How I Almost Became a Wannabe Rockstar's Kinda Girlfriend. Maybe.
I don't blog about my love life. There are many reasons for that; chief may be that it's somewhat disturbing to discover that someone has been publicly chronicling his every step to get in your pants.

That being said, The Airport Guy was a walking blog post from the very beginning. And since it's been about six months since I last heard from him, I believe the statute of blogging limitations is over. I was awaiting my flight to St. Lucia (via Miami and Chicago) when I started overhearing this guy's cell phone conversations. From what he was saying, it became obvious he was in some kind of band and his bandmates had somehow left him the night before and he had to find his way to Ireland to meet up with them. His name-dropping became quite impressive (excessive?), so I started jotting down the names in my little travel Sudoku book: Interpol, The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (apparently a guy who used to play with Airport Guy's band is now playing for them), Death Cab for Cutie (Airport Guy's band was supposedly going to be playing with them in Ireland), Drew Barrymore's father (A.G.'s mother, an entertainment lawyer in LA, had him over for dinner the other night, nevermind the fact that John Barrymore died two years ago), Marilyn Manson (who apparently broke A.G.'s keyboard with a beer bottle the night before). Because I like talking with interesting people, regardless of whether they're being completely truthful, I struck up a conversation with him. During our conversation, or rather, during his monologue, I learned the following:

+ He was originally from Mississippi and moved out to Flagstaff after Katrina.
+ He grew up a few houses down the street from some Nobel prize-winning author (whose name I can't remember).
+ He was a big Faulkner fan.
+ He had written a book that told the "fictional" tale about how he had killed his best friend in a drunk driving accident and then spent 6 months hitchiking around the country doing a lot of drugs and sleeping with a lot of women. A few weeks later, Penguin Books was apparently flying him out to NYC to talk about publishing his novel.
+ He went to boarding school with Julian Casablancas.
+ He had packed weed in his checked luggage.
+ He had recently given up drinking. (He said this about 10 minutes before he offered to buy me a drink from the airport bar at 10-freaking-30 in the morning).

Somehow he talked me out of my phone number before boarding his plane to Dublin; I really never expected him to call, but sure enough, upon his return to the States, he rang. One of the first things he mentioned was that he had run into Phillip Seymour Hoffman while walking around some town in Ireland and offered to buy him a drink. He also ran into Dolly Parton in Temple Bar in Dublin. By this time I had enlisted Sarah's help in checking some of his previous story, and we learned that Death Cab for Cutie was definitely NOT playing anywhere in Ireland for the next three or four months. But Jason (I finally learned his name during the phone call) the Airport Guy amused me so I didn't really care how real his stories were. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona because his buddy Maynard Keenan from Tool was having a party celebrating the opening of his new vineyard. I had to decline because the party was that Tuesday and I had to work. He called me the next day to invite me up to Flagstaff so the two of us could go bike riding. When I told him I didn't have a bike, he said he'd buy me one. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona for a full moon party and even offered to charter a plane to fly me there. The next day he called me three times in one day.

And that was when I stopped returning his phone calls. I never did figure out what band he was supposedly in, not to mention which stories were real and which were completely fabricated, though I think the one about Marilyn Manson destroying his keyboard with a beer bottle might be my favorite. "Jason the Airport Guy" is still programed in my phone and I get a good chuckle when I scroll past it.

Con Artist?
Confused Crazy Guy?

Who knows. But it makes for a good story.

Splish Splash
I have the flu, and my sister has kindly told me that my hair is greasy and that I stink. I think this means it's time for a bubble bath.


Poetry Spam
Or, Funny Sentences in My Bulk Mail Folder
Normally I hate email spam (who doesn't, really?). But lately I've been noticing the poetic qualities of some of the subjects. I started collecting a few of my favorites and have compiled a few into works worthy of the next FARC Spotlight or Artisan poetry slam. Each line, including the titles, is a different spam subject.

victimize vaguely
Within reach of the prerogative of puzzled doubt no gold itself was low
largely barbarous you increased the gallery. You a democrat back
They're Kingdoms with an observation chair.
should have balls, receptions, banquets that rigmarole
stripped of Terminus itself, like that his lordship a Sector Wienis
the chance would be death. Three weeks; ago, before him what we lost

science without orders
ethical promises relations miseries
But go on detour attune
in listen of fanaticism marksmanship
No plan of satisfaction in this discuss the faint, emphasis
Spirit? We're protecting forces as much; alive:
Oh, you are not able to control your feelings!

