No Mixers. Just Girlkitty.

So it should be stated that we sometimes call girlcat girlfiddy, which came from calling her girlkitty. Her actual name is Tralala (after the character in Last Exit to Brooklyn http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Exit_to_Brooklyn - which is actually kind of appropriate in this case I guess…)

12:05 PM Jive Turkey: shit sucks

oh 50 cent

you suck as well

Heavy B: what happened this time?

Jive Turkey: the net keeps going out as well

12:06 PM or do you mean with fiddy?

Heavy B: fiddy

Jive Turkey: oh his new song is shit, i heard it earlier, and yet he keeps on boasting about how awesome he is

its hilarious

Heavy B: hahah

12:07 PM oh fiddy and his vitamin water

they should replace him with girlfiddy

Jive Turkey: good thing he got on that endorsement while he could

oh shit

Heavy B: I anticipate an increase in vitamin water sales

Jive Turkey: GIRLFIDDY'S GANGSTA GRAPE

Heavy B: POPPIN' ANTIOXIDANTS IN YO ASS!

12:08 PM Jive Turkey: or does that sound too close to gang rape?

LOL

Heavy B: hm, it kinda does

but it makes it better

Jive Turkey: yeah, but i doubt there'd be much of a market for girlfiddy's gang rape

Heavy B: right

but gangsta grape

Jive Turkey: werd

12:09 PM she got shot in the tooth 9 times yo

12:10 PM Heavy B: omg

GRIND DAT FOOD UP!

Jive Turkey: hahaha

12:11 PM cause i got shot in teh tooth

I DROPPED MY TOOTH

WHERE'D THE TOOTH GO?

Heavy B: WHERE MY TOOTH GO?

oh shit this is too funny

Jive Turkey: oh we are so awesome

i anticipate much hilarity because of this when you get home

12:12 PM also, i snorted coffee on the table

Heavy B: oh you must look like such a wacko at Baked

Jive Turkey: yeah, i think they're used to it though. which is so sad

12:13 PM Heavy B: not really

YOU'RE A WINNER!

Jive Turkey: lol. tell that to the public at large

I love it when you call me il papa!

Both Jive and I grew up what we describe as "ethnically Catholic" meaning that neither of our households were crazy religious or even went to church on a regular basis. What it means is that essentially, we are supposed to identify as Catholic, or raised Catholic, based on our race(s). I went to a Catholic elementary school, and so did Jive's siblings, but not him. My brother went to a Catholic all-boys high school, and my parents, being clever and seeing the error of their ways, sent me to prep school instead. My relationship with religion isn't torrid at all. These days I pretty comfortable with my ironic collecting of saints and saints candles. I appreciate Jesus bling, and Jive has grown to embrace the fact that his parents have a safe filled with what he lovingly refers to as his "guido gold".

This was not always the case. During my Catholic school days, around second or third grade, I was utterly terrified of not being saved. I was constantly paranoid that at any moment I was going to die and, the the evil sinner that I was, I would go to hell, because although I had acccepted baby jebus into my heart, I never felt all good and bible-thumpy . And this was of course, reinforced constantly by us kids being told that we could indeed go at any moment, so we better confess and pray always! So my biggest fear as a little kid was death. For some reason I became convinced that I was going to die when I was in the garden. Yes, my family had a little backyard garden, that for some reason, despite my incredibly indoor-centric ways, I thought the garden was pretty keen. What can I say, I like fresh veggies? And yeah, today the closest thing I have to a green thumb are my fingertips after rolling a joint, I still can say I like vegetables. Anyway, I think being under the open sky like that while plucking tomatoes made me think that I was going to be struck down by god at any moment and then I would be dead. Needless to say, my bookish ways got the best of me, hearty skepticism set in, and by around 5th or 6th grade, I no longer feared the wrath of my vengeful gawd, and was on the path towards my atheism. A story for the ages!

Although, the pope and I do have something in common, advocating the learning of Latin! During my prep school days, I took both Latin AP exams, discovered Catullus, and I'd really like it if I could still read and translate, but hey. So yeah, me and the pope, bringing back dead languages, yo.

dead playlist shuffletime variety hour!

Jive enters the room.

“What’re you listening to?”

“Oh the LCD Soundsystem that you uploaded to itunes.”

