Wish it was Sunday, that's my fun day.

Sometimes idiocy just smacks you in the face. Lately, as I've been driving to and fro, bopping along to the local Top 40 stations, I've noticed a trend. Songs are getting dumber. Of course, I do think pop music has been, you know, going through a rough patch for several years, but some of what's out there now is really just appalling in entirely new ways. Aren't people embarrassed to be singing these things? I am only 20, but I find myself muttering "Kids these days" which only leads me into tirades about how much I miss the Honeymooners and milk being delivered in glass bottles to my doorstep.

Topics for another day, people. I would first like to bring a few pop music issues to your attention.

Usher, Love in this Club

"I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)"

Are you serious? Can you imagine if Almonzo had picked up Laura Ingalls and said "I wanna make love in this barn (in this barn, in this barn, in this barn)"? I understand times have changed but this Usher is just too forward. Not to mention, could it be any less artful? If you are a music producer, and someone hands you these lyrics, what would you do? Give them a sticker and a pat on the head? Tell them that this is "good material"? I personally would cry for that person and then tell them about the difference between appropriate and inappropriate information for sharing. Telling me about your mother's Memorial Day cookout? Appropriate. Telling me about the sexual urges you felt as an eight-year-old in your third grade class room? Not so much.

This songs gets worse:

"You ever made love to a thug in the club with his Sice on
87 jeans and a fresh pair of Nikes on
On the couch, on the table, on the bar, or on the floor
You meet me in the bathroom yeah you know I’m trying go"

Okay. 1) Food and beverage are served on the bar and at tables, and I would hate to think about what sorts of bodily fluids might be mingling with my gin and tonic. Furthermore, I don't want to end up under a blacklight and have some mementos on my purse left by you overzealous whippersnappers. 2) You could at least take your shoes off. 3) Sice?

Elsewhere, fifteen-year-old Miley Cyrus has had a busy couple of months. First Annie Liebovitz convinced her to disrobe and look like a sickly refugee for Vanity Fair, then her song "See You Again" played non-stop on the radio. Naked teens sell! I love this song, so Miley, if you're reading, take no offense, but I would just like to point something out. Really just for my own peace of mind. This line:

"You asked what's wrong with me
My best friend Lesley said "Oh she's just being Miley"

It's extremely unlikely that fifteen-year-old Miley has a best friend named Lesley. Lesley is a name that went out with the Dierdres and Eileens of the 50s. It would be like if my parents named me Barbara in 1987. Or Eleanor. It just doesn't happen. This line is so distracting to me, really just for this reason. Am I being too nitpicky? You can tell me if I am. But every time she sings this, I picture Miley smoking cigarettes with a leather-skinned brass-blond forty-something and talking about "dishy" hunks on "their soaps!"

"Leavin," by Jesse McCartney.

If it's possible, I think Jesse McCartney got younger. Last time I remember seeing Jesse, it was during his Summerland days (p.s.- SO GLAD Lori Loughlin found work again in the new 90210) and he looked like the charming sun-kissed young man you see on the

left. Am I crazy here? That was taken four years ago, and the one on the right was taken quite recently. I'm scared. Scared for you Jesse. By the time your next single is released, you'll be wearing Velcro shoes and Grranimals. Also important, with his latest single, Jesse really wows us. He's really proven that he deserves to be on the music scene with brilliant and though-provoking lyrics like these ones:

" Hey baby girl, I’ve been watching you all day (all day x3)
Man that thing you got behind you is amazing (amazing x3)"

That thing you've got behind you? Does he mean the young lady's derrière? Because I am picturing a three-toed sloth attached to the girl's back. That thing you've got behind you! That jungle creature! It moves so slowly, yet is still so compelling.

He further confuses me with his all-too-hip Generation Q lingo:

"Girl we flying on the G5 G5
And I’m leavin’ never lookin back again."

I had to look up what a "G5" was on Urban Dictionary because I was afraid it was some drug I didn't know about or maybe a new brand of Hot Wheels. Apparently it's a business jet. Dually noted.

