I have to make money. I have a car. I have a Camaro. I mean that costs money, you know?

I don’t read women’s magazines. (I have a really awful addiction to People.com, but that’s a whole other topic.) I read The New Yorker, I drool over Maxim or FHM, and I peruse, with moderate interest, GQ and Esquire, the latter because it pops up in my mailbox every month (oh, free subscriptions from Nerve). I used to read Rolling Stone, but that one didn’t forward. I hear there are a few months worth piling up in the west village for me, but I doubt I’ll ever see them.

My point? Men’s magazines are better. Period. I could go into a whole diatribe on the sexist implications of the magazine publishing industry (read: Hearst and Conde Nast. Note: should I ever become employed by either of these companies, directly or indirectly, this line will be omitted. Ah, editing.) But I digress…

I would rather know How to Have Sex with Mary Louise Parker (p. 225, Esquire) than learn 101 Sex Tricks to Try Before You Die (Cosmopolitan. I would tell you the page, if I read the damn magazine. But I don’t. See above.)

Related: I would like to take a minute to talk about cars. Yes, cars. One car in particular; the 2009 Chevy Camaro concept car.



Now, I know what you’re thinking. “It’s a Camaro.” But it’s the coolest thing I’ve seen since Tybalt’s royal blue Executioner from Romeo & Juliet, which, in addition to Claire Danes, I’ve had a hard-on for since 1996.

As Esquire writer Ezra Dyer describes the Camaro, “The front end, in particular, is not just angry looking but utterly filled with contempt for the world.”

Yes, indeed. This is the car for me.

hi! i'm the bluebird of death!

Two things…wait…three.

One.

I’ve discovered a wonderful new diet. I like to call it the CSI diet. (granted, there are other things contributing to my lack of appetite lately, which are not blog-worthy fodder. But I swear, the pounds will just fall off you. I know, because I’m a trained nutritionist. I’m also a trained assassin. But don’t tell anybody)

1 Quiznos smoked turkey sandwich

1 glass grapefruit juice (this may be substituted with a good bottle of Guinness or a nice Oregon hefeweizen. None of that Budweiser bullshit though [sorry Brian])

60 minutes CSI (which, if necessary [read: Monday night] may be substituted with 60 minutes CSI Miami, but may NOT be substituted with 60 minutes CSI NY. We all love NY, but we all don't love CSI NY [sorry Gary Sinise])

Place self in front of television with sandwich and choice of beverage. Turn TV on. Choose CSI episode from plethora of Tivoed episodes (note: Spike airs CSI all freaking day apparently; if you have a season pass, make sure you have some space. If you’re lame and don’t have cable, insert Netflix CSI DVD. If you’re lame and don’t have Netflix, you might want to take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself why you’re not in therapy) Play episode. Raise sandwich to mouth. Take bite of sandwich. Watch Grissom poke and prod mutilated dead body and make quirky comment about his entomological fascination. Look questioningly at sandwich. Look back at dead body on TV screen. Put sandwich down. Take swig of drink and suddenly realize you really aren’t all that hungry.

Ok, to be honest, CSI doesn’t actually make me all that queasy. But it occurred to me tonight, as I ate my umpteenth meal while watching the damn show, that it might not be the best dinner companion.

Two.

I love strippers. I especially love strippers on my birthday. There’s something a little odd, however, about the combination of family and strippers. I was lucky enough to spend my birthday, the first in years, with my parents and my brother (as well as a number of friends). It was a lovely get-together, during which my father (who children believe resembles Santa Claus but I believe bears a more striking resemblance to Obi-Wan Kenobi) jokingly referred to my mother as his “bitch.” In a really endearing manner, mind you. I hugged my mother lovingly and proceeded to drag my brother and some friends to Magic Gardens, which is the Coyote Ugly of strip clubs. Here I say “drag”; my brother lives a block away from the place. Which makes it sound like he lives in a really classy neighborhood. Anyway, strippers and family, it’s that dichotomy of naughty and heart-warming, much like the cracked out eye-contact one of the strippers kept giving me all night.

A few points:

In Oregon, they take it all off. And serve alcohol. You wish you lived here.

Going to a strip club with your older brother is weird. Fun, but weird. Probably weirder for him, though, as I was the one up by the stage.

Magic Gardens does not, however, have a pole. it's really much better with a pole. [insert joke here]

Three.

wait...i forgot what three was. alas.

i was saying...

transformers.

oh, Michael Bay.

loneliness is worse

I spend about eighty percent of my time alone. Most of that time is spent with my HP Pavilion dv 1000. The rest is spent on introspection and trying to fall asleep. I have no idea how this compares to other people’s lives; when you’re lonely, you are the only one.

According to cnn.com though, loneliness has become an epidemic.

This is no huge comfort.

my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

by the age of 26 (before, actually) John Keats composed a body of work that made him one of the greatest romantic poets. ever.

i've accomplished a bit less, you might say.

still crazy after all these years

Yesterday was my parents’ 35th anniversary. They, reportedly, got married so my father could share my mother’s medical benefits. I had the pleasure of crashing their quiet dinner-for-two last night. They wore matching outfits. They still hold hands. They probably still make out, but I don’t really need to know about that.

I don’t know how they’ve managed it, but I know it’s possible.