Rollin' on a River

"Y’ know, every now and then
I think you might like to hear something from us
Nice and easy
But there’s just one thing
You see we never ever do nothing
Nice and easy
We always do it nice and rough
So we’re gonna take the beginning of this song
And do it easy
But then we’re gonna do the finish rough
The way we do 'Proud Mary.'"--Tina Turner

I hope you love this song.


Thoughts on the Party

My mind has settled down.

Dani had a party this weekend, featuring Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle masks, Barnes & Noble personnel, the Brothers Murgittroyd, and an average dose of drink-induced drama. I think my friends and I were suprisingly sociable with the strangers. This may be due in part to Nicholas' cruise directing tactics.

What happened to Dani's pants, though?

It annoys me slightly that Mike thinks I'd hook up with anyone. Horny does not equal whorish. I do not assume that if a guy is straight, he will go for any girl. It's not different for me. As Dan points out in "Savage Love" this week, "Gay people like other gay people at about the same rate that straight people like other straight people -- that is to say, rarely."

However, I'm not mad at Mike. He had my back in the clash with the Threesome Guys (a situation which proves Mr. Savage's statement). We should have brawled. It would have been fun, and clearly we would have kicked their asses. Bros before homos!

It was good to see Craig and Wicked.


Comings and Goings

I had a very nice weekend in Boston, in spite of my prejudices against it as a horrible city to drive in.

I ran into the oldest of friends, whose name we have appropriated to replace Vodka Collins.

I tried Vietnamese food, attended a sarangi recital, dined at the kids' table, and had excellent coffee, with Hari.

I shopped, danced, and brunched with a varied assortment of Penn Singers alums and their groupies. Gilbert is my homeboy.

Meanwhile, back in Whippany:

God has been attempting to create a third gender known as Andronathan Bower from Dani's rib.

Andrea and Cristine are geographically independent women.

Bob came to town, with Julie. She apparently does not resemble Avril Lavigne.


Dear Bitchlog: 70 MPH

There's a certain class of motorists I hate: the 70 mile-per-hour driver. The 70 mile-per-hour driver is found in the fast lane. He/she thinks,"I'm driving above the speed limit! Look at me whizzing by the masses!" Then, when you come by, driving 75 or 80 or 85, the bastard refuses to budge from the left lane because, "I'm driving above the speed limit. Naturally, my place is here." WELL IT ISN'T. FUCK YOU.

Also disturbing my commute is the unexpected cancellation of the Radio Chick. You finally find a morning show you like...

There's a castle in Tarrytown. What is it?



Rufus has a new CD out. I suggest lending an ear to track #1: it is very good, and you might just chuckle.

The new guilty pleasure.