Then, Jesse ices the cake and sends me into a tizzy with these plagiarized lyrics:

"Don’t stress, don’t stress, don’t stress
Just tell him to the left left left."

Jesse, are you funning with me? You can't touch Beyonce. Who are you, you little weasel, to so blazenly rip off her lyrics? THEY WERE HER DUMB LYRICS FIRST! You especially should not steal them because it doesn't even make sense here. To the left of what? Why left and not right? It doesn't even rhyme. Listen sonny, how about this:

"Don't stress, don't stress, don't stress,
How old am I, can you guess guess guess?

or

Don't stress, don't stress, don't stress,
How cool is freedom of the presss???"

Just something to think about.

A loose affiliation of millionaires and billionaires and baby

It's a little after six and the sidewalks of Boston are clear and walkable. Next to me, a little boy, barely two, is pushing a plastic lawn mower that blows bubbles. His little legs scurry behind it while the bubbles float effortlessly into the paths and over the heads of the people walking by. His giggles are infectious.

I am going to buy some bubbles.

I get it from her

It's Mother's Day, and my mother and I are going out to breakfast.

Waitress: Happy Mother's Day!
Mumsy And to you too, if it applies!
Waitress: Oh yes, it does.
Mumsy: Oh you poor thing, having to work on your special day.
Waitress: It's OK, I'll be out early.
Mumsy: Oh, and then you can put your feet up and have a nice margarita. Have you seen those new mango margaritas?
Waitress: Oh don't get me started. I love margaritas. I always say I'll have just one.. but that turns into two...
Mumsy: Then three, and four...
Waitress: Then five, six...
Mumsy: And then you have to go to rehab!

And it seems such a waste of time...

Between moving out of Syracuse and moving back into my room at home, I have discarded 9 trash bags filled with--no, not trash-- but my personal belongings, and two trash bags of clothes. I have purged so many of my things, I'm no longer sure what I've kept and what's been tossed, but along the way, I've found some treasures. While I cleaned out my room in my parent's house, I came across this story I wrote in the third grade, and I would like to share it with you now. This post was originally intended to be longer, but I spent so much time trying to fiddle with the CSS sheet to make this an expandable entry, I am too exhausted to go on. This story, with all grammar and spelling mistakes intact, I titled:

The Biggest Scare

I was running through the woods. The gun shots were getting closer. I was being cautious not to make much noise but at the same time trying to be quick.

I could hear a man named David saying, "I can see one." Uh Oh. I thought.

As the man got closer, I could see David was a tall broad man with brown eyes and brown hair. A man by the name of Bob was running with David to catch me. He was big. Actually he was outrageously humongous. I could hear them getting closer. But they were well camouflaged. I could hear them getting closer. I could see them now and they could see me! I started to run. Then out of nowhere came Bob and jumped on me! But I think he felt kind of bad about it.

David came over and said "Nice job."

"Thanks," said Bob. David picked me up by the legs and threw me in the back of the red, rusty pick up truck. Ouch! It had to be at least an hour back to a place that seemed to be a farm.

Bob came over to me and said "Out you go." But I didn't want to go so I pulled away. Bob pushed me out. David scooped me up and brought me to a large stump. I could tell he didn't care about anything. He raised his ax. It was shining in the noon-day sun. David quickly brought down his ax. This is the end I thought. To my surprise he stopped short about 3 inches above my neck.

Then I heard a woman shout, "I arready found a turkey!"

"Okay Mom," David shouted. Once again I got carelessly thrown into the back of the pick up. But this time I was returned to my home instead of getting my head chopped off.

After re-reading this, twelve years later, I have several conclusions.
1) I had way better handwriting when I was eight.
2) If I were the teacher, I might have referred this student to a counselor.
3) I wish I could write those kind of twist endings nowadays.

4) If you've ever wondered what I was like as a child, this should make clear to you that I was pretty much always a freak show.

