Thursday, January 31, 2002
Can I like this song without being a soul sistah? Can I say 'soul sistah' if I am a white male? Is 'soul sistah' even race specific? What criteria does a girl have to fit to be called a soul sistah? If I can't say 'soul sistah,' what can't soul sistahs say about me? Can I explain myself? I mean, I'm not trying to be derrogatory or hurtful, I just think that the term 'soul sistah' really applies to this particular artist. She sings with conviction and passion and has a message. Are my boys gonna make fun of me when I admit to liking the message? I think her dozens are pretty good. You know how Nas and Jay-Z are always in shit with each other (and Nas always sells more records, 'cause he's the better rapper, but that's beside the point) because they just got beef? Well here are my contentions with THAT:
1) What are your problems? You make so much cash, you have entourages, let it go already. But if you couldn't . . .
2) . . . Could you guys just sit down and talk it out over a nice cup of international coffee (And remember that waiter? What was his name . . . . ? How could we forget JEAN-LUC!)
3) What do you little hoes think about this nubian queen spittin flava on yo's ass like it was some kind of crazy thick mucous or sumthin?
Whatup now? Huh? Whatup NOOOOOOOW!
Sorry, I just reverted to my 'Can't Hardly Wait' character played by Seth Green for a second there. I think I need to lie down.
10:43 PM . . .
Wednesday, January 30, 2002
Oh yeah, I forgot to say, welcome to my blog. I did a lot of work on the bells and whistles of this page before I actually decided to put any real content up, so that's my bad. I guarantee that I will write some gems now and again. I live a full life, I only have one regret (which I'll get around to writing about some day. It has to do with a shower . . . I'll leave that one up to the imagination), and I don't pull any punches. Anyone who knows me can attest to that.
I already told my parents about this site, which I am kind of apprehensive about, but fuck it, I'm gonna say what I wanna say, and they'll still love me. My dad will never read this crap anyway, he's too busy playing Tennis and Snood (he plays real live tennis). Please bear with me while I get over my parenthesis fetish; I have a tendency to overuse them, sometimes inappropriately. I often put punctuation inside them, which I know is a faux pas, but until I can figure out a better way to convey my thoughts it the time it takes to hold shift and press 9 and 0, let it slide.
That was my disclaimer. Off to the right, there's a search, a referral bar, and that's also where you'll see my version of the (un)sung heroes of the web. I read their columns/view their sites and laugh, learn about new things, ponder interesting situations that they have screwed themselves into, in general, I just take it all in. I could be outside, but whatever I'm doing is good enough for me at the present time. On the left is where you can learn my likes and dislikes, some advice I can give because I've lived it (oh you crazy 22-year-old, you have so much to learn), some pictures of my friends and I. Basically just more about me as a person and not just an online entity. Why you'd want to do this is beyond me at this point, but soon enough, I will be writing scintillating social commentary that will tear at your heartstrings and a timeless story of love and betrayal when three couples are thrown together, their lives in upheaval, where only two will make it through the journey alive . . . I'm trying too hard. I'm also trying to carry every thought in my head to a melodramitic comedic fruition, which doesn't work too well when you've been up schlepping your resume to temp service autoreply e-mail bins since 9AM.
I'd like to have a relationship with my readers. You can leave the seat up, (I never do, though. You get shitspray. E-coli travels up to 4 feet in any direction when that bowl is flushed, yecch. See what I mean about the parenthesis? The thing is, I want you to go back to the original thought of 'You can leave the seat up comma' when you leave the parentheses, but I've written too much inside here for it to flow like that. DAMN! Maybe I just need to learn how to segue better . . . 'You can leave the seat up,') you can leave your coat on the sofa, but when you cut up a poppyseed bagel, clean up the stray poppyseeds; I like to walk around in bare feet and hate tracking poppy all over the house.
God. In the words of the immortal comic-book-guy; WORST BLOG EVER.
On a lighter note, I called that lady back. I admit I lied. It went better than expected.
10:15 PM . . .
If you haven't read this already, check it out. Needless to say, it's a comedic bit. A true to form shock jock from the good old mick country (16th Century). Swift was kicked out of college and lived to be some ridiculous age for that time. The guy has about as much tradition in Dublin as Guinness. He was ordained in the church of Ireland, Dean of St. Patrick's Cathedral until his death, and also bequeathed money to found a hospital in Dublin. He was pretty much Ireland's Renaissance man.
9:20 PM . . .
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Today, I told a lie. It was one of those insanely stupid lies that you immediately regret spewing from your mouth as soon as you say it. One where you know that the person listening to you lie takes it as fact immediately, but in the back of your mind, you know that they WILL find out. I was going to apply for temporary work at this place and I was talking to this woman. We had a perfectly wonderful conversation about my finance degree, my upcoming GE job, how I was friends with her son's friends who I played lacrosse against in HS, her daughter's finance internships and upcoming job with Citigroup on Park Avenue in New York City . . . she said a word and I could give a dissertation on the etymology of it. She knows my dad. She's the freakin' owner of the place.
Some girl walks in during my interview and makes small talk with me. She was one of the people I knew at the place I was recently fired from. She leaves and the interviewer lady asks me about that last position. Gave her my schpeil about how their management doesn't know their rectum from their ulna, and she asks. "Well, was it the end of the assignment there or did they let you go?"
Now I was thinking to myself, "should I tell her I was fired? Hell no . . . She wants to hire me, she's not going to want some reject that can't file papers without complaining." And that was it. I lied.
I walked out of the place, and she called the person at my previous staffing company (who put me at the position I was fired from) by her first name.
Screwed. Absolutely screwed.
2:21 PM . . .
1:33 PM . . .
When I get this to work, I am going to be psyched. I could have sworn the manual said it was going to be easier than this. It's not blogger's fault.
1:28 PM . . .
11:28 AM . . .