by me and asked if something fell out of my pocket. I figured something had fallen out when I took my keys out, so I thanks her and leaned down to pick up what I had dropped. When my eyes met the ground, I realized I was face to face with a small bag of pot.

Inner monologue: “Did I drop a bag of pot out of my pants? No, Z, you don’t do drugs. That’s why you drink so much, alcohol is your anti-drug. Then how did this fall out of your pants, Z? Maybe it didn’t. No, it definitely didn’t. That lady was nice to tell me about my pot. Wait, that lady thinks I dropped my drugs. Illicit drugs. Will she tell my mom? My mom wouldn’t care, I guess. Wait again, that woman thinks I do drugs. Should I let her walk away thinking that or should I embarrass myself further by chasing her and letting her know they’re not mine? Ah, just let it go. No, that’s too easy.”

So, while still on the phone, I chased the woman down the street. And the conversation went something like this:

Z: Hey wait!
Woman: Yes? Are you ok?
Z: Yes. Thanks so much for pointing out that you thought I dropped something. But it turns out I didn’t.
W: Oh, Ok.
Z: See, that was a bag of pot on the ground. And it wasn’t even mine. Weird, huh?
W: Uh, yeah.
Z: So, like I said, it wasn’t mine.
W: Ok, have a good night.
Z: I have actually never even smoked a cigarette! So, I don’t do drugs.
W: I am going to go now.
Z: Have a great night. Thanks again.
W: Yeah. [walks away quickly]


Too bad I couldn’t have given that pot to the guy from before who was asking about the drugs. Life really is all about timing!

And it wouldn’t be a month at True Enough For You without my reporting a death in the family. Jazzmine, the family dog died the other night. My mom called me crying on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog had passed away. While the dog and I had our ups and downs (For example, I couldn’t breathe around her since I am quite allergic to dogs. Not that this stopped my family from getting one. Not that I am still bitter. Sigh.), I will miss the old dog. It’s sad. Rough summer for my family. I would joke and say to stay tuned and see who dies next, but I don’t want to tempt fate.

More to come tomorrow. Hey, it’s restaurant week in Philadelphia!

Thursday, September 08, 2005

The Blame Game

Just when you think Celine is the nuttiest nut who ever did nut, True Enough for You interns KC and CK send me information that other people are saying crazy things regarding the aftermath of the Katrina disaster. Examples?

KC reports: Wolf Blitzer reportedly said "These people are so poor and so, so black." Those who saw this episode of the Situation Room said it was done unscripted (obviously) and it sounded like Wolf was trying to fill time as they were showing footage of the damage.

Did you hear what Bush said about Trent Lott's house? He said that his good friend Trent Lott lost his house in the storm but is going to rebuild "bigger and better" and Bush will enjoy sitting on the porch. Well, thank god for that. Now we can all go on.

Where did GWB get his ability to always say the right thing at the right time? Maybe from his mother.

CK reports: Here's Barbara Bush's quote about the people in the stadium, Howard Stern just played it: "Many of these people are underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them." Right, I'm sure they're thrilled. Howard was like "is anyone making a big deal about this?!"

CK and KC, don’t be so silly. These people, who are so, SO black are obviously fortunate to be able to take advantage of this situation. I mean, this hurricane has given them the opportunity to lose half their family (they were taking up way too much room in the tenements, anyhow) and do something besides sit around and collect welfare. Maybe they deserved it. You don’t see hurricanes hitting Kennebunk Port, do you? And now these people are surrounded by death, despair, dehydration and reporters who aren’t even allowed to do their job.

Brian Williams
, NBC anchor, reports on his blog:

"While we were attempting to take pictures of the National Guard (a unit from Oklahoma) taking up positions outside a Brooks Brothers on the edge of the Quarter, the sergeant ordered us to the other side of the boulevard. The short version is: there won't be any pictures of this particular group of guard soldiers on our newscast tonight. Rules (or I suspect in this case an order on a whim) like those do not HELP the palpable feeling that this area is somehow separate from the United States...

...Someone else points out on television as I post this: the fact that the National Guard now bars entry (by journalists) to the very places where people last week were barred from LEAVING (The Convention Center and Superdome) is a kind of perverse and perfectly backward postscript to this awful chapter in American history."

Andy at Towleroad does an amazing job making sense of who’s who in the blame game. The levels of incompetence are astounding and heartbreaking.

Talking points memo says: Take a moment to note what's happening here: these are the marks of repressive government, which mixes inefficiency with authoritarianism. The crew that couldn't get key aid on the scene in time last week is coming in force now. And one of the key missions appears to be cutting off public information about what's happening in the city.

This is a domestic, natural disaster. Absent specific cases where members of the press would interfere or get in the way of some particular clean up operation, or perhaps demolition work, there is simply no reason why credentialed members of the press should not be able to cover everything that is happening in that city.

