First Pluto was demoted, now this?

"Ernesto Drops to Tropical Depression" -- NYT, today

The science world needs to stop laying the smackdown on planets and hurricanes. It just ain't right, and now feelings are getting hurt and Ernesto is going to see a therapist when he finally gets out of bed in the morning and Pluto just won't stop drinking, why won't he stop drinking, oh God, not the belt honey, please just put it down, yes I think you're still man enough to hold down any job, fuck those NASA guys, you're twice the planet Mars is.

Quick

I haven't posted in ages. You don't care.

I just want to say, after reading the NYT headline that Snakes on a Plane was an opening weekend letdown. Really? They REALLY thought that a movie about snakes on a plane would do well? Maybe if they got a nickel for every time someone made a joke/blogged about the movie snarkily, well then yeah, it would've been a success. But if I want to snakes on a plane, I will picture it in my head and laugh, and save my $10.75 for something powerful and uplifting like Talladega Nights.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/21/movies/21box.html

Warning: mushy ushy ooey-gooey feelings expressed

Sometimes I forget why I wanted to get into the business of journalism/media. All the petty criticisms, the fight to get the story that will establish you as a writer of some repute, the word- and society-wrangling to get a leg up. I get sick of reading about everyone who's better than me, everyone who's worse, and yet I still continue to pay attention to it all. I get sick of every news outlet, the NYT (of course), blogs, dailies, weeklies, monthlies, even though I rely on them to check-in with the world. A world that is constantly disappointing me and worrying me and making me lose my faith in humanity and making me think we are one oil drum away from destroying the world with global warming, greed and war.

And then there are articles like this one:
"All the News That Fits: Liberia's Blackboard Headlines"
with passages like this: "Sometimes he adds an editorial — a thundering denunciation of corruption, or a plea for Liberians to be kinder to one another. When the president called for a day of national repentance before the Independence Day celebration, Mr. Sirleaf wrote, 'Say sorry for your evil deeds to someone that you hurt yesterday for peace sake.' "
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/04/world/africa/04liberia.html

Jesus H. Christ, if we could just say sorry to someone for peace sake...

P.S. Since this has so far, been a less-than-serious blog, I apologize for waxing all Woe is the World on whomever might be reading this. Sometimes I am overcome by feelings of sickly sentimentality. I should be cured by Monday, after a weekend of hedonism and evildoing.

Seven blocks and a world of noise

It has been too long since the world has gotten to hear about my personal life, and a lot has happened. For the last two weeks or so, my life has been like this: clean new apartment, paint new apartment, clean up after painting new apartment, pack up old apartment, move to new apartment, unpack, clean old apartment.

However, instead of packing LOTS of boxes for the guy I hired to move me to load in his truck, I packed like, two, and thought "I'll just tote my huge massive wheelie duffel back and forth a few times. What the heck, it's only seven blocks!"

2938547439857 trips on sweltering hot days with a heavy, overstuffed duffel later, and I think I'm the dumbest person alive. And I think all of Avenue B has gotten sick of seeing me making that trip three times a day in all of my sweaty glory. I know I'm sick of it.

To add to all the moving trauma, we arrived with the couch on Tuesday and spent almost an hour grunting and wheezing and cajoling, only to finally abandon said couch due to non fitting through the stairway dooredness. I saved the cushions though, so our living room is kind of like a genie's bottle now.

Let's not even start on that trashy club downstairs. I hate it. I hate its thumping bass from 10-4 EVERY SINGLE NIGHT and longer on Sundays. I hate the line outside my door with the gelled guys and their KMart prostitute dates. I hate everything about it. I need someone to buy me heavy curtains, large rugs, and a huge amount of cork to stick to my walls to soundproof them. Any volunteers? Oh, I also need an actual bed to lift my mattress of the ground, which reverbrates with club bass every night.

Or maybe just a lifetime supply of sleeping pills. The threat of addiction means nothing to me, if it means I can sleep every night.