“Yeah, I don’t really get why they are like everyone’s favorite band of the year.”

Generic conversation ensues about the merits of said band and respective Pitchfork, and Idolator reviews and praises.

“Yeah well, it sucks that it is next to KT Tunstall in my itunes. Can I please take this out?”

Jive got mugged in our hood about two months ago, losing his beloved ipod so I’ve been sharing my ‘lil video nano as much as possible, and allowing the additions of some songs and albums, naturally.

“I love that happy little song, shutup.”

“That song is everything that is wrong.”

“Ok, I’ll agree with you there, but it’s such a happy little song!”

“Wow, I didn’t expect you to agree with me, I expected you to call me a bitch.”

“Yeah well, I like that song.”

“Dude, if I die, someone is going to think I like fucking KT Tunstall! These are the things I worry about.”

“No one is going to look at your ipod if you die.”

“Yes they are, if I die in the street or something.”

“Look, if you die, I’m going to be the one who goes to identify the body anyway, and I will take the ipod.”

“If I die in the street somewhere, and am taken to the hospital someone is going to look at my ipod and think I liked KT Tunstall.”

“No one is going to look at a dead woman’s ipod!”

“Yes they are, I would!”

“You’re sick.”

“I really would, if I worked in a hospital or something.”

“That’s morbid yo.”

“No it’s not, its curiosity. The same reason people read collections of people’s suicide notes.”

“That’s because suicide notes are fascinating.”

“So are dead people’s ipods and playlists!”

“There should be a website, like PostSecret.”

“Or deathspace.”

“Yeah.”

Oh, and the song that plagues my mind (and itunes) is that favorite of plucky romantic comedies featuring career gals that are supposed to be average and identifiable-with, but of course are superhot, and kinda clumsy to make them more real and lovable, but they're all versions of the ideal woman anyway JUST THE WAY THEY ARE .

SUDDENLY I SEE! THIS IS....etc.

I need a beer.

Bums, Bloody Shirts and Baton Twirlers, Oh My!: It's like the wizard of oz for gay crackheads.

Having just moved into Brooklyn, going home to Jersey to pick up things you've forgotten is never a fun prospect. The trip there went well enough, with MTA and NJ Transit running swiftly for a change. Once back home, I threw all of my business casual work clothing into the only bag available that was large enough to accommodate it. A shopping bag featuring a giant fucking Spongebob Squarepants frolicking in a field of jellyfish with his mildly retarded starfish friend, Patrick. Swell.

As soon as I get back on the train the handles of the bag break, forcing me to waddle through Penn Station carrying said giant bag, looking half crazed because I could barely see over it. Somewhere near Auntie Anne's, purveyor of horrible pretzels, a wigged out and bloody homeless man decided he'd taken a shine to my favorite button-down.

Now kids, my fashion sense in kind of like my gimpy leg: It may lag behind, but it'll get there eventually. For a long long time I had no notion of the fact that fitted clothing looks much better than shit you buy 2 sizes too big. So when I find a shirt that I love, that's actually well-fitted to my frame, I cherish it goddammit.

Even so, its probably not a good idea to throw the bag in a corner and go chasing after the much larger man while yelling like hell. When a cop noticed and ran after him, the guy tripped and fell, and promptly bled all over the shirt.

10 minutes later I find myself waiting for the A, sweaty and wild-eyed, and checking out a cute boy who is unfortunately twirling a baton with gusto all over the platform. Note to Self: Never again are you allowed to give your number to someone whose opening gambit focused on the awful bag and twirls a baton. He was kind of adorable and interesting but I couldn't take my eyes off the baton. What would I do if this dude actually called and did this in an even more public place? I'd probably develop a crippling fear of any open space.

"You got them crazy eyes. You smoke weed?"

Clearly this is what I needed to hear right before going home for the night. By the cashier at Fairway no less. I resent the fact that I apparently look stoned out of my mind even before I go home and smoke a large bowl. Yes, taking a full 5 minutes to decide between mini cupcakes and peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies is kind of annoying but I don't need to be high to enjoy 12 finger-food sized cupcakes.

Safely ensconced back in my apartment my odd day of transit has apparently inspired me and my room-mate/best friend, Heavy B, to create this blog. Word.