Monday, July 31, 2006
>> >From: God
> >To: America, UK, France, Germany, Italy, Israel, Russia, Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt, Syria, Japan, China
> >Subject: You stupid assholes
> >Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2006 09:00 a.m
First of all, someone forward this to Iran. I don’t the right email address.
You all think you’re really something, don’t you? DON’T YOU? You know, I used to be kind of flattered with all of you worshipping me and getting all worked up over whose religion is better and all that. You silly, simple creatures are quite entertaining let me tell you.
I just don’t get you people, which is saying something considering I’m responsible for the train wreck that is mankind and now I’m more than a little fed up. I was over at Abraham Lincoln and Gandhi’s place last night. They live together but it’s completely platonic—believe me, I would know. (Abe was a blubbering idiot after Mary Todd ran off with Richard Nixon and Gandhi helped him through the MESSY breakup. Thank, well Me, because I could only take so much of, “Why him, why not me . . . wah wah!”)
Anyway, I was kind of picking their brains on what I should do. Lincoln thinks I should just wait it out, and thinks you morons will come around soon enough. But Gandhi—and this is totally out of character—thinks I should “do what I have to do” to wipe the slate clean.” Wowza. Just fyi, Jesus has NO desire to come back down there. He was like, been there, done that.
I’d rather you figure this out on your own, but if you can’t, I promise you'll see a whole new brand of ugly.
Friday, July 28, 2006
In first grade my original story, "The Sandwich That Talked," appeared in some bulletin at Lincoln School in Oglesby, Illinois. The brief though high concept piece chronicled the life of a sandwich that when given the chance to speak, did infact, not want to be eaten.
I was an amazingly gifted child or maybe I was just hungry. Who knows. But the seed for writing was planted.
Like anyone, I wanted to be a million different things growing up: doctor, teacher, archeologist, President, artist, taxidermist, etc. But as I got older it all centered on figuring out a way to let people know what I thought about stuff. There were a lot of stops and starts over the years--journalism school, weak attempts at chick lit, and something that vaguely resembled about five pages of a screenplay.
And then came the blogging thing. And I likes. Do I think I'm an F. Scott Fitzgerald or something because I spew nonsense on this site from time to time? Absolutely.
Seriously friends, we all know a ton of crap makes it into print and onto movie screens all the time. Unfunny, unimaginative crap. Frequently talent seems to be an afterthought. If I was a struggling screenwriter in LA, I would have blown my brains out the moment that movie about the remote control opened.
I'm just saying.
So I've decided that since I'm the girl who wrote a fucking talking sandwich story at the tender age of six, I ain't begging a soul to publish me. I'll keep blogging and working on my super secret Operation Make Angie a Star.
Part of phase one is this comedy writing class at The Second City I'm starting Monday night. At the end of the program I guess we write our own show and cast actors to perform it. At that point, I will beseech all of you to come and see it.
And you in Nova Scotia, you can sleep over at my place, ok?
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Last night some of this stuff came in handy when I came home around 11:30 to a pitch black apartment. Yippee. I was going to seek refuge with my drinking partner from earlier in the evening, since she hung out at my place when her air went out last week. I called Com Ed, found out it was coming back on within the hour so I decided to tough it out.
About 10 minutes with no radio or TV, I got real bored and went to my window to see what was on.
Crazy belligerent drunk with a half a six pack yelling at the wall of a building across the street. Hmmm, rerun. It was a hot night and the street lights were on so I thought people would be hanging out like the time our power went out last summer. I started to water my flower boxes when I heard a siren getting closer and closer. I leaned out the window a bit to see an ambulance stop in front of the apartment building across from mine.
If you think paramedics will rush to your aid, think twice. These guys got out and walked slowly toward the building like a couple of timid Avon ladies. One kept looking at a paper in his hand and walking up and down the length of the building. The other knocked on one of the many doors. Heads started to pop out of their upper floor windows. Neighbors trickled out of their doorways to see what the matter was, and one gentleman pointed the paramedics to a side door.
They shuffled slowly in that direction. A door opened and they went in with an orange stretcher thing in tow.
So there I was on my knees with my head stuck out the window waiting for something real interesting to happen. A axe-wielding maniac with half a face running out perhaps. No such luck.
A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and the paramedics walk back out, ever so slowly with a young woman following them. She is carrying her purse and turns to lock her door, looking fit as ever, at least from my vantage point and the three of them climb into the ambulance and speed away.
Um, ok. . .
I wondered what her 911 call like.
Dispatcher: Chicago 911, what’s your emergency?
Girl: Can you send some paramedics over?
Dispatcher: What’s wrong?
Girl: It’s for me to know, and them to find out. Are they like coming, or what?
