Fake as they come!

The titles for my last two posts are so desperate sounding. Those exclamation marks, they're so telling! Not only am I without emotion, but I am without wit. I rely on exclamation marks to feign feeling, which, upon this third offense, makes me a feigner of feeling. It's like when you're at a poetry reading and some acclaimed somebody is reading a lot of her poetic words--more than she needs to, if you ask me--and you are saying these other words in your head: hackneyed, cliched, trite, pedestrian, tedious, uninspired, and toilet paper. In these situations I become a regular feigner of feeling, an shameless exclamation-mark-abuser, one who applauds and nods in a yes, yes, this imagery is so fresh! fashion. Liars stink, but at least I shower every day and use deodorant.

Whazzzup, Cottage Grove, MN!!

This season of American Idol kicked off with the Minneapolis auditions (whazzzzup, Minneapoluss!) to show the world that that part of the country is only successful at breeding Red Bull and Vodka drinking Saturn drivers and HOT vegan burger flippin' hippies. Take for instance Jewel Minor from Cottage Grove who thought talent by osmosis was really possible. I think she needed to sneeze.

Stars will never hurt me!

I, for one, won't be discouraged by one-star reviews on Amazon dot com! Then again, I may receive them posthumously, and I'd be okay with that, I guess.

(Thanks to L.N. for the link.)

Dark Side of L.A.

Visit me here today:

Time
(Mason, Waters, Wright, Gilmour)

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

Going Out

My last post revealed a very angry side of me: Angry Sylvia. Angry Sylvia doesn't want to die during her daily commute because that would be going out with a whimper (totally weak!). Angry Sylvia does not want to be the reason traffic builds up when people slow down to look at accidents. Angry Sylvia is starting a petition to get this Toonces into prison.

1. Sylvia
2. 
   

Hey, I didn't catch your name!

To the person who cut me off and slammed on her brake to make a U-turn ALL IN SAME SPLIT SECOND on Jefferson Blvd. at 4:35pm today, please meet me for lunch at the S&W Diner in Culver City tomorrow so we can maybe spot a celebrity while sharing a patty melt and milkshake. I can make a few lighthearted jokes, flag down the waitress to refill your Coca-Cola, and ask you if you'd like to order a slice of pie unless you don't have room for dessert because you sure as hell don't have room in your brain to drive safely, you patty melt and milkshake fucker!

At the Automatic Teller Machine Machine (ATM Machine)

I tapped this dude on the shoulder with my cigarette and told him I wanted to fight. We were in front of the ATM. He was ahead of me in line, waiting for some other dude to get his cash and split. Instead of agreeing to fight me, he asked me to stay where I was and said he'd be quick when it was his turn at the ATM. I said, "Look, man, I don't care about that. I want to fight you." He was busy counting his cash. I noticed he was low on 20s and that this was the right place and right time for him to use the ATM, but I wasn't there to sympathize. I was there to fight. Well, to use the ATM and fight. I needed to fight him, but he didn't understand. All he could think about was how to get more money. Greedy bastard.

Lovely Poetry

Thank you, friend who expressed appreciation for me with attempt at lovely poetry:

So I came up with parody lyrics for you to Fergalicious (it's totally stuck
in my head and completely over-played on my iPod
now...)

Original
I'm Fergalicious
But, I ain't
promiscuous

New
I'm Sylvilicious
But, I ain't a
lesbian

Original
Baby baby baby
If you really want me
Baby
have some patience
Maybe then you'll have a taste

I'll be tasty
tasty
I'll be laced in lacey
It's so tasty tasty
It'll make you
crazy

New
Baby baby baby
If you really want me
Baby don't
be pretty
You don't even have to shave

Oh, be
artsy-fartsy
And have money money
If you're just a smarty
Please don't
be so nerdy

White or Wheat?

Everything depends upon white
or wheat bread, waiting
to be buttered on your cold restaurant dish.
Red wheelbarrow! Red wheelbarrow!

(There. My moronic moment of the morning.)

More than a Headache

When a group of words get together for one big mindless party, you get something called "More than a Feeling" by Boston. I have to apologize for this one, friends. I was overconfidently ambitious when I announced I was going to produce another one of my insightful "English Major" essays on these lyrics. Therefore, I invite my intelligent readers to offer some of their insight into this troublesome rant about non-feelings. My unintelligent readers can stay tuned for an upcoming Yes-or-No "quiz" about whether they prefer white bread or wheat. (I choose rye!)


More than a Feeling

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
I lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes and I slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

So many people have come and gone
Their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on
as clear as the sun in the summer sky

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
and dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away

Concept Car as Pictured on Some Other Planet

My buddies and I test drove the Mazda concept car, the Nagare, which in Japanese means "flow". It looked like a shoe horn, but hell it moved fast--like a shoe. As you can see, we took it for a spin on the planet Venus, where it's hot like a sauna. I thought my buddy was going to boil out there, but we turned on the a/c, which mercifully responded right away. The heated seats were not used at all that day. I think this car is pretty dope. I would definitely recommend it to anyone, but epecially people in L.A. because they're so image-oriented and think they should be on an elitist planet.

