I'm Already Out of The Closet on This One

Today is Reveal Your Blog Crush Day!

My very first blog crush is (and he's probably the blog crush of many) Archer.

I mean, what's not to like about a guy who can make me blow coffee out of my nose and make me do the Muttley laugh first thing in the morning. And I'm NOT a morning person.

The Annual Bah-Humbug

I'm sitting here picking the caramel of Christmas music out of my teeth and wondering -- is it me or does this Christmas season seem completely f***ing interminable compared to Christmases past?

I mean, everyone here at my office has their iTunes and radios playing NOTHING but Christmas music, and frankly, I'm about to storm through the joint like Al Pacino, spitting, "Say hello to my leetle friend!" rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

As an antidote to my Mathis-induced diabetes, I had no choice but to to put on Time Zone the other day. There's nothing like Afrika Bambaataa and John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten) singing "This is the world destruction, your life ain't nothin', the human race is becoming a disgrace!" to really get you full-swing into the perfect BAH HUMBUG mood.

I mean, really, what are the holidays but an exercise in futility and dashed expectations? Come on, folks, be honest... we spend November and December being bombarded with images of Tiny Tim cooing "God Bless us every one!" and the grinchy heart growing two sizes and snow drifting past picture windows while happy families exchange gifts next to a Douglas fir adorned with a thousand bucks worth of Christopher Radko ornaments.

The reality looks more like Christmas with the Bickersons. Or Christmas with the Drunk Relatives Who Save Up Their Resentments All Year for This One Magical Night. Or Christmas with the Mean Mother-In-Law Who Uses Her Gift to Show You What She Really Thinks Of You (a plastic over the door shoe hanger thing comes to mind for me).

What I'm saying here, people, is that we spend a month and a half trying to pretend we grew up on fucking Walton Mountain, when in actuality it probably bore a closer resemblance to Spahn Ranch, and what it turned us into was a nation of twitching neurotics who can't get through a week without a) medicating, b) therapizing, or c) indulging in some sort of substance abuse of the legal and illegal kind.

Maybe we should all give up and quit trying to get the Christmases we never had. And this year, just have the Christmas we get.

So Much for the "Anonymous" Part

I love when idiots get to be famous so we get to see their idiocy bared for all the world to see.

And I ain't talking about Britney's cooter.

Jane Says "Happy Holidays!" To Her Inner Republican

Well, here's a call you don't want get on a Monday morning:

"Listen, this is [your downstairs neighbor]. The whole hallway is filling up with smoke. I called the landlord..."

"Why'd you call the landlord? Call the fucking fire department!"

Yes, I know, it IS Bushwick, which is to say, Up-holler Brooklyn, so there might be a few DNA strands running just a tad close amongst the old-timers and their kin, but still, people, use your brain. (Janey is smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other while she says this). Let me say this very slowly and clearly: When you smell smoke, and then when you SEE smoke, your first, your VERY first call, should be to 911. Not to your landlord and THEN your upstairs neighbor. What the hell are they teaching in city schools? That red paint chips taste better than battleship gray? Sheesh!

Anyway.

Turns out our lovely crackhead neighbor finally passed out (after a particularly crack-fueled-and-door-slamming-and-fighting-over-drugs-in-the-hallway kind of weekend. Welcome to Crazyville, where your drug habit and apartment are paid for by your law-abiding neighbors! Not only in their tax dollars, but in the untold hours of their lost sleep!) But before she passed out, she left food cooking on the stove, which the FDNY (goddamnit, I missed them in all their sooty hotness) discovered after tripping over all of her shit which she has strewn in the hallway to get to her door.

Oh, wait, and this is after I had to call ACS on Thursday to report that when I came home on Wednesday night, her 2-year old was in the apartment, apparently alone, and crying out, "Let me out! Let me out!" Nice, right?

You know what, if I didn't have the cats to worry about and no renters insurance (not to worry, I'll be getting that this week), I would say, let the bitch burn herself up along with that piece of shit felon boyfriend of hers. The world would be well rid of both of them.

I'm just sitting here with a little cloud of steam coming off the top of my head, nurturing my inner Republican and wondering if we can get Eliot Spitzer to get the state legislature to pass some sort of Mandatory Eugenics for Welfare Shitheads law while he's governor.

After All, It IS The Season of PEACE

Forget about Salman Rushdie and the fatwa, forget about the crackpot fundamentalism, forget about how he was yanked off a British Airways flight two years ago for no other reason than his name. Forget about everything but the MUSIC.

He can change his name and he can change his hair and change his beard, but he will always and forever be CAT.

PS, not to mention that at the time this video was shot, he was smokin,' smokin' hot.