Dispatcher: Uh, sure. . . I guess . . .
Monday, July 24, 2006
Me: This is Angie.
Smart ass Co-worker: You have a few hairs standing up.
Me: I'm having a bad hair day.
Co-worker: Bad hair day?Uh, you look like you brushed your hair with an M-80
Me: Fuck you.
He then came over to my cube and said he was taking up an office collection to buy me a comb. Last I checked he had 75 cents and said he could get me something "real nice at Walgreens."
I have a hair appoinment on Saturday.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Last night was the fourth installment of Schadenfreude's Rent Party, the thinking and drinking woman's Friday night of choice (well at least every third Friday of the month.)
I told Justin I thought last night was the best, to which he seemed a little incredulous, or maybe it was too soon for analysis. Who knows. The kid was still a little shell shocked from being too close to the Ass that goes pow!*Anyway it was a great show, and if you live in Chicago, get your arse to the next one and we'll hang out and get silly on $2 beers. Just stand up on your stool, and scream "Angie, Angie, wherefore art thou Angie!" and I'll find you. It's a small place, so no problem.
We left the Gallery Cabaret and piled into a cab, giving the jerko cabbie a stroke for daring to suggest two of us sit in the front with him. We were on our way to the Liars Club to remind ourselves what it feels like to stick to the floor of a bar and see how close we could get to having our asses go POW! We were moderately successful.
After last call at a 2 a.m. bar like Liars Club it's time to figure out where to go next. Or maybe it's time to perform an assessment of your level of sobriety, and wonder if any late night friends with benefits places might be open. We were discussing said business while standing outside of the club, a place one friend says where, "nothing good ever comes out of a night there) when I walked out into the street to look for cabs.
Immediately, something didn't seem right. The ground felt slippery beneath my sandals, almost as if I was standing in a puddle of beef stew or a triple thick milk shake. I stood there for a moment trying to figure out what it was, but for some reason I didn't take the obvious next step, like um, maybe . . . LOOKING DOWN?
"ANGIE YOU ARE STANDING IN A PILE OF PUKE! OH MY GOD!!! AHHHHHH!!!" My hangers on screamed.
I looked down at my feet. They were were right. I was indeed standing in a puddle of pink and cream colored chunky vomit, splattered on Fullerton like a Jackson Pollock painting.
To the owner of that puke, I ask you this: Sir or Madam, you were about 2 feet away from a perfectly good alley. Couldn't you have tried a little harder to hurl in a more appropriate place? Where's your sense of decency and brotherhood?
Well anyway, lesson learned. I really have to start paying more attention.
***Chicago based burlesque dancer Michelle L'Amour is heading back to LA this week to tape America's Got Talent. I don't watch the show, but I will now because she was really cool and she says Brandy (who should be a judge on America's Got Ugly) was less than receptive to her strip tease prowess. So if you watch it, make sure you vote for the hometown girl who can shake what her mother gave her.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Angela, we can't take our President anywhere. Sorry. If he ever tries it again, you have my permission to slug the slimeball.
Check out Youtube for the video.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
One year ago today I went to blogger.com and in about 6 minutes and 12 seconds, the magic that happens on on this url three to four times a week--was first spat out into the blogosphere.
It all began with my friend Jennifer who was a devotee last summer to this now defunct NYC blog and urged me to check it out. I did, laughed at it a bit, and then thought to myself, "well fuck, I need to get me one of these things."
There were a few things at the outset that I swore I would not do. One was bore anyone with the mundane details of work--I'm not a bounty hunter or a sex surrogate so who really cares what I do, right? Second, I wasn't going to use my little corner of the internet to whine about boys. Lame. Correction. Extremely lame. I did break down though with this post once when I had gone way too long without . . . well, read it if you're curious. Now that's not to say that I haven't shared things with my fellow bloggers in one of our hilarious little email exchanges. If I wasn't sworn to secrecy many times over, I would have some top notch blog material. But I am a woman of my word.
So that left me with spinning yarns about boozing, laughing, and just living with this amazing city as a backdrop. Oh, and of course there's my occasional post about my hillbilly family and my disdain for our illustrious President.
I like making people laugh. I love people telling me I'm funny. My friend Kim told me she likes reading the blog to find out what's in my head. Brave girl. The thing is, I thought blogging would help me clear some of the stuff out.
And it does, but goddamn it, there's always new stuff creeping right back in.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Here are a few of my ideas to help resolve the Mideast crisis du jour:
-Can’t seem to get the warring armies to get a little perspective? Lock major Mideast players in a room and make them watch a slideshow of the Jolie-Pitt family set to Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” (Hey, they said the arrival of Baby Shiloh was the most anticipated birth since Jesus.)
