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Posts in Category: Spring 2003


Dannii Minogue Needs to Be Worshipped as a Goddess

So Dannii Minogue, the terrifying Australian who sings shitty pop songs, has a new album on the horizon. While it’s true that her music is terrible, a new song from her album is called “Vibe On,” and—you guessed it—it’s an ode to vibrators. I don’t think any non-funk group has written an ode to vibrators since Prince’s nine-minute epic on the subject, so I think it’s high time for another tribute. Here are the lyrics (I swear I am not making this up):

Instead of just lying there,
Why don’t you show me that you’re powerful,
Put in triple X batteries just so you give me something wonderful,
Change it up fast and slow
Till I find the frequency I like.
Love it when you do my vibe on
Good vibrations, that’s what gets my ride on, gotta have vibrations,
Jump on to it, sit right on it, plug it in, give me my vibe on, gotta have vibrations.
I don’t want to put you down, looks like I’m a vibraholic now.

A vibraholic. Holy shit, that is great. “Triple X batteries” is my favorite part, I think. But my God, is that not the funniest damn thing a pop singer has produced since Crossroads (which was only unintentionally hilarious).

I’m generally not much interested in pop music, but I will be buying Neon Nights, Dannii Minogue’s new album, as soon as it comes out.

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Ideas

As is often my wont, I spent last evening browsing the Internet for descriptions of new and inventive sex acts I could one day attempt, in the unlikely event that I ever speak to a woman again. Somewhere between the Abraham Lincoln (that’s where you shave off all of your pubic hair, set the clippings on a sheet of paper, and when a girl goes down on you, you shoot your load on her face, pick up the paper, and blow the hair all over her face…the sp00 makes it stick like a Lincoln-esque beard) and the flying Dutchman (not really complicated—all you do is yell “flying Dutchman” at the height of passion to confuse your partner or any friends who may be listening/watching), I came up with a disturbing idea. A very disturbing idea. A decidedly non-sexy idea, you fucking pervert.

Actually, it was the embryo ideation of what actually might become a script or a short story or something else that is in one way or another written down on paper. But the idea itself is kind of disturbing. Usually, when really odd and terrifying ideas pop into my head (once a second, on average), I dismiss them immediately, crawl into a snug corner of my closet, and whip myself with a bloody scourge as penance. But even with all the self-flogging (in more ways than one), the idea won’t leave. It’s still there, and it’s fleshing itself out while my horrified conscience says to itself, “There is something seriously wrong with you. Seek help. No, seriously.”

It dawned on me that this is what’s entirely wrong with me, and this is why I will never, ever make any money. Ever. For life. My ideas are not mainstream. Actually, my ideas border on utterly wrong. And yet I feel like I have to run with them, because otherwise they won’t go away. I have a drawer full of completed, half-completed, or outlined written ideas that will probably never leave the musty drawer. Meanwhile, I have maybe two ideas a year that are not completely terrifying and wrong and might actually be lucrative. I guess two is better than none, but the ratio of scary to sane is becoming a little rich.

Oh well. At least this idea is marginally better than the pornographic TV sitcom I came up with that’s set in a gas station called Exxxon.

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The Last Castle

My dad’s gone insane again, and he’s decided that now that he works within 60 miles of our house and no longer has to work on Saturdays, we should rent every single movie made between 2000 and the present. So he’s started renting three movies a week, and unfortunately, the last three years were (mostly) lackluster for movies, with only a few bright spots. Also, my dad has pretty odd tastes. I have no idea where he comes up with this shit, but he brings home some really weird stuff. Fortunately, I end up liking most of it and I think my dad is somewhat less of a retard.

So this week it was I am Sam, The Last Castle, and Reign of Fire. He rented the latter because he claims my mom has this crush on Matthew McConaughey (she doesn’t), and he’s extremely jealous of this fictional crush, so he decided to rent the Battlefield Earth-esque thriller where he’s all dirty and bald and wearing animal skins and shit. We haven’t watched that one yet, or I am Sam. Yesterday afternoon, we watched The Last Castle.

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Yay

Classes start tomorrow. I’m absolutely thrilled. Except for how much I’m not.

I could follow that up with a pissy, whiny bitch-rant about all the things I have to do next week in order to get back into the swing of my exciting bachelor lifestyle (see, “bachelor” is a pun in this case, as I am (1) a swinging bachelor and (2) pursuing a bachelor’s degree; my hilarity never ceases to amaze and irritate me), and I still might, but I really probably shouldn?t because it?s not worth the effort. All’s I know is that everybody I know is converging in this general area tonight, and I’ll see a few them tomorrow, smoke some PCP, and then petition some grades with which I take issue. Also, I need to get a new U-Pass. And I need to drop and add some classes on Thursday. And I am looking forward to roughly none of those things.

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Classes

Well, classes today weren’t nearly as dull as I assumed they would be. During a mere three-hour period, I managed to (1) have a brief reunion with a few people who I think have actually moved up a notch from “acquaintance” to “friend,” (2) mock one of my professors openly, (3) go on an insane tirade about how people who form political and ideological opinions based on misinformations or facts that come from another plane of reality should just shut the fuck up before I commit suicide (it ended with “…AND WE ENTERED WORLD WAR TWO IN 1941, NOT THE THIRTIES. AND WE DIDN’T ENTER TO GO AFTER THE GERMANS BECAUSE THEY WERE EVIL AND MENACING; WE LAUNCHED A CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE JAPANESE, WHO DECLARED WAR ON US!!”), (4) get all of my books (the line in the bookstore was surprisingly nonexistent), and (5) get my U-Pass (so now all my rides up to Boystown for some hot axxxion are free).

Now I need to drop two classes and add two more. The whirligig of college registration is ever-so-much fun. I’m just glad they’re finally leaping into the late 19th century and implementing online registration, so I don’t have to wait around for hours or come down when I don’t need to. I’m dropping Lighting I to take Script Analysis, because the latter is required and the former is not, and I plan to drop some stupid science course I signed up for as my gen ed elective. It will be replaced with Screenwriting II, which is much more important than a class I don’t feel like getting up for.

But before I can do that, I have one other thing to do. It’s probably the most irritating and difficult. I need to convince the chair of the Film/Video college that the Screenwriting I requirement should be waived in my specific case as a result of many, many, many atrocities that occurred in that class. Fortunately, I’m backed by my Writing For Television professor and my grade in that class (my nice, shiny A), along with my grades in other F/V classes (a solid B average in the department) and other English classes (straight A’s, bitch).

And it’s kinda nice, with two bitchy gen eds on Mondays and Wednesdays, to have the day end at 1:45 and just go home and relax. I’ve been planning my schedule all wrong for the last two years.

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As Time Goes By

“That’s quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What does it say to you?”
“It restates the negativeness of the universe. The hideous lonely emptiness of existence. Nothingness. The predicament of Man forced to live in a barren, Godless eternity like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void with nothing but waste, horror and degradation, forming a useless bleak straitjacket in a black absurd cosmos.”
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“Committing suicide.”
“What about Friday night?”

—from Play It Again, Sam

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