Think about it.

One small glimmer of hope in all this chaos is all the stories of people rising above the government’s ineptitude and whatever other obstacles are in the way to give all they can to help. Anything you can do to help out is a good idea. For example, I will be attending a party this week to watch the Katrina telethon, at which there will be a cover charge to get in. All proceeds will be donated to the telethon. Every little bit helps. I am unemployed and poor, but I am still donating. Please do the same.

Hey, TEFY’s newest intern, MN, sent me an email telling me to type “failure” into the google search engine and see what comes up. For real. Ha.

Monday, September 05, 2005

Her Heart Will Go On

"When i want to watch, like the rest of the world, I turn on the television. And those people are still there."

Thus spake Celine Dion. Check out the histrionic diva from La Canadia flipping out on the Larry King show. When you're the craziest person sitting at Larry King's desk, you know you have problems.

Another gem: "You know, some people are stealing and they're making a big deal out of it. Oh, they're stealing 20 pair of jeans or they're stealing television sets. Who cares? They're not going to go too far with it. Maybe those people are so poor, some of the people who do that they're so poor they've never touched anything in their lives. Let them touch those things for once."

Thanks to JC for calling my attention to this testament in truth and gesticulation.

It's good to know that even in these times of crisis you can still count on certain things: death, taxes and Celine Dion being batshit crazy.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

My Cover Letter To The President

Dear President Bush:

It has come to my attention that there is an opening for employment in one of your departments due to the unfortunate passing of Mr. Chief Justice Rehnquist. Now that Big Willy, as we used to call him, has taken the bench way up in the sky, you will need to replace him with someone intelligent, charming and really, really cute. For the foregoing reasons, I believe I would be the best candidate for the job.

My most attractive asset is my availability. Since I have just been relieved of my job as law clerk, I spend my days wondering what I might have for lunch and asking questions like, “How early is too early for happy hour?” and, “It’s 5 O’Clock somewhere, right?” Before you were saved, you probably asked those very same questions between all those afternoon eight balls! Regardless, I am ready to think about the law at a moment’s notice.

Since you, Laura and the twins are regular readers of my blog, you know I am well versed in dealing with a diva on the bench. And I think we both know that certain members of the bench are prone to fits and tantrums. (I am rolling my eyes in your diminutive direction, Ginsburg). I am not going to call anyone a bitch, but you can read between the lines.

Moreover, I grew up in Northeastern Pennsylvania, home to the most elderly people per capita of any place outside of Miami/Dade County in our nation. It’s true, ask Jeb. So, I know what it’s like to be around people constantly dealing with the fact that the scepter of death is always squarely placed above their heads.

I am quite nosy and sometimes inappropriate, so you can count on hearing the probative questions from me that really count. Thus, if someone were to approach the bench with questionable attire, I would begin my inquiry by being all, like, “Um, what’s up with your tie, counselor?” People have a right to know.

I look quite good in black. It’s slimming, but it doesn’t make me look gaunt. I would be more than willing to cut my hair to match any sort of conservative fashion scheme that you plan for the court. And if you’re worried about my politics, Michael Moore is way too fat for me to legitimately respect.

I think I have the personal qualities that would make me a good fit for the current composition of the Court. For example, my laid back, yet sarcastic demeanor would balance the acerbic, high strung rants of Scalia. I know enough about porn to have a conversation with Thomas. Stevens plays a damn good game of tennis from what I hear. And let’s face it, Souter and your new appointee Roberts are both totally, totally gay. Furthermore, I would love to be the progenitor of “Beer, Wings and Monday Night Football with the Justices” night at a local bar of your choice.

I know you’re really busy trying to figure out where all the manpower and helicopters and army forces are in this time of crisis as the Gulf Coast endures the worst natural crisis the country has seen in decades(hint: Iraq). But you need to really get on this! I can start immediately, if not sooner. Caveats: My lease was just renewed, so I will have to work out of my apartment most of the time when I am not on the bench. With the new TV season right around the corner, it’s about to be a busy time of year for me, so the faster we could get started on my confirmation hearings, the better.

I am more than ready to serve. If for some reason you don’t think I am qualified enough (sorry, you’ve made some dubious judgment calls in the past), I would urge you to consider Whitney Houston. Girlfriend is wa-larious on Being Bobby Brown, and the Court could lighten up a smidge with all this talk of abortion and sodomy laws. You gonna take away Whitney’s right to anal? Aw, hell to the NO!

Thanks in advance for your consideration. My resume, transcript and references are all yours upon request.

Best, ZRW

P.S. Abslolutely adored your advice to the residents of the Gulf Coast to “hang in there!” Why didn’t they think of that?!