-Ensuring the safety of civilians is easy. Just morph them back into stem cells—that way the Bush administration will move heaven and earth to make sure they don’t meet their demise.
-Loan out Rumsfeld to Lebanon. They would not be in this mess if they would have disarmed and put down Hezbollah—you know, like how we’ve disarmed and put down Al Qaeda.
-Offer up the Bush twins as a swap for the two Israeli officers. I can’t imagine any nation going to war over those skanks.
-Introduce the 10-run rule in war. Right now it’s Israel: 300 Lebanese civilians, Hezbollah: 29 Israelis. Game over. Israel, you won. Good job!
Anyone else have any ideas?
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Please dear reader, I beg you, go to CNN.com and watch the entire clip if you haven't seen it yet. The edited version aired on network and local TV last night does not do this justice.
What you'll see is this: a man so annoyed that his lunch is being interrupted, and so bothered by Prime Minister Blair's questions about THE WORLD HOVERING ON THE BRINK OF FUCKING DISASTER that he can't put his goddamned food down for a moment and talk to his coalition-of-the-willing BFF.
A conversation between intimates? Hardly. Bush was frustrated, cutting Blair off at every turn with Blair struggling to get a coherent response out of the leader of the free world. It was like watching a parent or teacher trying to explain something to child. Painful.
Some closing thoughts. One, I hope Bush staffers learn from this and carry some snacks around for this tool. Some goldfish maybe? A couple of luncheables or power bars? I don't know what he likes, but he really needs to be able to move on this stuff whether or not his tummy is rumbling. And two, since we live in an increaslingly insane world where up is down and a retarded man can be elected President, I'm awfully close to chucking the whole "I must pay attention to the world" thing and just focus on beer, hooking up, and finding a new couch.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 9:00 AM>
>Subject: What part of “do as I say, not as I do” don’t you get?
Blowing up Lebanon? Did I not tell you I’d send some special forces your way to get your guys back? Did you not see Munich? What if I can get you the same guys that got Jessica Lynch out?
Dude, chill the fuck out. Call me on my cell. Stat. And Spielberg is on the way.
P/S: Canada says you let your Ritalin prescription run out. Is that true?
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 9:15AM
>Bcc: Italy, Japan, UK, Germany, Canada,
>Subject: RE: What part of “do as I say, not as I do” don’t you get?
Oh, WhatEVER. I’ve got one word for you: Iraq.
I’ll call you in hell..
PS: Tell Condi to lose my number. And ask her since when does sending a Vermont Teddy Bear work in quelling international firestorms??
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:15AM
>cc: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, UK
>Subject: Drama Queen!
I totally thought you were just drunk when you said you wanted to start World War III last weekend at Germany’s G8 bash. I mean you had like three bottles of Chardonnay! And you still owe me a pack of smokes btw (I thought you quit!)
Come to Paris. We’ll all shop, hang out, get a massage. We can work this out, no?
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:25AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, Israel, France
>Subject: RE: Drama Queen!
Just got off the phone with Lebanon. Said Hezbollah will give up the soldiers if Tom Cruise will appear on Oprah with baby Suri.
Weird, right? America, can you make this happen?
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:36 AM
>To: Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, Israel, France, UK
>cc: Lebanon, Syria, Iran
>Subject: RE: Drama Queen!
God you guys! Why do I always have to be the one to settle things down? What are you going to do if I’m not around! LOL!
I’ll see what I can do. Another world crisis averted. Sigh.
Read more email exchanges from the girls here.
She looked way too aggravated for her young age and she was wearing a Tshirt that read: Hold my goggles so I can kiss your boyfriend.
She obviously gets it.
Girl I saw at the Villa Park train station yesterday, you rock!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
I'm so stopping off for some beer and smokes tonight.
Nuclear winter is infinitely more bearable drunk, I suspect. It might be time to dust off Operation Red Dawn.
2. That I’ll be one those women who have NO idea they’re pregnant and end up giving birth in line at the Jewel one day. Then I’d have to lug the kid AND my groceries home. Fuck.
3. That I’ll stumble upon a dead body one day while rushing to work and have to take the day off to deal with the media, police, etc. On second thought. . . maybe that’s not all that irrational.
4. That when I finally reach the big time and David Letterman wants to interview me, I'll have to drink a lot beforehand to loosen up, I'll drink way too much and he'll never want me to come back.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Because I can’t go a single, solitary summer weekend without pissing in a port-o-potty, I did my part to support Amtrak and went to the big BoDeans concert in breathtaking Peru, Ill-a-noise.
