wanderlust

alright folks.

while i quietly weep in my office because i can not go to the yankee home opener with kim today [stupid client meeting] i present you bjork's newest video from the volta album: wanderlust.

sit back, do NOT take the acid, and enjoy.

wouldn't you want to have breakfast with him?

so why do we love rock of love so much? why is it that i have no idea when the show actually airs, but definitely know that they show reruns on sunday mornings on vh1?

we love our washed-up stars. or, more accurately, our former mega-starts trying to hold on to some level of fame and notoriety. is bret michaels washed up? beats me. i haven't noticed him doing much since poison was in their heyday, but then again, i'm kind of square when it comes to music scenes [unless we're outside and i've got a blanket on a hill and everyone's well-behaved, i'm kinda not interested. phish concerts have gotten too rowdy for me, even]. anyway, we loved these people who are in that grey area of celebrity. celebs but not actively celebrated. and we love to watch a train-wreck of human emotions. we like to watch the car crash, the train wreck and smile while we're on the couch thinking smugly 'at least i'm not like THAT'.

simply put, shows like rock of love make us feel better about ourselves. do we care this much whether bret michaels finds love? whether he chooses one woman to 'keep rockin' his world' as he asks at the end of each elimination round? of course we don't. it doesn't effect our lives at all. no bearing, whatsoever. what we want is to watch a bunch of women act like drunk teenage morons to win the chance to sleep with someone who used to be incredibly famous. [and who slept with drunk teenagers.] we want to watch these girls act like nincompoops so that we can sit back and feel better about the times that WE acted like nincompoops. shows like this help us cement our perceived places in this world. the whole 'sure i've got a mind-numbing job and the only thing i truly look forward to is getting a seat on the subway so that i can listen to my ipod and pretend that i'm in maui but at least i'm not drunk getting a tattoo of some guy's name on my neck and screaming obscenities at other drunk girls who have all slept with this guy that i want to be my boyfriend because he's more famous than i am.' situation.

don't get me wrong: i watch the show. i was recently in a meeting and we spent the first 15 minutes discussing who we want to win bret's affection. i actually said 'while i like jess the best, i want heather to win because i think jess has more in store for her than just being bret's girl.' i said this in front of co-workers. people who i would like to take me seriously. people who i respect and who i'd like to respect me.

it's the new water-cooler talk. not everyone's a sports fan. not everyone is going to share my enthusiasm over seeing andy pettite pitch his 200th game on wednesday [in fact, it constantly surprises me how many people aren't sports literate, but that's another post]. but i guarantee you that more people know something about bret michaels, poison and his show rock of love. politics and religion polarize people. it's not ok to talk about these things at work. but rock of love and i love new york unite us. whether we're agreeing on how insane laci is, or how tango really does look like a teenage mutant ninja turtle, we're agreeing. we're united.

would i rather unite with people over appreciation of thomas hardy's novels or the sad state of health care this country is in? of course i would. but giggling over heather's use of the word 'tatters' is so much easier.

tee hee. tatters.

with my tail between my legs

well kids, if you're still reading, i reckon it's been awhile. and you know what? you deserve an explanation. no, i think you do. because, goodness, it's been a right long time since i've posted here. and i'd like to make this explanation good [and believe me, i've gotten myself into some pretty hilarious scrapes now that it's september and i can look back on this ridonculous summer from some distance] but unfortunately, it's going to have to wait. why?

1. i'm exhausted. i drank way too much beer friday night with the wacky boys and somehow yesterday's attachment to the couch didn't completely cure me [i think my age is starting to show].

2. i've got an 8 am meeting tomorrow. i know. it IS inhumane.

3. i was at the park all day today playing frisbee with jp and friends and i'm covered in sweat, sunscreen, and park grit.

4. i'm going to ease back into this slowl.

5. i think there's a sliver of glass in my foot and i'm going to try and dig it out with my camping tweezers.

so there you go. it'll happen. i promise. I PROMISE. GOSH.

found objects

this'll be quick since i'm in the midst of crazy meetings and everyone here is getting married and having a wedding shower [seriously. the amount of time and money i've spent on people i'm not that fond of for events that have nothing to do with me will depress me to the point of needing anti-depressants should i add it all up]...

but.

yesterday, steps of the q/r/n/w train at 57th street and 7th avenue, there was a pair of panties [looked like bikini and black] bunched up in the dirt.

ladies: why in all of god's green earth would you:
1. lose your panties going either up or down to the subway
2. leave them there


also. could you explain how that happened? because, while not the clutziest person i know, there is no way i could walk either up or down stairs while my under-drawers were falling down. did you penguin-step? how did you step out of them? why am i so concerned?

because i must distract myself. while procrastinating at work i discovered that mr. x is in love. is in a wonderful marvelous relationship with some woman. who is not me. while logically, we would assume that he is also making her miserable the same way he made me miserable, the glorious human mind does not work this way and instead i am remembering all the ways darling mr. x was darling, and thus keeping up the cycle of perpetual macabre self loathing that i've been dealing with for too many months.

how do bruce willis and demi moore and ashton kutcher do it? does wealth and perfect skin really make your life easier?

do let me know. please. kutch: punk me into understanding.

postcard #3 or an open letter to the yankees

i really think that something's got to be done with this societal notion that the person who works the most wins. it's inane. clearly warped. people who take minimal vacation are applauded and it seems like whoever has the least amount of personal life wins.

i bring this up because kim and i went to the yankees game last night - we left the office at 5:45 pm, which isn't early since we're in work at 9:00 am. you would have thought that we'd tied people up in their offices and were jumping into the elevators with fax machines and confidential files under our arms. someone honestly snorted at me as i waited for the elevator with a 'wow. cutting out early, butler, aren't we?' i believe, you cretins, that i signed on for this insufferable job at 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. honestly. HONESTLY.

so kim and i are thinking 'baseball, the new pitching prospect phil hughes on the mound, beer, hot dogs, hot damn it's a night game.' well. well, yankees. thanks so much for making yesterday just another winner of a thursday. now, i'm not one of these yankees fans that hates them when they're losing and loves them only when they're winning. they're my boys in pinstripes. they're my yankees. i was born and raised watching these guys. at a wedding 4 years ago, i impressed a number of not-available men with my ability to recite the line-up for 1986. in fact, during a particularly un-responsive inning last night, kim turned to me and with a sigh said 'remember chuck knoblauch?'

yes, yes i do, kim. and so i give you my open letter to the yankees:

dear yankees,

you know i love you. i still have my butch weiniger baseball card in a photo album. i've had sex dreams about scott brosius [3 of which have taken place on the 4 train, you tell me]. i named my first pet gehrig [poor gerbil died within a week] and my second one babe [who lived quite well, especially after we got babe a friend, who my brother named mickey]. i feel at home in your stadium, i listen to you on the radio, i cry when i see replays of paul o'neill's last game on the yes network.

that being said, what in the world could possess you boys to play like a bunch of drunken 8 year olds at a pinata festival? get your heads in the game. i am not blaming hughes, in fact, nobody should blame him - poor kid's 20 years old and your first time out on the mound at yankee stadium is a pants-pooping one. [we need to grow some prospects.] but what are the rest of you doing? come on! you're the new york bleeding yankees! this is awesome! this is go time! this is BASEBALL for crying out loud.

i'm sad. you're disappointing me. not because you're losing [and that you are] but because it appears that you're going out there without any heart. you've got to have heart, boys.

also, 8 bucks for a miller light makes me nauseous. i'm buying them and i'm drinking them, but please.

love,
bex butler

ps jorge? hola. jorge. seriously, dude. i know you've got it in you. seriously.