According to Consumer Reports, “Mercedes has the worst record of any automaker with that many models. For a brand that claims to be “engineered like no other car in the world,” that’s not good.”  Can I close my eyes and pretend it’s not true?  On the other hand, it, like all other things, is relative.  However, relief, I’ll never be able to buy the high-end versions it lists.  Sweet.  I’ll just stick to my driver and horse-drawn carriage.

I just love this Global Orgasm for Peace.  Strange, however, knowing that the “movement” was started by a 76-year-old woman though.  It’s a good thing, sure.  But I don’t want to think about it…

My god, so true it is that we’re limited by our own limitations.  Or our own concept of our limitations.  I get so down and so childishly angry at what I’m looking at, at how I’ve crafted my lot, at the things I’m seeing around me in this day and age.  At flatulent political talk shows.  At fat-headed cornhole drivers that aren’t kind and forget that they’re human beings once they’re behind a wheel and honk at you with their cheeseburger hand for turning 17 feet in front of them.  And I’m one of the few who accelerate into turns, so it’s not like she even had to slow down much.  Plus, my blinker has been on to prepare you, to intentionally indicate my plans.  So go fkk yourself and die you idiot Fkk, I’m thinking, while silently beneath it, I’m wondering: You’re just so disappointing, person of this town.  Why can’t you behave kindly, be a human being?

I get actually angry [and it's so small!] and can relate to Francis McDormand’s character in Friends with Money and Sandra Bullock’s character in Crash.  They’re discontented and strangely mad.  They no longer want to stomach what they’re seeing but their sh!t mood sticks them like a nail through their shoe to the negative ghostbusters II  ectoslime that they’re standing in.

I rather think it’s more like a knee-deep mud.  When you’re standing in it, you know it, and it takes a bit of worthwhile effort to get out of it and enjoy deep breaths and moons through tree branches again.  

It’s mood-based, it’s a frothy hurricane confusion result of exhaustion and misdirection and lack of imagination.  It’s an actual figurative black hole: possibility is limitless, sure; but all the structures that I want to grip with white knuckles are gone too and plus it’s dark and I can’t see into any direction.  And then, in my anger, I remember how anger is the result of a chemical reaction in my brain, and then that’s amazing and interesting – that I’m led by a chemical like a neanderthal being and isn’t that weird when we’d like to believe that it’s reason?  And then biology is amazing again.

But even getting into it, thinking about the undershoe mud guano, is wasting time in a place where I don’t want to spend another minute.  I don’t want any part of it or of the complaining, whining hens.  I want to see and know and get it, all the time, that this world is what it’s about, the spinning cloudy blue glowy globe.  And that driver and this coworker and that power-hungry evil corporation are nothing really, in the scheme.  But that first sigh and this cold droplet are something actually, in the scheme.  Sorting and sifting.

I need patience and self control so excruciatingly badly right now.  I need to be able to stomach the practice.  I need to be able to stomach my decisions and resolutions!  To stick it out.

The worst thing for my attitude is having these years of accumulated sleep debt.  The best thing for my attitude is running.  Any and all kinds of extreme exertion.  It is the best, to respire and exert; I wish I did it all day long.

Interestingly, to me at least, is realizing today that the thing I identify with the very most within my personal identity is being a girl.  That’s the strongest element.  I’m too old for it, but still I can pass for it and so I am very much still in it.  The girlness trumps my stakes in building intelligence and often my ability to see myself in the future.  More than I am my job and more than I am caucasian, I am female.  Slightly less than I am female, I am young.  And the things I’ve picked up from being this for so long are heavy parts of my personality now.  It’s weird to me how long this lasts, how long I’ve been playing in this realm.  I guess it’s been forever.  How long I’m made to feel young and without expertise.  And it’s interesting how powerful it is too; youth, girlness.  It’s quite powerful.

I don’t identify at all with the word woman.  It sounds weird and like someone’s mother and not me.  And I’ve heard many people, male and female, say the exact same thing.  Jay says I’ll never be one;  “ewww,” he says, and then fake barfs on my shoe.   

