But I am irrationally excited that as of today it’s “only” a year until our wedding and, as of tomorrow, less than a year. Oh, the joys of having to book a venue absurdly early!
Seems fitting I’m heading to Philadelphia for the weekend right when My Last Year As A Free (LOL) Man begins. Not that I’ll be doing anything more rambunctious than some heavy drinking and maybe seeing Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen. If only there was an intermission so I could run to a six-pack shop; I doubt you want a hangover to kick in during the last half-hour of that one. BUMBLEBEEEEEEEEE!!!!
I know we’re supposed to ignore him and all but between shit like this and the feud with the Wentz family that followed, Perez Hilton’s twitter is kind of worth keeping an eye on - not that I normally do that kind of thing.
Michael Jackson has been awalkingjoke with a dangerous pathology about children - whether or not he was guilty of the crimes they brought him up on - for so long that I’m having a hard time connecting his death with the passing of an outstanding musical artist. I know my family had a cassette copy of Thriller at one time - it was the first tape of pop music I can remember hearing in the house, months before I received The Best Of The Monkees…Then And Now - though I have no idea who bothered to buy it and where it eventually wandered off to (maybe, like Wayne Campbell’s copy of Frampton Comes Alive, it came in the mail with a free sample of Tide). I was scared to death of the title track, covering my ears during the build-up to Vincent Price’s cackle. And yet I was enamored enough of Jackson to twirl ridiculously while wearing a single non-sequined glove during the talent show at the University Of Northern Colorado’s Summer Enrichment Program. Even though I still play and enjoy much of his adult work - even gave Invincible a shot - I’ve rarely given much thought to how I originally conceived of and appreciated Jackson as a kid, and why that changed.
I’ve already made plenty of bad jokes in the last hour (“Shamone You Til We Join You,” “A Moment Of Silence Will Be Held At 7:38 PM, 8:43 PM, 9:48 PM, 10:54 PM…”) and I’m sure my friend Harlan and I will find countless reasons to say “that’s devilish" in an offended falsetto for years to come. I probably felt more like listening to his music before I found out he died, so I won’t join the YouTube deluge. But at least once I should take the effort to acknowledge the traumas and pressures that almost literally transformed him into a living ghost, and admit what a truly tragic figure he is.
“It’s time for me to bust another rap album… I kill that rap sh*t, that’s what I do. I’m working on stuff, lyrics right now and they’re awes-mazing, they’re basically untouchable and I’m about to take it to a whole ‘nother level and I would be scared if I was not me.”—Oh, Kanye. I want to believe you. But why did you have to say “awes-mazing”? Why?
“True, she’ll do the heavy lifting. But for better or worse, you also have a starring role in this sucker. So even though “real men don’t plan weddings” and “real men don’t need advice,” in this case, you need advice. Think about it like this: if you believe that you don’t need any help, then you’re implying, by logical extension, that you were born with some innate, feminine, inner-gift for wedding planning.”—I was, The Plunge. I was.
"You really think that your relationship will be stronger if you both analyze you fu#king a stripper? You’re sabotaging everything. Again, telling the truth is profoundly selfish, because you feel better and she feels worse.”
Are bridal sites as batshit insane as The Plunge? Are there any men on earth who want/need/use this thing? Leila mentioned this site but it took a targeted Facebook ad for me to finally check it out.