elmo has mail, elmo has mail

Wow. Bret Michaels…hole in his heart, pool of blood in his brain, penis encrusted with the drippings of three generations of slute beavs, shiny, smooth head sheathed in mop ends and bandanas and various cowboy hats has done it folks. He won the celebrity apprentice.

In fairness, how do you fire the guy who had the brain hemorrhage, beat the odds and recovered only to find out that he’s got heart problems and STILL finish your dumb show? Can’t be done, and you know who knows that? Donald Trump. He’s nothing if not a master of compassion and the subtle manipulation of public perception all while somehow making money (“Hey, did I mention that I think Snapple tastes great!”).

Plus, I think he’s got a soft spot in his heart (that makes both of them, heyooo!) for people who have the balls to just kick dignity aside and keep rocking their ‘hairstyle,’ critics be damned. Well, I for one am pretty happy for old Bret. As I mentioned before, he’s kind of a hero of mine and I’m glad to see that he’s still out there kicking ass in the final episodes of dumb reality shows. I’m glad that they cut out the scene of him and Donald climbing drunkenly into the shower on the Rock of Love bus, though. Can’t deal with men squeezing other men’s nipples. I’m squeamish like that.

I guess the other big deal from last night was the Lost finale, but I don’t know shit about that, so suffice it to say it left me completely unsatisfied and with a lot of unanswered questions. I’m gonna miss those days of sitting around the table at the diner, though…sitting there just drooling and playing with creamers while people talk about Lost. That’s gonna be a bummer to leave behind. Oh well.

What else? Hmmm…my BP stock doesn’t seem to be doing too well and Britney Murphy’s husband is dead…who saw that coming? Wait… I mean who’s dead? I dunno. It’s like grandmas, once they die, the grandpa is not far behind…this is kind of like that I guess. Again, not something I really care about. I guess it’s sad. BUT, lots of people die all the time. I can’t light a candle for all y’all, so well, shit. Sucks. Sorry, dude’s mom and friends. He’s uh, somewhere else now? Good. Good enough.

Man, sorry to be so scatterbrained. Last night was the kind of night you dream about…that is, if your dreams are about your little baby grunting and squeaking and keeping you awake and then your toddler waking up screaming and pounding on the door at five AM and then the baby just squealing and so you get up and you just kind of put the elmo dvd on and sit there and remember how much cooler/more emotionally devastating it was to still be up at five in the morning continuing to drinking beers before sleeping until 4pm just a few short years ago.

I’ve been thinking about this lately: the galactic walk of ‘is that clock right?!” Not the walk of shame, where you are a girl walking home in your high heels and dress at 7 on Sunday morning (though that one is pretty funny and I LOVE seeing it) but the one where you’ve just been out with your people getting hammered and suddenly it’s day and you’re like “Wait, is that clock right? Oh my god!” and you open the window and it’s fully morning and you get up and your soul hits your pelvis and you slouch your worthless ass home while joggers and people with babies cruise around you (hyper aware of your shameful state) and you just melt into grossness all the way home.

Ugh. Firstly, there’s no way my body could do that now. A decade ago, I could come home at 9 am (this old bar, the Lakeview, [sadly now it’s a quiznos or a tanning salon or something] used to be open til 5am and then reopen at 6. They also sold sixpacks to go, so we’d buy one at five, go down to the golf course and drink it, go back to the bar at 6 and just hang out) sleep for 4 hours and then wake up feeling great and go skateboarding and do the whole thing again. Now if I stay up until 2 I’m worked over for a week. Jesus. It’s a murderous bitch getting old, I tell you what.

Anyway, my point is, now I’m out at six thirty, but I’m one of the people with a stroller and it’s pretty great to watch the zombies parading home. I think that, truth be told, I prefer this…it’s so much less emotionally devastating. I guess that’s kind of a no brainer, huh? Sure it is. Anyway, I feel like a zombie today anyhow, thanks to the one two punch of loud children who don’t know the value of a good night’s sleep, dag-nabbit!

Sigh. Okay, so I’m gonna start doing a punk rock night every Tuesday over at Risque Café, which is on Clark and Sheffield. I’ll be bartending, there will be cool food and beer specials (I think it’s gonna be real cheap pbr tall boys or something) and we’re gonna have punk rock dj’s, bands, acoustic shit, and good music and good food and fun and all that. Also, we’ll make sure at least one tv has boobs on it at all times.

Should be fun. Starting tomorrow. Wow.

I’m going to the zoo,

bye