Milk Trays and Mark Darcy

There is a bloody gorgeous god! Praise be to a higher power, Cadbury chocolates and Helen Fielding: The Independent in London has started running Bridget Jones’ Diary again, the original column that spawned the books, movies and saved countless singletons such as myself from self-induced pathetic misery, channeling it, instead, into Bridget and her eternal quest for the one and only thing that we modern women cannot do on our own: true love.

Ironically, I was at a used book store last week, and bought the original Bridget Jones’ Diary, which I loaned out years ago and, of course, never got back. (I also loaned out the second, The Edge of Reason, to a certain Mr. Jones of the Nile … ahem …) I’ve spent the last week sporadically reading it, laughing out loud as I lay in my bedroom, which has now become my sanctuary of sorts thanks to the addition of a lovely futon couch recently repossessed from the clutches of someone who would have used it to snog someone other than myself. (Thus, making it imperative comfy bed/couch be returned, unsoiled by vile horrid bitchy cow, to its rightful owner.)

The column appears every Thursday in both the print and online versions, according to an article in the NY Times, which, unfortunately, is the only bit of info you’re going to get for free on this little publishing pre-Christmas miracle. That is, except for me, who, in desperation, dragged out the Visa card and paid £1 for the pleasure of laughing, feeling like I’d reconnected with a long lost friend.

And, it seems that friend is still suffering the same unfortunate trials and tribulations. She and Mark Darcy have split (am firmly of the mind that, had Pride & Prejudice had a sequel, Mr. Darcy would also prove himself to be truly unbearable and a long, drawn out and painful breakup would invariably ensue, followed by various romps in the hay, or, I guess considering the time, walks in the park, with Elizabeth crumpling into a teary mess the moment she got in her room, drowning her sorrows in copious amounts of tea and creating needlework pieces the size of barns).

Daniel is still a horny whoring cad, and by the end of it Bridget, Jude and Shazzer are all on their way to the 24-hour pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test:

Wednesday 17th August
Eggs left: 0 probably. Years left till can no longer have children: 0. Percentage by which likelihood of having children decreases daily: 500. Minutes spent thinking about Meera Syal: 4,000

8.55am. Am peri-menopausal. Whole thing is so horrific that cannot entertain reality of same or tell anyone. My periods have suddenly stopped without me having any children. Have just spent two hours sitting bolt upright at laptop, frenziedly attempting to get through all 132,0000 exclamation mark-strewn sites thrown up by Googling “menopause” – even very word gives me shiver of fear. Searching through, etc. for reassurance that am far too young for this to be happening.

Hate being a woman. We are biologically oppressed race, going along normally like men thinking would be nice to have children one day, but not yet, then suddenly: “Blup, sorry, you can’t any more hahahaha.”

Of course, when I really stop to think about it, I have to ask myself, “Self, how is it, a decade on, you’re still identifying with pudgy, drunken, chain-smoking helplessly insecure and neurotic Bridget freakin’ Jones?!!?”

The answers, I fear, are too frightening to contemplate…

At least without a few alcohol units to dull the pain…

Feedback on your channel

Dear Current TV,

I cannot believe you replaced my beloved News World International with the visual equivalent of a meth-addicted chimpanzee. I attempted to watch your channel, and, quite frankly, all it did was give me the overwhelming urge to take myself to the nearest department store to swath myself in brightly colored synthetic clothes.


Please stop torturing those of us who actually prefer to get real, solid information on what’s going on in the world via the TV. No one needs mindless trivial fluff like top Google searches flashed, rat-a-tat, into already tired from spending 8+ hours on the Internet — and, ironically, Google — retinas.


Attempting to force-feed me mindless bullshit in small, MTV-sized chunks is not only annoying and homicidal-rage inducing, it’s insulting. Thankfully for me any and all the 18-34 year old poor saps who happen to pause accidentally on your channel, thus getting sucked into an ocular vortex of vacuous fluff that seems more likely to induce seizures than interest, it’s likely to fail miserably.


Unfortunately, I’m not sure that will mean I’ll get my NWI back.

Current TV sucks ass

God, what a pile of fetid, vacuous crap has landed on what was, until just days ago my beloved News World International.

It was the only channel I could still safely watch without fearing the big-haired loud brash and overly abrasive (read: ugly American) talking heads going on and on about dead angelic cheated-upon pregnant mothers-to-be, deadly Armaggen-like and obviously satanic thunder storms, the killer bacteria that’s laying in wait on every surface — ” NO! DON’T TOUCH THE REMOTE IT WILL GET YOU!” — to give me cholera gangrene flesh eating flu-like bird/monkey/pig pox flu, and a whole host of other random, pointless bullshit to distract me from the fact that the cost of living is in a photo-finish meteoric rise, all neck-and-neck-like, with interest rates, gas prices and the large-size tom yum soup at Vientiane Café on Baltimore Avenue.