Upside Down and Hungry

I am clinging to the underside of a gigantic autumnal leaf, and insects don't exist, so I don't have to worry about being eaten by one or--worse yet--having to eat one myself. I stay out of palm trees--the wild parrot community still hasn't decided whether the trees should serve as playgrounds or toilets. The parrots send me a lot of e-vites for their arbitrary parties: "Gathering at 2:48pm at the palm overlooking Ocean Breeze Apartments. See you there!" I'd rather crap on my own monkey bars, if you catch my drift. Those punks don't know what it's like to be caged and told when to sing. And I'm not making a work-in-a-cubicle analogy. I'm a human clinging to an enormous leaf, thinking about insects, but not about what they'd taste like. I often crave honey barbeque wings though. C'mon! Not the parrots--I don't eat that un-FDA-Certified stuff. I do things right: I call my mom up on my cell, and she brings over some KFC.

Two Words: Carpal Tunnel

Next to my desk are windows I never open. Fresh air...it's not like oxygen is going to make my job any better.

Coming Soon: Essay on a classic Boston tune

More than a Feeling

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
I lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes and I slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

So many people have come and gone
Their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on
as clear as the sun in the summer sky

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
and dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away

Jesus is the new pink.

I've already blasphemed with that title. God help me. Damn it, my fuckin' uncontrollable mouth. Don't be sending me bars of soap for Christmas. Funny joke. I won't laugh, and neither will you when I whack you across the head with it, provided it's the kind with the rope attached. Speaking of attachments, please quit forwarding shit to my email box. I don't really want to look at pictures of creepy babies (or was it creepy pictures of babies?) with antlers growing out of their skulls. There's no point to this post either.

You Judge Sylvia's Past: Literal or Not?

I told him I used to stare down bottles of ketchup in trailers with Axl Rose sitting across from my hashbrowns and eggs.

You and I talk about Christmas songs.

Hey readers, what are your favorite Christmas songs? Although I am fond of the Bing Crosby-delivered classics, I must say I am particularly fond of the more contemporary holiday tunes, especially the ones where Christina Aguilera oversings songs like Silent Night and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. She is my favorite Christmastime oversinger.

I dressed up like a skank for this?

When I think back on our recent office Christmas party, I am reminded of the time I received a hole in the head and oh the joy it brought me! The vision of my usually unsociable co-workers chatting beside the Panasonic copier reminds me that it takes nothing more than a good attitude to achieve this mindblowing level of jubilation. Party on, my comrades whose job categories are separate from mine! Enjoy one another! Smiles are as plentiful as the cheese and cracker platters which I gleefully waited for in line at Costco behind a family-owned convenience store owner! This party is for you, though not for me, but I get lots of different kinds of "joy" out of it as when I make napkin pinwheels only to be snapped at by a receptionist (or shall we say, a perfectionist) whose duty is to measure by god-given precision of vision my layout of these pretty paper stars in relation to each other on the buffet. There is no other time than the holidays when I truly believe that giving is much more satisfying than receiving, and so logically I did not feel unsatisfied when I did not receive any door prizes. I thought about giving more this year, like giving everyone the finger before I walked out of the room, but I thought I'd keep that bit of joy to myself.

I Rock! (around the Christmas tree)

The year was 1987, and I was rockin' around the Christmas tree when I tripped on the extension cord and fell on my hip, flattening some very nicely-wrapped gifts. I blamed it on the cat, though—poor Herbert can be so clumsy. My brothers were so upset to unwrap their brand new dismembered action figures that they cast the useless toys into the fireplace, screaming Herbert's name with tears in their eyes. I, however, was too enamored with my Jordache jeans to feel bad about what I'd done to Herbert—and my brothers too, I guess. I rushed into my bedroom to model my new jeans in front of the mirror. I was so pleased that I decided to write a thank-you letter to Santa. Months passed, my jeans were still great, and Herbert died, so there was no real point in feeling sorry for him anyway. In June, when my mind was furthest from Christmas, Santa wrote back. He informed me that I'd been named the 1987 Sellout of the Year. I knew exactly the outfit I'd wear to the ceremonies...

Experienced Tree Decorator Seeks Tree

This year I was not invited back for Christmas tree decorating at the home of a longtime acquaintance. Last year it was all light stringing and glass ornaments in Redondo Beach. Bows were also used to decorate the tree. I was thanked for my efforts. It went a little something like this: "GEE, THANKS FOR JUST TOSSING THE BOWS AT THE TREE AND HOPING THEY'D STICK."

I have to admit, I had become weary of all the meticulous ornament placing 15 minutes into it, but when he said that, I was re-energized! I immediately grabbed a fistful of red bows and slammed them into the tree like God would a powerful snowstorm. And, yes, bitch, they all stuck.