April Means Never Having To Make A Cogent Point

April 29, 2011: I thought it would be chipper of me to wrap up April with one last Blah-ugh! entry. And while I could wait until tomorrow, I know many of you are chomping at the bit to learn the latest intellectual developments in the mind of the man New Yorker magazine once called "that guy who sends those trite queries."

Yes, in fact, many things are on my mind today, starting with the pork loin I'm burning atop my stove as we speak ... So hold on a minute ... (FYI, it's progressing nicely, thanks largely to the thick slabs of butter I have augmenting the process. For a time I always simmered my pork loins in chicken broth until they became pullable, {if you'll excuse the grotesque imagery}, but today I wanted something different, despite the fact that it's just going to end up shredded over nachos for the next four or five nights.)

I'd be remiss in my reportage if I failed to make fun of the new Prince, or King, or whatever he is. To be perfectly honest, I'm so regularly out of touch with the "news" -- and smarter because of it, mind you -- this whole royal wedding came upon me quite unexpectedly. I did, however, take the trouble to watch the key three minutes of video on the Internet (owing to my being cabley impotent, as you know), and while I couldn't understand the bride -- I'm not sure what her name is -- because she spoke so softly, I did get the chance to observe how unattractive the groom is. Let's be honest, were William -- and I'm pretty sure his name is William, or it might be Edward, but I think it's William -- were he just an ordinary mortal, he'd never have a chance with a woman of her pretty stature. (Although who knows what she looks like out of her clothes; there could be all sorts of nasty surprises going on.) I only hope -- again, as I don't follow the media, I don't know what's been reported -- that people have been sure to point out the imbalance in the union, owing to their respective looks. He actually looks like a young John Elway, and that's not a compliment. It's funny how unattractive pure WASP features become -- little circular mouths that never seem to close all the way, overweight faces and over-dimpled chins. Thank god he has that great British accent, otherwise all he'd have going for him is his money, fame and unlimited power.

Speaking of royal, I'm rereading "Casino Royale" for the sixth or seventh time. There's nothing like a Bond book for a welcome breath of mysogenistic (sp?) anti-Soviet spellbinding. This was the first book, as you know, I think 1951, and Ian Fleming is in top form, despite monotonously excessive over-description of Vesper's evening wear.

And speaking of evening wear, I'm distraught to find myself lying here in shorts at 6:30, because this means the hot weather has arrived. I hate hot weather, except sometimes, and even then I pretend I don't like it so people feel sorry for me.

One final thought: why do the pork loins always smell so awful after they're cooked (and before, too, but that's a question I can answer)?

The Fear Is Real

May 20, 2010: Let's start, while I remember, to note that those little shit heel manipulators at Haagen-Daz have done their part to help mind screw us all, just like the Chapstick people I so eloquently blasted in a previous entry. (If I wasn't so tired, I'd bother to look up the date and title, and reference it, but I'm hoping you'll help a little with this effort by looking for it yourself.)

You probably haven't noticed that, what was once their standard "pint" of ice cream is no longer that. Without any word, that sneaky little bunch of Scandanavian bastards markedly reduced the size of their ice creams containers, roughly from 475 fluid ounces to 410. Now you weren't likely to notice this because, OF COURSE, the price wasn't reduced. Luckily a sensitive consumer (meaning ME) who periodically devotes long, thoughtful moments to studying the Haagen-Daz and Ben & Jerry's offerings at the local market, caught this, and has since vowed to never buy their shitty ice cream again. I strongly suggest you do the same, because as good as it may be, especially late at night when you're depressed and thinking about how awful your life is, it's not so much better than any other brand -- certainly not so much better that we should put up with their petty, greedy little mind F'ing. There are enough strange, mind-mutating pins being stuck in our collective psyches without having to get another from your bloody ice cream man. (Dirty heart-breaking F's!) And who else would report this? No one! And that's why I even write this stupid Blag, and so if for no other reason than respect for my ... Oh, never mind. You people never listen to me anyway!

This brings me to the other side of my mind, which is willowing with fear as we speak (or as I write ... and I don't even know if "willowing" is a word -- that's how debilitated I am!). You see, I've been up all night coughing with the remnants of my awful sickness. Not only that, my stupid cat (who I wouldn't be surprised to learn is in league with Haagen-Daz) has been carrying out all her ridiculous middle-of-the-night cat acrobatics, which mainly consist of making as much noise as possible and then racing around the house like a rocket when I try to throw things at her (little shit). Worse than all that, I distinctly heard a buzzing around 5 a.m., and as I just killed TWO SEPARATE WASPS IN THE HOUSE this week (can you imagine!), I'm sure there's another one somewhere about. (This is why I hate summer, AND Easton.) Worse, worse, I can't find him anywhere, but I keep thinking he's on my back, just sort of hanging there in that cold-weather dumbfounded way stinging insects have when they're not mad with heat orgy, but still languidly alive, thinking up their next awful plan.

So, you can imagine what a terrible morning I'm having. Thoughts of 1984-style ice cream methods, and now a deadly venomous insect clutching to my pajama top. And my hearing is so hallucinatorily acute, I keep thinking I hear the buzz again, but I can't be sure. You wouldn't believe the things I'm hearing. It's awful and disconcerting, and vaguely fascinating too. The problem is I'm so terribly tired, and still rather sick, so I can't even enjoy being all disoriented, I just have to sit here in this gut-wrenching fear and fight off the powerful feeling that I may die at any instant, or worse, be angrily stung by some stupid hornet. I hate bugs, and especially the angry ones that cling to your clothes. Just the thought makes me feel like I've bugs all over me ... and the really awful, awful thing is I can't be sure I don't!

I don't know what else to say, except I urge you to join my flat boycott of Haagen-Daz (despicable wretches). They should be ashamed, and if you eat their ice cream after reading this revelation, you should be ashamed too, and I sincerely hope you get stung by bees.