Yet, I want to be fully prepared and know things and to anticipate moves.  I want the things that 20 years from now will bring me; I just can’t picture myself then.  I want to solve problems as soon as I see them and try to prepare myself for anticipated fallouts in hopes of preventing them, being ready for them, not falling down so hard when they arrive.  Clearly, these things are fairy tales of mine.

When you’re young, you have no idea and when people tell you, you don’t understand why.  When you start to get it or at least observe it, your gaining maturity becomes a slow inertia that leaves you rounding a corner into years when that identity, of youngness, is no longer appropriate for you.  I don’t know what I’ll be when I am no longer a girl.

I love how this implies that only beautiful women are “suitable for relationships.” 

I saw Borat last Sunday night, and for those who have seen it know, I came away having laughed plenty of times, but not as often as I felt strange and painfully uncomfortable.  The film is a success in fidgety bewilderment; absolutely genius on that front.  And as I noted among my fellow movie goers, those who laughed the most were the ones most comfortable with crap jokes and their genre.  Personally, I find those types too easy; they’re not typically funny to me.  But Borat the character was funny, in a please-don’t-come-anywhere-near-me, absolutely frightening, stumbling kind of way and his outing of Evangelicals and rodeo-goers and puffy faced Americana was instantly classic.

There are some horrifying parts.  I actually told my dad he probably wouldn’t want to see it.  And knowing him, knowing how un-funny he things Saturday Night Live has come to be, I’m positive my initial take was right.  But back to the horror: the MOST horrifying part I won’t mention because everyone who’s seen it knows exactly what I’m talking about.  But the second most horrifying part, to me, was the frat guys.  It may just be me, but the more I watched, the more I began to seethe with hate for them.  Little, stupid asshole bigot retards who were probably coerced by the producers, but who made ‘holes of themselves nonetheless.  I totally remember that kind of guy; I met them on every spring break to Padre or Mexico and in too many frat houses in college.  And now the inevitable has happened: they’re suing the studio for having them allowing them to act so repulsive on camera.

I’ve kinda gotta throw out a national HA HA on that one.  I am enjoying the fact that they’re embarrassed.  I wish I knew what they actually felt in their little hearts when they first saw themselves, so severely drunken and ignorant, in the film.  I think THAT would make for fine TV viewing, the shocked self-awareness of the small-minded.  Yet in closing, I must say, my contempt for these frat daddies does not blanket frat dudes in general.  I enjoyed the hell out of many kind and fun-loving friends and their parties for 4 fantastic years at a little school on Mockingbird Lane.  In fact, I miss ‘em.  These guys though; I can’t help myself!  I wouldn’t mind their being painfully ostracized, that their identities are being outed all over the Internet and that they have to move to some place new.  Nope; don’t mind at all.

“Lance Armstrong ran the New York City Marathon this week, and ran it well. He finished in less than three hours–and made a discovery. The seven-time Tour de France cycling champ called marathoning “the hardest physical thing I have ever done.”“I thought the marathon would be easier,” he said. But “I can tell you, 20 years of pro sports, from triathlons to cycling, all of the Tours–even the worst days on the Tours–nothing was as hard as that.” Clearly humbled, clearly hurting, and clearly impressed by the marathoning pros, Armstrong said, “I don’t know how these guys do it.”

Mark, Melissa, Kelly and I used to watch a good, solid bit of Food Network, and consequently, we all have opinions about their on-air personalities ranging from boredom to hate to full-fledged lust (of Giada deLaurentiis in KO’s case.  The guy wants her BAD and who can blame him, every show highlights cleavage shots and a dazzling smile.)  I’ve placed an order through KO’s tivo to record all of Alton Brown’s shows because he’s more chemist than artist and I appreciate learning the reasons why cooking and baking, etc. work.  Melissa and Mark eat at Masaharu Morimoto’s restaurants when they travel and for Christmas last year, our brother gave Melissa a signed copy of Mario Batali’s Molto Italiano cookbook and Kelly’s sister gave him Giada’s Everyday Italian book, which he looks through OFTEN when he’s feeling down and lonely.  Last Sunday night, Kelly made dinner for the other three of us, (Mark, Melissa, me – we’ve got this college roommate thing going, the 4 of us) while I did nothing to help and instead looked at pictures in my new work-in-progress online gallery.  The recipe he got from his lust girl Hot Giada, prociutto-wrapped scallops, and I have to say they were lovely and rocked my personal kasbah.  During said meal, I asked WTF the deal is with Iron Chef America that the only chefs they ever show are Morimoto, Bobby Flay or Mario Batali, and Melissa reminded me that that wasn’t necessarily true (can’t argue with an analytic), that Rachel Ray and always cleavage-baring, smile-dazzling Hot Giada deLaurentiis (i want her necklace in this pic. she wears it all the time & i heart it) would be squaring off this weekend…but of course with the help of Flay and Batali, which I don’t understand.  The original Iron Chef, the Japanese version, is completely great television.  We even saw the host of the I.C. America show, Mark Dacascos, in the same NY restaurant we were in one night named August. Random.