Ballsy move

My roommate and I probably talk too much about the Daily Coyote blog and its writer, Shreve Stockton. But how can you not? The woman lives in a one-room cabin, seemingly without any indoor plumbing, and, well, raises a coyote. Talk about living the dream.

Upon the posting of a new question in the FAQ section of her site, she has officially earned sainthood in my book, and even surpassed Dooce as the coolest blogger ever. I would link to her Web site, but last time I did that, she wrote back, and my heart nearly stopped. But she's outdone herself this time. And that's saying a lot for a woman who writes about rolling around in urine-soaked piles of corn.

...She cut off the coyote's wee-wee. By herself. SHE CASTRATED A COYOTE.

Bob Barker would be so proud.

I will be buying all of my loved ones a copy of her book that comes out in November, because, well, coyote castration is something I would like to discuss at the next family Christmas party. Furthermore, I feel responsible for supporting Shreve financially, as she has fulfilled one of my lifelong wishes of performing surgery in a Dr.-Quinn-Medicine-Woman-like setting. I might not be ready to sharpen my scalpel and start hacking away at genitals myself, but such an account will certainly make for a juicy read.

Fourth Estate, not so great

Barack Obama does not hate America, and Hillary Clinton is not a blood-sucking vampire, but who could tell? If a Republican wins the election in November, I will be first in line to read an exhaustive account of the media's shaping of this Democratic contest. In recent weeks, I've been astounded by the media's lack of substantive coverage and abundance of damaging or foundation-less stories. After writers got tired of reporting on actual issues, they decided to bite the bullet and write something a little juicier. And who can blame them, when our two candidates are among the best in recent memory, and have similar views on so many issues. There must be mud to be raked! Of course, I'm not asking for papers to throw a propaganda party. I know that it is not the job of the press to prop up candidates, and they should always publish a worthy story, no matter how damaging. But what I've seen here is an increasingly downward spiral in the quality of stories we've been getting since the early primaries in February. Since then, the information that is so desperately needed has been unavailable to the average voter. Two respectable candidates are facing undue criticism, while people still have no clue about John McCain's stance on abortion, or, well, much of anything really.

I, like every other human being with an independently functioning brain, am exhausted by the ridiculous claims made against Sen. Obama during the Jeremiah Wright controversy. And on more than one occasion, have been offended and shocked by articles written about Sen. Clinton (If someone could explain to me the newsworthiness of this article, I'll buy you dinner and give you sex coupons.) Also, it would also be nice if more writers could stop basing stories on relatively meaningless public opinion polls and explain the somewhat Biblical miracle it would take for Clinton to win the nomination. Or maybe more people could tell the whole story about Obama's stance on Iraq.


The fact is, that in the past couple of months, the media have lost their collective mind and if you ask me, they might as well check into Promises. I hear roller-blading with vapid de-toxing celebs can do a lot to clear one's head.

Also, if I read another article about how race has factored into this contest, I am going to start circulating rumors that Hills got a sex change, just to give one-note political pundits something new to run off at the mouth about. Obama's campaign was supposed to be about transcending race, but instead it has become defined by it. Clinton's campaign was initially defined by her years in the Senate and political activism, but that all has been used, often unfairly, against her at every single turn. If I had been around for as short a time as Obama, I too would be trying to turn "Washington as we know it" on its head (sorry, Barack. You're hot.).

As we gallop toward November, and Clinton hopefully makes a quick (and long overdue) exit, I extend a plea to the news media. Unless you have some wonderfully enlightening commentary on race, you are absolutely forbidden to write about it. Also, please resist the urge to create unnecessary political scandals, but if you must, do not continue to shove them down our throats long after they've gone stale. You know what would make for an interesting story? Carbon date John McCain. But that can go on A14. If you are incapable of writing decent stories on real issues, I'm even OK with putting the Dem. race on the back burner until something significant happens, if it means better stories. Maybe it will make room for more coverage of the food crisis, or I don't know, the off-the-cuff bombing of Somalia,.