Friday Morning Hodgepodge

My cough is back and it's making me sound like I escaped from some sort of backwater TB ward. I really don't take very good care of myself, though I'm sure you've all figured that out. Whatever, I don't care. Dry, hacking coughs are totally "in" right now; all the cool kids are standing out in the rain and letting sick, homeless guys lick their eyeballs so they can sound like a car crash every time they inhale. I'm pretty sure this is true, although I admit there's every possibility that I just made it up in an effort to justify my not going to the doctor. Yes, I'm that sort of guy... the one who's all, "I'm not sick, I don't need the help of a medical professional, I'm COUGH HACK COUGH BLECH PTOOO OH MY GOD THAT'S A COLOR FROM BEYOND THE STARS OH SHIT anyway, I'm fine, leave me alone, do you have any Vap-O-Rub?"

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The weekend viewing list: We're so going to check out The Ruins on Saturday. The book was fucking terrifying and gross and it turned my dreams into a bizarre, David Lynch film festival, so I'm hoping the movie can at least capture some of that madness. We're also going to start watching the DVDs of that series The Tudors. Girlfriend really digs historical fiction and we both dig gratuitous, nudity-heavy sex scenes, which we understand this show has in abundance. So we're pretty stoked and pantsless about it. Also at our disposal, we've got Stay Tuned (underrated, awful John Ritter movie), The Purple Rose of Cairo (one of Woody Allen's best), and The Lady In White (creepy, late-80s horror movie for kids). So we're pretty fucking set for a weekend of shitty weather and general laziness. I know you're all just so totally interested in Netflix queue, so there you go.

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Speaking of Girlfriend, here's a story that will plop a Sterno can under your heart and warm it like a buffet hot dish... Girlfriend and I were on the train this morning and, during the course of our ride, I realized that I'd left my headphones at home. In my sad, dull world, this is a tragedy on par with watching your Mom getting eaten by a dinosaur inside a burning building while a biker punches an adorable puppy in the face because it cheated at cards. See, my job is a beige ocean of dullness and the only life raft is my iMeem account and/or the tawdry bounty of Hulu. Sans headphones, I won't be able to listen to these internet beauties while I input invoices, the day will drag on like an Easter sermon, and I'll eventually lose my mind like Tom Hanks in Castaway (my tape dispenser will be my Wilson). So I'm like, "Damn, today is going to suck ass," and then Girlfriend, without missing a beat, goes, "Here... take my headphones." And lo, the angels did sing. Seriously, this is exactly the same thing as Jesus giving that one beggar a glass of water when everyone else was like, "Fuck off, raggedy man!" I'm pretty sure that happened. Well, regardless, my point is that my girlfriend is Jesus. Neat!

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I'm rereading Anthony Bourdain's "A Cook's Tour" for like the kajillionth time and I just got to the part where he talks about how he was sort of ashamed and embarrassed to have his own show on The Food Network; how he felt like he was selling out and going over to the dark side, etc. I would just like to point out... and it's not like anyone's offering or anything, but still... were it to come down to that, I would soooo not have the same problem. I'd shill like a fucking carny for whatever network or book publisher wanted to hire me, I'd let them slap my face on a line of sweatshop-made t-shirts or bumper stickers or shot glasses, I'd go on every talk show and suck their corporate cocks like a naughty babysitter... whatever, man, long as the sweet, sweet cash is rolling in. My metaphorical integrity-butthole would be stretched wide and open like the great plains of my home state. And, for the right price, we could talk about doing the same to my literal butthole. I'm not kidding, folks... the whole ICFC thing is merely the tippy-top of the iceberg that represents just how far I'd go to set me and my lady up for life. This, by the way, is why I can no longer listen to the RENT soundtrack. Artistic ideals are great when you're an artsy-fartsy sixteen year old... as I creep closer to thirty, I realize that the only thing that pays your bills and keeps you in food and clothes is filthy, tainted money from the Man. Screenplays and songs about Mimi only leave you cold, starving, and dying of AIDS. So, to all potential investors and assorted givers of fame and fortune... come up and see me sometime!!!