There is no longer any refuge as that dull, boring, stiff-as-a-board, loser motherfucker Al Gore dared to replace my beloved NWI with, well, the biggest pile of stupid mindless pointless bullshit to fill a television screen since the last presidential news conference: Current TV.

(Oh, and don’t forget he’s also married to evil wench Tipper (hellooo! PMRC?!!?!!? How quickly we forget the 1990s helmet-haired cow who so brilliantly came up with the idea of those lame-assed stickers to put on CDs, which really made a difference, don’t you think?).)

Oh sure, CNN International is okay, if you can find it and you still have to sort; BBC has news, but in between the fourteen gazillion house fixer-upper shows they air daily (after living in London I know that there’s far worse, albeit entertaining, programming — why do we get stuck with people who insist on constructing kitchen blinds out of old straws and manky plastic PVC pipe when V. Graham Norton has half-naked men in leather bondage suits?!!?).

Nothing was as soothing in a catastrophic “See, the whole rest of the world is going to shit too, honey, now go get another glass of wine and we’ll soothe you with our rounded Canadian vowels…” way as NWI, always there to give me the perspective from outside the good ol’ U.S. of A.

But now… now, it’s all over. Now, clicking on what the Goremeister has devised, in his brilliant mind, to be the uber-channel for 18-24 year olds, I’m reminded of… oh, what is it? Oh, I know – the pointless filler they play on airplanes when you’re boarding and shuffling around trying to shove your carry-on into a space the size of a tic-tac and find a germ-ridden blanket, or that certain department stores show on an endless loop in the “juniors” department in an effort to appear more hip, despite the fact that their most high-profile designer used to run around in high heels chasing crooks on bad daytime TV in her heyday.

There is no programming, no content, nothing of any real interest that cannot be figured out by spending 30 seconds on the Internet, and the pace, which is supposed to appeal to these wunderkind teen- and 20-somethings, is just annoying, stupid, and it’s obvious it’s trying waaaay too hard.

But then, what do you expect from the man who is so in touch with the younger generation, he split the 18-24 vote in 2000 with Bush.

Ah well, since he invented the Internet let’s hope he’s familiar with
And in the meantime, give me back my news!!!

Candy Coated Mind Control

Today is an oddly taxing day, mentally—the end of the week but not the end of the stress, as I’ve got a rush-hour 200-plus mile journey north that will simply stretch my long and mentally draining week into the wee hours.

So, it makes sense, then, that my early a.m. news infusion routine seemed to be about the joy of stuffing one’s face to avoid the painful fact that we are all, indeed, joined at the ever-widening hip on the downward spiral along this mortal coil, and I find myself feeling nauseous and hungry at the same time.
First, SF uber writer man Mark Morford tackles the Jedi mind control tricks researchers are perfecting to get American porkers to put down the Twinkie:
Convincing them they got sick when they were kids on fat-laden junk food.
Now, I have painful, gut-wrenching memories of getting sick on chicken chow mein, but, except for the chicken part, I’m not adverse to Chinese food.
Unless, that is, my very aversion to meat and meat-products was, in fact, induced by aforementioned youngster puke-fest.
Yet somehow I just can’t help but think that the more ideal sitch is to just eat less crap, and move about a bit more.
And no, shifting your corpulent mass to a more centered position on the ass-donut in your SUV in order to reach out the window for your McFattyPatty-burger and fat fucker fries ain’t what I’m talking about, porky.
But, then again, maybe it’s a battle we’re all doomed to lose one way or the other. I mean, for chrissakes, M&Ms has just introduced its latest addition to its ever-expanding bottom… er…. product line: 55 percent bigger adult M&Ms.
GEE! That’s so exciting, because, you know, when I was but a wee one, thinking about how cool and wonderful it would be when I was finally all grown up, I did, indeed, lament the loss of such youthful pursuits as hopscotch, Tom&Jerry and, of course, small girl-sized candy.
Yet, according to the PR hacks in charge of this candy-coated train wreck:
“Adults have said they like a bigger bite-sized product with bigger bite-sized taste,” said Martyn Wilks, president for the Masterfoods USA snack food division. “This is definitely for a subset of our target market.”
You’re fucking kidding me!!!
What a load of horse shit!
Not to mention the intelligence insulting oxymoron: bigger bite-sized taste.
Erm, so, yeah, if M&Ms at their original size are considered bite-sized, then the big bertha version must be, oh, I dunno: too big to be bite-sized and therefore considered, what, like snarf sized??!!?
It makes my head spin, and my wallet clamp shut like an angry sphincter (play with that visual for a while, why dontcha’!)
But hey, according to the Times, at least the money-grubbing whores at Hackettstown, N.J.-based Masterfoods have our best interests at heart:
not only are the new fatty-blatty candy balls bigger, they go along with every hue and shade of the average suburbanite’s Toyota Camry:
“And the colors of Mega M&M’s are meant to appeal to more mature audiences; the regular hues like red, green, yellow and blue are being supplanted by shades like maroon, gold, beige and teal.”
I hear they’re planning on expanding their offerings to include matching muu-muus.

