Gym, tanning, laundry: Oh, well, got one covered ….
Yeah, you guessed it. I’m at the laundromat, getting my blog on. I had a gym membership once, at Capital Athletic Club when I worked at the News & Review, and I used to go work out there and crack up at the smooth jazz soundtrack, and once I got in an argument with some crazy ginge who switched all the TVs in the elliptical room to Fox News during a Giants game, and she told me that, unlike me, she was in “media” and I pressed her on that, and it turned out she worked for KCRA Channel 3, the local NBC affiliate, and when she threatened to get me kicked out for switching a TV back to the Giants game from the O’Falafelly Factor or Insanity & Comatose or whatever other Rove rants Team Rupert was puking out that day, I countered by offering to drop by Channel 3’s studios to ask about some crazy-ass redhead who worked there who was making people at the gym watch Fox News against their will.
But, once again, I digress. Clothes are in the dryer, just ate a banana, and so this prose should get a little more grounded shortly; my writing can take on a watch-out-for-low-flying-aircraft quality when I’m mildly hypoglycemic.
Gym, tanning, laundry: According to Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino on MTV’s wickedly fun massengill-fest Jersey Shore, one must first go to the gym to maintain that crucial “six-pack” and other attribues of being in shape. Then, one must climb into Betty Crocker’s giant Easy-Bake Oven for guidos, e.g. the tanning bed, in order to maintain that much-desired orange complexion. And then, one must hit the laundromat, in order to assure that one’s clothing — here, Rush Couture and Ed Hardy douchewear, along with track warmup pants — is clean and not skanky or smelly or otherwise funky. Fresh and mint: That’s what you’ve got to be, because when you feel fresh and mint, there’s a certain intangible quality of awesomeness that manifests.
You can teel that I’m deeply into this Jersey Shore shit. I mean, part of me was thinking that MTV should be nuked off the fucking face of the earth for foisting that The Hills pantsload, especially Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, on popular culture, but also Lauren “The Author” Conrad and Audrina Patridge and the rest of those vapid skanks.
If i am going to watch vapid skanks in action, I’d rather that they be served up with sausages and peppehs, along with plenty of guido fist-pumping to “house music” and melodrama dumbed down to sub-Elvis movie level. I just don’t have the bandwidth to watch stupid rich kids emoting over entitlements gone awry and other dumbass shit (sorry), and I am increasingly getting to the point where some kind of trainwreck programming involving drunken angry rabble, various Kardashians and random guillotines is beginning to make a weird kind of nightmarish sense. But I’d rather not go there; perhaps Lindsay Lohan can take the Kardashians and Tila Tequila and Paris Hilton and Perez Hilton and everyone on The Hills and a bunch of other entitled twits I can’t remember on a big old Airbus party plane to Uttar Pradesh or Bihar or Haiti or somewhere far from Los Angeles but close enough to a camera crew so we’ll have to watch it later but just not right now. Get into service, kids. And maybe take Talibangelist Pat Robertson with you; I was going to mention some kind of coliseum entertainment featuring Bert Lahr-like but hungry rather than cowardly animals and said gantrys, but again, I’d rather not go there. Not me. I’d rather see Robertson gagged and forced to listen to sitar music and Deepak Chopra talking about chakras instead of anything overtly violent and karmatically incorrect. Call me a hippiedip already.
So, yeah, I love Jersey Shore, even if I don’t have a TV or a place to watch it and the show’s on tonight but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to watch online.
Sorry. Rambling. Stayed up writing a new song until after 2; woke up at 5 and found some Chet Baker vids online after watching Let’s Get Lost at the Town House with friends, and then getting into a nice rambling conversation online before hitting the laundromat. Which I’m not at now; currently, I’m at my usual Midtown office, listening to Doom Bird (which is playing Luigi’s on Saturday; can’t wait) on earbuds, because they’re playing old Elton John on the sound system. I could rant about how coffeehouses should opt to play and promote music by local acts like Doom Bird and others, but that might be falling on deaf ears.
More later, when I make better sense? Fuggit grumble grumble. —Jackson Griffith