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July 22,
2004 #
Chicken Much: Your Fly Is Falling, Part I It's an odd time of year for obsession. Spring flings hatched summer bummers almost over night. We're now past baseball's All-Star break and into the fires of NASCAR's Silly Season. NY-LA gossip coals burn slowly through the night making sweet scented spicejoy with an Eastern European model's hash under a glass. Courtney Love's "life" (note: 4 out of 5 doctors prefer to use the term "schizophrenic moonlighting") plays out in the media like a reality show airing the most drawn out, slowest-pan suicide scene in closed-caption. The Republican National Convention is about to blow (severe chunks) into town bringing the very real threat of terrorist retaliation, brown star pundits, and perhaps worst of all, dirty hippies. Just in time, the soundtrack to the knives in our backs came in the form of the Yeah Yeah Yeah's playing songs on Letterman last night that will one day be converted into MuZak3 files to be broadcasted as sleazy-listening in Target stores from Brooklyn to...another part of Brooklyn. There's simply no available patience to focus on the "Important Things That Matter In Life" because it's only mid-July and you gotta save those energy reserves for the kind of complaining due back at the Library of Congress in late September. Don't fool yourself, the inevitable can't be stopped or even slowed in its path -- just ask Connie Chung. Tempers flare, trigger fingers itch, and ultimately you pull the elephant's trunk but still the lamp doesn't come on. All hope is lost and you're feeling defeated on your home turf with a bigger, more real problem to face: you look like a fat beluga piece of a shit. Sorry, this is where it hurts the most. Above everything else, especially your belt, you figure that's the one thing you have the power to control. You can squeeze it, jiggle it, play bongos on it, but most likely you're too busy looking for a pair of sweatpants to pull over it. Somehow in the span of 10+ years the Freshman Fifteen morphed into the FreshDirect Forty. Not to giz on your mojo, but soon you'll wonder what your bluetooth-enabled cellulite phone might say to something like, oh, svengali publisher Maer Roshan's own "external storage drive" at a cocktail party. As everyone marvels at the hunk of hunk of burning potbellied-stoves you hear the upsetting sounds of wood-crackling from below... "Where did it all go wrong? Ah, the 4am burritos and ice cream. Was it ever right? Curse the guac, run it up a beanpole and see who salutes it. Who invited you here anyway? That guy's enormous head over there got me in. Fuck. What? Storm-brewing, pressure system heading south. That's gross. And you? No thanks. Fine. So, where do YOU summer?" Tomorrow (or next week): Part II, The Daytona Beach Diet Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. RSS. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