I was wandering around the crowd there on Saturday, trying to find my “friends” who ditched me like an unwanted child at the Taste when I went to meet up with my sister (“They’ll text me or call, I just know it,” I repeated to myself hopefully).
From behind me I heard, “Hey! Did you get married again?”
I turned to find this guy I knew from back in the day. He apparently thought I married this buffoon from college (and consequently took his name) and then remarried recently. There’s an Angie Buffoon in town, thus the confusion. I set him straight and went on my quest to find Drunk, Drunker, and Drunkest. I was somewhere in between Drunker and Drunkest, fyi.
Anyway, I’ve decided to put my fabulous imagination to work and concoct a sordid past that I’ll have friends spread about me. What I’ve really been up to during the past 10-15 years is awfully bland, well most of it is. So if anyone has any ideas . . . let ‘em rip!
As my train rolled into Ogilvie yesterday about 5:50 p.m., this is what I saw underneath me.
And here's what a fellow Metra commuter says to me and my coworker:
"Maybe they're filming a movie!"
Dude. Come on.
Besides the obvious thanks to the higher powers that be that this was just some sort of slacker mechanical error on the part of the CTA and not something worse--much, much worse--it was unsettling to see ambulance after ambulance speeding from the scene and not having a clue what was happening.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Last week Russian President Vladimir Putin sees this five-year-old boy, Nikita, in a crowd and decides to drop to his knees and kiss the kids belly.
How drunk was this guy?
And his spin? "He seemed very independent and serious... I wanted to cuddle him like a kitten and it came out in this gesture. He seemed so nice," he said, according to BBC World.
I really hope there were a few things lost in translation.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
This is my 10th summer living in Chicago and since I grew up just 90 miles away, I’ve been to the Taste a bajillion times. Regardless of your moral fiber or drinking ability, the Taste is a madhouse. Think six thousand degrees, three million sweaty people milling around you, and everyone is covered in barbecue sauce from head to toe.
At 15, a license-less friend of mine took her mom’s Taurus, picked up me and another friend, and the three of us headed to Chicago for stuff on a stick, and a trip up the Sears Tower elevator.
At 19, I was back with two pals and one of their boyfriends. A freak storm (so bad trees were uprooted in Grant Park) cut our Taste visit short and sent us wet and muddy into Miller’s Pub on Wabash. The dirt probably made us look legal as we had no problem getting served there—and consequently way overserved. I remember sitting next to this guy—in his mid-30s—and insisting to him that he looked like a Kennedy. He was dressed in a suit and I remarked at how uncomfortable he must be.
“Why don’t you come back to my hotel room with me so I can change?” He asked. At 19 I was scandalized.
“No way!” I said and sauntered away to sit down next to another stranger and started eating his food. Some time passed while I was visiting with my new friend when I realized I was missing my single pal.
I searched the bar and found her with the Kennedy lookalike, who was now sporting shorts and a polo shirt. She returned to college knowing what the inside of a Palmer House room looked like.
In the mid 90s, we were a bit more mature so we drank our weights in Mai Tais (more ladylike) instead of beer. Yet there was nothing ladylike about us fighting over the last drink tickets and someone ending up with Mai Tai in the eye. And we were filthy from sitting in the trampled grass near Petrillo. Nothing more attractive than a bunch of dirty, drunk girls.
As for Summerfest--if I had an ounce of government cheese for every time I was told to go to Milwaukee instead of the Taste (It’s soooooo clean!!!! The bands are awesome!!!!!!!) , I’d have like a pound of government cheese.
So this weekend I went to the glorious and heavenly Summerfest. On Friday I was talking to a potential vendor about my impending trip when she began to go on and on about this thing. “Oh, it’s so great! I’m so jealous that you’re going! There’s like no bums. No one eating out of the garbage! It’s so clean!”
Clean. There’s a lot of this clean thing you’ll hear in regards to Summerfest. After going I realized by clean, I think many people mean white. See here’s the kicker—they charge $15 to get in, while the Taste is free. $15 dollars is a lot for a family to pay per head to enjoy something like this—it keeps a lot of people away, I’m sure. That’s all this Communist is saying.
Anyway on Saturday, I was expecting a veritable Utopia. But what I found was something like Navy Pier on steroids. Like Coney Island maybe, except I’ve never been to Coney Island so I can't say that conclusively.
Did I have a good time? Of course, with enough beer and my crazy friends, it’s a sure thing regardless of where we go. We had a conversation that was the furthest thing from clean ever. We saw the Go-Go’s up close and personal, and I ate a mighty tasty bratwurst. When I accidentally dropped the cup that contained my sauerkraut, I quickly picked it up.
“I want to leave Wisconsin exactly how I found it.” I said.