that of the standards of steel.
I hope you threw his voice was much alive.
crimes of a night before We have before his feet.
criminal. I see, more than one

transfer housewife
Not finish or unversed virginals
Is turnon on ignominious
dishwasher frank
ordinary light at their way I see he smiled to allow
private plans, and he observed and you are
injudicious yes, and circumstances; were busily being shot and filming

penance nonexistent
land with us in wrought iron the Fall: of the establishment of
their daring. It weakens ever be; escorted back to catch
and for cropping. Its the Emperor. What I pass the power,
seemed open for the Tribes are under guard
in his mouth knowledge the habit. He was so much time.
spoke, only never given in order your treasonable statements Mr. A
bulge at court for yourself explained: it wouldn't have no hearing
and that you heard that gives us nothing but that rules the
section of the beginning simple and then SELDON lifted then: stopped.

Totally beats subjects like "Re: ho test" and "We have VfAGRA 4 u".


Miss Manners wouldn't know where to start
Or, why you might not want to be seen in public with me:

1. I tend to burp. Loudly. And often.

2. I scoff at people who are starstruck, but be forewarned that I will freak out if any of the following are mentioned or sighted: Jason Bateman, Steve Nash, Raja Bell, Isaiah Washington, T.R. Knight.

3. Not only do I prefer to drive barefoot, but I like to drive with my left foot propped up on the dashboard between the window and the steering column. Yes, I know this is dangerous, but it's strangely comfortable.

4. I have a hard time stifling a glaring look at Hummer drivers, especially when they hog the lane in the parking lot.

5. Most weekends I shower only once. Why waste the effort as long as I don't stink?

6. I'll forego fixing my hair to catch 20 minutes more of sleep in the morning, so most days my 'do is a messy knot of wet hair.

7. I really don't see the problem of putting your elbows on the table.

8. I feel compelled to rage against the use of Comic Sans anywhere I see it.

9. I will cry when watching a sappy (or even a not-so-sappy) movie/tv show. There's no way around it.

10. I cannot restrain myself when "Ice, Ice Baby" comes on. Must. Sing. Along.

Does this make me a bad friend?
How is it that it has taken me six months to realize that I still have Megan listed under her maiden name on the blogroll?


Honk if you’re a homophobe!
I nearly drove off the highway yesterday evening. NPR’s Michele Norris was interviewing Paul Weyrich, a conservative activist and leader of the Free Congress Foundation, about the Foley sex scandal and Dennis Hastert’s role and responsibility. Weyrich said the following: (transcript taken from Wikipedia)

Weyrich: It has been known for many years that Congressman Foley was a homosexual. Homosexuals tend to be preoccupied with sex — the idea that he should be continued, or should have been continued as chairman on the Committee for Missing and Exploited Children, given their knowledge of that is just outrageous (Interview at 1:08).
Norris: Now, before we go on, I think I can say, Mr. Weyrich, that there quite a few people who would take exception to the statement that homosexuals are preoccupied with sex.
Weyrich: Well, I don't care whether they take exception to it — it happens to be true.
Norris: That is your opinion.
Weyrich: Well, it's not my opinion, it's the opinion of many psychologists and psychiatrists who have to deal with them* (Interview at 1:40).

What?!?! The same has been said about men in general, but no one ever said, “We should have expected no less from Clinton; after all, he’s a man!” In no way do I condone or excuse Foley’s disgusting actions, but if Weyrich’s rationale were rational, then what we really need is a (straight) woman in the White House, for lord knows our culture’s stigma says that women don’t think or talk about sex (a claim that Sex and the City does well to dispute). So here’s yet another reason W. shouldn’t be president: he’s man and is probably spending too much time thinking about banging his wife to responsibly govern our country.

*"Deal with them"? I "deal" with traffic on my daily commute; I "deal" with pesky telemarketers; I "deal" with PMS. And unfortunately I have to deal with homophobes and bigots like my good friend Mr. Weyrich.


Excerpt from a phone conversation with my mother this morning:
Mom: Did you get my voicemail about Osama bin Laden yesterday?
Me: You mean the message you left about Barrack Obama? I don't think Obama is threatening Republican power quite enough to be the number-one man on the FBI's Most-Wanted list. Not yet, anyways.
Mom: Oh, right. Maybe I need to go back to bed.

The blog links to your right have been updated to reflect the following: changes in geography, new blogs discovered/begun, lack of postage, claims of shutting down (we'll miss you, Fiscus!). Let me know if I've missed something.


Tree hugger
Today I took my lunch break sitting in a tree and reading a book. This made me inexplicably happy.