Baby Gap attacks CBGB

Uber-punk club CBGB is about to be shut down, and a cadre of rockers are rallying around the dank landmark to save it from certain eviction on Aug. 31.
Seems it’s the victim of the plague of gentrification, which has long been rampant in New York and is spreading to almost every corner of the country where someone stands to make a buck by bringing in Starbucks and Baby Gap to adjacent corners.
It was only a matter of time before CBGB’s tony digs on Bowery (the address being the desirable element, certainly not the black gooey interior!) caused the cash-induced salivation, but, am I being completely blasphemous here by pointing out that those desperate to save the rocking institution are themselves on the way out?

(Or at least their girdles are out — whoa! Debbie! I think you got the order mixed up!)

Oh wait. I shouldn’t slam them — I’m not far behind!
Either way, the almost certain demise of a rock’n’roll institution should not be taken lightly, and the pocketbook behind it — "a $25 million dollar a year group that receives over $15 million dollars from the city and state," according to the Save CBGB Web site — seems more interested in the bottom line than a good bass line.
Of course, part of the irony is that this effort is to save a punk venue, the very notion of trying to preserve punk reeks of, oh I don’t know, teenygoth’r mega-mall mecca Hot Topic instead of sweat, beer and cigarettes (slash that last one, goddamned anti-smoking lobby!).
Those trying to save the past should probably be careful, or they could wind up with CBGB’s Hard Punk Rock Cafe!

The end.

Well friends, as I sit here nursing a veeery large bottle of wine and pack of cigarettes, a line from Henry Rollins’ stand-up gig keeps running through my head:

Just walk away.

Now, I’m sure that was in relation to something else, but I have taken that line to heart, and have made it my mantra at times when it seems to be the only tact.

And I have done it tonight.

The score:

Current “relationship”: dead.
Me: alive.

Yes, folks, I thought I had it all figured out, but alas, dear whore-troll-bitch fate had other ideas for me. Alas, alone again am I, but the stronger for it, of course.

So, with that in mind, send me your chocolate, wine and Marlboro lights. And your love. And a strong, strapping single nubile Viking should you come across one: I’m in the market….

Beware the Angry Vegan

So it seems I’m angry. Or so I’ve been told.

I can’t imagine why…

I mean, externally, all I have to do is click on the latest news and I’m body-slammed with such shiny, happy snippets as “ Bush appoints Bolton to U.N. while (those fat lazy overpaid motherfuckers in) Congress are (probably having anal with prostitutes on) recess (while the rest of us worker-bees don’t get any vacation you lazy, piss-poor excuses for human beings).”

Good to know we have a system of checks and balances…

Thankfully, there’s also good news: seems dead diet-guru chronic-halitosis-thanks-to-ketosis mega-glomerate Atkins Nutritionals has gone big, fat, pork-filled belly up.

Which means that all those people sitting around the Ponderosa all-you-can-eat artery-hardening fat-soaked meat products can now, again, be called what they truly are: greedy, gorging pigs.

Which also means they probably will not be asked to participate in the BeautifulPeople Web site, a jarringly superficial site that is at least refreshing in its upfront shallow vapidity.

(All I can think of is Marilyn Manson when I see the site name … )

Of course, it’s Monday, which could be he biggest cause of my mental malaise.

Not like I haven’t got room to whinge as I sit in my teeny, tiny dark, narrow cubicle (aptly named “The Bat Cave” by a fellow temp) doing the monkey-work for all the salaried worker-bees with phat benefits who have no problem delegating their shit work to me.

At first if was fun: no stress, no worries, out the door at 4:59 p.m., but once word got around that the poorly paid temp in the cave has a master’s degree from a top communications school and experience to boot it was a free-for-all and suddenly I find myself with lots of work and responsibility, and none of the corporate perks that go with it – like some well-needed vacation time, sick time or decent benefits. (Oh, I got health insurance: Aetna. Need I say more??? The worst health insurance company on the planet in my experience …)

And so, Monday morning is like the cherry bomb topping on a big, full-fat chocolate-covered lactose laden ice cream sundae, keeping me up all night stressing over the fact that my very existence is a dead end.

I feel like I need to do something wild, something drastic, a big, proverbial fuck-you to the bitter jaded angst that’s invading my psyche.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to think of anything … which makes me wonder, am I really that uninspired, or should I stop using the aluminum pots and pans?

Anyone else out there feel the same way, or is it just me?