This morning KO sent me this roast of Batali, which I love.  Personal favorites: “Mario actually hasn’t cooked since 1979 – unless you count freebasing” and “You look like Kiefer Sutherland after he was stung by bees.”    HA! http://www.tvsquad.com/2006/11/10/mario-batali-is-a-whore-who-can-cook/

Eleven New And Happy Things
Santorum dead, religious right imploding, Bush whimpering in the corner. Can we all exhale now?
By Mark Morford

http://www.cnn.com/2006/TECH/11/13/second.life.university/index.html 

I took a 2-day class when I was in NY 2 weeks ago, and half a day was given to understanding Second Life, an online social networking game/world where users create avatars to represent their presence.  The guy leading the class outed all these bloggers and podcasters, which was interesting because there’s no way of finding out who someone is unless they tell you.  But then again, he was of that ilk.  He’s a blogger/podcaster/frequent commenter/reader/techie guy, and stays on top of all of all of these worlds, all the time.  In fact, we produced podcasts over those 2 days.  His del.icio.us page made me dizzy and his RSS reader put me in the realm of sea-sickness.  There was just so much he was into.  I really don’t know how it doesn’t overwhelm him. 

He actually showed us all KINDS of things…

He took us into Second Life and we flew around and saw things; islands, people, tiki bars, virtual PR firms, a Volkswagen dealership.  To travel, we’d fly, but he didn’t know how to land so to stop flying, his avatar would fall out of the sky and fall on its chest in a cloud of dust.  He was big into it and big into getting us to join.  Big into proclaiming it the “nbt” and how if someone wanted to be a smart marketer, they’d jump into this fray right now.  He has computers at home running Second Life all day long.

So…..any one reading this in SL?

A funny story sent to me today: 

Why you’re No. 1?  You’re less dangerous with a beer in your hand.  Dan’s nickname is “Mad Donny.”  Sooooo, then — we’re out drinking one night, and a buddy of ours named Steve started looking through his wife’s purse.  Well, he thought it was his wife’s purse.  The girl whose purse it was got a bit testy, and her drunk boyfriend started acting tough.  Well, we were smoothing things out, and a beer-sottened Dan turned into “Mad Donny”, broke his beer bottle on the bar and started waving it around.  All of us are looking at him like he’s gone rabid (this not being cool Cali behavior, after all).  I said, “Dan, what are you doing?”

“This is how we do it in TEXAS!” he spluttered. “You guys crawl out; I’ll take care of this.” To which we all laughed, ignored him and continued drinking.  BTW, I’ve seen “Mad Donny” more than once.

And when you, Lauren, drink beer, you laugh alot.  Which is much safer.
 
Plus, no self-respecting Texas man would claim to be No. 1 if a Texas lady is under consideration for the same spot. He would defer out of politeness. And I respect that.

Jay: Give me $1,700 for a velvet D&G jacket RIGHT NOW or I’ll shoot a kitten!!!!!!!!!

Char: There isn’t enough vodka for all my ideas.

Kelly: Sedation is so exhausting.

Jay: I think you should meet some peeps for tequila shots then you and I can go to JRs and meet some nice freaks then we can go to Guava and meet a cute nurse. (sent the day after said occurrance actually occurred)

Char: I don’t know; DC isn’t exactly my thing. I don’t get off on…. monuments.

Kelly: [when asked what we should make for Thanksgiving] I’m thinking gnocchi.